Late For The Party: A New Year’s Eve Short Short Story
A New Year’s Eve short short story I wrote 3 years ago today:
Late For The Party
“Aren’t you ready yet?” The wife asked her husband, “we’re going to be late for the party. I’d like to be there before the clock strikes midnight and the New Year comes.”
“I’m almost finished this poem I’m writing, dear,” the husband smiled, “hold on.”
The wife looked at the clock, “Come on. Let’s go NOW. Your poem is not so important. It’s not as if people are going to be reciting or even remembering it for the next 200-odd years.”
“All right, dear,” the husband got up to get his coat.
The poem lay on his desk,
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…
… we’ll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne…”
-Robert Burns, 1788.
-A short short short story
written by Christopher
Thursday December 31st
2015.
The Duck Called Samuel Puddlington At Lake Louise: A Poem
He was the duck they called Samuel Puddlington
His girlfriend said he left things muddlington
since he often danced with other women
of the human variety at great estates while drinking gin gin
said she, “I find this neither fowl nor fair”
and left him for a strand of monkey hair
that had fallen from the American Trumpster’s toupee
that disgraced Scots German Donald who said there would be Hell to pay
unless Congress caved in and built him a wall
Sam took the news well and went to another grand ball
When he had finished dancing up a storm
like John Travolta with an itchy tape worm
his frog and rabbit friend suggested they go to Canada
and ski while wearing a bandana
So they headed way out west to beautiful Lake Louise
the gem of the Blue Canadian Rockies
They skiied here
They skiied there
and did so without underwear
but seeing as how they were animals no one minded
the same not the case for pot smoking Justin Trudeau who was fined-ed
for displaying nudity in public
while ho-hoing like Saint Nick
Later while having dinner at the Chateau Lake Louise
his rabbit and frog friend both started to sneeze
perhaps long underwear they should have worn
for they came down with colds and went to bed forlorn
Sam stayed in the dining room and finished his dinner
in dancing, skiing and eating he was always a winner
He noticed a gent had left his briefcase on a table
Being curious like oxen in a Nativity stable
He went over and took a peek
while finishing his soup cockaleek
They were the files of Carson Cody Albion Private Eye
a legendary immortal shamus detective guy
Sam helped himself to a gravy dipped French fry
Inside was an old black and white photo
black and white like Kansas for Toto
before reaching the colourful land of Oz
A land far away from reindeer and Santa Claus
The photo was of the legendary Jaguar Woman of New Orleans
a shapeshifting cat woman whose dress came apart at the seams
On a note next to the photo, Albion had carefully written
in writing so small, it could easily be flea bitten
if fleas would ever eat someone else’s words
but such thinking is for the birds
thought Sam like a duck out of water
as he watched bourbon getting the best of a drunken otter
Albion had written “The Jaguar Queen of New Orleans
whose dress in a 1930s jazz club came apart at the seams
is none other than Semiramis the legendary Queen of Babylon”
and Samuel Puddlington thought, What the Heck is going on
but that, dear reader, a tale to be told in a future New Year dawn
-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday December 30th
2018.
Reblog of The Duck Called Samuel Puddlington: A Poem
A poem about a duck called Samuel Puddlington that I wrote over a year ago.
The duck called Samuel Puddlington was going to the grand ball
wearing a spiffy bow tie made him look 6 feet tall
It was going to be a grand event
attended by the Duchess of Kent
And so the duck waddled his way into the limousine
and sat next to a froggy green
“Ribbit! Ribbit!” said the frog
as he sat on a bump on a log.
“Rabbit! Rabbit!” said the big-eared hare
as he munched on a carrot orange and fair.
The limo pulled into the grounds of Mossdale Hall
packed with limos, the cars were at a crawl
Samuel Puddlington got out of the car
and inquired, “Good man, do they have a bar?”.
“Of course, you ninny,” said the chauffeur
while the rabbit stopped to wash his fur.
