The Bloggist

She’s not happy. I know that because her speeder is making a noise like a broken vacuum cleaner. I’m sure there is going to be an argument and it won’t be easy for me to win. Oh, here we go…

—Andy?

—Yes, Penelope? 

—This post.

—Hmm? 

—It’s mad. 

—Ha! I know, great, right?

—No. 

—Er, why?

—You’ve taken absurdity to a point of—

—Absurdity? 

She parked her speeder. Right next to my desk. Even the apple tree shook with trepidation. It looked nervous as well. My desk sat outside in the garden. Although if you were the garden, the desk would be inside. 

She climbed off her speeder, wagging her finger at me. 

—Now look, I’m not having it. I’ve reported you to B.L.O.G. 

—Ah, I thought you might. So, I’ve had a word with the Ministry for Absurdist Defence, MAD, and they told me to give you this.

I handed her a frozen haddock with a post-it note on it. The note had this on it. 

There once was a member of MAD

Whose muse told him his blogs were bad

So he made a new start

And let off a big fart

So the members of MAD were glad.

She read it. Scowled and produced a notepad. She wrote for a few minutes. Then, handed me the notebook. She’d written her own little ditty. 

There was once a muse who was cross

Because the blogger forgot who was boss

So she gave him a slap

Called him a right twat

And then flew off on an albatross.

I felt a bit let down. She didn’t fly off on an Albatross. 

—Right, I get it, you’re not happy. 

—BLOG will ban your blog. You have this evening to get rid of all the absurd nonsense. 

—Yeah? And replace it with what? 

—Write one of your Drabbles. You are good at those. 

Fine. I nodded and picked up my i-thingy and started typing. 

The Magpie

I wandered out into the garden reading my latest blog post out loud.

There I was waffling away (I didn’t have waffles) when I was interrupted by a magpie sitting on our fence.

—That’s shit, geezer, I’d sort that out if ya gonna post it.

(Cockney magpie, up from London to visit relatives.)

—What’s wrong with it?

—It don’t sound right. The grammar ain’t all that, neither.

(Irony, readers.)

—What grammar issues?

—That semi-colon. You ain’t supposed to use ‘em on a Sunday.

—I’ll publish it on Monday.

The magpie farted and flew off, shouting:

—Nobody likes a smart arse!

I showed it to Penelope. She rolled her eyes. So far that I had to put my foot on them so they didn’t roll down the hill. She popped them back in. 

—That’s making matters worse. 

—Points for effort? 

—I’ll ask the Bureau of Literary Oversight and Governance.

—Just so you know? M.A.D love it. 

She sighed like a deflating hot air balloon. Climbed on her speeder and shot off, leaving a trail of ink behind her.