I don’t just bang these out, I research them, and then bang them out. I found a site for Nursery Rhymes, and found some I just can’t touch. From their titles alone, these are pricless…
Barber, Barber, Shave a Pig
The Cock Doth Crow
Four Stiff Standers
I Love Little Pussy
In Spring I Look Gay
Ride a Cock Horse
and
Zum Gali Gali Gali
“Wee Willie” Winkie
Got tired of his nickname.
So he bought a big-assed SUV,
The Ford Continent,
And got into big guns.
He wore gold chains,
And pestered the ladies.
“If I can’t have a big tonker,
Then, by Gad,
I’ll be one.”
I also delved into my fairy tale book. I found these for your reading pleasure…
Contrary Mary
Corporal Bull
Little Tommy Tittlemouse
Niddledy Noddledy
and
One Misty, Moisty Morning
I think I would perhaps combine the first with the last. I would not involve tittlemice though.
Fran
Long ago, outside the villiage of Nottingham, in the Sherwood Forest, there lived Robin Hood. He hung out with his “Merry Men”. There was also one woman, Marrian. She baked coconut cream pies, and wore her hair in pigtails and had those cut off shorts and her shirt tied above her bellybutton. Man, was she hot, in a wholesome way. Did you know, she got twice the fan mail as Ginger? Ginger was kind of a bitch. And what was with her dress made out of a duffle bag?
No, wait… that was Mary Ann, and she wasn’t in Sherwood Forest. Although Sherwood Schwartz did create her show. But that is just a co-incidence.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. “Marrian”. She was also known as “Lady Marrian” or “Maid Marrian”. You only lost your “Maiden” and became “Maid” if you fooled around. At least back then. So obviously she was more than a beard. Unless she lied about the whole “Maid” thing. Maybe she just did light dusting… Hmmmm…
Anyway, there were a lot of stories told about Robin Hood and his pals the Merry Men. Friar Tuck, Little John, Will Scarlet, Much the miller’s son, a colorfull band of rogues they were.
One day, when they were out doing what they did, the Sheriff of Nottingham got lucky. He caught Robin Hood, anyway. He might have gotten “lucky” too, but I’m not spreading any rumors. If you want to run around the woods in pantyhose, playing with swords and arrows and quarterstaffs and other things of that ilk, you know, long and skinny, go right ahead. It’s not my place to judge.
The Sheriff had Robin up against a tree.
“Robin, oh Robin,” he said. (And it wasn’t “Robin! Oh! Robin!” either. That was just the way they talked back then. It was England after all.)
“Robin, oh Robin, why do you do the things you do?”
“What things are that of which you speak?” asked Robin Hood. It never hurts to ask for clarification.
“Why must you steal from the rich and give to the poor?”
“Because, you moron, the rich are the ones with the money!”
And Will Scarlet snuck up from behind a tree, and busted the Sheriff over the head with a stout stick, knocking him, the Sheriff of Nottingham, out cold. Will and Robin skipped… I mean… ran off into the Forest to have further adventures another day.
Rue, Board Bard.
(I’m “Board Bard” for lengends and myths, “Uncle Rue, story guy” for Fairy Tales, and the Nursery Rhymes get a title but no tag. It’s all a code.)
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
At lest thet was their story.
They were always running off together
“Fetching” things.
Jack fell down
And broke his crown
And Jill pointed and laughed.
“If you’re going to wear that stupid crown all the time
You should at least watch where you’re going
So you don’t fall down all the time and break it.
There, there… Let me kiss it and make it all better.
Oh, yeah, baby! I’ll kiss that too!”
You don’t want to know what they did next.
I’m sorry Uncle Rue.
Will you forgive me?
And why should I forgive you? I mean really, what’s in it for me? Why, I aughtta…
Just kiddin’. No prob. Just give me a little time next time. OK?
-Rue.
Once upon a time there was a little girl. Her name was Jennine. She wondered off from home one day, and got lost in the woods. Jennine was another not-real-bright story girl. We’ve met a few so far, and I’m pretty sure you know who things will turn out. But keep reading anyway. “The trip is half the fun.” Or some other trite saying. Just read it, it won’t hurt anything. Unless you’re reading without good lighting. Then you’ll get a headache. You might have heard it will ruin your eyes. It won’t. Your eyes won’t be ruined by reading in bad light. But it will give you a headache. You’ve been warned.
