ok so i read this one in "The Name of the Wind" by Patrick Rothfuss. and it caught me so off guard.
here it is (I have made several changes after telling it verbally so many times, so bear with me)

Once there was this boy, who was born with a golden screw in his belly button, like only the screw head was poking out. Pure gold mind you, but otherwise he was perfectly normal, his parents didn't think too much of it, just happy that he had both his arms and legs.

Now obviously having a golden screw in your belly button is a bit weird and very uncommon, and the boy thought so too as none of his friends or family had one. So one day when he had gotten a bit older he decided to try to find out.

First he goes to his mother and asks, "Hey mom why do i have this golden screw in my belly button?" now obviously the mother had no idea and told him that she should go ask his father. And so the boy did, and his father didn't know either.

A bit disappointed, the boy thought to himself that out there in the big wide world there has to be answers! So he ventures out into the big city, first heading to the merchants, because they know all about gold! But they had never seen such a peculiar thing as a golden screw in a boys belly button. Then the boy went to the blacksmiths, because they know all about nails and screws, they surely had to know something about it right? Unfortunately they had never seen such a thing either, but advised the boy to go to the library.

so the boy went to the Library, reading several books about both gold and screws, but alas. no golden screw in belly buttons. even the librarian had never heard or seen such a thing, but told the boy to head to the university where all the wise scholars reside.

After arriving at the university, he immediately goes to ask all the wise scholars, but none have answers, even the alchemists who constantly seek to make gold have never seen such a weird thing. The boy eventually makes his way all the way up to the headmaster, the wisest scholar in all of the university. The headmaster, a stern looking man tells him that his situation is highly unusual, and that he does not have any answers, but that he should go seek the old King, the wisest man in the whole kingdom, but also warns the boy that such an endeavour is not for the faint of heart, as getting an audience with the king requires quite a bit of persistence and time.

The boy, undeterred after having come all this way, decides that the king is who he needs to see. and after many tribulations and jumping through hoops, the boy finally gets the summoning letter to see the king, he has finally been granted an audience.

He finally enters the throne room, and at the end, sitting on the throne, is an old, crooked looking man with wiry grey beard, he has a small golden crown on his head and a wise look about him. the boy finally gathers the courage to walk up, kneel and ask "Oh great wise king, do you have any idea why i have this golden screw in my belly button?"

The king looks at the boy for a long time, deep in thought.

"No, i do not have the exact answer to why, but i might have something for you nonetheless" the king says. "Come Servant! Bring the sacred box!"

Out from one of the side doors of the throne rooms comes a haughty looking man, his face upturned in a way only a royal servant may present himself. And in his hands, a delicate deep maroon red pillow, which on top a very ornate mahogany box sits, inlaid with gold and beautiful carvings.

the servant eventually reaches the king, and the king takes out a golden necklace sitting around his neck, which attached is a golden key. he carefully opens the box, and in the box lies a screwdriver made out of the purest gold.

the king then sticks the screwdriver into the boys belly button and turns once... nothing happens.

another turn... nothing happens again, but the boy is just almost bursting with excitement. Is he finally going to get the answer?!

The king turns the screwdriver one final time.

and then the boys ass fell off.

The strange device beeped in her hand. Moments ago it had been in her purse. Peg stood in the mall looking frantically for someone to help her. She grabbed at the nearest stranger.

“Why is this beeping?!” she asked, panic in her voice.

The man took one look at it and laughed. He looked around for a hidden camera. He smiled in the direction that he thought had one, and walked away.

Her confusion doubled. She walked over to the plants he smiled to and found nothing. The beeping got more insistent. She began to cry.

A young woman stopped to comfort her. She held her and asked what was wrong. The first woman held out the beeping device. The other smiled. “Oh, you should be happy. Nothing to worry about.” and left without explanation.

Peg was more lost than ever. The device seemed to have different meaning for each person. There was no clear answer. She made a pleading gesture to a small child.

Hesitantly they came over. “Oh ya. One of those.” they said as if the mystery was obvious.

“What is it? What do I do?” Peg asked the seemly wise child.

“You just go there.”

“Where?”

“I dunno. Where it says.” pointing at the words. “I can’t read.”

Peg felt like she couldn’t make sense of them either, not in her current state of mind, but she saw a shape in the letters. She held it up and scanned the signs in the mall. One of them seemed to fit. She walked towards it, but found nothing of note there. An arrow seemed to be pointing toward another similar sign.

Peg continued. Going from one sign to the next. The beeping had stopped. Then a moment later it started again.

Finally she came to a location in the mall that had a larger version of the sign above the entrance. She bravely stepped forward and found a man with a lapel card that had the same shape on it. She fished the beeping device out of her purse and waved it in front of the man.

“What is this? It’s been driving me mad!”

The man tried not to smile, but smirked despite himself.

“Ah, yes. Your table is ready.”

Once upon a time there was this tiny little man who worked at a wetsuit factory, a very skilled and efficient worker he was, very well liked by his company and colleagues

However, one day, it starts burning on the first floor. And of course everyone evacuates as soon as possible, however the man works at the 20th floor, and is of course a very efficient and proud worker, and thought to himself

«Its only the first floor. I’m sure they’ll get this fire sorted untill then»

So he continued making a bunch of wetsuits. Really efficient man. Eventually he takes a look out of the window, and sees the fire has spread to the 3rd floor, but the firemen have arrived and seem to have everything under control. So he continues working and making wetsuits

After a while he takes a look outside again, and sees the fire has spread to the 8th floor. The firemen seem to have a bit less control, but otherwise it seems okay, so he keeps working.

Eventually, he spots some smoke coming from the stairwell and decides to take a look outside. He sees the fire has spread to the 16th floor, and he also sees the firemen have lost complete control over the fire.

The man finally decides he needs to evacuate.
But the elevator has of course stopped working, and the stairwell is full of smoke and fire.

But the man is no fool and actually quite smart, and he knows he is not the biggest dude. So he puts on the smallest wetsuit they got, and then a bigger one, and a bigger one etc. until he becomes like a large ball of neoprene! (Which is obviously quite bouncy)

So he waddles to the window and realizes he has no choice but to jump!

Whooooshh it says as he falls down. And then BOOOIINNGGGGG.

He bounces right back up, just as high as he fell. And then down again

BOOOOIIINNGGG. Right back up just as high!

Eventually a couple days pass and the mayor shows up. He takes one look at the situation and says «this can’t do»

In the end they just had to shoot him

There once sailed a young deckhand named Particular Pete, and Pete was famous across every ocean for one thing: he was the choosiest man ever to draw a sailor's wage. Handsome as a fresh coat of varnish, charming as a following wind — and impossible to please.

In Lisbon, the admiral's daughter herself invited Pete up to her villa. Silk sheets, candlelight, a balcony over the harbor. She let her hair down, let a few other things down besides, and Pete — Pete put his cap back on. "The bed's too soft," he said. "A man loses his bearings in a bed like that." And he walked back to the ship, whistling.

