Parlez-vous French Toast?

 

Oui! Oui!

Now, put zee caramelized apples on top of zee French toast and voilà! Ve have a breakfast treat that will send you waddling out the door or collapsing to the floor.

Baguette french toast with bacon, caramelised apples and apple syrup

Zee recommended French toast prep:

First, add a slab of butter and copious amounts of syrup.

Note: the butter should float in zee syrup, like a rubber ducky, and perhaps if you’re lucky, zee butter and French toast will set sail for Paris, docking at a café in time for lunch.

Second, zee French toast should spring back when prodded with a finger. Fluffy and stuffy and mucho fattening, exceeding the national carb count allowed for breakfast. An easy fix if you bump up zee French toast to lunch.

Afterward, a siesta is in order, to sleep off the free-fall sugar plunge and carb meltdown from the fatty acid butter blast.

Ah, such a treat. Zee veins play games with chunks of plaque that speed through the arteries, toward zee heart, like a sled on a luge track.

Game over once you cross the finish line, but oh, what a ride! Such a tasty thrill-seeker’s treat before zee plaque hits the coroner’s target on the coronary wall.

I see the light!

No, you don’t!

It’s dark in the otherworldly waiting room. No candles allowed.

That’s why the next step is highly recommended.

Third, put zee French toast back on zee plate and flambé it.

Now, you can see the light.

Parlez-vous French toast?

Endnote: I’ve always felt like a dumbass because I couldn’t speak French. But the realization of my language deficit didn’t hit center stage until after I saw the play, Les Misérables, and couldn’t pronounce it. This post is dedicated to my pathetic French language skills. With that said, “Yo hablo poquito Espanol.”

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The Turning Point at the Giant Fork in the Road

Day 28 Prompt: “The Turning Point.” Two more days left of 30 Days of Writing, hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese.  Please stop by the We Work for Cheese Emporium to link up or read other inmate posts.

The Giant Fork in the Road

“Ah, the turning point,” said Gladys GPS, “The proverbial fork in the road that has impaled many unsuspecting travelers before you. But you can avoid fork fate, and being skewered by giant cutlery, by following a three-pronged-approach to highway travel.

Dinner Fork in the Road

 

Prong 1 – A giant always has the right of way

When stopped at a colossal fork in the road, it is imperative to close any open sunroofs or convertible tops. Then, a giant can’t yank you out of the driver’s seat and stuff you in his goody bag.

Most giants travel the countryside, along stretches of deserted road, in search of people snacks for Soylent Green barbecues. A happy time for giants, when they get together with distant relatives from the Land of the Giants, as well as monolithic pets from popular “B” movies.

At giant gatherings, King Kong and Godzilla often enjoy playing fetch with 727s and tractor trailer trucks. In the distance, a human might hear a giant yell, “Fetch Zilla, fetch.”

Giant families congregate in condemned caverns where they swap recipes and body parts then hand out goody bags when it’s time to leave.

Prong 2 – Not a photo op

Never leave your car to take a picture of a fork in the road. Giants have an acute sense of smell. They can smell the blood of an Englishman with their “Fee-fi-fo-fum” sonar and also hear a pitchfork drop.

If you should reach a fork in the road, continue traveling left or right, depending upon your political affiliation. Giants don’t participate in the political process or vote since they can’t read the tiny print on the ballots. This agitates them. For that reason, it is advisable to avoid discussing politics with a giant, as he will crush you with his Goliath intellect and Parthenon sized shoes.

Prong 3 – Never climb a fork in the road

Besides the obvious downside of shimmying up a spike, once a giant spots a human wedged between two prongs, its salivary glands gush from the anticipation of a roadside snack or bob kabob. After all, one man’s misfortune is another gargantuan’s opportunity.

So, be street smart when you travel, and you won’t end up lost in the bile of a giant’s intestinal tract.

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Roast or Toast Another Blogger, Figuratively Speaking

On day 24, I’m forgoing the funny for a drizzle of sap.

Glasses of champagne await use to toast the ar...

Glasses of champagne await use to toast the arrival of my grandmother in her new apartment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’d like to thank Nicky and Mike @ We Work for Cheese for hosting the 30-day blogging challenge.

I jumped in on day 17 and this morning, on day 24, I had a blogging epiphany.

Blogging is nothing like writing and all about relationships. Writing is secondary.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s essential to produce great content to draw in readers, but personal connections build community and that’s the key to happiness and enjoying life online.

Several months ago, I stopped visiting many of my favorite blogs, a victim of information overload.

