Here’s a thread for the kiddies.
If I missed one of your favorite stories, let me know.
(a reconstruction)
Once upon a time, far, far away, there was an enchanted land where the animals could talk. You can’t get there from here without major pharmaceuticals, so don’t even try. OK? You’re just kids after all, sheesh.
In this enchanted land there were the Pig Brothers, Ivar, Balthazar and Pete. They went out into the Big World to find their fortunes. A pig doesn’t need much in the way of fortune, just a mud wallow and some acorns, maybe a nice post to rub up against. Pigs have a pretty low Fortune Threshold. They also needed houses, they were talking pigs and all. “We need houses, seeing we are talking pigs and all,” they said. If you talk, you need a house. Or at least a nice apartment. That’s pretty much a rule.
The Pig Brothers could have built one big house. Shared labor and conserved resources and all that. But they had lived together all their piggy lives, and enough is enough.
The first pig, Ivar, built a house of straw. He was a pig, a species not noted for their building ability, not having a thumb among other things, and he was working with a pile of straw. Let’s just say his house didn’t come up to code. His house didn’t come up to Morse Code. That’s how well it was built.
When the Wolf came along, it didn’t take a lot of work to get at the pig. Ivar-on-Toast in six minutes. A new World Record! The crowd went wild!
The second pig, Balthazar, built his house out of sticks. Not noticably more stable than the late Ivar’s house. With similar results. Only instead of knocking the house down, the Wolf had another plan. This was a Wolf not suffering from Planner’s Block.
“Hey pig!” called the Wolf.
“Yes?” answered Balthazar.
“Stick this in your mouth” said the Wolf, tossing an apple through the window.
“OK.” said the pig. Pigs really aren’t all that smart.
And the Wolf burned down the house with Balthazar still inside, while the Wolf sang Don Ho songs. Roast pig for dinner. Or as the French say “Le Oink De Flambeaux.”
The third pig had contractors show up and build his house out of bricks. Wolfproof, fireproof bricks. A very nice house indeed.
When the Wolf showed up, he knocked on the door.
“Who iiiiissss iiiitttt?” called the pig.
“It’s me, the Wolf, open up!”
“No way, man!” said the pig.
“Why the hell not?” asked the Wolf.
“You just want to eat me.”
“You self-centered bastard!” cried the Wolf. “Every time you see a wolf, it’s the same thing. ‘Oh, he must want to eat me’ you think. Well, I’ll have you know not all wolves are the same! No! Some of us are nice, peaceful, friendly people. Maybe I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Ever think of that Mr. Smartypants-Pig? No? I didn’t think so. Or maybe I just wanted to sell you some coupon books to support the band. Did that cross your little piggy mind? Hmmm? I come over and you just naturally think I want to eat you. I am shocked. Outraged, in fact! This is species-ism! And you are nothing but a stinking bigot!”
Not wanting to be thought ill of, the pig came out. The wolf ate him.
This could be the end of the story. For the Pig Brothers, it is the end. For the Wolf, things got complicated. All his Wolf friends shunned him after the last pig. The misrepresentation was too much. It lacked honor. It lack decency. It went against the Wolf Code. It’s OK to eat pigs, just don’t be a sneak about it.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Once upon a time, far, far away, there was an enchanted land where the animals could talk. You can’t get there from here without major pharmaceuticals, so don’t even try. OK? You’re just kids after all, sheesh.
In this enchanted land there was a Little Old Man and a Little Old Woman. They were just an old man and an old woman. They weren’t talking rabbits or anything. Sometimes, even in the enchanted land, the people you meet are just people. These were just two regular people. And they had a problem.
Their problem was: they wanted a child. But as things would have it, they couldn’t. Now, they could have adopted a child, or fostered one, or volunteered at the Enchanted Land Day Care Center, or just bought a puppy and called it even. If they did any of those other things, there wouldn’t be this story. So this story is all their fault. Don’t blame me.
“Papa,” said the Little Old Woman. “I want a child.”
“Yes, I know, Mama,” said the Little Old Man. “I’ve been reading along.”
"What should we do?"asked the Little Old Woman.