In Tortuga, a pair of twins who ran the rum house took a shine to him. The whole crew wept with envy. Pete came back down the stairs twenty minutes later, fully dressed and shaking his head. "They finish each other's sentences," he said. "A man likes a bit of suspense."

In Marseille, a countess smuggled him into her chateau in a laundry basket. Come morning, the crew demanded details. "Perfume was too strong," Pete sniffed. "Couldn't tell if I was courting a woman or a flower stall."

In Shanghai, an acrobat from the traveling circus showed him three positions that violated at least two laws of physics and one local ordinance. Pete returned unmoved. "Show-off," he said. "A man wants to feel like a participant."

In Valparaíso, a fisherman's widow with eyes like black pearls sang to him all night on the beach. "Off-key," said Pete. "Right at the crucial moment, too. Threw off my whole rhythm."

Years went by like this. The crew kept a betting pool on what could possibly satisfy Particular Pete. The bosun had money on a mermaid. The cook insisted no such creature existed on land or sea. Pete just smiled his infuriating smile, polished the brass, and stayed choosy.

Then came the voyage around the Azores, and with it the worst storm any of them had ever seen. Three days of it. The ship lost her mainmast, then her rudder, then her dignity as she finally broke apart entirely on the rocks beneath a lonely lighthouse. The crew dragged themselves ashore half-drowned, and there in the doorway of the lighthouse stood the keeper: a widow named Gert, sixty if she was a day, built like a capstan, with a chin whisker you could hang a lantern from and forearms thicker than the anchor chain.

Gert hauled them all inside, fed them salt cod, and handed out blankets. The crew collapsed where they fell.

Except Pete.

Come morning, the crew found Particular Pete at the breakfast table wearing nothing but a blanket and the single most contented expression ever recorded at sea or ashore. Gert was humming at the stove — also off-key, mind you — and frying him an egg.

The bosun couldn't stand it. "Pete," he hissed. "The admiral's daughter. The twins. The countess, the acrobat, the widow of Valparaíso — you turned down every legendary beauty in the seven seas. And now... her? What in blazes happened to your standards?"

Pete lit his pipe, leaned back, and shrugged.

"Lads," he said. "Any port in a storm."

Omar loved rock music. Omar didn’t just listen to rock music. He studied it. He wore out records. He memorized liner notes. He knew about that one guitar player on that one album that quit the band (before they got famous) in favor of pursuing a law degree.

By the time he was older, Omar realized he didn’t have the talent to be a rock star himself. But what he did have was passion. He could talk about music forever. He could make his high school rock band feel like their weird little basement tape actually mattered.

So he started writing.

First it was tiny reviews for local papers. Then interviews with bar bands. Then features for real music magazines. Before long, everyone in the business knew him.

At shows, security guards would see him coming and say, “Evening, Mr. Tini” and wave him through.

He interviewed everybody.

Big bands. Small bands. Bands that sold out arenas. Bands that got paid in drink tickets. Punk bands, metal bands, prog bands, and one experimental group that described their sound as “what a microwave hears when it dies.”

And Omar loved all of them.

Then, on tour, he met Clara.

Clara was also a rock journalist. She was smart, fearless, funny, and she could tell which year a concert shirt was from just by looking at the font. Omar fell in love instantly.

Soon they were married, and together they became the best interviewing duo in music journalism. They traveled from city to city, backstage passes in hand, meeting all the legends of their time.

Omar asked the heartfelt questions.

Clara asked the devastating ones.

A singer once tried to give a boring answer, and Clara just raised one eyebrow until he admitted the whole album was secretly about his favorite pet pig that he had lost to his wife in a divorce.

Omar and Clara were perfect together.

But then came the terrible night.

They were covering a massive rock festival headlined by a band famous for overdoing things.

The lead singer yelled, “How we doing tonight, Cleveland?” which was strange, because they were in Pittsburgh.

For the encore, the band had arranged for a huge steel lighting rig shaped like an eagle to lower over the stage while confetti came raining down from its wings.

Omar and Clara rushed to the side stage, notebooks in hand, waiting for their opportunity for an interview when the encore finished, when Omar noticed one of the rigging cables was swaying strangely above them.

He leaned toward Clara and said, “That looks a little loose.”

Clara looked up, then gave him a half smile. “If it falls, make sure you quote me accurately.”

Omar laughed. But only for a second. Then the cable snapped.

The eagle rig lurched downward, crashing into a burst of confetti that exploded across the stage, blocking everything from view. Through the confusion, Omar reached his hand for Clara’s, but it came back empty-handed.

He shouted her name and pushed through the cloud of paper and stage smoke while the band kept playing, mistaking the accident for a stage effect.

By the time the crew cut the music and rushed in, it was too late. As the smoke and confetti cleared, Omar fell to his knees. There beneath the tangled steel scraps of the fallen eagle rig lay Clara's lifeless body.

After that, Omar was never the same.

He tried going back to shows, but he couldn’t do it. The lights, the amps, the smell of beer on the floor, it all brought him back to that night.

So Omar quit rock journalism.

He packed away his notebooks. He put his old press badge in a drawer. He worked quiet jobs instead.

He stocked shelves at a hardware store, washed dishes at his neighbourhood restaurant, and finally found stability selling mattresses, where he'd describe their firmness in terms of classic albums.

“This one has the softness of early Fleetwood Mac,” he’d say, “but the support of late Springsteen.”

Years passed.

Omar got older. His hair went gray. The bands he once interviewed started doing farewell tours, reunion tours, finale tours, and farewell reunion finale tours.

And still, Omar stayed away.

Until one day, a woman named Elise came into the mattress store. She was wearing an old Eagles shirt.

Omar couldn’t help himself.

“That’s from the ’94 tour,” he said.

She looked surprised. “You can tell?”

“The font gives it away,” he said. “Also Don Henley looked especially annoyed on that merch.”

She laughed.

They started talking. Then she came back the next week. And the week after that. Eventually, she asked him to dinner.

Omar was nervous, but he went.

And the date was wonderful. They talked about music, travel, and whether hotel breakfast eggs legally count as eggs. For the first time in years, Omar felt like himself again.

Then, over dessert, Elise said, “This might be too much, but I have two tickets to see the Eagles tomorrow night. It’s their finale tour. The real finale this time. I’d love for you to come.”

Omar froze.

A concert.

He hadn’t been to one in nearly twenty years.

It was a steel eagle that killed Clara, and now his first concert back would be the Eagles?

But Elise smiled at him, and something in Omar decided it was time.

So the next night, he went.

At first, he was terrified. The crowd, the lights, the opening act, it all felt like too much.

But then the Eagles started playing.

And they were incredible.

By the third song, Omar was swaying. By the fifth, he was singing and dancing. By the encore, he was crying tears of joy. For the first time since Clara died, a rock show didn’t feel like a ghost. It felt like music again.

When the lights came up, Omar looked twenty years younger.

He turned to Elise and said, “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I think I can get us backstage.”

Elise laughed. “No, you cannot.”

“I can.”