Having poor time management skills didn’t help, thanks to one of the deficits of being ADD.  Add to the mix that I was working on a memoir, which I finished but am still revising, and kaboom! Blog meltdown. Perhaps, some of you saw the mushroom cloud.

I don’t want to lose what I’ve gained over the past seven plus days and will try to stick to a schedule going forward. Good luck with that!

The 30-Day Challenge helped me realize that blogging is nothing like writing and all about connecting with like-minded people, that cranking out well-crafted pieces is in itself a skill.

The Challenge has reignited my passion for blogging and reintroduced me to the blogging world. It has taught me that there’s room for both blogging and writing in my life and showed me that I could, indeed, publish a post a day, so far anyway.

There was that one repost the other day.

Most importantly, it reminded me how special it is to be part of an incredible community of bloggers. There are no words to express the feeling you get when you connect with people online.

Thank you, Nicky and Mike.

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Going Solo on a Writing Riff

 

Improvised post for 30 Days of Writing – #20 – Going Solo.

Logo for the program 30 Days Category:Televisi...

Logo for the program 30 Days Category:Television program logos (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Jumping in with both hands in an attempt to freestyle keyboard.

This is your last chance to bail before I end up at the bottom of the page.

And by the way, I’m going solo to the opera ward of the psychiatric hospital for shrieking vocalists.

Hopefully, someone will cure me of my problem to sing off-key. I’ve been banned from singing at parties.

I won’t tell you about the time they put out an APB on me from singing in the shower. Now, I just move my lips and pretend to make a sound. It’s better that way.

But my musical deficiency doesn’t stop at the vocal chords.

I’ve also got a percussion problem. I can’t chew gum while playing the bongos.

I don’t even have a set of bongos. But if I did and were to pound the skins, I would have to remove the gum beforehand. However, a foot would be better.

A gum smack flusters my cadence and knocks my palms off kilter. Luckily, I’m kneeling at the time, so when I hit the floor, I fall at gnome height.

I like to watch gnomes going solo in a never-ending walk across the lawn. Why gnomes end up at a home on a lawn – which isn’t a range – I’ll never know or ever get a gnome groove going.

What I do know and think in the darkness of my brain. All gnomes should be pan-seared on a range.

Ding!

Time to flip the gnome burgers.

 

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

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes (Photo credit: givingnot@rocketmail.com)

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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A WIP, not a WHIP, though one smacks a horse’s ass

Excerpt from a work in progress

This was my moment: choke or breathe. Either the cubed potato would slip down my throat or clog up my air filter.

So far, my soul hadn’t bailed out on me. Thoughts continued to light up my brain while my fatalistic, internal drama queen ranted on about the end of days. It focused me in a weird, disturbing way.  I no longer pined about losing time or sight of my goals.

A Horse's Ass

Image by citron_smurf via Flickrosing time or sight of my goals.

I had one big assed delusional goal lurking in front of me. Staying alive! Staying alive! Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, staying alive! No other pathetic self-perpetuated malady could come close in comparison.

Either that potato would make it down my esophagus or EMT workers would be hauling off my corpse tonight on a stretcher and Jim would be cooking for one. He was the better cook anyway.

I don’t remember the point when I stopped stressing over the potato and my early demise. Did it happen downstairs in the kitchen or upstairs in the office? I have no recollection. One minute death obsessed, the next I was in front of the computer screen staring at white space.

Maybe it was a white light and my dead relatives would be arriving any minute to take me to heaven for some Chinese food.

That’s what my family did every Sunday night when I was kid, a Tung Hoy night out with the grandparents and immediate family, although my younger brother and I didn’t know the meaning of immediate. We were usually late.

I would enjoy hearing the dinner din again, especially the pre appetizer spat over what to order, as soon as the waiter handed out the food-stained menus.

I didn’t care what I got in the Chinese food lottery as long as it included a bowl of wonton soup. But that wouldn’t happen until my folks stopped arguing over the merits of ordering from A” or “B,” while the waiter stood with a fake smile, head slightly bowed, probably regretting his table assignment.

“Spareribs and egg rolls,” my father said, and then slammed the menu down on the table.

I chimed in with “I want fried lice.”

Back then, you could get away with saying crass ethnic shit if you were a kid. Political correctness didn’t exist. Even so, I got a death-ray stare from my mother across the table.

Meanwhile, my grandmother was flossing her teeth with a matchbook cover. She didn’t get a death-ray stare from my mother for committing a major social faux pas. Grandmothers could get away with old world habits. Hell, I have a picture of her on a horse-drawn carriage.