To the house the three went,
rabbit, frog and ducky gent
They knocked on the big front door
on…
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Short Humourous Poem About Penguins Riding Skis
Smiling happy penguins skiing on their skis
Enjoying the crisp winter night and cool evening breeze
And since no one out and about really wants to freeze
They dress warm so as not to catch a cold and sneeze
-A poem written by Christopher
Friday December 28th 2018
inspired by the large McDonald’s
McCafe coffee he had drunk
earlier this evening
(and quite possibly the
psychedelic magic mushrooms
he ingested as well-
no! Just kidding! 😄)
Goatee Slays Uglos, Renfield Poisons Apples and Allatallahbel Desolates The Vatican
Pan Goatee had been in a good mood on Christmas Day because he hadn’t encountered any repulsively ugly women.
He wasn’t in such a good mood yesterday because some ugly woman tried to ride alongside him on a escalator so he promptly beheaded the bitch.
Then it turned out that the grocery stores in his neighbourhood were closed for boxing day so he wasn’t able to buy any groceries.
Today wasn’t such a good day either because when he went to pick up his subsidized transit pass (Goatee got a subsidized low-income transit pass for medical reasons since his doctor had certified him as homicidally insane and therefore this made him eligible for medical benefits such as a low-income transit pass), he discovered that his photo id had expired.
The clerk gave him a low-income transit pass for next month anyways but told him he would definitely need a new photo id for next month (it was lucky for the clerk that he did that for otherwise he would have been beheaded by Pan Goatee).
“Why the Hell do you need a fucking new photo id all the time?” Goatee fumed, “Proof positive that the days of the Antichrist and the Mark of the Beast are upon us.”
He beheaded a fat ugly blimp in a wheelchair who tried to get in his way.
“You know back in my day, we used to have only good looking people in wheelchairs,” the ghost of Raymond Burr remarked to the satyr serial killer after Goatee had beheaded the fat ugly blimp.
“Mister, we could use a disabled person like Police Detective Robert Ironside again,” Pan Goatee sang a paraphrased version of that old Archie Bunker All In The Family song about Herbert Hoover.
He then beheaded a few more ugly women around the transit place.
“If Semjaza and his Merry band of Watchers came down to Earth today,” Goatee did an impromptu theological exposition on the Book of I Enoch,
“they sure as Hell wouldn’t be mating with the daughters of men now not when they look like the daughters of walruses, stoats and gargoyles.”
Goatee was momentarily pleased when he actually saw a beautiful woman wearing a short skirt and black silk pantyhose exiting a building but she was immediately followed by an ugly stoat looking woman whom he promptly beheaded.
Later on the bus ride home, Goatee encountered another ugly stoat looking woman who in addition to being stoatly ugly was wearing a fashion designer’s nightmare of barf green coloured checkered pants with unmatching yellow striped purple running shoes.
The genetically created satyr serial killer promptly beheaded her much to the relief, delight and applause of the ghosts of Oscar Wilde, Friedrich Nietzsche, Yves Saint Laurent and the still living (but almost died when he saw the colour blind hideous fashion ensemble wearing ugly looking stoat monstrosity) Karl Lagerfeld.
Later a walrus looking fat ugly blimp got off the bus in front of Pan Goatee’s house so he beheaded that creature from Hell as well.
. . .
The two chief scientists in charge of Product Development at Apple (both of whom were appointed after the death of Steve Jobs) twin brothers Dr. Shitticus Constipationio and Dr. Shitticus Diarrheaosis (both men’s family surnames were their first names) were up shit creek.
The CEO of the company Tim Cook had died after eating a poisoned apple pie given to him by British MP Renfield R. Renfield.
The gay Apple CEO had a passionate crush on the British MP who was someday expected to become Prime Minister of Britain and the Sir Winston Churchill of the 21st Century so gladly accepted the apple pie from him.
Chinese government operative Ho Babylon Minh (the granddaughter of Vietnamese President Ho Chi Minh) knew of Cook’s crush on Renfield R. Renfield and thus after putting the Dr. Cadbury Rocher designed Snow White Red Rose Black Death apples in a pie got Renfield to deliver them.
Cook’s homicide was revenge on the part of the Beijing government for the U.S. government ordered Justin Trudeau cannabis Canadian complicit arrest of Huawei CFO Meng Wanzhou at Vancouver International Airport.