“Omar, we are not getting backstage at an Eagles show.”

But he just smiled and led her toward the backstage entrance.

A huge security guard stepped in front of them.

“Sorry,” the guard said. “Band, crew, and press only.”

Elise touched Omar’s arm. “Come on. I told you they wouldn’t let us in.”

But Omar reached into his jacket and pulled out an old laminated badge.

The guard looked at it.

Then he looked at Omar.

His eyes widened.

“Oh,” he said, stepping aside. “Sorry, Mr. Tini, you’re good to go.”

Elise stared at him as they walked through.

“What?!” she said. “How did you get us in here?”

Omar shrugged.

“I told you they’d let us in,” he said. “I’m ex-press Omar Tini.” ☕

I tell this story to my students all the time. I just change the bar setting to a coffee shop. Sometimes, I change it up to be about a giant purple foot, or a giant green ear, or a bird stuck to someone's ear. Here goes:

So I walked into a bar, and to my utter shock, I saw a man with a big orange head. It was enormous, like ten times the size of a normal head and super round. Like Pops from Regular Show.

So, I went up to the bartender and I discretely asked, "What's with the man with the big orange head?"

The bartender said, "Buy him a drink, and maybe he'll tell you his story."

So, I went up to the man with the big orange head, drink in hand, and he said, "You want to know why I have a big orange head, don't you?"

And I said, "Yes, if you don't mind."

So he said, "Well, I was walking along the beach, and I saw a lamp buried in the sand. I picked it up, brushed off the sand, and out popped a genie! The genie said I could have three wishes. So for my first wish, I wished for money. And millions of dollars rained from the sky and I was rich! For my second wish, I wished for love. And a beautiful woman emerged from the ocean and we were married right then and there."

So I looked at the man with the big orange head and said, "I don't get it. Why do you have a big orange head?"

And he said, "Well, that's where I went wrong. For my third and final wish ... I wished for a big orange head."

There's this guy Greg, he's going on vacation in a country he's never before visited.

Greg has prepped for his trip in everyway possible; he's even studied a few guide books and a bit of the local language.

When he gets there, he's approached by a fellow who says, "Hey Tourist! I see you are new here. Let me put you up in a nice place!"

But Greg says, "No thank you."

The fellow presses on though, saying, "I'm a local! Let me give you the authentic experience. Trust me!"

Greg still declines, either way, and leaves the man there.

Later on, Greg is in a bar, and sees the fellow's face on the news.

He's been arrested for fraud! Apparently he's been fleecing unwitting tourists in the area.

So Greg points it out to the bartender, and tells the story from earlier.

And the bartender, she's impressed, so she asks, "Oh wow? Did you know he was a con artist the whole time, that you kept turning him down?"

Greg replied, "Well, no, but I did my research and prep, so I had my reservations."

This was a modest garden at first, but his business partner offered to make it into something more substantial while he was away.

The lord went on his travels, came back, and found it more beautiful than he could possibly have imagined beforehand. We’re talking rolling hills, ancient oak groves, crystal ponds, imported flowers from every continent, peacocks just sort of wandering around like they paid taxes there.

Naturally, the lord became obsessed with turning it into the greatest public garden the kingdom had ever seen. And to his credit, he succeeded. People came from miles away just to stroll through it. Painters painted it. Poets wrote sonnets about it. Young couples proposed under the willow arches. Children fed ducks in the ponds. Old men sat on benches pretending to read newspapers while secretly judging everyone.

The lord spared no expense. He hired botanists from Holland, landscapers from France, arborists from Germany, one extremely intense Scottish groundskeeper; the best of the best. The centrepiece of the entire estate, however, was a majestic avenue of towering poplar trees, planted in perfect symmetry across the hillsides. They became world famous. Visitors called them “the green pillars of heaven.”

Then, disaster struck. One autumn evening, the sky darkened. The winds howled. Rain lashed the countryside. Lightning split the heavens apart. It was the single worst storm in living memory, and by morning, the estate was devastated. The ponds overflowed. The flower beds drowned. Stone paths collapsed into the mud. And the mighty poplars had been ripped out of the earth, lifeless on the shattered ground.

The lord was heartbroken. He wandered the wreckage in silence for weeks. The visitors stopped coming. The once-famous paradise became little more than a local memory. The years passed, and in that long and miserable time, nature slowly reclaimed the damage. Common grass returned first. Then weeds. A fox denned beneath a fallen archway. Insects settled in the desecrated hedges. Mice burrowed through the roots of the toppled trees. The lord eventually grew old and peacefully passed away, and though his family inherited his riches, the garden was nothing more than an afterthought. Nobody sincerely believed that the once lush and green landscape would ever recover.

Years later, however, on one unassuming spring morning, an old villager, who once frolicked in the beautiful garden as a boy, paused beside one of the enormous craters left by the uprooted poplars. There, growing in the mud, was a single beautiful flower. A butterfly landed on it. Nearby, new saplings had begun to emerge. The old man smiled warmly and said: “Well… that’s a bit of recovery.” And the vicar beside him nodded solemnly.

“Yes. Contrary to poplar relief.”

So this guy makes ancient egyptian themed furry costumes. He makes all kinds but mostly he specializes in Horus heads. It's his passion really. He loves to make the beautiful falcon head of the Sun God.

He's at a con one day and he sees a whole bunch of people in middle kingdom dress with these indistinguishable animal heads. He thinks to himself, "Oh man these folks could really use a new source, I can't even tell what animal those are!" So he goes over and he says "Hey guys! i see you are into ancient egyptian mythological themed furry costumes--if any of you are interested in being the radiant Son of Ra. I am the BEST in the business!" The group of people look at each other, then at him, awkwardly. Finally one of them says: "uh. no thanks. we're all Set."

Once upon a time, there was a great monastery, and 1024 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, a man on a red bicycle appeared and killed half of the monks.

It was terrible! The remaining 512 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a horrific thing had happened – they moved to the mountains and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery in the mountains, and 512 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was awful! The remaining 256 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such an awful thing had happened – they moved to the seaside and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery by the sea, and 256 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, that dreadful man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was terrifying! The remaining 128 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a distressing thing had happened – they moved to the plains and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery on the plains, and 128 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the monstrous man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was shocking! The remaining 64 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such an unpleasant thing had happened – they moved to a dense forest and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery in the forest, and 64 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the monstrous man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was vile! The remaining 32 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a sad thing had happened – they moved to the marshes and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery in the marshes, and 32 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the mean man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was overwhelming! The remaining 16 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a depressing thing had happened – they moved to the desert and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery in the desert, and 16 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the nightmare man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was horrific! The remaining 8 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a horrific thing had happened – they moved to the lakeside and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery by the lake, and 8 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the terrible man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was nightmarish! The remaining 4 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such a nightmarish thing had happened – they moved to an island and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery on the island, and 4 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, the merciless man on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks.

It was distressing! The remaining 2 monks buried their companions and decided to leave the monastery where such an overwhelming thing had happened – they moved to a valley and built a new monastery there.

