Tales Of The Sad Trombone

Posted on June 12, 2019 by sungmokoo

Beware! Don’t be fooled. This may appear to be a regular harmless trombone, but it is in actuality, the dreaded and vicious sad trombone. Use great caution. If caught in its hypnotic influence, instant death is inevitable.

It was 8:20 A.M. The train was packed with people and it smelled like it. The train went dark as it entered the tunnel. Not even a second later, the light was immediately replaced with an eerie man-made incandescence. A complete shift had occurred. You could no longer tell if it were night or day.

Vance Afro was utterly sandwiched between a pole against his back and a short old man, further flanked by a woman straining to carry a six-year old child, a schlub who needed to shower yesterday, and a businessperson.

This is probably a good time to pause for an explain this to me moment. The term businessman surely indicates male; and businesswoman, female. Yet when one says businessperson, we insinuate that the gender is female. This has been an explain this to me moment.

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Tales Of The Crack Is Whack

Posted on June 10, 2019 by sungmokoo

The modern haiku is more about the messaging these days than the meter. Sad. Source.

To say he was stoned on the crack cocaine was a half-truth, because in actuality, he was both whacked and wasted. Little did he know it, he was also ten minutes away from dying. Without giving too much away, he’s going to freak out over something he sees, and his feeble heart is going to plain give out.

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Cat Killed Curiosity

Posted on June 8, 2019 by sungmokoo

For all you cat lovers who oppose claw removal, keep in mind that you feed your cat this shit.

The tabby cat named Felina, paused to clear her throat, and promptly hocked up a hairball shaped like an abstract Funko® figurine, but moister. With that out of the way, she continued, “This “new” dry food is not good.” She lifted her paws to air quote. “Furthermore, “tuna flavor” must mean wet cardboard.”

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There Ain’t No Cure For The Suppertime Blues

Posted on June 6, 2019 by sungmokoo

A family that eats together, talks together. Conversely, a family that talks together does not necessarily listen. Like when dad comes home wasted and you know mom’s pissed, all livid and venomous, and grandma’s smiling, always smiling, pretending there’s nothing wrong. She is the great enabler. All the while, you’re just a kid, so the adults think you’re so stupid.

Papa Bookman grunted as he stabbed the piece of pork chop with a slightly bent fork, and put it in his gullet, followed by a healthy handful of mashed potatoes. It is surprising that he managed to yet say, “Where is Heather?”

Marigold, the eldest, knew where her youngest sister was, but she did not hear the question. Truth be told, even if she had heard it, the non-response would have been the same. She was adrift in her sumptuous meal. She sounded like an idling bulldozer, an omnipresence of humming, breathing only through her nose. She was also drooling hard; there was a glistening flow of spittle from her lip to the table like the just recent melding of stalactite and stalagmite.

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