Jennine wandered through the forest. Which was dumb. If you ever get lost in a forest, don’t wander around. Stay put. This makes it easier for the Ranger to find you. Unless you get lost in Denali. The park, not the SUV. If you get lost in a car, you deserve to die. Just keep wandering around in your car until you are attacked by wild SUV dwelling animals. It’s what you deserve. If you get lost in Denali, the park, you probably shouldn’t be there to start with. If you get lost a lot, don’t go to Alaska. OK? Unless you’re a jerk. Then if you get lost a lot, people will encourage you to go to Alaska. But this isn’t about you, it’s about Jennine. She’s lost in the forest, remember?
Jennine wandered through the forest until she found a cottage. She didn’t know whose cottage it was, but seeing as she was a cute blonde, she believed everyone would just be thrilled to have a cute blonde around. So, she walked right up to the front door and began pounding on it.
“Hey! You guys in there! It’s me, Jennine! I’m a cute blonde and I’m lost! Let me in!” She went on like that for a while. Finally it sunk in that maybe there was no one home.
“They won’t mind if I pop in for a few minutes. Just to rest. And check my make-up,” thought Jennine. She really thought like that. Good thing this is just a silly story and there aren’t really people like that. Huh?
She looked around a while for the spare key. Everyone keeps a spare key near the front door in case they get locked out. Right? No luck. Jennine couldn’t find the spare key. So she did the only thing she could think of. She kicked the door a couple of good ones and when it popped open, with a broken lock and jamb, she went in. She could smell something cooking, and this reminded her she was hungry. Jennine was so stupid she had to be reminded she was hungry. The empty, growling feeling in her stomach was not a big enough clue. She saw three bowls of something on the table. It was porridge! Her favorite. Not peas porridge that’s been in the pot for nine days, but it would do. She tried the first bowl, the really big bowl, and it was too hot to eat. She tried the next biggest bowl, and it was too cold. It must have sat in a draft. The smallest bowl was just right. So she ate it all.
“They won’t mind,” she thought, if you could call that “thinking”. “I’m blonde and cute and hungry. Feeding me is the least they could do.”
After all that eating, she needed to rest. There were three chairs in the next room. She could sit and watch TV for a while. The biggest chair was too hard. The next biggest chair was too soft, and a little lumpy. Jennine was sitting on a quilt that was only half finished. All the material and batting and that hoop thing were all piled up on the chair. If Jennine could exert herself to actually look where she was sitting she would have seen this. If she looked where she was sitting she wouldn’t have fallen into the outhouse that one time either. Jennine just doesn’t learn. She saw a third chair and tried it out. It was OK, but Jennine was too much for the chair. It was being repaired and the glue wasn’t dry yet and the chair broke.
That’s when Jennine heard the siren pull up to the house and a voice came over a loudspeaker. “You, in the house! Come out with your hands up!” When she kicked in the door, the silent burglar alarm went off. It wasn’t an alarm for silent burglars. There aren’t that many mimes breaking into houses to warrant an alarm just for them. It was a burglar alarm that didn’t make any noise at the house, but called the police. When Jennine came out she was maced in the face and tackled to the ground. The mace was just police-issue teargas, it wasn’t a big stick with spikes and metal bands, so Jennine lived.
Jennine was charged with breaking and entering, petty theft and vandalism. She plea bargained down to paying restitution and 50 hours community service. Nothing went on her Permanent Record. And she didn’t learn a thing. She went on to become a TV star. Her show got to be #2 in her timeslot, and she got a movie deal. It was too much too fast and she got involved in drugs. She was busted for possession, and sent to rehab. There, on the advice of her agent, she found God. She abandoned her acting career (which was really easy, seeing how no one was offering her parts anymore) and became a Christian Rock singer. She was reviled until her death by mainstream music fans. Christian Rock fans are just weird and the bought all of her records and Jennine became very rich. But not any smarter.
It was trendy for rich people to take up “causes”. Jennine decided bears were cute and cuddly. She sponsored the rare Spectacled Bear at her local zoo. One day, at a photo shoot Jennine got too close to “her” bear, and he ate her.
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 were a cricket and an ant. In fact, there were bloody millions of both species, but for the purposes of this story we’ll stick with these two representatives. All the others were just busy ruining picnics and making screeching noises anyway.
