Shoe Misfits



Shoes! (Photo credit: Cynewulf)

Ode to an Ill-Fitting Shoe

Cursed is the foot that’s born too thin.

Nary a shoe will the foot fit in.

If the shoe is too wide,

The foot will slide.

If the shoe is too tight,

A blister will smite.

What in the world can a lady do

To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Cursed is the foot that’s born too wide.

Always the toes will cramp inside.

If the shoe is too small,

The toes hit a wall.

If the shoe is too big,

The nails dig in.

What in the world can a lady do

 To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Cursed is the foot that’s born too short.

Nothing you do will give it support.

If the shoe is too long,

The toes ‘ll get lost.

If the shoe isn’t snug,

They get crushed on the run.

What in the world can a lady do

To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Sadly, I won’t know the answer to this.

My AA foot will never find bliss,

As most shoe stores like a wide foot fit,

Into the dark my sore sole slips.

How does your foot size up?

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Teleconfusion – TV or Not TV

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or...

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or other things. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Teleconfusion: An abnormal condition variously characterized by stupor, stereotypy, mania, and either rigidity or extreme flexibility of the limbs, resulting from watching too much television.

Through the Chaos

Through the Chaos (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You may have experienced one of the symptoms of Teleconfusion after watching The Apprentice, or America’s Got Talent or the recent season of Survivor.

Symptoms of Teleconfusion

  • Restless body syndrome: shifting positions from sitting upright, to prone, to flipped upside down on your head, a different perspective for watching the news.
  • Excessive trips to the bathroom to floss and pluck your eyebrows then yell at the glassy-eyed lunatic who stares at you like a pheasant under glass.
  • A kitchen safari: searching the cabinets, hunting for comfort foods, Cheerios and vodka, “The Breakfast of Champions.”
  • Incessant yammering, the result of mixing sugar and alcohol, unless the blather is emanating from the television and not your sputtering mouth.
  • Shaking your head like a bulldog. Drool hangs from your chin, stretching with each back-and-forth motion, a look left toward your husband, cowering on the couch, then right toward a sound bite dive bombing your ear.

The spittle grows to elongated Silly Putty proportions, then snaps, splattering the television, walls and hubby, catapulting him from the couch.

Howie Mandel says, “You are what this show is all about.”

Me? Is he talking to me?

Sharon Osborne adds, “I vote yes!”

To what? Hauling me off in a straitjacket?

Donald Trump sits behind a city block-long conference table, staring blankly with his high-end mug and low-brow talk.

“You know I think you’re great, Lisa. I’m great, too, because I’ve got more money than the U.S. Treasury and look terrific in this Persian rug glued to the top of my head. Lisa, I love you, but you’re fired!”

My right eye twitches. I wanted Lisa to win.

The medics storm the family room with a stretcher and backward-strapped suit.

“Hi Daddy,” I say, with a Cheerio stuffed in each nostril. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

My husband signs the papers. I bark at him like a Schnauzer, as they carry me out the room.

In the distance, Howie Mandel gushes, “Your life will never be the same.”

Howie was right! They locked me up and smelted the key.

Note:  Teleconfusion is a word my late father-in-law used to describe the effects of watching crap on television, a medium in which he worked for most of his adult life. He started in radio, directing Arthur Godfrey, and then transitioned into television.

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The Case of the Missing Font Family. Hint. The Delete Key Did It!

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes (Photo credit:

Hey, you blanking page. What happened to the Font family?

They vanished somewhere between the margins, their characters decimated by Jihadist spelling terrorists.

Alas, I fear the fragment may be dead, but I can’t find the body of words.

I need an English detective to solve the case – Sherlock Holmes. Prep your pipe and tip your bowler.

Holmes turns to Watson.

“The Delete key killed the words this time, not the Butler.”

Delete key on PC keyboard

Delete key on PC keyboard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Are you sure, Holmes?”

“Why yes. Don’t you see? It’s the perfect crime – no evidence or DNA. Just D.O.A. Yes, I dare say, the delete key is a letter of interest.”

“We should put it under surveillance, Holmes.”

“Quite right, perhaps, a desktop disguised as a potted plant. And it doesn’t need sunlight or water.”

The conjectures stopped there.

