I had just finished washing my car, a dark blue Honda Accord, and was driving back to my place. I live in a trailer on the outskirts of Rochester, Minnesota with my mom and brother. All of a sudden, this tall, skinny dude pulled out in front of me in his puke green Hummer. I slowed down to avoid hitting him and he slowed down as well. Trying to keep off his bumper, I slowed down even more, when out of nowhere, he slammed on his brakes.

I didn't see any side streets so I assumed he must have seen something in the road. I waited behind him for twenty seconds, thirty seconds, one minute, when finally I started to pull around him. As soon as I did, he started forward too and blocked me off.

"Oh Shit!" I screamed, more to myself than anyone else, and pulled back in behind him. Just as soon as I did, though, he slowed down again. It was easy to see that he was doing it on purpose.

But why would he want to screw with me? I didn't recognize him or his car. I was sure I'd never seen him before in my life. The desire to teach this prick a lesson began to well up inside me, but my wiser self kept me in check and I pulled over to the side of the road instead. I figured I'd let him get a ways ahead and then take off, but as soon as I came to a stop, he pulled over and did the same.

It was obvious that I wasn't going to get away without a confrontation. Does he have a gun? Is he drunk? Or is he high on drugs? Maybe he was all of these. I'm not afraid to stand up for myself, but I wasn't going to give some psycho an easy target either.

I put my car in drive and pushed on the gas. The second I started moving, though, this idiot jolted forward too and we were right back where we started from. If only I hadn’t left my cell phone at home to charge. I was only making a trip to the car wash. I was sure I wouldn't need it. I guess I'd have to make sure I always brought it with me in the future, but for now, I had to come up with a plan to get away from this maniac.

Then the answer hit me. It would be a little risky, but I was sure I could pull it off. I pulled back over to the side of the road and set the parking brake. My car engine is very quiet, so I was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to tell it was still running. Leaving it in gear with the parking brake on, I opened my door and started to step out. The Hummer stopped about five feet ahead of me and the tall, skinny dude opened his door too.

I stepped the rest of the way out, leaving the door open and moving toward the street. The other guy followed suit, but unlike me, perhaps out of habit, he slammed his door. Immediately, I dove back into my car and released the parking brake. While pulling the door closed, I floored the accelerator and tore off down the street. The tall, skinny dude had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit as I sped past him.

My car is fast. Not the fastest car on the road, but fast enough for me to get away from someone stuck outside of their stopped vehicle. Since I was in my part of town, I knew where I could drive and where the dead ends were. I zigged and zagged for about ten minutes before turning and heading for the police station.

I never did see the Hummer again, but when I went to give my statement to the detective on duty, I learned that someone had been stealing cars by luring drivers out of them. I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that I somehow happened upon the wisdom to concoct my successful getaway plan.

Although written in first person and with the author as the protagonist, this story is one-hundred percent fiction.
 

I overslept today again. I think that might be the title of my memoir. It has a ring to it. I Overslept Today Again by T Edward Harper. Or should I go with, I Overslept Again Today instead? I kind of like the sound of that one better. I’m not sure what name I should use because I really like the T Edward, but it is a bit pretentious and I do like the sound of Thomas too. Oh well. Luckily, I have plenty of time to make this determination. I get to go through poverty first and then humiliation. One of the awesome things about being a writer is that the farther you’re knocked down, the better quality fodder you receive for writing. I don’t think it’s that writers attract bad times due to some defect in their personality but simply to provide a larger pool of experiences from which to pull characters and ideas.

I overslept again today. It’s OK though. I only had important things to do. They only involve my ability to make money and put in danger my ability to keep my car. Repossessions suck, but boy to they inspire. People read books about those who lose their cars. They read books about those who cheat, steal, and lie too. We like to read about those in a worse situation then we are in and losing a job and then a car and then who knows what else is a situation that’s worse than where most people are.

So, I overslept again today. I awoke on time, actually, because I had to go and pick Susan up from work. I got up as soon as the alarm went off and I threw on some clothes and drove right over to pick her up. She wasn’t waiting but I didn’t have to wait long either. Then it was back home, on the computer for a bit, “Oooh, I’m getting tired,” and finally, I’ll just lay down and close my eyes for a second or two. Or maybe I’ll close my eyes until noon. And then I’ll get up, missing half the day and go and see if I can find something to do that’s even mildly productive so as not to spend every waking minute feeling like a complete and total failure. It doesn’t matter what I do. As long as it’s something that feels productive. I could drive down to the local bookstore, for example, ask for an application that I could fill out. Yeah, that’s what I could do. Then I could jump into the car and drive to get a subway sandwich, an iced coffee and a bit of time whining in my journal. Oooh, yeah! That’s a great idea.