The ant, having been brought up by the Amish, worked and toiled all summer to build a comfortable house with all kinds of necessary provisions for the winter. This was a solitary ant, you see. Didn’t care for other ants very much. They always ruined his picnics, for one thing, and got in his kitchen cabinets for another. It’s bad enough when they’re small enough to stomp on them with your foot, but when, compared to yourself, they’re life-size, it’s really pisses you off to find other ants in your kitchen cabinets. So this ant, let’s call him Woody Allen, lived alone. There was also the matter of his breath but the other ants were too polite to mention this. Man, he reeked so much that they’d have to hide in his kitchen cabinets if ever they visited his house!
The cricket, on the other hand, spent the entire summer in his underwear, watching reruns of MAS*H and drinking beer. No stockpiling, no housebuilding, no nuttin’. Well, nothing productive anyway. The cricket just lived it up. He and the ant were neighbors (I might have mentioned this before, I know, but you saw this coming anyway), and every now and then they’d have a conversation along these lines:
“Hi Woody! Working hard?”
“Yes Mr. Stalin. Maybe you should try it.”
The cricket was called Joseph Stalin for some reason. Best not to dwell on it, I think.
“Now why should I want to waste an entire summer working my ass off, Woody?”
“Because winter is coming and soon you won’t be able to find food.”
“Sure I will. There’s a Taco Bell right near the edge of the forest. Lot’s of food there.”
“Taco’s get boring real soon, Mr. Stalin. And how will you survive the cold?”
“I’ll just rub myself. It’s what we crickets do, after all.”
“Well, good luck. I can’t stay to talk. I have work to do.”
And off he rode, in his little horsedrawn buggy. Well, I say horsedrawn but the horse was really a rather small dungbeetle and the buggy was a leaf. He was an ant, after all. Quite ingenious, though, for an ant. Or at least, that’s what I think.
Winter came, and the cricket realized the ant had been right. Tacos got boring very quickly, and there were millions of other bugs out to get that fast food garbage so it was slim pickings. Either that or they were slim pickings. I wouldn’t know, I’m not a native speaker.
So the cricket went to the ants house, picked him up, flew a few miles south, dropped the ant on a freeway, flew back to his house and went to live in his house. It was very comfortable and well stocked. Too bad there were so many ants in the kitchen cabinets.
The ant was killed by a BMW. People who drive BMW’s are all a**holes. Have you ever noticed this? This guy never even saw the ant, so you can’t blame him for that, but whenever you see a BreakMyWindows, the driver is tailgating or speeding or whatever. These people are scum.
The moral of this story: BMW-drivers are scum. Solitary ants are pushovers. Crickets are named after former Soviet dictators.
Very good. I couldn’t do better myself. I could do different, but different is not the same as better. So there you go.
Good twist at the end. I didn’t see it coming. And I was watching too.
-Rue.
Mary had a little lamb.
It was poorly prepared and greasy.
Mary didn’t enjoy it much.
Uncle Rue, may I be so bold as to request your rendition of the Boy Who Cried About Dancing With Wolves…
Aesop, Grimm, Costner, whatever…
Story the First:
Once upon a time there was a young man. He was wooing a comely maiden. One day he took his fairest love to dinner and the movies. Some over-blown, self-indulgent Kevin Costner crap-fest. It did nothing for his date. She wouldn’t put out that night. The young man was sad. When he figured how much cash he dropped on the whole fiasco, it made him cry. He was The Boy Who Cried Over Dances With Wolves.
The Second Story:
Once, deep in the dark woods, there lived a wolf. This was a bad-assed wolf. Not the nice wolves you meet everyday. He had a little bitty tonker, and he over-compensated. He was mean. Anyone he met in the forest, he’d eat. He was a mean son of a bitch. (You can say this about the wolf, right in front of children, because his mother was, in fact, a bitch.)
One day he met a stalwart hedgehog.
“I’m going to eat you” said the mean wolf.
“I don’t think so” said the hedgehog.
“Yeah, I think I will” replied the wolf.
“Let’s see ya try, doo-doo head.” The hedgehog was stalwart, but juvenile.
The wolf lunged at the hedgehog to eat him. The hedgehog rolled up into a little ball. All his spikes were standing up, and the wolf could not eat him.
The wolf found a big rock and smashed the hedgehog flat. He flipped the hedghog over with a stick and dined on Hedgehog Tartar de Smash.
Just because he was a mean-assed son of a bitch doesn’t mean he wasn’t clever.
One More Story:
There was once a wolf. His name, as far as wolves have names, was Grrrrrrulff-mmmrrrrrgrrr. In wolf this meant “Grrrrrrulff-mmmrrrrrgrrr”. Wolves don’t go in for no fancy-schmancy descriptive names. He liked to be called River. He embraced a vegan life style. He would help little lost kids find their way home. He was kind and understanding. He was a dork.