Renfield agreed because he didn’t like the idea of a very attractive Asian Dragon sister like Meng Wanzhou having been put in a Vancouver jail when there were so many obnoxious ugly white women walking the streets of Calgary, Alberta, Canada and nobody was doing a damned thing about it with the exception of genetically created satyr serial killer Pan Goatee.
Now Cook was dead and put on ice (in hopes there would be somebody who could bring him back from the dead).
In the meantime a humanoid looking robot who resembled Cook was putting in public appearances so that no one would know Cook had died.
The embarrasing part was the Tim Cook looking humanoid robot had been built and designed by Samsung (Apple’s South Korean competitor) since after Steve Jobs’ death, Apple had become incapable of building a good product.
And they the Shitticus Brothers were to blame.
. . .
Back in 855 AD, a Kabbalistic Gnostic Apostolate operating covertly in the Catholic Church had finally succeeded in putting a woman (a witch) on the papal throne as Pope John VIII.
The woman became known to history as Pope Joan.
Joannes Anglicus (her Latin name as Pope) had disguised herself as a man.
Her womanhood was revealed in 857 AD when she gave birth in the midst of a papal procession.
Now the vampiress Allatallahbel (the Vampiress Priestess of Baal) was hoping to openly be elected Pope when Francis either kicked the bucket or resigned.
The Vampiress Allatallahbel (the Vampiress Priestess of Baal) plans to become the next Pope.
-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday December 27th
2018.
Cthulhu and Goat Krampus On The Feast of Stephen: A Gothic Cyberhorror Carol
(to be sung to the tune of Good King Wenceslas the 1853 Christmastide carol written by John Mason Neale)
Cthulhu and goat Krampus on the Feast of Stephen
Donald Trump destroyed young girl’s belief in Santa dreamin’
Now Saint Nick’s dark sidekick will to Trump be cruel
And make minced meat out of the toupee wearing fool
Krampus now coming for Donald Trump
Donald Trump will wreck dreams and dreamers in effort to build a wall
to make up for the fact that his dick is really small
Into the demon goat’s bag went he with his tweets a’screamin’
he’ll be taken to a real hot place where all the walls are steamin’
No hope of escape for him you see
Francis wrong and right is Dante
while Hillary switches her broomstick for a donkey
As for Cthulhu that Great Old One, he fell in love with Riana
Indonesian ghost magician who performed for Cowell’s talent panorama
Now her country came under atack by that old Anak Krakatoa
A tsunami created when that old Anakim giant’s volcano overfloweth
Now Cthulhu is really pissed and cannot stand it much longer
He will wrestle with that anakim to see which one is stronger
Cthulhu will do battle with that evil offspring of Nephilim the Anak Krakatau in vengeance for the deaths of the Sacred Riana’s countrymen and women
So Donald Trump now roasts in Hell as old Cerberus rings a bell
and Pavlov drools expecting food in that place where dead do dwell
Hades’ realm has grown quite swell as its global warming times excel
Sacred Riana waits with her ghosts possessing
to see which giant will wind up as salad dressing
The Sacred Riana awaits the outcome of the battle between Cthulhu and the Anak Krakatau
-A Gothic Cyberhorror Carol,
Supernatural Narrative Poem
and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
On The Feast of Stephen
Wednesday December 26th
2018.
A Young Legionary In Bethlehem: The Christmas Story Never Told
The young legionary had had a bad day.
After a night of rowdy drinking, he had forgotten the standard for his regiment.
And had left it overnight in the little town of Bethlehem.
The officer in charge of the regiment was thankfully merciful.
Instead of court martialing the young legionary for his most serious offense, he just sent the young legionary back to Bethlehem to retrieve it.
Although being sent back to Bethlehem was punishment enough the young legionary figured.
For Bethlehem had to be the most god forsaken place on this earth.
“Have fun in Bethlehem, Pompey,” his fellow legionaries had said to him.
Pompey was his nickname.
Pompey of course had been the name of the Roman general who had lost to Julius Caesar in the Roman civil war.
It was an inside joke that earned the young legionary his nickname.
As Pompey set out from Jerusalem towards Bethelehem, he did have to admit that the star he saw in the sky that seemed to be hovering directly over the little town was indeed most impressive.