Anyway, I overslept again today. I didn’t mean to – not when I went to bed last night. It only seemed like the thing to do after I ran through what I had to do today in my mind and realized that I’d probably be more successful dreaming about accomplishment than chasing it. I’m still not sure if that was the best idea, but I’m not completely against the idea.

I overslept again today. I did have a lot of things on my to-do list and I really was planning on doing all of them when I went to bed, but the morning arrived earlier than my motivation. In fact, I don’t think my motivation got out of bed at all. It’s probably still there, dreaming about a world with out rules and limits and deadlines. Stupid motivation. But without it, all I could do was roll over and think about all of the things I needed to get done that I hadn’t even started on. I guess my motivation must have been glancing over my shoulder while I did that, because shortly thereafter, it disappeared for good.

I overslept again today. I kind of knew I was going to. I went to bed with plans but they were the squiggly-edged, in a perfect world kind of plans that my quiet but wiser self knew would be rapidly tossed aside. Some plans you know you won’t be following. Some plans you know are a waste of your time. Some plans will never ever see the light of day and probably don’t need to. Some plans are like spoiled sauerkraut. You can’t help but know they’re there, but trying to do anything with them just makes you nauseous.

I overslept again today. It was intentional.

 

I'm soon to be a part of the unemployed. It's weird to write that because other than less than a handful of times, and each of those times for no longer than three months a pop, I've been employed ever since I was sixteen years old. For those of you keeping score, that's twenty-seven years ago.

On the one hand, I don't know that I'm going to be let go. I'm meeting with the manager this afternoon some time. She's at another client and said she'd get here as soon as she could. In some ways, you could even say I've been gunning for a confrontation. So here's the gory details.

After working very hard this past weekend to move into our new house, I came into work on Monday morning to find that the hard drive password on my machine had been changed. It happened once before and when I complained to the boss, she said that it was probably just an error. That time, the guy I work worth all of a sudden remembered the hard drive password of the guy who worked here a year prior and thought that just maybe, it had somehow reverted to that older password. I tried that password and sure enough it worked. It was such an interesting coincidence.

After that complaint to the boss though, the password genius began doing little things to get under my skin. Actually, he'd been doing them all along, but after learning more about what he could get away with, he started ratcheting up the dysfunction. It's mostly little things like tapping his fingers constantly and taking credit for my work, but putting up with that crap all day, five days a week can really drain one's energy.

Anyway, so I came in Monday morning and found my password had been changed again and I went through the process of getting it reset. According to IBM support, they can't actually reset it, they have to replace it with a new one. So I started that ball in motion and sat stewing all day Monday without able to check my work email or run the remote access printer program or basically do any of the things that I'm used to doing every day I work.

I went home and I lost it. At the top of my lungs, I screamed about how much I hated the job. About how sick I was of the stupid bullshit from this asshole who has been with the company too long to punish, but who simply refuses to play nicely with the other kids in the playground. I didn't direct the screaming at anyone in particular, but I did have to apologize to Susan and Sarah because the outburst frightened them. We sat down and talked about the situation and it became clear that I had been holding in way too much shit from that hellhole place for too long. I needed to get out of there as soon as was possible.

I called in sick on Tuesday and went out job hunting. One of the places has already notified me that they are not considering me for the job I applied for -- I'm thinking that I probably asked for too much for that particular job -- but I'm waiting on others to get back with me.

Then came this morning. I arrived at work and found that my new hard drive had arrived. I put in a call to the guy who's going to be changing out the old hard drive and reinstalling the operating system and business files. Shortly after that, I received a call from my manager here. She was upset that I had called in sick without calling her personally. She was concerned that I'm not dependable enough. I reminded her that being the only contractor here, I don't have sick pay or vacation pay or any of those other cute little things that people call benefits and that since my year and a half contract was effectively over on Monday -- I'm on an extension while they sign me up for another 18 month contract -- that if the job doesn't include benefits like everyone else, I don't care to continue working for the company. She's coming in later today to either call my bluff or offer me a deal. My gut tells me it's to call my bluff.

