The Stinky Stocking

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,

Almost everyone was snoring, especially my spouse.

The stockings I’d worn hung on the back of a chair,

Next to the bed within reach: “Do I dare?”

I grabbed the stinky stocking nearest the bed,

Leaned toward my spouse and gently turned his head.

I opened his mouth so slowly and sweet,

And inserted the leggings, each one by the feet.

I wrapped the remainder ‘round under his nose,

To avoid suffocation by said pantyhose.

The snoring though muffled, but still it remained,

Now sounds like a distant approaching freight train!

I placed both my fingers, one in each ear

To keep out the horrible sound that I hear!

“What does a girl have to do,???” I had said,

“To keep that noise from coming out of his big head???”

So I quickly jumped up, determined to stop it

Going through drawers and cabinets and boxes.

Then... I saw. I saw it!!! I found just the cure!

If nothing else works, this’ll do it for sure!!!

So I pulled the small hammer from under the bed,

And carefully aimed it at Jimmy’s big head.

When on my right shoulder an angel appeared,

Saying, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, dear.”

Then on my left shoulder, someone dressed in red,

“Don’t listen to Goody-shoes, nail him in the head!”

“Stupid Angel,!” I said to myself

And I placed the small hammer up high on a shelf.

By this time I felt like I slept with a mower.

I put my feet on his side and I pushed him on over.

I giggled when he hit the floor with a thud,

And I thought, “I’ll teach you to mess with me, Bud!”

But he just kept on snoring, not missing a beat!

How in the world will I ever get sleep???

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

Up there on the shelves of the headboard, so near.

But a pair of ear plugs and a miniature ice pick.

I could plug my ears, and then oh so quick,

Prick holes in his nostrils while dodging his fists.

More rapid than eagles, his fists they would fly

But I could pull it off ... if I was sly.

As he screamed and then shouted, he screamed out bad names.

“Now, Dammit! Now...

“SWEET MOLLY IN A MANGER,!” so angry I said

So I pulled out the suitcase from under my bed.

I grabbed all the things that were mine, that were there

All my makeup and curlers and pink underwear,

All my jewelry, the pictures and my house shoes as well

I knew I was ready to sleep in a motel.

But then he woke up and he started to weep

I can’t believe you moved out while I was trying to sleep!

How could you, my dear sweet apple pie,

How could you move out and leave me to die?

For without you, you know I would die for sure

Rather stay with me and help find a cure!

So I unpacked all the stuff in the suitcase, I fear

And sat down and thought about leaving next year.

I decided I’d give him one more chance,

But if he didn’t come round I’d leave in a glance!

More weary than the parents of an infant newborn,

I crawled back into bed feeling quite forlorn.

I pushed the earplugs in deep, put the pillow over my head,

Pulled the comforter up, my heart filled with dread.

For I knew in a moment, Jimmy would be fast asleep,

And the snoring would begin and I’d be counting sheep.

Well, Christmas is over and this story ain’t right.

So, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

The End

(Thank Goodness!)

Contributing authors:

Susan Wade, Phillip Secca, Lori Anne Locke,

RoseMarie Combrinck Coetzee, Patsy Bell Hobson

How To Get Your Teen to Clean His Bedroom

Getting a Teen Boy (sample pictured at left) to keep his bedroom clean - or at least to keep the health department from condemning your house - isn't an easy task.

Parents have long lamented the fllthy socks stuffed under the bed, the candy wrappers tossed beside the trash can instead of in it and the dishes growing mold on the nightstand.

Psychologists, parents, psychiatrists, scientists, sociologists, parents and teens participated in a 20-year study of Teen Boys and the cleanliness of their bedrooms.Following is what they learned:

- Filth helps to build a healthy immune system.
- No one has ever died from a dirty room and messy rooms are GREAT places to hide contraband.
- Mothers who don't find their son's dirty clothes in the dirty clothes hamper are NOT required to wash them. (New Rule. Moms do not wash clothes that are not in the dirty clothes basket.)
- Cleaning up your room will make your parents curious, if not suspicious, and it's the kind of thing that will make them want to buy you extra Christmas presents.
- Tidy rooms are over rated.
- Teen Girls are disgusted by Teen Boys who have Filthy Rooms.

Additionally, Teen Boys don't much care if Teen Girls are disgusted by Filthy Rooms, because this particular species of Teen Boy is highly unlikely to have a Teen Girl in his room in the first place.

If a Teen Boy did manage to get a Teen Girl into his filthy bedroom, he wouldn't know what to do with her anyway. Besides not cleaning their rooms, Teen Boys:

- do not know how to turn off lights,
- have an aversion to flushing the toilet,
- have to be told to use soap and shampoo when they shower,
- don't mind wearing the same jeans day after day after day.