“I’m not sure,” said the Little Old Man. “Spin him out of straw? Plant some magic beans?”
“No, that’s for making gold and getting to the Giant’s castle, respectively. I guess I’ll have to go to the library and do some research. And don’t you go on about your “Google” dream where information just magically appears, brought to you by 1’s and 0’s. That’s just too stupid to believe.”
"Yes, dear, " said the Little Old Man. He says “Yes, dear” alot.
A little while later the Little Old Woman returns.
“Good news!” she says. “We have a couple of ways of getting ourselves a child!”
“And what are these ways, pray tell?”
“Well, the first way is, you carve a boy out of wood, and a Good Fairy comes and brings him to life. You can carve, can’t you?”
“I can carve a stick into a pointy stick. What’s the other way?”
“We bake him up out of gingerbread.”
“Do we have any ginger?” the Little Old Man asked. He was pretty sure they didn’t have any ginger, but it’s always better to ask than to go out on a limb and make a statement. At least with the Little Old Woman around.
“No, but we have some other stuff. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, dear.”
The Little Old Woman got to baking. When the Little New Boy was done, she checked the oven.
“Cheese and crackers! Is it ever HOT in here! Man! Would you just let me OUT already? Oh, I guess you’re my mom. Not so much the cook, are you? Not so much to look at either. You, with the hair in your ears. You’d be dad, huh? Better and better. I’ve been thinking, I need some tattoos. And get something pierced. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll think of something. You guys are too lame. I’m so out of here.” the Little New Boy said. And he hopped off the table where he was cooling and ran out the front door, leaving it standing open.
“What did you make him out of?” the Little Old Man asked.
“Well…” the Little Old Woman started. "We didn’t have any ginger, so I made pita bread.
“A Pita Boy? That explains it.”
“Should we go after him?” the Little Old Woman asked.
“Naw, he’s on his own. I’m going into town tomorrow and get a puppy.”
The Pita Boy ran down the Lane. Nathan got up and brushed himself off. “You little pain in the ass!” he yelled shaking his fist at the Pita Boy. The Pita Boy chanted “Run, run, run, Hebrew and Goy. You can’t catch me, I’m the Pita Bread Boy!”
The Pita Boy came to a cow grazing in a meadow. “Out of my way, cheese-bag!”
“My! Aren’t you just a pain in the ass?” said the cow. There you go, a talking animal.
“I’m the Pita Boy. It’s what I do.” and he ran off chanting “Run, run, run, Hebrew and Goy. You can’t catch me, I’m the Pita Bread Boy!”
The Pita Boy came to a mermaid sitting on a rock in the stream, drinking a Sprite®. “Hey squid! You know what they say, bread can rise to any occasion!” he yelled, grabbing his pita crotch and making thrusts with his pelvis.
“I heard it just gets soggy if it gets wet. You are just a pain in the ass, aren’t you?” the mermaid said.
“I’m the Pita Boy. It’s my raison d’etre!” and he ran off chanting “Run, run, run, Hebrew and Goy. You can’t catch me, I’m the Pita Bread Boy!”
The Pita Boy Came to a man muttering something about “catering”. “Out of my way, Gomer!”
“Y’know, you are a pain in the ass.” said the man.
“You know it, bay-bee.” said the Pita Boy. “Whatcha doin’ standin’ aound like a big goof anyway?”
“Oh, I’m working for a director…” this was as far as the man got before the Pita Boy interrupted.
“A director? Like “Hollywood”? Did he do anything I might have heard of?” the Pita Boy asked?
“Does the phrase “Phooooone hooooome” mean anything to you?”
“Man, that one sucked!” said the Pita Boy.
“How about the one with the guy in the fedora and the bullwhip, who stops the Nazi’s from getting Biblical Antiquities?”
“How, the hell should I know? I’ve only been out of the oven for an hour. I’m still all warm inside. Man, what a dweeb.”
“Then why did you say the first movie sucked?”
“I’m the Pita Bread Boy. That’s my shtick.”
“Pita you say? How would you like to get into the movie industry?”
“Would I? Where do I sign?”
“Come over here, and I’ll show you everything you need to know.”