So, even though it hasn't happened yet, I very likely will be a member of the unemployed. Not qualifying for unemployment insurance will sure be an impetus to find something new fast. I know I won't have any problem with that, but it does feel kind of weird.

Oh well... C'est la vie...
 

In 1908, Jack Norworth penned the words to a catchy little diddy that I'm sure everyone reading this has heard at one time or another -- Take Me Out to the Ball Game. Commonly sung during the seventh inning strech of major league baseball games, this memorable tune has gone through a number of renditions over the years. In honor of Z.˚rz 's latest blog entry, "Invalid Entry" , it's time for another one.

Take Them Out at the Ball Game
based on a song by Jack Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer

Take them out
at the ball game.
Take them out
for the crowd.
Who needs peanuts
or crackerjacks?
It's huge lovely
melons that this ballgame lacks.

Set them free, free, free
for the home team.
If they don't win
it's no shame?
Cuz with one, two
huge lovely melons
we don't need the game!
 

In her blog entry, "Invalid Entry" , Noe bemoans her frustration with those people who enter her contests but do not take the time to read the contest's rules. As a service to her, and now to humanity at large, I offer the following form letter which can be used, as is, to respond to such participants.

Dear Especially Smart Participant,

Congratulations!!! So far, you are the only participant of this contest to notice that the official rules, posted in an easily readable format above the contest forum, were not the real ones but merely a practical joke meant to fool and confuse those contributors who weren't as bright as you. Kudos to your sharp eye, especially honed intuition, frequent conversations with your pet schnauzer, or whatever else it was that lead to your brilliant discovery. As a reward for your astute eye, here are the REAL RULES:

Write your story on whatever theme you like, but DO NOT include any of the items listed in the prompt.
Before editing or spell-checking your story, carve it into granite blocks that weigh at least 100 pounds each.
Send the completed blocks via UPS or Federal Express to the following address:
         Contest for Stupid People
         1234 Invisible Street
         Nowhere, Nohow 00000
If your story is returned to you for some reason, please send it to this address instead:
         Contest for REALLY Stupid People
         1234 Moron Place
         Completely, Dense #####
If your story is returned a second time, it means you came in first place and qualify for the special winners convention.
To attend the special winners convention, please purchase $1000.00 worth of Gift Points from WDC and send them to me.
Then all you have to do is wait.

Once again I would like to thank you for your especially discriminating eye in recognizing that the officially posted rules were not actually the official ones. It's for people like you that we run these contests in the first place.

Yours truly.

Please let me know if you need the WritingML version of this letter.
 

I've had to change this blog entry considerably due to, in my humble opinion, an extreme case of poor judgment by The StoryMaster in awarding Z.˚rz a premium account and thus the ability to embed videos in his blog. It's not because I don't think Zack will come up with some hilariously original and creative uses for embedded video. It's simply because I wanted to be able to talk smack at him for a bit and now, out of nowhere, we're on the same level.

Sycophant haters, please leave now...

But I'm not being completely truthful. You see Zack and I aren't on the same level. I simply don't have the endurance to climb to the lofty perch at which our terribly clever and witty friend resides. So, like the rest of you, I wait in line for his latest blog entry and devour it the second I see it's been released. I smart off in his blog and take part in his activities, but in the end, all I really want to do is be like him.

So here is how I originally envisioned this blog entry to be.....

Hey ZACK, if that's even your real fake name. Look what I can do:

Well, we're not quite George and Weezie, but susanL and I are moving on up, to the East side. Unfortunately, that's where our commonality with TV's The Jeffersons ends. Because while we're definitely moving on up with regards to our living situation, we're not moving to a deluxe apartment in the sky. Instead, we're going to be living in a two story A-frame with a full basement, a huge back yard, a fire pit, a two car garage, and more character than a Coen Brothers protagonist. And in keeping with our fast-paced lifestyles, we'll be fully moved in my this Sunday night.