Teen Boys are perhaps the most brilliant of the species. They can train their caregivers to clean up after them long after they are capable of personal hygiene and daily domestic duties. Caregivers and guardians have been faithfully serving, cleaning and providing a comfortable environment so long, it appears to be instinctive.

This brilliant sub species (Teen Boys) will continue to work the parent or caregiver to tears and exhaustion, if allowed to do so. Every effort should be made to preserve the domestic tranquility in an effort to extend the caregivers’ life until she can live long enough to see her son suffer the very same distress as a result of his own offspring.

Thus giving rise to the parental curse, "I wish for you children like I had."

The researchers also found that Teen Boys become Grown Men who:

- don't put the toilet seat down.
- fart while watching football, then blame the dog for the noise and stench.
- swear they don't snore despite audio and video evidence proving otherwise.
- think a fishing pole from Bass Pro is the perfect anniversary gift for their wives or girlfriends.

Make your husband get a sleep study. Bet he has sleep apnea. He might become nicer if he is better rested. But, there is no hope for the toilet seat thing with Teen Boy if his dad is setting the example. Build another bathroom. It will increase the value of your home and harmony will be restored.

If Real Men must fart during the football game, Real Women must light obnoxious fragrance candles during the game.

And this study has shown that not all Teen Boys follow in their fathers’ unhygenic footsteps. Some actually find pride in claiming those nacho-inspired game-day farts.

The farting ability of Teen Boys and Grown Men is best observed during road trips when the Family Unit is enclosed in a small space. Under such circumstances, Teen Boys and Grown Men usually fart silently, then proudly grin and wait to see how long it takes for other vehicle occupants to swear and roll down the windows.

Real Women have been known to carry large cans of floral-scented air freshener during such trips and spray them in the vehicle while hanging their heads out the window, gasping for fresh air.

Upon arrival at the destination, the result is Teen Boys and Grown Men are relaxed and free of flatulence, the automobile and its contents have an odd pizza/nacho/floral/poo scent and Real Women have wind-burned faces and disheveled hair.

Beware anyone who dares cross the paths of Real Women after such a road trip with Teen Boys and Grown Men.

Those very same psychologists, parents, psychiatrists, scientists, sociologists, parents, and the occasional know-it-all-friend-without-kids, applaud Real Women with Teen Boys who attempt quality family time during road trips. It is an admirable attempt to give the Teen Boy’s room and family bathroom time to air out.

Some homes have a rule that no family road trip shall take place until the Teen Boy’s bedroom is clean, resulting in no family road trips, resulting in a grateful mother who takes off for a girlfriends’ getaway at a spa resort.

The moral of this story: Don't bother trying to get your teen to clean his bedroom. Are you nuts!? Go for the girlfriends' getaway at the spa.

THE END

Contributing authors: Susan Wade, Patsy Bell Hobson, Karen Libby, Melinda Arnold, Wayne Nale

From It was a dark and stormy night... on Facebook at http://budurl.com/darkstormynight. Join the group and add to the stories!

It was a dark and stormy night...

As Susan lounged on the porch swing of her suburban ranch-style house, lightning flashed in the skies of southwest Missouri making her wonder if her instincts were right.

She picked up her glass of raspberry iced tea and headed into the house, her cheap blue flip flops making a flip floppy sound as she plodded toward the screen door.

“Did I make the right decision,” she murmered to herself as thunder rumbled.

The old house seemed colder than ever. She had always thought it was cold. From the time she was old enough to know what to be scared of, that house gave her the creeps. Seeing shadows...feeling eyes staring at her in every room she went. Especially the cellar, what horrible memories ran through her dreams at night about that damp, dark cellar.

As she closed the door and made her way inside, the sky flashed with lightning, and then suddenly the house went black. No lights. Of course, the one place she didn't want to go was the cellar, but she remembered that's where she left her flashlight. She made her way down the creaky stairs into the darkness.

Susan felt her way down the dark, damp stairs. She hated the dark. As she felt along the stone wall, she was startled by someone coming up the stairs. A flashlight turned on.

“Oh Doug! It's you! You startled me. I thought you went into town for some feed.”

Doug Toburen. Susan had watched Doug for a long time. He sure was good to look at. But she wasn't sure what he was doing in the cellar.

After her initial surprise at seeing Doug coming up the stairs, Susan decided it didn't matter why he was in the cellar. She was just glad he was there. Doug, after all, was the man of her dreams. He was confident but not cocky; narrow at the hip and broad at the shoulder, just the way she liked her men.

As her eyes adjusted to the light and she imagined what the night could bring, she realized someone - or SOMETHING - wearing a bright red, satin-trimmed tutu was behind Doug on the stairs.

Along with its bright red tutu, it had dark circles under its dark red eyes. It looked like a female with beautiful pale skin, and her hair was a light honey brown. Except she was immortally beautiful, like no person Susan had ever seen before. But there seemed something wrong with her.