None of the other wolves liked him. He was too flaky. The villagers didn’t trust him. They figured he was up to something.
One day the woodcutter got all liquored up and hunted down poor River. He, the woodcutter, chopped him, River, up into bits. River should have just been his wolfy self.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Once upon a time there was a girl. Her name was Daphne. Daphne was lost in the woods, and it was getting dark. A storm was brewing up too. Daphne was in big trouble.
She spied a castle in the gloom. Her choices were: Stay out in the forest at night in a storm. or Go check out the creepy castle. She chose “castle”.
She went up to the front door. This was after she crossed the moat over the drawbridge, went through the gatehouse and then walked across the courtyard. This is a castle remember? It’s not some little two-story jobby on a cul-de-sac. So she was at the front door. She knocked and the door swung in on it’s hinges with a creak. Creaky door hinges are part of the building code for creepy castles.
“Hello?” she called as she stepped into the castle.
“Go away!” shouted a voice from the shadows. “You do not belong here!”
“Who are you? Don’t send me out into the storm. Please. It’ll muss my hair and I could catch cold.”
That was when there was a crash of thunder and the lightning lit up the whole hall. In a castle a hall is a big room, not a narrow passage between rooms. At least in this castle. If it’s supposed to be called something else, I don’t want to hear about it. While the lightning had the hall lit up, Daphne could see, in the corner, half behind a tapestry, a Beast.
“I am the Beast of the castle! Yaarrrrg!” yelled the Beast.
Oooo… Daphne could be in big trouble now.
As the Beast came toward Daphne in a threatening manor, one of the windows shattered as Buffy, the Vampire Slayer burst in.
“Stay away from her, Beast!” said Buffy. Buffy is so cool.
That’s when another window shattered. In burst that Dark Angel chick. Max? I think so. I’ll go with Max.
“Hit the bricks, Buff. I’ll take over now.” said Max.
“Like hell you will” said Buffy.
And the two fought over who was the cooler super chick. There was a lot of punching and kicking and leaping.
“Eeek!” eeeked Daphne.
“Don’t worry,” said Willow. This wasn’t the geeky, unsure Willow. This was hot super witch Willow. “I’ll protect you while Buffy kicks the crap out of Max.” And Daphne huddled into Willow for protection. “There, there,” said Willow as she stroked Daphne’s hair. “It’ll be alright.”
The two women backed into the room. Willow lifted Daphne onto a table. She took Daphne’s face in her hands and kissed her. A long lingering kiss.
“Hold on!” said the Beast. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Well,” said Willow, “This is Daphne, she’s the beauty to your Beast. Buffy broke in to protect her from you. Max broke in to take Buffy’s place, since Buffy is changing networks and Max thought that meant she’s weak. They’re fighting now, but soon, oh there it is, Buffy smacked Max a good one and made her cry. Now Buffy’s going to console Max and… yup, there they go… Wow, Max is real bendy, isn’t she?” All the while Willow was doing things to Daphne.
“But this makes no sense” complained the Beast.
“So? Who said it has to? It’s just a story. Anything can happen. A frog could materialize out of thin air.”
A frog materialized out of thin air. It floated for a while. It reached down with one front foot and felt around under it. It was hanging in mid-air! The frog looked down and promptly fell. It’s legs pinwheeling all the way down. It hit the ground with a “splat”, shook it’s head with a comic “yadda-yadda-yadda” sound and hopped off.
“See?” asked Willow.
“But still…” started the Beast.
“Didn’t you notice anything funny when Daphne here…”
“Eeep!” eeeped Daphne.
“Sorry hon,” said Willow. “I didn’t mean to poke you like that. I was just gesturing.”
“No. 'S’OK. You could do it again if you’d like.”
“Like this?”
“Eeep! Yeah…”
“Notice anything funny how?” asked the Beast, trying to get the conversation away from Daphne and making her say “Eeep!”
“Like she looks just like Jane Leeves?”
“You mean from TV? She doesn’t look like she does on TV.”
“She looks like she did in that Monty Python movie. The same running shoes and shorts. Knee pads, elbow pads and a helmet. And nothing else!”
“This is too weird” complained the Beast.
“Yeah,” agreed Willow. “I think he’s drunk again.”
“Who?”
“The author of this story.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Rue.”
“Who?”
