February 16, 2014

No Mercy

Meanwhile, back on the old Miller homestead we find our victim...errr...homesteader wandering around with a pen stuck behind his ear and a piƱata whacking at his legs with a telephone book. He removes a large wooden doll from the shelf, unscrews the top and throws it over his shoulder. He pulls out a medium size metal key, sticks it into a large padlock and turns it.

Suddenly a large neon strobe light drops from the ceiling and lands at his feet. Vaporizing on contact, the room is quickly filled to capacity with a blue fluffy cloud of cold silly white stuff that sticks to every possible porous and non-porous surface in the place.

Hacking up a storm, our intrepid homesteader runs over to the window and throws it open. Unfortunately, with the window being nailed shut with concrete nails, the homestead rips out both shoulders, rendering him impotent and inconsolable. With no viable means of either exit or fresh air, our homesteader drops down to the floor with arms flailing about with no useful means of stopping them.

Crying from the pain, the homesteader gets on his knees and walks towards the front door and possible freedom. Sadly, when he arrives, he finds to his utmost horror that the door pushes inwards. Banging his head on the door, the homesteader eventually slides sideways down the front of the door until he kisses the door hinge, then falls flat on his back.

Coughing up phlegm, the homesteader cries out for mercy, but none is to be had and in fact, the powers that be grab him by the ankles and drag him to the kitchen, where a raging inferno is busily bathing the room in an eerie sickly orange sulfuric glow. The homesteader raises his head and says, "But I was busy doing other things. How was I suppose to know that people weaker than me were bullying the strong into submission?"

With that final statement, the homesteader passes out and passes on to the next level of insanity that is the real world, where truth, justice and common sense are ruthlessly obliterated in the name of free speech.

(c) 2014 by G.B. Miller. All Rights Reserved.


  1. Ouch! Did you really take a fall? I slept funnily so I am not sure if I'm missing a metaphor here.

  2. After all that, there's a NEXT level of insanity? Hoo boy. That one's got to be REALLY bad.

  3. M: No, no fall. I don't have that kind of luck. Just me being whimsical

    S.R.: Yes, there is a next level of insanity. :D

  4. So what do you do with many episodes of whimsicality?

  5. G.A.: I try to live my life to the fullest so that I can spread even more episodes of whimsicality among my friends.

    And then, whenever I'm feeling a bit morose and angry at the world, I try to think about those whimsicalitys in order to rebalance my inner chi.

  6. We all could use more whimsy in our lives.

    I'm at the point where I question if common sense ever existed in the first place, or if it's just a myth.

  7. ABFtS: Just a myth to use a salve to sooth the masses.

  8. Is this type of writing influenced by John Barth? I was reminded of something I'd read by him in my distant past.

    Whimsical I can see.

    Wrote By Rote
    An A to Z Co-host blog

  9. Arlee: No clue on how John Barth is.

    My writing, to the best of my knowledge, is influenced by no one.

    When I go off on these kinds of whimsical tangents, the only thing that influences it is whatever event I happened to experience to set it off.

    In this particular case, having a rather lively debate on Facebook about religious freedom was the trigger.


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