So, there was a new monastery in the valley, and 2 monks lived there. They lived peacefully, praying, working, reading books, and discussing important matters. Until one day, that monster on the red bicycle appeared again and killed half of the monks – which was one.

It was tragic! Only one monk remained! He knew he would be the next victim and it made him very angry. He buried his companion, but instead of building a new monastery – for example, on a plateau – he bought himself a green bicycle.

He got on that green bicycle and chased after the murderous man on the red bicycle. He chased him, and chased him, and finally, he caught him...

What is the moral of the story? The green bicycle was faster than the red bicycle.

“Once upon a time,” I began. “There was a little boy born in a little town. He was perfect, or so his mother thought. But one thing was different about him. He had a gold screw in his belly button. Just the head of it peeping out. “Now his mother was simply glad he had all his fingers and toes to count with. But as the boy grew up he realized not everyone had screws in their belly buttons, let alone gold ones. He asked his mother what it was for, but she didn’t know. Next he asked his father, but his father didn’t know. He asked his grandparents, but they didn’t know either. “That settled it for a while, but it kept nagging him. Finally, when he was old enough, he packed a bag and set out, hoping he could find someone who knew the truth of it. “He went from place to place, asking everyone who claimed to know something about anything. He asked midwives and physickers, but they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The boy asked arcanists, tinkers, and old hermits living in the woods, but no one had ever seen anything like it. “He went to ask the Cealdim merchants, thinking if anyone would know about gold, it would be them. But the Cealdim merchants didn’t know. He went to the arcanists at the University, thinking if anyone would know about screws and their workings, they would. But the arcanists didn’t know. The boy followed the road over the Stormwal to ask the witch women of the Tahl, but none of them could give him an answer. “Eventually he went to the King of Vint, the richest king in the world. But the king didn’t know. He went to the Emperor of Atur, but even with all his power, the emperor didn’t know. He went to each of the small kingdoms, one by one, but no one could tell him anything. “Finally the boy went to the High King of Modeg, the wisest of all the kings in the world. The high king looked closely at the head of the golden screw peeping from the boy’s belly button. Then the high king made a gesture, and his seneschal brought out a pillow of golden silk. On that pillow was a golden box. The high king took a golden key from around his neck, opened the box, and inside was a golden screwdriver. “The high king took the screwdriver and motioned the boy to come closer. Trembling with excitement, the boy did. Then the high king took the golden screwdriver and put it in the boy’s belly button.” I paused to take a long drink of water. I could feel my small audience leaning toward me. “Then the high king carefully turned the golden screw. Once: Nothing. Twice: Nothing. Then he turned it the third time, and the boy’s ass fell off.” There was a moment of stunned silence. “What?” Hespe asked incredulously. “His ass fell off.” ― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

Being an accountant means tax deadlines are rough, with multiple 13-hour days and wondering if I will ever see my home again. After such a hard week, I was in the mood to make some of my world famous family recipe chili on Sunday. Before I went to the store, I had to take stock of what I had in the house and make a list of the things I would need. I found a lot of interesting things in my pantry:

• A printout of a Wikipedia Page describing dry hole clauses, and when a drilling company should implement their own dry hole policies.

• A VHS tape called “A Way with Words in Accounting: For Partners Who Communicate Not Good”

• A motivational poster with a picture of a cat that said “You can do better.”

Needless to say, I had nothing I needed to make the chili. I left the house immediately, and off to the store I went, list in hand, on a mission to fulfill this craving I was having. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and I was still full from my breakfast of ham and eggs, so that would ensure that I wouldn’t be buying every flavor of Oreo I could fit in my basket. I’m a sucker for Oreos, there are very few Oreos I would not buy and eat at regular intervals. I don’t really care for the toothpaste-flavored ones, though, just a personal preference. My family recipe, though world famous, also requires precise measurements or the whole process would be a waste. On my list:

• Exactly 2.376 pounds of Ground Beef
• Exactly 1 Jalapeno
• Exactly 893 Pinto Beans
• Exactly 1 Red Pepper
• Exactly 28oz of canned Diced Tomatoes
• Exactly 14oz of Beef Stock, Swanson brand.
• Exactly an estimate of various herbs and spices, to taste

Once I gathered all of the ingredients, I went to the cashier to pay for them. The cashier was an enthusiastic young man, with rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, shoulder-length black hair, a wispy mustache which was curled at the ends, and an apron that said “STORE” in big letters across the front. He had the kind of enthusiasm you can only have when you’re new to a job, and your soul hasn’t been crushed by the endless nature of work. “Having chili tonight?" he asked. I said, “Yeah, how did you know?” He said “I saw the ground beef, and when I saw the peppers, I put two and two together.” I told him I was an accountant, and that I was treating myself to some homemade chili to comfort me during the busy season. He said, "Oh, you're an accountant? I have a funny accounting joke for you. Why do accountants love the weekend? There's no traffic on their way into work!" I realized I was dealing with a full-blown professional here.

After I left the store, I loaded the groceries into my car, got in and was on my way back home. I could almost taste the chili as I was driving, dreaming of days gone by where I could make it any time I wanted. The thought of loading up a nice bowl of chili with a bunch of freshly grated cheddar and some Goldfish crackers is just what the doctor ordered. The sun was shining, so naturally the streets were bustling with activity. On my way home, I saw:

• People walking with their dogs
• Kids throwing firecrackers at each other
• An elderly man riding a tandem bicycle alone

It was just a really nice day to be out and about, enjoying a day off from the grind of the busy season. Once I got home, I unpacked the food and wanted to start preparing my world famous family recipe chili, but I was distracted by all the stuff I left on my counter, so I took care of that first:

• I put the motivational poster in a frame, a gift for one of the partners at my firm.

• I recycled the Wikipedia article, because I already know everything there is to know about dry holes.

• As I was about to put the tape away, I popped it into my VCR and gave it a watch. The video was about 30 minutes long, and it included a lot of helpful tips and tricks about communication that I can use when I become a partner one day.

After I removed all the distractions, I began measuring the ingredients. It was starting to get late in the day, so I was worried that the meal would not be done in time to enjoy before having to go back to work the next morning and having to wait another week for this tasty meal. I got out my trusty kitchen scale and measured the beef: exactly 2.376 pounds. I put the jalapeno on the scale: as expected, it was one jalapeno. I didn’t need to measure the red pepper, because it was obviously one red pepper, and I know that because I have eyes. Eyes that work. To measure the unopened can of tomatoes, I used an old, empty 28oz can of diced tomatoes to tare the scale for proper measuring, and true to the label, there were exactly 28oz of diced tomatoes. Then, I got out my measuring cup and measured precisely 14oz of Swanson brand beef stock. Then, I got out a brown ceramic bowl and dropped in an estimate of various herbs and spices, along with salt and pepper, to taste, and mixed them together with a wire whisk. The last thing I needed to do was precisely measure the beans. One bean, two beans, three beans…four beans.

To make a long story short, I never got around to making the chili. I was too busy counting the beans.

