Chuckie Bob & His Award

Chuckie Bob had one desire:
To see his name in print;
For tightrope walking on a wire,
A public office stint,
Pulling babies from a fire,
Or earning quite a mint.

Unfortunate for Chuckie Bob:
When made by Mom and Dad,
They weren’t too worried ’bout their job
And skimped on brains a tad
-Whilst also being somewhat slobs
And calling thinking, “Bad.”

Still, decided growing Chuck,
He’d up and show them all.
He’d prove he wasn’t just a schmuck;
He stood up straight and tall.
He’d show he wasn’t some lame duck;
“And I will win!” He called.

But, Chuckie Bob forgot one thing,
As he sought his reward:
That warning labels mean something
When they say, ‘Pull the cord
-But after you have cleared the wings,
Propellers, engines, board’

Now, Chuckie Bob’s been made the king
Of Darwin’s famed award.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

©2020 Chel Owens

Enter your own poem for this week’s contest, due tomorrow!

How to Wake a Teenager

The way to get a teenager out of bed is with last night’s pizza. Just lean in to the lifeless lump of blankets atop your teen’s bed, plug your nose against the smell of the room, and whisper the magic words: “Pizza,” “Breakfast.”

You may think they want it fresh, or hot, or crispy. You are wrong.

“Pizza for breakfast” will result in the sudden escaping of a barely-dressed teenager from his blanket cocoon. You’ll find your teen illuminated by the open refrigerator; feet on your best cushions; happily consuming an old, cold, slimy pizza slice.

Yes, for breakfast.

©2020 Chelsea Owens, except photo

I had a hankering to answer Carrot Ranch‘s prompt:

April 2, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes pizza. It can be an original pizza pie (or slice) or something pizza-like. Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by April 7, 2020. Use the comment section… to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

Little Willie: Some Terrible Poems

Little Willie learned of love
Tried it on a girl he’d heard of
Saw her driving; tried to rush
Now he feels a different crush.

A fresh apple!
-Willie sees
Newton’s Law
Sees Wil-lie.

Once when Willie, feeling bold,
Traded in his gramma’s gold,
Midas Pawn Shop learned too much;
Gave poor Will their famous touch.

Willie broke his mama’s back
Try’n to step on ev’ry crack
Mama’s had it with his sass
Used her cane to whip his hide.

Hole in ‘chute,
At airplane jump;
Will said, “Shoot!”
Then, he said *clunk!*

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Wanna try a Little Willie poem? They’re the topic of this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest!

Throwback Thursday: Intervention

At one point, I had the brilliant idea to write about my love from the position of an AA meeting attendee…

Originally from August 23, 2017, I give you:

Intervention

Hello. I’m Chelsea. And, I am a sock-aholic.

It all started when I attended Fred Meyer’s Black Friday Sale. Suddenly, expensively inaccessible footwear was accessible. I can feel my toes twitching even now, just thinking about those boxes and boxes completely full -and at half the price.

They had all wool, cotton with moisture wick, and part spandex thigh-high business casual. They had toe socks (which we webbed-feeters can’t actually wear), nylons in packages instead of eggs, aloe-infused fuzzy cuddlewear, and patterned boot stockings.

I bought a pair of thick, wool hiking socks last time -after selecting sensible white pairs of cotton blend (super soft and stretchy!) for everyday, of course.
When I’m dressing, I reach for the alluring stripes, itching to put them on.

But, no -I bought these to put inside hiking boots. I did not buy them to put inside houses (and, in cars, outside, etc.)

Actually, that’s my other confession: I hurt the socks I love. I frequently take a lovely, thick pair out in the garage or down the street to the neighbor’s.

Most days I’m good, but sometimes the pull is too strong.

Socks speak to my sole.

©2020 Chelsea Owens

Throwback Thursday: Herculesa

Still a favorite short, humorous story of mine, first published July 13, 2017:

Herculesa

Herculesa bravely clutches at her last weapon -the Libman of Justice- as she eyes the dangerous Hydra plodding menacingly toward her.

Whack! A purposeful sweep draws the vicious head of Dirty Tile Floors off its base. Swish! Returns the Laundry head to its origins. Clunk! And the Dishes is decapitated.

But, as we all remember, Hydra Housework cannot be defeated so easily. From the supposed stumps of completion, new branches sprout and grow full size. Floor splits into Carpets, Windows, and Toilets; Laundry spawns Sock Mating, Bedding, Repair; Dishes makes more and more Dishes!

Our heroine is surrounded as she stumbles back on loose Hot Wheels and plush animals. Bravely she strikes again and again!

How will Herculesa ever vanquish this unconquerable beast? There is no permanent end in sight!

©2020 Chelsea Owens

The Healthy Benefits of Popcornopolis

48385267_10156330725843052_7276558164391100416_o

Manager: “Hey, Bill, we’ve got some ad space we need to fill on the front. Here’s the list of our usual…”

Bill: “Hmmm… ‘fat free’ -nope; ‘vitamins and min-‘ nope; ‘low in -‘ nope, it’s not low in anything except nutrition…”

M: “C’mon, man, it has popcorn. Popcorn’s healthy, right?”