Probably the only impressive thing about the place, Pompey thought to himself.
He sighed as he rode his horse.
Last week he had gotten a Dear Antony letter from his girlfriend Julia the woman he expected to marry when he returned to Rome.
She had met someone else- the “man of her dreams” as she had put it and was going to be marrying him.
“Argh!” Pompey hit his forehead with his metallic gloved hand as he recalled the letter.
What was it about women and the men of their dreams?
Usually the dream always turned out to be a nightmare, his father had once told him.
And may that be the case with Julia’s “man of her dreams” Pompey cursed the couple.
He looked towards his left and noticed a small group of shepherds tending their flocks by night.
“What an exciting job that must be,” Pompey remarked to himself sarcastically as he laughed.
He brought the horse to a halt for a minute.
He thought he had heard something.
He turned and looked in every direction.
And listened.
But now nothing.
What was it? he had heard.
For one brief shining moment, it sounded like music.
Heavenly music.
Surely it must have been the “music of the spheres” that the great philosopher Aristotle had written about.
And for one moment, he had been privileged to hear it.
Pompey looked up in the sky.
It seemed like a bunch of lesser lights were now surrounding that great star.
He rode on until he came to the inn where he and his fellow legionaries had stayed last night.
“I say, innkeeper,” he addressed the man pouring wine amongst the raucous crowd of guests, “could you tell me where I ahem! left my standard last night?”.
A rather beautiful and alluring young woman giggled at the way he had asked the question and looked at him appreciatively.
“And is your standard up to mine?” She winked at him.
Pompey looked at her.
That would certainly be a dish of revenge best served hot against Julia’s betrayal the young legionary thought to himself.
But no he best get the standard and return to Jerusalem.
He looked back to the innkeeper.
“Your comrade Drusillus took it with him this morning when he left,” the innkeeper answered.
What?
Pompey was shocked.
Drusillus had taken the standard?
That bastard.
And Drusillus had never told him.
Pompey turned back to the beautiful and alluring young woman.
She might be the prize worth waiting for on this useless trip to Bethlehem.
But already her eyes and her attention were elsewhere.
“Do you love me?” She teasingly asked a man.
“What is love?” He answered back to laughs and back slaps from his male companions.
“Come on,” she pretended to pout, “do you love me?”.
“All right,” the man answered, “I do love you and that is the gods’ honest truth.”
“What is truth?” Asked one of the man’s companions to much laughter.
The woman raised her dress and beckoned him, “Then come on. Show me your truth, baby.”
Pompey winced and turned away.
As he did so, through the window, he caught sight of a stable in a cave just behind the inn.
Anyways it was time to get back to Jerusalem.
Pompey got on his horse and pointed it in the direction of Jerusalem.
The horse started to walk but with great difficulty.
“Blessed Mercury,” Pompey sighed, “he’s broken a horseshoe.”
Fortunately for Pompey, there was a blacksmith’s shop right next to the inn.
The blacksmith was rather angry at being wakened but when Pompey showed the man what he could pay him, the man set to work.
Pompey stood watching the man pound nails into the new horseshoe and then decided to buy himself some wine from the inn.
Seeing as how the night was starting to turn cold, Pompey asked for a cup of hot spiced wine.
The wine was nice and hot, Pompey thought to himself as he put hands around the cup to warm them.
“Blessed Juno, what a chilly night,” the young legionary thought to himself, “definitely not a night for men or beasts to be about. As the gods like Augustus in Rome and the Olympians on Mount Olympus keep warm in their palaces, we of a lesser breed freeze. The cold is definitely not a place for a true god to be found.”
Pompey, warmed by the wine, decided to take a walk around Bethlehem.
There was not much to see around the town the young legionary noticed.
But as he walked he noticed the bright star in the sky seemed to be directly over the stable in the cave behind the inn.
Pompey decided to walk there and take a look.
As he stood outside the cave manger, the young legionary took a sip from his cup.
“Great Bacchus,” Pompey sighed, “I really should have been drinking it as I walked around town. The wine has turned cold.”
As he stood there, the young legionary thought he could hear a baby gurgling from inside the cave.