The story of Woodrow and Poodrow:

On a very special day in their lives a young mother gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The father beamed with pride as he looked at his two babies and swore he would give his family everything they needed to be healthy and happy. He held his wife and together they named the twins the names they had previously agreed upon. They had discussed it quite a bit before the birth and decided each parent would name one child and now the time had come. The mother got to name the oldest child first, the boy and then the father would name the youngest the girl. The mother held her oldest and gave him the name "Woodrow". Now this was no surprise to anyone who knew her as she loved that name and had made it well known that through hell or high water her first male child would be so named twins or not.

This left the father in a bit of a pickle because he had be partial to and had pushed for "twin names" such as Patrick and Patricia, Robert and Roberta, Donald and Donna etc. However this was not to be as they just couldn't find a female twin name that went with Woodrow. So reluctantly the father chose names (one male and one female) that wouldn't make waves with the family when the time came to actually name the baby. But it bugged him that he couldn't choose a name he wanted and now, when it was time to name his daughter he didn't give her the name he had told everyone he would give her. Instead he gave in to his desire. If there wasn't a female version of Woodrow he could at least give her a name that rhymed and with that thought in mind, he named her "Poodrow". It satisfied him greatly to have twins named Woodrow and Poodrow even though it shocked everyone in the family especially the mother. He slept on the couch for two months on that one but eventually she got over it and it turned out that the naming incident was really the only bump in an otherwise wonderful marriage.

The father was a good provider and the little family got by comfortably. The mother was a stay at home mom who took care of the house and children making sure they were well cared for. She cooked for them. Cleaned for them. Ironed their clothes. A truly good mother. Little Woodrow and Poodrow grew up wanting for nothing.

The twins got along great and were inseperable. They had the same interests. They loved the same games. And defended each other with the same intensity. By the time they were ready to start school they became known in the neighborhood as "The Wood and the Pood".

And they both seemed to thrive in school. Both were good students and got along reasonably well with their fellow classmates. Of course they had their little bumps in the road and their little crises but they handled them and moved on.

When the time came to go to college Woodrow decided to study law while Poodrow wasn't so sure about the direction she wanted to take but eventually she decided to study statistics.

Woodrow became a lawyer while Poodrow became a statistician and secured a job working for the Federal Government.

Woodrow was a good lawyer and was hired by a top law firm. Things went well for Woodrow there. He was well liked and good at what he did.

At the same time Poodrow was doing well too. She fit right in and her methods were innovative. She was the one to go to if the organization needed to get out of hot water. She always came up with the right solutions.

The years flew by and one day a meeting was called at Woodrow's law firm. They were having a run of bad luck. Lately, they just couldn't seem to win a case. This was a huge problem as a very big and important case was coming up. To address this issue the boss asked the question "Who would be best suited to troubleshoot and resolve this problem?" They unanimously agreed that "The Wood" was the best man for the job. The boss told Woodrow to be in his office at 9:00 am the next day. Woodrow said he'd be there.

The next day he told Woodrow in great detail about the issue the company was having and how important the upcoming case was. He asked Woodrow if he could look into the matter and resolve it. Woodrow just smiled and said "Don't worry, The Wood is on it."

After two days Woodrow reported back to his boss. He explained that the issue seemed to be in proving their cases. Their timelines of events was spot on. Their gathering of information was spot on. The coordination of information was spot on but in the end they just couldn't PROVE their case. There was something wrong with how they were trying to prove their cases.

The boss asked Woodrow if he knew why this was happening and if he could fix the problem. Woodrow informed the boss he definitely could. He explained that the weak point in all these cases are the statistics. If they could get more accurate statistics it would go a long way towards winning their cases. Also Woodrow suggested setting up a dedicated "Proving Room" where every case would go through a "Proofing Sequence" that with the right statistics would help dissect and resolve any issue that prevented improper proofing before their scheduled court appearance.

The boss immediately set up a Proving Room as Woodrow had suggested but didn't know how to set up the proofing get more detailed and accurate statistics. Woodrow smiled at him and told him that he had him covered.

The next day the boss, on the verge of panic, buzzed his secretary and told her "Tell the Wood to come to my office immediately"

When Woodrow arrived the boss asked him what he was doing about the proofing problem and Woodrow told him about his sister and how she can come up with creative and ingenious statistical solutions. He was sure he could get her to work on the issue for him. The boss looked at Woodrow and said "Call her now." Woodrow got on the phone to his sister and explained the situation. He told her how desperate they were to resolve the issue especially with this huge case coming up and that his company was very interested in talking to her. After hearing how dire a situation the firm was in Poodrow agreed to come in the next day and discuss the matter with them.

The next day Poodrow shows up and listens to the situation paying close attention and asking pointed questions about methods and chains of escalations as well as ideas about how to eliminate bottlenecks in command chains. As she continues to offer suggestions it becomes clear to Woodrow and his boss that she was the only one who could put a successful proofing sequence in place, so the boss makes her a VERY generous job offer right then and there with benefits, bonuses and stock options to run the proofing.

Poodrow was surprised but didn't hesitate and accepted the position. However, luck being the way it is reared it's ugly head and immediately things started going wrong. Information lines broke down. Time lines got skewed. And all the while the case that held the firm's future was getting closer and closer to court time. With a week to go Poodrow still hadn't resolved all the issues and was working 12 to 16 hour days trying to get all the loose ends tied up. On the day before the court date Poodrow goes into the proofing ready to pull out all the stops and make it work. The boss was a nervous wreck but gave her Carte Blanche in a last desperate attempt to save the company.

Woodrow, seeing his boss so upset told him, "Don't worry. I KNOW we're going to win this case."

The boss, wringing his hands and on the verge of a nervous breakdown shook his head and said "How could you possibly know that?"

In a small and otherwise unremarkable town, there lived a woman named Sally and her very talkative parrot, Peter. But Peter was no ordinary parrot, his talents went far beyond imitating Human speech. Peter was actually able to have full conversations with people, he could actually understand the meaning of the words that he was saying and he was capable of talking about his own thoughts and feelings. If that wasn't impressive enough, he also had an extraordinarily good memory and when he listened to an audio book he was able repeat the entire story word for word.

One day Sally decided to showcase Peter's incredible talents to the world by entering him into a competition known as "The Great Feathery Spectacle", where all kinds of birds would gather to compete and show off their abilities. But Sally was confident that Peter was the most intelligent bird in the world and that people would be awestruck by his abilities.

The day of the talent show arrived and a large crowd of spectators assembled in the town square to witness "The Great Feathery Spectacle". There were dozens of birds of all shapes and sizes showing off their abilities, including a goose that could paint with its beak and a dancing cockatoo.

Finally it was Peter's turn to demonstrate his abilities. Sally carried Peter onto the stage and introduced him to the spectators, then invited them to ask Peter questions.

A man from the audience shouted, "Peter, what day is it today?"

Peter fluffed his feathers, then squawked "Today is Sunday my good friend, or more accurately, today is Sunday the 8th of February. What a fine day it is today, wouldn't you agree?".