“OK” said the Pita Boy and walked over to the strange man. If he stayed with the Little Old Man and the Little Old Woman, he’d know not to trust strangers. But he was a Pita Boy, and ran off before he could learn such lessons. The strange man grabbed the Pita Boy and ripped his head off. He stuffed the air pocket that was the thorax of the Pita Boy with Middle Eastern Goodness, and took it to the director.
“Here’s your fallafel Mr. S.”
That was the end of the Pita Bread Boy.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Once upon a time, far, far away, there was an enchanted land where the animals could talk. You can’t get there from here without major pharmaceuticals, so don’t even try. OK? You’re just kids after all, sheesh.
In this enchanted land, there was a duckling. This duckling was as ugly as a mud fence. “Don’t worry about it” the duckling’s mom said. “You’ll grow up to be a beautiful swan.” That’s the kind of things that moms say.
In this case it wasn’t true. He stayed ugly.
While he was watching Dr. Who, he was ugly.
When he was practicing his Klingon for the Star Trek convention, he was ugly.
While he was up all night playing Dungeons and Dragons with his friends, he was ugly.
He was one ugly duck and that was not going to change.
“Man, this sucks!” said the Ugly Duck. “How am I supposed to get chicks? I know… I’ll start a band!”
And he did. It wasn’t a very good band. They mostly did covers. Sometimes they tried “original” stuff, but it was all very derivitive. But it was still OK. They got free beer, and chicks dig musicians.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
I thought if noone posted you might stop. Don’t 
Great stories.
Unca Rue, will ya tell us the one about the motherless orphan boy and his motherless orphan sister, who wander off in the woods and then shove an old lady in her oven? Will ya? Please?
Can you do a story with robots in? I like robots.
:: snuggles up ::
What about the one with the girl that leaves her shoes all over the place? Or the boy with the candle-stick fetish?
<ts pulls up a bean bag and sprawls in front of the air conditioner>
Rue, I’m so glad you’re not really dead. Carry on with your lovely stories.
(especially for thinksnow)
Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick.
Get your ass over here
and move this candle!
It’s burning the crap
out of my nipples!
<chkl>
Thanks, I almost peed myself trying not to laugh while reading that with my client/boss on the other side of the cubicle-wall. 
Uncle Rue,
When you publish an anthology of your stories, can I have an autographed copy?? Please please please pretty please with your favoritest thing in the world on top??
Your adoring fan,
FairyChatMom
PS - Do you mind if I stalk you? I’ve never wanted to be anyone’s stalker groupie as much as I want to be yours. I’ll be quiet. I promise. REEEEEEEAAALLLLL quiet…
Dear Uncle Rue:
Can you be my really real uncle? The only stories my uncles ever told me were about how their amputated stumps were really magical rabbits, and how you should always avoid getting your body parts stuck in a combine.
Sincerely,
The adorable redheaded urchin who reminds everyone of an angel.
I think you should be shot just for this line alone. 
Uncle Rue, truly you have spoken to the child deep within me. I assure you that that next time I’ll make sure the little rugrat is fully cooked.
Little Miss Muffett
Sat on a Tuffett,
And her eyes got really wide.
Little Miss Muffett
Said to Sir Tuffett
“What the hell kinda girl do you think I am?
Put that thing away and zip up!
Sheesh! Some people!
Do you ever wash that thing?
Maybe you should look into that.”
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
A jolly old soul was he.
He’d laugh to himself with drool on his chin,
Because he was really just an old nutter.
Euty, you didn’t like the Nathan Lane gag? I did. It came out without me thinking about it. Serendipitous punning.
-Rue. Just plain Rue.
Once upon a time, far, far away, there was an enchanted land where the animals could talk. You can’t get there from here without major pharmaceuticals, so don’t even try. OK? You’re just kids after all, sheesh. And stay in school. I forgot to tell you earlier, but stay in school anyway.
In this enchanted land there was a little girl and a little boy. They had names and all, like most little girls and boys, but let’s see if we get attached to them before we tell their names. OK? They could be real jerks, and you wouldn’t want to know them anyway. You just can’t tell.