They didn’t have toothpicks back then. Just ice picks. Someone would have to be in a bad place to remove a piece of meat from their teeth with an ice pick, a perfect excuse for an unhappy wife or husband to get rid of a spouse.

“But officer, I was just trying to remove a hunk of chicken from my wife’s teeth when the ice pick slipped and impaled her brain.”

If my dead relatives happened to sneak down from heaven and observe a day in my unstructured world, they’d probably be disappointed and not stick around. Once back up in heaven, they’d share their experiences with the other dearly departed. “It’s okay,” they’d say. “We’re not missing anything.”

Waxing Poetic – A House Personified.

Jayne, the brains behind the always inspiring and entertaining injaynesworld, took the path that leads from Magpie Tales into a writer’s mind and produced a wonderful vignette from Magpie’s picture prompt.

Today, I take the same path but with a different picture.

A House Personified.

A window gazes out onto slippery snow white, a coverlet for the lawn burdened by layers of cold and ice.

Seasonally speaking, the wind of change rustles leaves in the fall, severing their ties to the trees that carry them throughout the year. In the winter, the shrill cry of a wrong swoops down through gnarly branches now bare and worn.

Amid bleak muddy winter colors, a faded moss stained house holds to dreams through cold winter nights when darkness conquers shadows and hides memories thriving in tightly shut eyes.

The house sleeps until morning, awakened by sunlight slipping through cracks in the window, prying open the eyes of the beholder still looking inward at a soul tarnished and old.

Life cannot flourish inside where dead wood chairs sit devoid of human warmth fitting forms against soft back cushions.

Slowly, the growing glare of sunlight rouses the groggy soul cowering in the eye, moistening, blinking back hazy warm tears. Eyelashes flutter open echoing the thud of flickering drumbeat. Silently the house cries. Water spills from the gutters, dripping past paint chipped shutters, weathered from years of neglect.

Yet, outside beneath frost bearing air, the snow still shines, resonating white, glaring back at the window humbled by the power of life.

A Picture is Worth 420 Words.

Repost of an article I wrote last year using a picture prompt.

Vaudeville Act, Destined for Dump, Saved by Descendant of Jerry Mahoney.

The demise of Vaudeville began soon after the debut of the Feckless Five, as they appeared in their first performance pose in the below archival print.

Sid (top left)

Lenny (top right)
Willie (center)
Miriam (bottom left)
Felice (bottom right)

Feckless Five Back Story

The Feckless Five specialized in stand-up performance posing, which bored audiences, yet delighted photographers. Despite their unpopularity, the Feckless Five were trailblazers in Vaudeville, as stand-up portrait posing was a precursor to stand-up comedy.

Since stand-up performance posing never caught on, the Feckless Five were never seated at the best tables in restaurants; instead, they sat in the back by the bathroom. The singers, dancers, and ventriloquists  got the best tables, even the ventriloquist dummies.

Each of the Feckless Five had a unique characteristic:

Sad Sid
was always down in the dumps because his chair abutted the bathroom door. He never had time to eat since he had to let patrons in and out of the bathroom. However, they did leave pretty good tips.

Loser Lenny always had a “sour lemon lip” look on his face. Apparently, he was weaned on citrus fruit and had been fermenting since.

What the? Willie was perpetually surprised, which frankly surprised him.

Moping Miriam carried the weight of the world and the failure of the Feckless Five on her shoulders. She never liked sitting by the bathroom and always voiced her disgust when the maître d led them to the back while ignoring her protests, which both infuriated and depressed her.

Frivolous Felice didn’t care much about anything. She always sat at the table smiling while Sid, Lenny, and Miriam bickered about not being able to read the menu because of the poor lighting. The fluorescent sign that hung above the restroom door was never bright enough, either was Willie. He couldn’t tell the difference between a table and a booth unless there was a phone involved.

If only the Feckless Five bickered on stage instead of posing, they might have gotten top billing and sat at the best tables in the front next to the ventriloquist dummies.

Due to the efforts of Jerry Mahoney’s great, great, really great grandson, Kenny Kindling Mahoney, the famous portrait pose, as seen above, currently hangs in the Vaudeville Museum in the back room by the bathroom.

—–

I found this picture on the Internet and began writing stream of consciously.

Jump-starting your writing from a picture or word is a great way to get going on a writing romp.

I don’t know where my head was when I wrote this on Sunday, August 20, 2009. I can only imagine. I was unemployed at the time. The job situation appeared scarier than usual. In fact, someone should write a horror film about looking for a job in this economy – Jobs from the Crypt or Jobless Bloody Monday.

Have you ever written something using a picture prompt?