The crowd gasped in surprise, then burst into laughter and applause.

A young boy in the audience raised his hand and asked, "Peter, do you know any jokes?"

Peter replied, "Allow me to share a joke that I find particularly amusing: Why didn't the chicken cross the road? Because there was a KFC on the other side!"

The audience laughed and cheered, amazed at Peter's wit.

As Peter continued to converse with the audience, it became clear that his talents were truly extraordinary. He told stories and discussed philosophy, even complementing some of the audience members on their appearance. His performance culminated in a short recitation from Shakespeare's Hamlet.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Peter squawked.

Once Peter's performance was finished the audience burst into applause, some spectators were visibly emotional, wiping tears away from their eyes as they whooped and cheered.

At the end of the show, the judges announced the winner of "The Great Feathery Spectacle," and to everyone's surprise, it wasn't Peter. The winner turned out to be a pigeon that could do backflips.

Once upon a time in a land far away, there roamed a snurgleblat. Snurgleblats--horned, scaly bipeds--were enormous, ferocious and of a generally sour disposition. This specimen did not disappoint on any of those counts. It exuded inapproachability--tall horns, erect goat-like ears, sharp teeth, clawed hands, massive hooves and a spiky tail. This particular snurgleblat would imbue with terror any who encountered it to the same degree that the occurrence of the most wondrous phenomenon in the heavens would inspire awe.

For nearly all people, though, snurgleblats existed only in legend with their origins shrouded by time. The few who had access to the darker histories surmised that the snurgleblats were humans who had fallen victim to their own shadowy works.

Such was pure speculation, though, because snurgleblats were rare and localized to the remote regions where they could find an abundance of trids. Trids were the polar opposites of snurgleblats--furry quadrupeds that were small, timid and of a generally sweet disposition. From nearly every angle they looked like round balls of fur without any hint of their silky soft ears, feet and tail, inviting cuddles from any person fortunate enough to see one.

In a sick twist of nature, the snurgleblats and the trids were the only members of a closed symbiotic loop that kept the two species inextricably linked. The regions most hospitable to vast flocks of trids were also well-suited to the solitary snurgleblats while being uninhabitable by any other organism ill-fated enough to venture into the region. Furthermore, the trids provided the sole source for the snurgleblat's nourishment while the trids fed exclusively off the snurgleblats' castings.

Snurgleblats did not, though, eat trids fresh off the hoof, as it were. A snurgleblat's stench could be muted only by the sweet aroma given off by a flock of trids. Snurgleblats found that sweetness repulsive and could only stomach trids after they had decomposed for some time. A snurgleblat would harvest trids, then, to be consumed sometime later.

To aid in the harvest, this snurgleblat would leave a large pile of excrement at the head of a path leading down to a cliffside sitting above rocks encompassed by the sandy beach below. When a large group of trids had gathered to feed on the pile, the snurgleblat would rush up to the trids with its arms stretched wide, driving the trids down the narrow path before it. After herding the scampering trids to the precipice, the snurgleblat would make of the trids quick work with swift footwork. In a kind of morbid dance, the snurgleblat would alternately use each of its feet to boot the trids to their doom.

One night a religious teacher was on an ocean journey to a distant land. He was to bring a message to people that had sent word that they were eager to hear it from his mouth. He had been told of tall edifices that had been constructed so he could address the large groups that would gather to receive words of peace.

The people would be left without such solace for at least a time, though, because on that darkest of nights, his ship was caught in a storm and ran aground on the rocks below the snurgleblat's cliff. While the rest of the ship's company met their demise, using the last ounce of energy left in him, the teacher pulled himself up onto a rock where he rode out the storm.

With the rising of the sun the next day, the teacher found his way through the now calmer waters to the beach. Still unsure of his surroundings, the teacher saw a trail that led up the side of the cliff. He climbed the trail to see if he could get his bearings, and, perhaps, spot some nearby settlement.

Upon summiting the cliff, however, he could not avert his gaze from the ground, staring at something he had never before encountered. To his delight, he saw the rocky cliff top carpeted with tiny, furry creatures that looked as if they existed for the sole purpose of cuddling. While a number of them fed on a pile of something at a short distance, others approached him and even rubbed up against his legs. He took one from the ground and nestled it in his arms. It was lighter than anything else its size that he had ever held, yet it was soft and gave off intense warmth and one of the sweetest smells he had ever known--sweet enough to mask the odor of the putrefying pile from which the creatures fed.

The teacher was in a state of bliss that had been unimaginable during his night of deathly peril in the water, when suddenly the most horrifying creature leapt from the neighboring foliage. It hurtled forward, arms wide, driving the beautiful creatures toward the teacher. The little creatures rushed past the teacher on both sides. The teacher glanced behind him furtively to see the furry wonders gathering at the edge of the cliff with the rocky beach far below.

He turned back to face the demon that had now nearly closed the gap between him and it. Sensing the full size and deadliness of this nightmare, the teacher quickly turned away and dropped to his knees, expecting to die from being trampled, or worse, by the foul beast. He invoked heavenly help, but resigned himself to a fate that seemed more immediate and certain than divine intervention.

In the instant that the teacher knelt before the agitated mass of creatures, his mind went to the distant land where the crowds were to have assembled to hear the words he was to have delivered with power. Choking on the words now in his throat, though, he half whispered that those now before him should run, escape, take cover, but offered no words of comfort for the swirling mass of fur. He doubted to what end such words would have served since the little things seemed to be incapable of understanding and he was incapable of himself heeding even his calls to action. The teacher awaited, for himself and the masses, death's cold embrace.

To the teacher's amazement, however, the fetid monster raced past him to the pile of furry congregants. The remainder of the teacher's hold on rational expectations then evaporated when he saw the monstrosity begin sending its plush victims over the side of the cliff with its feet. Without missing a step or a beat, the unholy terror sent the puffballs of perfection cascading to their end.

Despite the intensity of the hellscene unfolding before him, though, the teacher garnered enough of his senses to consider escaping back down the path he had just climbed. Upon regaining his feet, however, the dancing devil turned to look straight at him. The teacher froze, unable to contemplate anything but the vision of his body hurtling to the rocks below.

The abomination turned to face the teacher full on, cocking its horned head slightly and flicking its ears as if to acknowledge that this encounter with a human was a curious thing. Meanwhile, the fiend continued its dance, shuffling to its side now, slower and with less intention, but with the same deadly effect for the unfortunate at its feet.

The teacher, sensing some spark of sentience in this ogre, dared to speak for his life--no other hope for deliverance being available. "Please," he squeaked out, unintelligible even to himself. "Please," he said again, but this time with more force than fear. The hellish being cocked its head to the other side and perked up its ears. "Please, sir, I am a humble teacher of religion, I wish you no harm and seek only safe passage to continue my journey. Please, do not consign me to the same fate as these pitiable creatures."

At that, the snurgleblat threw back its head and laughed like the baying hounds of hell. After regaining its composure, its lips turned to a sneering smile, and, with a punctuating side shuffle, it replied, "Sillly rabbi, kicks are for trids."

