ZZ Big Top.

“The Carnival’s back in town”, said Mother, casually,

“you aren’t still upset about the thing with the bear, are you?”.

“Of course not” snapped father, “but I do hope your sister’s

brought her own beard trimmer this time”.

~*~

Pit Stop.

Edgar asked to be buried between Augie Podgórny

and the Feuerbachs. “You’ve got your snorkel and

a peppermint”, said Virgil, swatting a clod with his shovel,

“we’ll be back for you on Thursday”.

~*~

Rawhide.

“Ain’tcha getting a little warm in that coat, Ma’am?”,

stammered the cowhand, pompadour glistening in the moonlight.

“I’m not going to bite, dear”, I whispered, flashing an incisor,

then drowned out his moans with a howl.

~*~

Darn It.

“Someone’s moved my sewing casket”, grumbled

Mother, descending into the parlour with a hisss.

“Mmmmph… mmmphmmm…mmmph” suggested Edgar

from behind the ornamental rhododendron.

~*~

Entrails And Tribulations. By Kyknoord.

Edgar sighed and prodded listlessly

at the quivering mound of viscera on his plate.

“Eat up, Champ”, encouraged Nanny Swedbourg,

“The three-legged race is tomorrow:

No guts, no glory!”

~*~

Ghostwriter! Kyknoord, somewhat redoubtable WWW Superstar, volunteered, that’s right: volunteered to pen today’s post for me. He may even have begged, for Pete’s sake. Look, he brought his own illustration! Why? Not for fame or glory, surely? It must be for all the italics.

Still, I’m never one to knock a gift post in the teeth. (I also like chocolate. I’m just saying.) And, let’s be honest, I’m a wee bit lazy. So, a fine effort*, dear. Thank you.

{*I may have edited some punctuation for dramatic effect. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.}

Late. As In Deceased.

“Who died?”, queried Edna querulously,

nudging the chalk outline with her stump.

“The Internet” confided Officer Humlae confidentially,

dusting my Martini flagon for prints.

~*~

(It wasn’t me this time. I swear. Apologies for the late post, dears.)

Post Toasties.

Virgil slipped away from Toxicology class and was

discovered behind the bicycle shed, smoking.

“Polyester?”, panted Matron Böhmer, splashing on

some well water and beating him with a sack.

~*~

No-brainer.

Edna’s tenure as Head Girl was spectacular,

but short-lived. She dropped one from a float

during the Bastille Day Parade and mislaid another two

on a football pitch outside Arles.

~*~

Bonus Featurette: Oh, Crumbs! When Good Cakes Go Bad: A cakespy crime scene.

Having A Bad Hare Day.

Throwing up into a bucket at regular intervals is hardly one of my favourite activities – especially not on my day off. So, no tale today, dears – I’m resting my delicate constitution so I can gorge myself with chocolate and hot cross buns on Sunday.

Also, I couldn’t think of anything funny to say about rabbits.

See Spot Run.

“Perhaps we should get Edgar another Schipperke

for his birthday”, mused Father, shortly before lights-out.

“Don’t be asinine”, reproved Mother, slipping into her hauberk,

“you know they give him indigestion”.

~*~