There is no debate,
It must be my fate,
A poem for writing group it due,
Though the hour draws late.
I live next to a zoo,
It has many a kangaroo,
I’ve not gone there for a year,
Sometimes I wish I do.
Uneven are my ears
This has always been my fear,
They don’t grow at a steady rate,
Though when I listen I can hear.
I wonder what I’d write,
If my sight did not grow lousy,
All my time I spent tonight,
Playing cards and feeling drowsy.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Page two of b=Bartholomew's final Enjoy
The next to arrive was Madame Abershnakcle, an annoying old lady that lives in another estate rather close to where Bartholomew lived. She was dressed as if attending a funeral. She wore a black dress and clutched a small fur trimmed purse in which she carried around a can of pepper spray in. She was still in mourning over the loss of her cat. Just last week Bartholomew had ran over her cat “Princess” while he was on his way to the market to pick up some shotgun shells.
Bartholomew is a gun fanatic. He loves everything weapons. He has an arsenal more diverse than most Army Barracks. Over the years he has acquired such weapons as an AI flamethrower, a 1940s bazooka, and a browning automatic rifle. His favorite gun however was his pump shotgun that he carriers around almost everywhere he goes. More often than not Bartholomew had been forced to hide his weapons during police searching’s that had been organized by none other than Madame Abershnakcle.
Anyway, Madame Abershnakcle ended up informing the humane society and Bartholomew was fined 200 pounds for “cruelty to animals”. The only reason he invited her to his party was to publicly embarrass her by passing around some Photoshopped pictures of her stuffing her face with donuts. Bartholomew had become rather good with a computer, especially considering he was 94 years old.
When she walked into the door she was greeted by Bartholomew’s attack hound Killer who happened to be a wiener dog that she was ready to squish if he had not leveled his shotgun at her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing you crazy old hag?” exclaimed the old man as she raised her foot to stamp on the dog.
“Exacting my revenge for poor Princess you evil old man!” She barked back at him as she stepped back noticing the shotgun in his hands. Bartholomew chuckled at the comment. The label of “evil” never seemed to bother him.
“Don’t you touch Killer or I’ll have them humane society beating down your door before you can say ‘I’ll sue you’.” He then let McGregor take over and he escorted her to the dining room. Bartholomew returned to his T.V room.
The next one to arrive was a man by the name of Simon Wilson, Edgar’s brother. He was a very rich businessman. He owned a company that bought and refurbished old furniture. He had made a lot of money that way and was without doubt was the richest member of Bartholomew’s family. He was, until he had taken over half of his fortune in an organization that was planning on building a hotel empire all over the world. The unusual bit about the hotels was that they would be in exotic and dangerous locations. One was planned to be in the middle of the Sahara, another was to be built in Antarctica.
Everything looked promising until the founder had died in an accident on at the building site; he was attacked by a hoard of baboons in Africa. Everything went downhill from there. Simon’s furniture business tanked and he fell into economic turmoil. Bartholomew who was independently wealthy had given him only 100 pounds for food and clothing when Simon came to him for help. Tonight, Simon was hoping that Bartholomew might announce his will. Unfortunately for him, Bartholomew was probably the healthiest 95 year old on the whole planet.
“Hullo uncle,” began Simon with as much class as he could muster. He extended a hand to greet him. Bartholomew looked down at the hand and then looked back at him. He shook his head slowly.
“No money.” He quickly said. Bartholomew was thrifty and cheap and did not feel like sacrificing any more money to someone who invested unwisely. He had not yet gotten over donating the meager 100 pounds to him when he needed help.
“Hotels…” the old man muttered to himself, but just loud enough for Simon to hear him. Simon shuddered; he didn’t think he would be getting much out of the will, even if there was one.
Bartholomew is a gun fanatic. He loves everything weapons. He has an arsenal more diverse than most Army Barracks. Over the years he has acquired such weapons as an AI flamethrower, a 1940s bazooka, and a browning automatic rifle. His favorite gun however was his pump shotgun that he carriers around almost everywhere he goes. More often than not Bartholomew had been forced to hide his weapons during police searching’s that had been organized by none other than Madame Abershnakcle.
Anyway, Madame Abershnakcle ended up informing the humane society and Bartholomew was fined 200 pounds for “cruelty to animals”. The only reason he invited her to his party was to publicly embarrass her by passing around some Photoshopped pictures of her stuffing her face with donuts. Bartholomew had become rather good with a computer, especially considering he was 94 years old.
When she walked into the door she was greeted by Bartholomew’s attack hound Killer who happened to be a wiener dog that she was ready to squish if he had not leveled his shotgun at her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing you crazy old hag?” exclaimed the old man as she raised her foot to stamp on the dog.
“Exacting my revenge for poor Princess you evil old man!” She barked back at him as she stepped back noticing the shotgun in his hands. Bartholomew chuckled at the comment. The label of “evil” never seemed to bother him.
“Don’t you touch Killer or I’ll have them humane society beating down your door before you can say ‘I’ll sue you’.” He then let McGregor take over and he escorted her to the dining room. Bartholomew returned to his T.V room.
The next one to arrive was a man by the name of Simon Wilson, Edgar’s brother. He was a very rich businessman. He owned a company that bought and refurbished old furniture. He had made a lot of money that way and was without doubt was the richest member of Bartholomew’s family. He was, until he had taken over half of his fortune in an organization that was planning on building a hotel empire all over the world. The unusual bit about the hotels was that they would be in exotic and dangerous locations. One was planned to be in the middle of the Sahara, another was to be built in Antarctica.
Everything looked promising until the founder had died in an accident on at the building site; he was attacked by a hoard of baboons in Africa. Everything went downhill from there. Simon’s furniture business tanked and he fell into economic turmoil. Bartholomew who was independently wealthy had given him only 100 pounds for food and clothing when Simon came to him for help. Tonight, Simon was hoping that Bartholomew might announce his will. Unfortunately for him, Bartholomew was probably the healthiest 95 year old on the whole planet.
“Hullo uncle,” began Simon with as much class as he could muster. He extended a hand to greet him. Bartholomew looked down at the hand and then looked back at him. He shook his head slowly.
“No money.” He quickly said. Bartholomew was thrifty and cheap and did not feel like sacrificing any more money to someone who invested unwisely. He had not yet gotten over donating the meager 100 pounds to him when he needed help.
“Hotels…” the old man muttered to himself, but just loud enough for Simon to hear him. Simon shuddered; he didn’t think he would be getting much out of the will, even if there was one.
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