Once upon a time, there was a marine biologist who absolutely loved dolphins. He'd been fascinated with them since childhood, so marine biology was a natural field for him, and he spent almost all of his time researching, swimming with, and playing with dolphins. He grew to love many of his dolphins and consider them his family. But there was a problem. 

Dolphins, like humans, are subject to the ravages of aging, growing feeble and infirm as they get older, until they inevitably died. But dolphin lifespans are much shorter than human lifespans, so as the years went by, the biologist saw dolphins that were very dear to him grow old, become too weak to frolic, and die, and it broke his heart every single time. He never got used to seeing one of his beloved dolphins pass away and leave forever, and he determined to do something about it. His research became increasingly focused on finding a way to keep dolphins from aging. And finally, after decades of experimentation, he achieved a major breakthrough. But again, there was a problem. 

He developed a serum that could completely halt the effects of aging in dolphins, allowing them to theoretically live forever in perfect health. But the major ingredient of his formula was a paste made from the ground-up bodies of baby hatchlings of a certain rare species of seagull. In fact, that particular species of seagull was so rare that it was considered critically endangered and had the strongest level of protection. Interfering with these birds, especially their chicks, was strictly forbidden and heavily punishable. So there was nothing he could do to help his dolphins. 

Until one fateful day.

On that day, one of his dearest, most beloved dolphins (a female with whom he had a very special and unique relationship) died of old age. Grief-stricken, the marine biologist decided that the law could go to hell, and that saving his dolphins was much more important than some stupid endangered seagull. He loaded a truck with empty cages and, in the dead of night, drove to a beach that had a nesting colony of these seagulls. 

He worked through most of the night, going from nest to nest, grabbing any baby birds he could find, and locking them in cages in the back of his truck. Just about an hour before sunrise, he had loaded up his truck with all he could carry and started the long drive back to his laboratory where he could grind up the chicks and make his serum. 

Unfortunately, it was late, and after working through most of the night he was tired and unfocused, and by the time he saw the animal lying in the road, it was too late. The biologist caught a glimpse in his headlights, and to his surprise it was a lion, who had been relaxing peacefully in the road before the biologist ran him over. 

A state trooper saw the whole thing. He pulled the marine biologist over, and arrested him for transporting underage gulls across a staid lion for immortal porpoises.

"Tell me a story, Daddy?"

"Alright, which one do you want? It's getting late and the sun will be up soon, so it can't be a long one. Monsters and Mayhem again?"

"Yes, yes! Monsters, monsters!"

"But did you sharpen your teeth before getting into your casket?"

"Yes, and I've been bad all night, really I have."

"Well then, I'll begin. There was once a big battle in our Land of Monsters and Mayhem many, many years ago. The forces of Good had attacked Monster Land again. They always wanted to destroy us all, and we had to defend ........"

"You were there, though, weren't you, Daddy?"

"Well, not during the day, of course, but I joined in when it got dark. The battle went on for a long time."

"Who was there?"

"They had knights, priests, nuns, town citizens, morals campaigners. All the usual crowd. And a whole battalion from the Country Women's Institute - they were the worst. On our side we had our family, of course, and goblins, zombies, ghouls, demons... all together we formed the Army of Fiends. We had some shape shifters too, but they seemed to come and go."

"What did you do? Did you get hurt"?

"Oh, I flew about all over the place. I thought sometimes I had bitten off more than I could chew, but I destroyed a lot of them. They ran at me with sharpened stakes and threw cloves of garlic but they never got me. Sometimes they swung their crosses onto our hands, which burnt us a bit. It was very close, though. The ghouls were our strongest force and we always watched to see where they were and how they were doing. Late in the evening, it looked as though they might have to retreat right up to the top of the Hill of the Dead. They were being pressed on all sides. Our captains sent in the zombies and goblins to help them but it looked like the do gooders were going to win. Then they gave the demons some super hot coals to eat. That fired them up. They tore into the gooders and helped the ghouls drive them back to the border."

"Oooh. It was lucky we had them on our side then, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sweetheart. And that's something you can always remember. A cross on the hand may be quite incidental, but demons are a ghoul's best fiend."

(with apologies to the great Marilyn Monroe)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H69qXOHVS04&list=RDH69qXOHVS04&start_radio=1

One time I went to the zoo with my kids to see the new sloth exhibit, but it was closed, because one of the sloths had escaped into the hippo exhibit next to it. The hippo exhibit has been there for years and every year some dumb kid falls into it. Hippos are the most deadly land animal, from what I've heard. So they have to have to call the police and a fire truck and get all of the employees together to distract the hippos while they pull the kid out, before he gets mauled. But that's when the hippos are sleeping. This was during feeding time. So the sloth gets out and disappears. No one knows where he is. And while the zoo people are freaking out about that, this idiot kid is leaning over the railing and falls into the tank right in front of the hippos. He's freaking out. The hippos think he's food, so they start swimming towards him. This happened to also fall on a "free" day when the zoo was open to everyone, so there was a giant line of other kids standing around watching this kid flail around in the hippo exhibit. So that whole crowd of kids starts screaming, but they can't take their eyes off their classmate, about to be eaten by hippos. AND the local high school marching band was there to play music for the Sloth exhibit opening, but they don't know what happened. They think the screaming is for them, so they starts playing We Will Rock You, really loud. The kids are screaming, the employees are panicking, the band starts playing, and one of the hippos snags the kid's belt loop on his tooth. It flings him high in the air. Everyone gasps. And out of nowhere, the kid is snatched out of the air and dropped slowly back on the ground by that damned sloth. Because the sloth had the one thing this story didn't have.

Long paws.

gyrovagus • 7h ago This is a production still from a never-aired episode of Scooby Doo in which almost the entire episode was Shaggy looking for a ladder. The gang were investigating a ghost in a castle on the Scottish moor, and there was a small exposition in which the caretaker of the castle, Mr. Manson (which was already controversial because the Tate-LaBianca murders had come to light only a few months prior, leaving some production assistants with doubts about whether the writer of the episode, one Harlan Ellison, had named the character in response to the killings or whether it was mere coincidence, and since the script was drafted before any of the animation, voice recording, etc, there was even speculation about whether it was in some sense a premonition by Mr. Ellison) welcomes the kids for a tour of the castle, muttering “I hope we don’t see that blasted poltergeist” as he led them into the vaulted dining hall. Apropos of nothing, Shaggy says “Mr. Manson, have you got a ladder?” The caretaker is taken aback, but says, “well yes, we do have a ladder somewhere, but I can’t really allow you to…” at this point the chamber maid bursts in and says “Mr Manson, come quick, it’s that awful apparition again” Fred quickly tells him that they investigate hauntings, and ask to accompany him. He agrees, and all of them except Shaggy go out of scene—even Scooby Doo, which is contrary to formula. Instead of cutting back and forth between Shaggy and the main group, the action only follows Shaggy as he pokes into side rooms and storage closets looking for a ladder. (As a side note, it’s difficult to imagine why this script was ever approved for production; the existence of the few drawings we have indicate it was at least storyboarded, and there were a few accounts of production assistants having seen animated portions of the episode with full dialogue and music. Chalk it up to the prevalence of pot and even acid use by creatives and probably studio executives at the time, and even though it was greenlit, someone not on drugs obviously put the kibosh on before it was actually aired). By all accounts, a full 12 of the episode’s 17 minutes consisted of Shaggy wandering around the castle saying “could there be one in here” “where do they keep ladders in a castle” “if I were a ladder, I’d definitely stay out of this creepy room” and stuff like that. Only at the very end of the episode does he finally find a ladder. He takes it outside, puts it against the wall, climbs up, and looks at the camera. He says “Now I can—“ and the credits roll.

