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October 30, 2006


Is that blonde ditzy? Is that redneck lazy?

Prove or disprove a stereotype.

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I don't know where I got this, but I've never had anyone I've told it to say they had already heard it, so I thought I would share.


The city man, lost, pulled into the dirt driveway to ask directions. An old codger was sitting in the shade of the dilapidated porch. The man got out of his car and approached the house. The old fellow asked "what can i do for you"? After asking for directions to a nearby highway, the old man said "it's that way" and tilted the toe of his shoe enough to indicate the direction. The city boy chortled and said "I'd give five dollars to see something lazier than that". "Well son" said the old man, "just put it in my pocket".

Posted by: bluce ree at October 30, 2006 1:53 AM · Permalink

There he sat. Eating some god knows type of food. I don't hang out with people from the UK. Let's keep this straight. Unless they are really cool, I ignore English people, but this guy was different. I have no idea why, but he was. He sat on the bench of some beach and offered me some jellied eels. Jellied eels. Christ sakes. I barely could keep down scrambled eggs much less this crap. He pulled up a bunch and asked me if I wanted to eat. If I wanted some.

I threw up.

I didn't like him after that.

Posted by: the turtle at October 30, 2006 5:49 AM · Permalink

Ed loved to relax in the chair and have some young lovely massaging his scalp.
Even if it was on what his brother Frank called “the yupper west side.” To Frank, all yuppies lived there. To Frank, every person had to fit into a category. To him, all the Jews were money grubbers, and the Irish, drunks, etc. Ed thought it rubbish.

As it was, the girl cutting his hair was Irish. In her light accent she made small talk and asked where Ed lived. “Woodside,” replied Ed about the very Irish neighborhood he lived in.

“What bar?” she replied.

Posted by: Eric at October 30, 2006 8:17 AM · Permalink


Django, a dirt-brown tabby, sat waiting. He hadn’t moved in over an hour as the man worked at the computer.

When the typing was finished, the man headed downstairs for a snack. Django was at his side, crying loudly for a bite of the man’s sandwich.

When he sat on the toilet, Django appeared, rubbing against his legs and hopping up onto the sink next to him while he did his business.

At bedtime, Django nestled up next to the man’s bearded chin, sharing his pillow. The cat’s whiskers kept him from sleeping deeply.

The next day it began again.

Posted by: PB McCoy at October 30, 2006 1:15 PM · Permalink

The El Camino's bumper kissed the pavement once as the sounds of Chamillionaire rattled windows down the alleyway. Verna slowed down, sliding past fire escapes and boarded windows. He reached the edge of the blacktop court just in time to see KeShawn climbing past the warped corner of the chain-link fence.

Ball in hand, Verna hopped the fence and walked to where KeShawn knelt, retying his shoes and donning his sweatband.

"You ready?"

KeShawn nodded.

"Yo' momma's so sweet she's gonna put Hershey's out of business."

"Yeah? I hear yo' momma's so kind, she makes Mother Theresa look like Roseanne."

Posted by: Keiran Halcyon at October 30, 2006 1:42 PM · Permalink

All writers do not get blocks! I'll think of something, ...someday.

Posted by: kasac at October 30, 2006 3:37 PM · Permalink

I can't think of a title - still marginally blocked.
Your suggestions would be appreciatted.
My stereotype is the fantsy world of the female brain.

The letter lay open, returning my stare like a venomous snake.

A Dear John letter…, how could he….?

Western-Union brought my answer. “We regret to inform……”

The President phoned.

My whole world seemed to loose it’s balance.

Months flashed by in snapshots. Arlington. Taps. A flag, gifted for my loss. I plodded through, life in a fog.

I don’t’ remember first knowing, - one day, I felt I’d always known.

Written days before his death, the letter was to save my heart this loss.

I hold it now, with love - the words mean nothing.
It’s loving purpose, – means everything.

Posted by: kasac at October 30, 2006 6:13 PM · Permalink

Any references I might make toward the functioning of the female brain will only serve to reinforce the stereotype that I am a chauvinist pig.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at October 30, 2006 6:21 PM · Permalink

Check before you post!