“Quit with the owl impression already. This is just a story. Anything can happen.”
“Oh and I guess Mary Ann will get off the island and…”
“Would any one like a coconut cream pie?” You know who that is.
“No thanks, Mary Ann. Why don’t you just sit over there for a while.” suggested Willow.
“OK,” she agreed. “Darned itchy clothes!” Mary Ann did a wiggly strip-tease, and sat back in her chair. She drew her knees up and…
“Now just knock it off!” The Beast is so excitable. “I’m leaving! It just too misogynous here! Women as sexual toys. Performing for some drunk with a fevered imagination!”
The doorbell rang.
“Castles don’t have doorbells!”
Just answer the door already. The Beast answered the door. There, with the Swedish Bikini Team was Barbara Eden, in her genie outfit.
“We have your truckload of Jell-O, Master.”
“Arrrrggghh!” and the Beast ran off into the night.
“Hey! Those are my pants!” yelled Puddin’.
Ohhh, I’m getting tired. I think I need a nap… urp Ooooo… that’s not good…
Unc-glurrrg snork snnnnxxx, p’shooo… [sub]Hey you kids! Get offa my lawn![/sub]
What, no Dragons? Everybody knows Dragons belong in every story … we coordinate with the drapes, we make the best roasted marshmallows …
Once, way out in the windswept heights, there was a dragon. When he had enough of the windswept heights, he moved down to the plains. It was warmer there.
He landed on the plains and crashed into a tree. He set up a pitiful howl of pain.
“Owie, owie, owie! I have a splinter in my foot! Owie, owie, owie!” howled the dragon. See how pitiful he was?
Along came a monkey, drawn by the ruckus.
“If I get the splinter out of his foot, he’ll owe my one,” the monkey thought. The monkey figured it’s always good to have a dragon owe you one. You just never know when you’ll be in a jam and a dragon that owes you one sure would be handy.
“Hey! Dragon!” called the monkey. “If I pull the splinter out of your foot, will you owe me one?”
“Sure, friend monkey. If you pull the splinter out of my foot, I’ll owe you one.”
“We have a deal!” exclaimed the monkey. You could tell he exclaimed, he used the exclaimation point. A dead give-away.
The monkey went boldly up to the dragon. He inspected the splintered foot.
“Hey! There’s no splinter in this foot!”
“You don’t say?” And the dragon ate the monkey.
Dragons: Improving the monkey intellegence, one idiot at a time.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Now that school is back in session, I feel I ought to tell you something.
DON’T STEAL MY STORIES!
It’s called “plagiarism” and if you get caught, you can get in real trouble. So don’t hand in one of my stories and tell you teacher you did it yourself. That would be wrong.
Even if you didn’t get caught, it would be wrong. You’d go straight to Hell when you died.
Now you know.
-Rue.
Once upon a time there was an old man. His name was Gepetto, but everyone called him Gerry. He was a toymaker.
He loved to have his store full of children. Not just because that meant he was selling a lot of toys. He liked kids. He wished he could have a kid of his own.
Gerry carved a boy out of wood. Then he waited. Pretty soon a fairy would come and turn his wooden boy into a real boy. That’s how it worked. Wasn’t it? He’d wait.
Late that night, around about midnight, a fairy came to Gerry’s workshop. She stopped in front of Gerry. She was beautiful. Just a little lady, all in blue, with these little wings. And she glowed. Everyone knows all real fairies glow. It’s what fairies are known for. Glowing. And magic.
“Are you here to turn my wooden boy into a real boy?” Gerry asked.
“No,” said the blue Fairy.
“No? But I carved him out of wood and here you are. With your magic, you could make him real.”
“That’s not how it works. Here, have a pamphlet.” It was They Don’t Come From The Cabbage Patch. It had a lot of little words and pictures.
Gerry read the pamphlet, and had an epiphany. He started hitting on the women bringing in the kids. Most of these were their mothers and Gerry got slapped a lot. Some of the women were the nannies. Some gave Gerry hard looks. Some giggled and left. A few stopped to chat with Gerry. A couple actually went on dates with Gerry. One woman even married the toymaker.
He still couldn’t have children. Gerry was kicked in the crotch by a mule as a child. He didn’t have a chance.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Accckkk!!! I just discovered you, Unca Rue…no new stories since 2001? How’s a gal supposed to sleep!!! Or maybe I was sleeping when the new ones showed up? Hmmm…I don’t recall eating any poison apples…maybe some questionable pastrami, but…