Pompey was familiar with the sound of babies gurgling because he had been present at his older sister’s house when his nephew had been born.
Pompey entered the cave.
And the sight he saw shook him to the very core of his being.
For inside the cave was a young man standing protectively over a beautiful young woman (probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life) who lay on straw holding a recently born baby.
“What child is this?” Pompey thought when he looked at the babe.
No sooner had he thought that question than he thought he heard again (albeit momentarily) the beautiful heavenly music of the spheres he had heard earlier on the road into Bethlehem.
“What do you want?” Asked the young man who protectively clasped the shoulder of the beautiful young woman.
The young woman herself looked at the young legionary without fear.
Great unknown god, she was beautiful, Pompey thought to himself.
A different sort of beauty from the alluring beauty of the temptress he had encountered in the inn.
A pure beauty.
A most pure beauty.
A beauty capable of capturing a man’s soul and not just his body.
The baby gurgled again.
“I thought I heard a baby gurgling,” Pompey answered the young man’s question, “and wondered what a baby was doing inside a stable inside a cave.”
“There was no room in the inn,” the young man answered simply.
The baby seemed to beckon to the young legionary.
The legionary approached.
The child then grasped the young legionary’s cup and stuck his tiny hands inside the cup and washed them.
“I’m so sorry,” the young woman gasped.
“Quite all right,” Pompey smiled and bowed, “I wish you a wonderful evening.”
He quickly left the cave.
And as he did so, the same group of shepherds he had seen earlier this evening were now entering the cave.
Astonished, Pompey started sipping the wine again.
Good Lord, Pompey thought to himself, the wine is warm again.
The wine had turned cold from his walk around town.
Then this baby had stuck his hands in the cup and washed them.
And now the wine was warm again.
What child is this? Pompey once again thought to himself.
He was still pondering that question as he finished the wine (which also seemed to have improved in taste as a result of the child touching it), returned the cup to the inn and then walked next door to the blacksmith.
Thankfully the blacksmith had finished the horseshoe and had put it on the young legionary’s horse.
Well, the young legionary nicknamed Pompey thought to himself, at least the last days of Pompey wouldn’t be spent in Bethlehem.
He returned his thoughts again to the child inside the cave.
What child is this? The young legionary thought to himself a third time.
Oh well, probably greater things to ponder in the scheme of things, the young legionary thought to himself, after all it’s not likely I’ll ever encounter this child again.
And with that, the young legionary named Pontius Pilate got on his horse and rode out of Bethlehem.
-A short story written by Christopher
Christmas Day December 25th 2018.
Haiku About The Nativity of Christ In Bethlehem
No room in the inn
For He who made the vastness
of this vast cosmos
Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet Reflects On His Grandmother’s Death
This is a one and a half minute music video I made 9 years ago.
For the video, I downloaded a clip from the 1948 film Hamlet starring Laurence Olivier.
I then edited it slightly so that Laurence Olivier’s actions holding the skull in the graveyard fit the lyrics of the song.
Hope you enjoy it. ☺
Reblog of A Three Headed Dog Like Cerberus and The Hound of The Baskervilles Reincarnated
A vampire novel chapter I wrote this past June that ties in with some recent vampire novel chapters I have written.
A Three Headed Dog Like Cerberus and The Hound of The Baskervilles Reincarnated
Renfield R. Renfield MP for Tewkesbury In The Cotswolds had just received a phone call from his parliamentary Executive Assistant In Charge of Constituency Affairs Mirabella Francesca Franconia the former Spanish flamenco 💃🏻 dancer.
Senorita Franconia suggested that Renfield come to Tewkesbury in person to help out one of his constituents a middle aged widow by the name of Mrs. Margaret Lewis.
Mrs. Lewis owned two dogs – a Welsh corgi and a Dachshund- who had recently both become demonically possessed.
The corgi named Friendly and the Dachshund named Bashful had recently taken to playing around with a Ouija board and as a result of this nefarious new habit, they had both ended up becoming demonically possessed.
Bashful went from being a Dachshund to becoming a giant spectral wolfhound who was able to bark in a medieval…
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Dracul Van Helsing 
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