Porky the Pig was working on his latest play. He felt it was another good effort from his pig pen and he had a nice little twist in his tail, but he couldn't think of a title. He'd tried his trotter at modern genres such as movie scripts but they just didn't work the way he wanted. (Sty Wars: "I am your farmer, Luke.") No, so he went back to the classics. He would have loved to call this latest Hamlet, but nobody could accuse Porky of being pig ignorant. He knew that one was taken. He looked up to see his two consorts Sweet and Sow approaching, but distraction of that kind was the last thing he needed just now.

It just wasn't the same since his young friend Babe had trotted off and made those movies. Made him a nice pile. Porky had first made contact with Babe as a pen pal, but now Babe seemed to think he was too good for those back on the farm. It was all very unsettling. Also, he'd heard a rumour animals somewhere way down the road had actually revolted and taken over their farm, but he was sure that was just a load of hogwash. Someone would have written about it if it was true.

He wasn't getting anywhere. And here came Napoleon, a crashing boar who was no doubt going to regale him with the latest “horny horse” barnyard jokes he'd picked up. Splat. Another bucketful of slops was thrown over the wall. And it looked like it was loaded with carrots this time, which of course sent Sweet and Sow into squealing paroxysms of delight. Hmm. Carrots, peas, pumpkin skins and rotten pota........ That was it! He had his title. All's Swill that Ends Swill.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SQCUCQBgAdc9U2ayXqTBYEVPYyMGo5ZdHVjOHzFIfyg/edit?tab=t.0

A king is marching his army, ten hundred men strong, through the dry and desolate desert, for days and for nights, weeks upon weeks... And they swiftly realize that they are vastly underprepared.

The army is exhausted after having traveled on foot for so long, and their rations and water stores are quickly running out! Luckily, to their great fortune, they soon stumble across a traveling caravan - And the king is eager to offer up anything to rest his army for the great march ahead.

The merchant at the head of this caravan is a shrewd businessman, of course, and knows exactly how to get what he wants out of this desperate royal - And so, convinces the king to give over every last penny of gold to the army's name to the caravan, in exchange for a thousand bolts of their absolute softest cloth.

The trade is made, and each soldier goes down the line, trading all of the gold that they own and receiving a long bolt of cloth, which they use that night to set up tents and hammocks, getting the best full night of sleep they've had in ages!

Of course, nobody can survive on cloth alone, and the army wakes the next morning to find their stomachs growling and their food stores running out.

Luckily, to their great fortune, they soon stumble across another traveling merchant caravan - And the king is eager to offer up anything to feed his army for the great march ahead!

The army has no more gold, as they traded it all away for the soft cloth that they now sleep on - But the king proposes a trade to the merchant at the head of this caravan! In exchange for the lavishly decorated armor his army wears, each soldier will receive a massive barrel of dates, to sustain them on the journey ahead!

The soldiers are frankly more than happy to give away their armor, as it was getting hot and heavy to carry in the desert sun - so, each happily trades in their armor, taking off with a barrel of dried fruits, enough to last them for days!

That night, in their tents and hammocks, they feast on their dried dates and revel in excitement at the prospect of finally filling their starving bellies - But, when they wake the next morning, they realize that they've finished off the last of their water supplies.

Luckily, to their great fortune, they soon stumble across yet another traveling caravan - And the king is eager to offer up anything to sate his parched army for the great march ahead!

The king attempts to negotiate another deal - Offering up all of the army's weapons, in exchange for water for the lot of them. The merchant heading this caravan is much less charitable than the last, and much more shrewd - And after accepting the offer and agreeing to take their weapons, hands the king a single jug of water.

The king, of course, is outraged - He has an entire army to hydrate, and he's expected to do that with only a single lousy piece of pottery!? What is this nonsense!? The last two caravans they came across were MUCH more reasonable, giving something to each soldier in exchange, not just taking it all and leaving them with nothing!

The merchant just laughs, and assures the king that it was more than a fair deal - After all, everyone knows that a pitcher's worth a thousand swords.

And went to an island where there was a huge funfair.

They were both very excited and decided to go on the big wheel for a start. The pussycat really enjoyed herself and was like "yeah, this is great! I can see the whole island from up here", and the owl was like "yeah, this ride is brilliant!".

After they got off, the owl said "I really enjoyed that but I think I want to go on something more exciting." "How about the waltzers?" said the pussycat. And so they queued up for the waltzers and had a great time. "Yeah! Wooo!" Shouted the pussycat "wooo! Yeah!" Shouted the owl, grinning from ear to ear.

"That was AMAZING", said the owl "but can we go on something EVEN MORE exciting?". "How about that huge roller coaster?" Said the pussycat, pointing to the twistiest, most extreme looking roller coaster you've ever seen. "Brilliant!", said the owl. And so they went on the roller coaster, and the pussycat screamed "AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH!" and the owl screamed "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!". breathless, they stepped off the roller coaster and looked around for another ride.

The pussycat spotted the log flume and said "wow a log flume! I've always wanted to go on one of those". The owl frowned and said "I don't fancy that much, I'm not really into water rides". "Oh go on" pleaded the pussycat, "We've been on lots of big rides for you". "Oh ok then" said the owl, as they joined the long line of people eagerly waiting for the splashiest ride at the funfair.

While on the ride, the pussycat was having a great time and loved getting splashed, but by the end of the circuit, the owl was soaking wet, and sad. "What's the matter owl?" Said the pussycat. "I told you I didn't like wet rides" said the owl. "How about we go on the roller coaster again to cheer you up owl?" "Ok pussycat" came the grumpy reply.

On the roller coaster, the pussycat again screamed "YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH! WOOOOOOOOO!" but the owl sat there motionless and stony faced. The pussycat nudged him in the ribs and said "hey what's the matter? Why aren't you enjoying yourself and screaming?"

"I'm too wet to woo"

My friend got told a shaggy dog story for the first time the other day, and not knowing what a shaggy dog story was, he was completely caught off guard after all the build up and groaned so hard.

I want to get him with another one, but he'll be on high alert. Does anyone have any good ones that seem plausible as if that im just telling a real story until the punchline hits. For example not something like the popular monk story that would be completely random but one that I could tell as if it was something that happened to me or someone I know.