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July 21, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 21

There once was a man from Nantucket....

There was a young lassie from Cork....

You just can't write a good clean funny limerick. Since they are less than 100 words, it doesn't matter anyway.

SO.

Today is politically correct, no swearing, no sex, no politics, no euphemisms Thursday. (Hereafter to be known as 'vanilla day' or 'Ted bang his head day')

However, just to make things interesting, today's theme is...

DONKEY

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Comments

"Major, this is the third morning I've seen reports of a dead donkey alongside MSR Orange, why hasn't that thing been moved yet?"
"Sir, our convoy commanders are under strict instructions to avoid stopping unless directly attacked."
"I don't care about that, somebody needs to haul that thing away from the road before it becomes an IED!"
"Aye aye sir, we'll take care of it."
Later that night......
"Hey PFC Smith!"
"Yes sir!"
"See that dead donkey alongside the road up there? As we drive by, fire that sucker up with your machine gun, then we're going to haul ass."

Posted by: K. Brown at July 21, 2005 6:59 AM · Permalink

Linda hugs me. I feel the unconditional love of a child. She pulls my ears and kisses my head. Just like she always does. Another hug, and she hands me to Angela. Angela’s fingers immediately find the line of stitching above my tail. I try to overwhelm her guilt with my love. A quick look at her mother, and she squeezes me like she’ll never let go. But she does. She sets me down gently. I feel a tiny arm being placed on my back, and an unconscious squeeze. Once again I feel the familiar warmth of a new child.

Posted by: Mob at July 21, 2005 8:08 AM · Permalink

The warm spring sun tenderly caressed my left cheek. Even with the blindfold on, I knew that I was zeroing in on my target.

I grinned. The same ‘popular’ kids that made so much fun of me at school were now cheering me on.

With my thumb pressed against the cool tack head, I reached out with the ‘tail’. The target didn’t feel like a paper donkey taped to the wall of the barn; it was softer, more resilient.

My stomach sank twice: first when I heard the pained braying and then when the hoof walloped me under my ribs.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 21, 2005 8:10 AM · Permalink

"I am naturally pessimistic about such things," said Eeyore. "Even if we did come up with a limerick, it wouldn't be a very good one."

"We could at least try," said Pooh. "What shall we write about? Bears? Piglets? Donkeys?"

"Donkeys are not very interesting subject material."

"Tiggers are always exciting," said Tigger.

"Please be quiet, Tigger. This is serious." Pooh scratched his belly and burped. "I have it!"

"There once was a tragical donkey
Who belonged to a man named McConkey
Up to no good
He entered the hood.
And everyone called him a honkie."

"Told you," said Eeyore.

Posted by: G-Do at July 21, 2005 12:35 PM · Permalink

The little donkey thought of all the beautiful colors he had been painted, the dazzling patterns in all the colors of the rainbow. I must look magnificent, he thought to himself, as he was carried outside to the back yard, where the children ran and played and screamed with delight. I see, it is a party, he thought, smugly pleased with himself when everyone turned their attention to him. He saw the adoration in their eyes as he was held high for them to see.

Then they hung him from a limb and started whacking at him with a stick.

Posted by: hnumpah at July 21, 2005 12:40 PM · Permalink

Sangit was, of course, getting thoroughly annoyed by now. Yet another set of foreigners coming to his home in downtown Madras. Always the same, wanting to take a look at his donkey. Still, politeness dictated that he let them see it.

As they examined the beast they nodded, self-satisfied. "Ayup, one, two, three, four legs." "Ayup, tail, check." "Ayup, munching down on the lawn."

Finally he could take no more. "I do not see what you find so remarkable about it! Would it not be more unusual the other way around? Who has ever seen a rounded and pink donkey?"

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 21, 2005 1:24 PM · Permalink

“Stop following me!” brayed the horse.

“But I want to be a horse like you,” replied the donkey, happily. “I go where my master bids me, as a good horse should. So, can I please be a horse? I’ll be your best friend forever.”

The horse neighed. “It’s bad enough I have to deal with this idiot on my back, with his shaving bowl helmet and tree branch lance always running me toward windmills, without the further humiliation of being followed by a delusional donkey.” He felt the spurs again and added wearily, “I’m getting too old for this nonsense.”

Posted by: Formerly David at July 21, 2005 1:46 PM · Permalink

A donkey was behind Door #3.
The producers objected, but rules are rules, and I took him home.

I hated my life, the city, the insurance business, the rat race.
I sold everything, bought camping gear, loaded up George, and
went upstate to live off the land.

Tough at first, but I grew to love the physical work, the travels, the
beauty of the wilderness.

My stockbroker brother stayed in the city -- heart attack killed him at age 43.

I'm happy, and alive, and free.

Fate? God's will? Bad luck turned good?

Naah. I knew George was behind the door.

Posted by: Randy Shane at July 21, 2005 3:18 PM · Permalink

The day starts out great, just keeps getting better.

I get dressed up in festive colors.

I am given a new set of reins, though strangely they are placed on my back.

I am fed to my heart's content with all manner of sweets and treats - more than a donkey in his right mind could ever wish for.

Next, I hear the squeals of glee from children, and watch as the party activities unfold.

I am even held on high so that I can see all that is going on about me.

I just wonder who this "pinata" person is.

Posted by: JD at July 21, 2005 7:36 PM · Permalink

After all these years, you think they’d finally get it right. But no.

If I had to blame somebody, I’d blame that Cervantes fellow for getting it backwards. But what do you expect from one of these “creative” types? I’m a busy man, and I don’t have the time to explain the intricacies of my profession to every Tomàs, Ricardo, and Miguel that comes along.

Especially when that profession is unusual.

Don Quixote is my name. Agricultural architectural restoration is my game.

What do I do?

I restore correct vertical alignment to air-powered size reduction equipment.

Yep. I untilt windmills.

Posted by: Elisson at July 21, 2005 8:09 PM · Permalink

He threw another branch on the fire. "I wonder what they're doing back in Boston?", he mused. "I wonder if anyone misses me?"

His mind turned to Sally, and his mood began to darken. His donkey brayed in the darkness, breaking his train of thought.

"Thank you Sally me girl," he laughed. "You've been a far better friend to me than your namesake. But I promise to make it up to you when I hit the big one. No more dragging supplies around for the likes of me, just plenty of hay and a fine jack to squire you."

Posted by: Gahrie at July 21, 2005 9:25 PM · Permalink