Monty Python by Gerard C. Smith A python known simply as Monty Thought his ecdysiast mistress tres naughty, So he wrapped her in whorls Squeezed from toes to her curls, And then swallowed her whole-- That's full Monty. © 2002 by Gerard C. Smith. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Gerard, who hails from South Carolina, authored the NASCAR murder mystery, WHITE LIGHTNING, that is out looking for a home. He started work on another stock car racing novel, tentatively titled TO LIVE AND DIE IN DIXIE. He also writes short stories and poetry. Some of his stuff can be seen on the web at Gator Springs Gazette, IguanaLand, Flush Fiction Magazine, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Literary Potpourri. E-mail him at smithg@islc.net. |
Monty Python by Gerard C. Smith A python known simply as Monty Thought his ecdysiast mistress tres naughty, So he wrapped her in whorls Squeezed from toes to her curls, And then swallowed her whole-- That's full Monty. © 2002 by Gerard C. Smith. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Gerard, who hails from South Carolina, authored the NASCAR murder mystery, WHITE LIGHTNING, that is out looking for a home. He started work on another stock car racing novel, tentatively titled TO LIVE AND DIE IN DIXIE. He also writes short stories and poetry. Some of his stuff can be seen on the web at Gator Springs Gazette, IguanaLand, Flush Fiction Magazine, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Literary Potpourri. E-mail him at smithg@islc.net. |
Cat Care for Dummies by Margaret B. Davidson "The book makes it sound easy." I'd been leafing through our book, How to Care for Your Cat. Having located the section titled "Delousing Your Kitten," I begin reading sections to my husband, Phil. He is skeptical. "Why don't we just take the cat to the vet? They'll give it a flea pill or something." "We've already spent enough on this cat. You insisted that we go to a breeder rather than the SPCA. You wanted a fancy-schmancy, highly-bred animal. You paid the equivalent of a year's rent for one and you got one. The fleas came free, so you shouldn't complain. We're not spending more money taking it to the vet to get it cleaned up." "Okay, but I have a bad feeling about this." "Just go to the store and get the stuff, okay? I'll go find Suki." Forty-five minutes later, Phil returns with an ultra-large box of baking soda and a supply of small plastic garbage bags. I've managed to restrain Suki on a leash tied to the kitchen doorknob. The cat is not happy. I refer once again to the book. The instructions are quite specific and written in a way that even a moron can understand: "'One. Grab the plastic bag by its top corner. Shake it open.' Go ahead, Phil. I'll read. You follow the instructions. "'Two. Pour the whole box of baking powder into the bag.' Pour it slowly -- you're getting it all over the place! "'Three.' This is the tricky part. 'Place your kitten gently inside the bag being careful not to frighten it.' Hold on, I'll get the cat." I grab an irate Suki, who is struggling mightily to get away. As I'm attempting to insert the flailing feline into the bag, I continue to issue instructions. "Once I get him inside you have to scrunch the bag closed around his neck. Only his head should be sticking out. Be careful you don't strangle him. Once he's positioned in there, you give the bag a good shake." "You do what? You sure that's what it says? You know, you're all covered in baking powder?" "This is the hardest part... getting him in the bag... There! I've got it scrunched around his neck. Can't give it a shake though without him slipping all the way in. Why don't you just try to move the bag around his body so that he gets covered in the stuff. I'll keep hold of him...this isn't so easy. His claws are making holes in the bag! He's trying to get out!" "No kiddin'." Just then the phone rings on the counter right behind me. I'm startled and let loose my hold on the bag. The cat leaps three feet up, right out of the bag, and takes off for the nether regions of the basement. We don't locate him for two days. The whole kitchen is enveloped in a mushroom cloud of baking soda, and Phil and I cough and choke as we breathe in the fumes. It looks like a mini atom bomb has hit the kitchen. It's only later that we notice that the cat has urinated, no doubt in terror, all over the cat-care book. © 2002 by Margaret B. Davidson. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author. Margaret was born and raised in England. She emigrated to the United States in the mid-sixties and now lives in upstate New York with her husband and cat. Margaret's husband supplies moral support for her writing efforts, while the cat helps with the typing. You can e-mail her at MargaretDa@aol.com. |
You wanted a fancy-schmancy, highly-bred animal. You paid the equivalent of a year's rent for one and you got one. The fleas came free... |