The little girl and the little boy, oh heck their names are Eric and Margery. Actually it was Margery and Eric, we mentioned the girl first. Margery and Eric (who liked to be called “Spizzer” by the way, not that I’m going to call him “Spizzer” in this story, but he did like to be called “Spizzer”, just so you know) were left in the deep dark woods by their stepfather. A Wicked Stepfather, I’ll bet you didn’t see that coming. The deep dark woods were officially known as Shady Acres. Some developer thought that sounded nice. “Shady Acres”, yup, better than “The Swamp of Death”, or “Cholera Junction”. The developer went out of business. The woods might be called “Shady Acres”, but they were really more like “The Swamp of Death”. Just goes to show you, advertising only goes so far.
“Why were Margery and Eric left in Shady Acres?” you ask. Well how the heck should I know? Oh, yeah. I’m the Omniscient Narrator. They got left in the deep dark Shady Acres because Margery left her shoes out all the time. And she wouldn’t put powder in them and they smelled. Really bad. Eric got left because he was a sap and wouldn’t leave Margery’s side. She might have had something incriminating on him. Who knows? You don’t, and I’m not going to speculate. They were left out in the woods and it was getting dark. When it gets dark in the woods and they, the woods, are already deep and dark, you know that’s not a good thing. Martha Stewart couldn’t even make that a “Good Thing”. Nope, if Martha Stewart was left in the deep dark Shady Acres and it got dark, well darker, she’d be screwed. You know who would be OK in the deep dark Shady Acres? Robots. Killer Space Robots with Crushing Claws© and Laser Beam Eyes® and Flaming Jets of Sure Death™. Maybe some Plasma Bombssub[/sub] thrown in for good measure. Yeah, robots would be OK. Not some fussy protocol droid, though. He’d be toast.
As it got darker in the dark woods, the children were getting scared. There’s not much stinky feet or an over-developed sense of loyalty will do for you is the scary forest after dark. “Hmmm,” the wolves would say, “I don’t believe I will eat those feet. They stink. And the little boy is a touch too sacharine. Pity we didn’t have more salt.” Oh, yeah, the wolves will eat you, but they’ll give you a bad review. (I know wolves don’t really eat people. There has never been a recorded case of a healthy wolf attacking a person. “Stereotypes like this are what causes such grief for Our Friends the Wolf,” you say. To you I say “Shut up.” It’s my story. If you want one with a ballanced viewpoint and sympathy for wolves, write your own. I won’t stop you. It won’t be as good as mine, but do what you want.)
“Maybe we should leave a trail of breadcrumbs. So we can find our way out of the woods.” said Eric
“You had bread? Gimme! I’m starving!”
“What’s that over there?”
“What? That house-looking thing that smells of gingerbread? How the hell should I know?” Margery wasn’t the sharpest stick in the tiger trap.
“I think it’s a house. Made out of gingerbread!” said Eric. “Let’s go see.” He was really only marginally brighter than Margery.
They get to the house and, Lo! it was made out of gingerbread. The children were so hungry they didn’t think twice. Technically, they didn’t think once. If you’re lost in a deep dark woods, even one called Shady Acres, and you, quite by chance, happen upon a house made of gingerbread, do you really think you should take a bite of it? I mean, really?
“Don’t eat that!” a voice called out of the dark.
“Why not?” Margery asked. She was a cheeky one, wasn’t she?
“That ain’t icing. I’ve been having trouble with birds of late. Crows sit up on the peek of the roof, and it just looks like icing dripping off the eaves.”
“Who are you?” asked Eric. He was at least marginally brighter than Margery. In the words of Sun Tzu, the author of The Art of War, “Know whose house you’re going to eat before you take a bite out of it.” It only makes sense.
“I am Baba Yaga.” said an old woman from a window. “Are you here to fix my oven?”
“No, we’re two lost children. Lost in the deep dark woods. Left to die by our Wicked Stepfather.” wailed Margery.
“Oh, well, good luck with that. I never get involved in domestic disputes. No percentage in it, even if you are a Russian witch.” said Baba Yaga.
And her house rose up on giant chicken legs and walked away, deeper into the deep dark forest, which was getting darker. Margery and Eric were never seen again.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Rue DeDay, will you marry me?
Rose