Poet Exhumed

Posted on September 17, 2019 by sungmokoo

To some, writing sucks. To others, dying while writing sucks more. To most, dying while writing poetry sucks the hardest.

It was perfectly apropos that the barely known poet, Clifton Frost, no relation, was found dead at his writing desk face down on a sole sheet of paper, pen in hand. Days before, he had made a formal announcement, a drunken boast at the neighborhood bar that he was abandoning post-modernism for the much more respected classical form. No one really understood what he meant, nor did they care.

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Disguise In Love With You

Posted on September 15, 2019 by sungmokoo

If you’re over the age of 30, this place will make you feel older, yet not smug.

You could tell that “Shoeless” Joe Jackson was in deep cover. He had shoes and pants on. It is a wonder why pant-less was not part of his nickname. It probably messed up the cadence and assonance or something.

There was a very good reason for his break from normalcy. After years of unemployment, he finally got a job as a secret shopper.

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Liquor Is Quicker

Posted on September 14, 2019 by sungmokoo

Many things happen at lodges, many things don’t. The following story, which is based on actual events, takes place in a lodge.

Now that every one was properly inebriated, it was truth time. No more pretenses. It was time to loosen the belt and let all that fat jiggle freely.

“Indian” Joe, not to be confused with “Native American” Joe, who was busying himself with slot machines, began his tirade. “Look, “Irish” Joe, just because I’m not as pale skinned as you; it doesn’t mean I ain’t got feelings. Sure, I can’t handle my whiskey as well as you can, and sure, I’m not comfortable around shillelaghs and potatoes like you, but I’m as human as you are, possibly more so.”

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Spontaneous Doldrums

Posted on September 13, 2019 by sungmokoo

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Not many people know this, but the average person spends a little more than one third of their waking life stuck in traffic. Often, it proves to be lethal and mind numbing.

“What was that look?” The stale gum hardening in Amanda Fukwith’s mouth cracked as she chewed with inappropriate fervor, considering they were waiting at a stoplight.

Seymour Fukwith, who was clearly driving the vehicle, had just accomplished many things at once, thus his addled expression. “That look?”

“That look. What was that look about?” Weary of the incessant barely gum, more like putty, she spit it out into her hand, balled it up, and placed it on the rim of an empty can of Coca-Cola®.

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