Watson and Holmes suddenly left the scene after an incident with the Device Manager, who accidentally ejected them from the case.

Oh, well. The desktop has limited memory anyway. 2.99 Gigabytes that gobble up RAM and fragment jam that get stuck between the CPU and a hard drive.

Who cares? They’re only words and memory of words in this version of Word, an ecosystem of micro bits on the page.

If a biologist were to study the desktop habitat, he would find infinite lifeforms amid the fonts. The most noble one of all, the infamous Font de Leon, a blue-blooded Times New Roman.

With his sidekick Thesaurus, he wanders around the white drifts of spaces in a quest to find the perfect word.

One day, while traveling through the mirage of pages, the Font closed the window and lost his way. There was no turning back and no keyboarding forward. All is lost when there’s nothing to save.

This is the heartbreak of Psoriasis and flaky fingers tapping letters that don’t know an “a” from an “n” but know when a sentence ends.

Meanwhile, the Recount de Calisto hired a courier to hunt down the Algerian, who was seen lingering amid rebellious lowercase letters, along with a petulant typeface that demanded attention in bolded UPPERCASE words.

Big Boned™ Rounded Typeface

Big Boned™ Rounded Typeface (Photo credit: _Untitled-1)

All of the letters promptly disappeared in the quicksand of the document, an accidental demise, and not a felony by the prime suspect, Delete, the key to every crime.

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Mother’s Day Rap

I’m a mother with a son, two dogs and cat

I try to cook and clean but fail at that

After work, I want time to clear my head

But have to feed the dogs and cat instead

If they don’t get dinner, they get under my feet

When you fall on your face, it’s harder to scream


I’m just a gal with a job, a hubby and kid

Got no time for a facial or sweet spot to fill

Want a safe-room to hide from my family and pets

Sitting alone in the dark is as good as it gets


After the dogs and cat got food in their gut

Got to make an ingestible for my husband and son

If I don’t feed them, they get cranky and gruff

Don’t want a coup on my hands while juggling stuff

Cook is a four-letter word and meal is, too.

Can’t my family get their own damn food?


I’m just a gal with a job, a hubby and kid

Got no time for a facial or sweet spot to fill

Want a safe-room to hide from my family and pets

Sitting alone in the dark is as good as it gets


Gotta put food in the fridge or on the counter it sits

The stack in the sink needs a dishwasher rinse

I stick them on the shelf, as if a piece of puzzle to fit

If I put them in wrong, there’s no place for a dish

Want to push all the buttons and begin the soak

Before I stumble into hubby in the comatose zone


My son’s M.I.A., stuck in the World Wide Web

Outside, the dogs avoid the shock of the electric fence

Suddenly, the cat wants to be my friend

She shows it be scratching the counter’s edge

“Stop it!” I scream, then she hits the catnip

Hubby wakes up barking with the dogs, who want to come in


Oh, God, I don’t wanna open that door

I’ll never get a moment of quiet time du jour

Just want one day to clear my head of crap

That’s why I wrote this half-baked Mother’s Day Rap


I’m just a gal with a job, plus a hubby and kid

Got no time for a facial or sweet spot to fill

Want a safe-room to hide from my family and pets

Sitting alone in the dark is as good as it gets

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If a blog post falls in my head, does it make a sound?

The silence in my head speaks louder than the brain gremlins feeding on muse droppings and thought decay.

All those lovely ideas scribbled on Post-it-Notes and envelopes, screaming to be saved. They telepathically collect rejection slips, while waiting in the dark chamber of neglect in the lobby of paper limbo.

Post-It Note Impression No. 13

Post-It Note Impression No. 13 (Photo credit: Kevin H.)

I’m still working out the details of the rescue with a team of Navy SEALS that moonlight weekends at the circus balancing ballpoint pens on their noses.

It doesn’t instill confidence. I know. But at least they’re making money, while waiting for my signal to board the bridge to nowhere that extends from the real world to the creative universe in my head.


quinn (Photo credit: fiddle oak)

It’s a busy place with monochrome ghosts and black holes sucking up the air. Where are the Immigration dudes when you need them? – On the beach of Cozumel sipping Mai Tais with secret service hookers and little green men.

Little green men figure

Little green men figure (Photo credit: twistypiper)

Is there poetic justice? No. Writing just is a twist of fate.

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