Fear struck in every part of Susan telling her the woman was completely dangerous. It was almost like it came out in vibrating waves rolling toward Susan. The woman was hiding in the darker shaded part of the stairs so Susan don't think Doug saw her behind him.

Susan tried to warn Doug as the woman gracefully crept up behind him when suddenly lightning flashed and thunder crashed, shaking the house at its foundation. Susan reached for Doug's hand as she turned to race back up the steps.

But, there was nothing there.

She gasped - the vision of Doug was an illusion.

Lightning flashed again and Susan saw Doug really was on the stairs. The strobe light effects of the lightning made Doug look like he was part of a disco dance scene from “Saturday Night Fever.”

But it wasn't a flashlight he held in his hand.

Suddenly, Susan and Doug heard someone frantically knocking on the front door. They raced up the steps hand-in-hand.

When they got to the door, they found Old Man Peterson out of breath and soaking wet from the storm.

“You're not going to believe it! You're just not going to believe it! Come quick!” Old Man Peterson shouted.

They raced out into the storm frantically shouting at Old Man Peterson’s back. The rain whipped their faces as they chased the old man into the darkness.

As the lightning cracked, they could see the shape of the barn looming ahead. As Mr. Peterson forced the barn door open, the wind tore the screams from their throats as their eyes focused on the woman with beautiful pale skin and honey brown hair wearing a bright red, satin-trimmed tutu who stood there holding the thing - not a flashlight - that had been in Doug's hand just moments before.

On the woman's feet were Susan's cheap blue flip flops.

Old Man Peterson, Susan - now barefoot - and Doug with the narrow hips and broad shoulders were mesmerized by the woman's dark red eyes with dark circles beneath. The flip flops made a flip floppy sound as she moved toward the rain-soaked trio at the door.

Lightning lit the sky and thunder rattled the barn as her scarlet lips parted and she began to speak.

“What did you do, Susan? What did you do???” the woman with the pale skin and the honey brown hair spoke with a raspy voice. “Tell Doug with the narrow hips, the broad shoulders and the strong chin where the golden ballet slippers are and your flip flops will be free.”

Susan thought to herself, “He really does have a strong chin. Man, he is so hot.”

And with that, the pale woman with the honey brown hair disappeared into the night.

Doug looked into Susan face. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I don't know where they are! I don't, Doug! You have to believe me!”

Doug held her closely and said, “Everything will be all right. We will get to the bottom of this. I'm on your side.”

Old Man Peterson looked horrified by what had just happened. He began to reach into his coat pocket, then he fell to the ground with a thud.

Dead.

Doug and Susan couldn't believe their eyes! What could have happened to Old Man Peterson? Doug looked at Old Man Peterson. Then Doug saw that in Old Man Peterson's hand, he was clutching a note. Doug pried the note from his wrinkly old hand. Doug opened the note and read it.

“Read it, Doug,” Susan said.

Doug said, “It says: ‘Don't trust the power of the golden ballet slippers. It's a curse this wretched woman concocted to capture the fancy of young handsome men.’”

Susan didn't care about golden ballet slippers or some wretched woman in a bad outfit. She just wanted her blue flip flops back and for Doug to look at her with the same longing his gaze had revealed as he stared at the red tutu. Lightning crackled and thunder roared but they were no match for Susan's fury about her stolen shoes and Doug's lustful stares.

She turned and stomped barefoot through the mud puddles toward the house.

Suddenly, through the din of the storm, Susan heard Doug pleading, “Susan! Wait!”

She stopped and turned, her rain-soaked t-shirt clinging to her every curve.

Doug rushed to her and breathlessly said, “You are pretty, intelligent and extremely sexy.”

Susan turned toward Doug, realizing he was just feeding her a line, and shouted “I'm not falling for that!”

She raced into the house and up the stairs, her bare feet leaving wet footprints on the floor as she sped toward the kitchen for a sip of raspberry tea, then raced to her closet where she had a pair of brand new, bright red, satin trimmed, toe-pinching shoes, a perfect match for the immortally beautiful woman's tutu. She grabbed the shoes and ran back down the stairs to the kitchen where the woman in the red tutu suddenly appeared, grinning broadly as she traded the blue flip flops for the red shoes.

“Thank you,” the woman squealed as she piouretted down the damp, dark cellar steps.

Susan slammed the cellar door and said aloud: “My instincts were right; buying those shoes was a good idea!”

THE END

Contributing Authors: Susan Wade, Lori Anne Locke, Shannon Smith, Alexis Locke, Wayne Nale, Melinda Arnold, Pamela Clark.

From It was a dark and stormy night... on Facebook at http://budurl.com/darkstormynight. Join the group and add to the stories!