B: …..

M: “Oh. Right. Hmmm. Looks like we’re gonna have to pull from the Emergency Terms.”

B: “American-made and gluten-free it is.” …”We’ve still got a lotta space at the top -”

M: “I know! Non-GMO!”

B: “IS it?”

M: “Who cares? The stuff has 52% of your saturated fat in a cup!”

B: …”I’ll adjust the serving size, too.”

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

To My Guilty Pleasure

Dearest Combo Meal,

How long has it been since I last saw you? How long has it been since I last smelled you? How long has it been since my lips touched your face? If only you possessed the anatomy to speak, I know the answer would be, “Too long.”

I remember, Dear, the first time I held you. My fingers caressed your top bun; my thumbs, your bottom. Your succulent, savory middle oozed; temptingly tantalizing. “Sense me,” your sesame seeds whispered. “Breathe me,” called your charbroiled meat. “Crush me,” cooed your shredded lettuce. “You’ll never need another,” the tomato slice promised. What your special sauce said, however, will stay between us forever.

“But don’t forget,” they all reprimanded, “Our friends sitting there, nearby.”

“I wouldn’t!” I promised. “I couldn’t!” I swore. To prove my word, I retrieved a golden spear. Tenderly, lovingly, I dipped it in light orange heaven. I ate. I savored the sauce, the salt, the crunch, and the piping-hot innards beneath.

Of course, my darling, we both know that was not all. Subtly, smugly, silently making table rings beneath its cup sat your final piece: a shake. If perfection was not achieved before that point, your frosted cylindrical container’s contents were there to oblige. What wondrous elements lay within? Ice cream? Fruit? Whipped cream? Yes! All those elements embraced each other in a swirl of frozen flavor, igniting passion as they froze my eager taste buds.

Surely, Dear, you recall that first time? Surely you felt the same as I.

Those thoughts crossed my mind, my mouth, my gastrointestinal system just this evening. For, unbeknownst to my resistant will, my errands took me past your residence. I smelled you before I saw the familiar neon sign: a mixture of flame, meat, oil, and Greek wallpaper. Your beefy goodness wafted through my air conditioning, beckoning to me like a cartoon smoke-finger.

“Remember…” whispered the scented smoke, as my mind fought a losing battle with my appetite.

“I do,” I replied. My children stared.

What could I do? Who could resist? Even my offspring knew the irresistible draw of your charms. They knew the indefinable pleasure of unwrapping your crinkling papers, retrieving your deep-fried goodness, and drinking your creamy richness.

I found myself turning the wheel, entering the parking lot. There, my jealous heart nearly failed. How many poor fools had you drawn in besides me? The line of cars stretched around the building; engines idling as stomachs rumbled. Nothing, save a fry sauce memory and the tick-ticking of the dinner clock, could have induced me to face you with such a voyeuristic crowd.

“Three junior burgers, three fries, three shakes,” I ordered, once we finally had our turn. How; when did I need a speaker-toned man to bring us together? When did we drift apart and become so formal?

My fingers drummed the dashboard as I waited. My anxious appetite watched eager hands take bags into vehicles before me. They stole you, my love, for under $10 apiece. My heart ached as my mouth salivated. Would you leave any there, for me?

Not soon enough, we arrived at the window. “$28.80,” droned our go-between. I paid. I reached through and accepted the proffered paper bags. I peeked inside. Your heavenly goodness clouded our car, enticing and embracing in one.

I looked at your minimum-wage deliverer, now sainted in my eyes. He met my gaze. As if to confirm his deific status, he added six golden words, “I put extra fry sauce in.”

I drive home, impatient. With literal bated breath, my love, we await our communion. If only there were not so many traffic lights ‘twixt your home and mine. Once there, as you know, we will finally be together again.

 

Until then, affectionately,
Chelsea

 

(Written for an assignment to address a love letter to an unusual love of ours, for my Pathways class.)

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Hilarious Baby Onesies (in the Meantime)

Whilst we all eagerly await the results of this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest, here are a few of my Amazon favorites for funny baby onesies. Admittedly, I specifically searched for ‘geek onesies for baby’…

Cutest Tax

World’s Cutest Tax Deduction

We’re having our baby at the best time of year for tax deduction purposes. We may as well own it, right?

—–

It’s a Crap!

Poor Ackbar. I don’t think he knew his catchphrase would stoop so low.

—–

I Just Boldly Went

For those who don’t know, babies need a lot of diaper changes. The theme may be crude, but it’s a recurring one.

—–

I Still Live With My Parents

Well, I would hope the baby’s a bit young to consider a mortgage already…

—–

Damn Lag Took Me Nine Months to Respawn

The gamer in me laughed and laughed at this one. Perhaps I also hear about respawning all the time in this video game household of ours.

—–

Storm Pooper

Well, I did warn you that babies poop a lot.