In honor of this wonderful occasion, I would like to present the theme song to The Jeffersons TV show, with commentary:

The Jeffersons -- Movin' on Up
by Jeff Barry and Janet Dubois

Well we’re movin on up, to the east side. -- Oh yes, yes we are.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky. -- Oh no, no we're not.
Movin on up to the east side. -- Oh yes, yes we are.
We finally got a piece of the pie. -- They didn't throw in any pie, but they did sell us their huge grill really cheap.

Fish don’t fry in the kitchen; -- None of us are huge seafood eaters.
Beans don’t burn on the grill. -- With the new grill, we'll just have find out now, won't we...
Took a whole lotta tryin’ just to get up that hill. -- Actually, the house is in a relatively flat part of town.
Now we’re up in the big leagues -- The Twins lost two out of three this weekend.
Gettin’ our turn at bat. -- Cuddyer had two homeruns yesterday though.
As long as we live, it’s you and me baby -- Dat's da fact, jack...
There ain’t nothin wrong with that. -- It's all good.

Well we’re movin on up, to the East Side. -- Oh yes, yes we are.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky. -- Oh no, no we're not.
Movin on up to the east side. -- Oh yes, yes we are.
We finally got a piece of the pie. -- There is a Perkins and Baker's Square close by.
 

Holy zooming calendars Batman, time's moving faster than late-night comedians on route to a Sarah Palin news conference. Oh yes, it's time for the latest round of:

Each one will consist of a famous person, a strong verb, a common noun, an uncommon noun, and an adjective.

Use all five in an essay, short story, or poem of 1000 words or less and I'll give you 1000 GP just for entering.

In addition, I'll give out a grand prize of either an awardicon or merit badge -- or perhaps both -- to the author of what I judge to be the best piece of all of this month's writing prompts.1

If the response is great enough, I'll add more prizes such as: Most efficient use of prompt, Funniest piece, Scariest piece, Best extended metaphor, and the like.

The full name of the famous person doesn't have to exist in your writing, but I do need to be able to easily grasp the connection between your theme and them. If you have to explain it to me outside of your story then the connection isn't strong enough.

To keep this moving along at a steady pace, and provide enough time for all who care to participate, you have seven days for each prompt to post your piece of writing -- or a link to it -- as a comment to this blog.

So without further adieu, the second prompt, due by

Footnotes
1  Check out July's winners: "Invalid Entry" 

Susan
enamored eyes, bulging with trust, lay me
down to sleep and keep me protected in
ten thousand layers of love

flaky biscuits and delicious, country-sausage
gravy, or the world's very best lasagna
smile warmly as I come home from work

soul-mate -- not just a quaint concept


Mandy
a smile as big as Texas, with a heart just
as large and warmer than a Carolina summer,
thrives in the core of gentle Iowa.

beautiful flowing streams of glorious prose,
rich with the exquisite silt of verdant verbiage,
cascade out of the mind and mouth

wonderfully talented poetic friend


Linda
welcoming grace, dignified and true,
blooms passionately, brilliantly from the
glorious heart of this earthly angel

crossing an ocean, like royalty and then
crossing a country, like a pilgrim leads to
friendships that no earthly power can demolish

the queen of WDC


Kåre Enga
projecting a warm, inviting smile,
full of tooth and sincerity, the distinguished
beard accents the brilliant mind behind

with an eye for detail and a penchant
for witty, playful banter, the poetic
prowess is inconcealable

WDC's poet laureate for life


Zack
this quack is whack, like crack or like the
pack of knick-knacks he jacks as he stacks
plaques of sweet black smack

this dude is screwed, like Jude or like the
brood of health-food he spewed as he glued
nudes of sweet shrewd prudes

this guy makes me laugh like no other


Sarah
damaged in body but not in heart, this
African treasure, filled with wisdom and
skilled with words, radiates the beauty of love

torn asunder by hatred and greed, on route to a
future of prosperity and peace, a certain
sub-Saharan homeland awaits exaltation

a priceless jewel will soon find her treasury


Alfred
in front of the master, to whom no poetic
challenge is too complex, adventure and
creativity pull up their chairs

slim, lithe fingers dance majestically
across the ivory keys, producing melodies
meant for the angels

one August Parisian embodies both
 

In a recent blog entry2, alfred booth, wanbli ska sent out a call for someone to write fourteen Sevenling poems. In her comment to his blog, NOVAcatmando asked, "Are you mad man?" Whether or not our esteemed Parisian poet is indeed mad, I leave for others to decide, but to partially quell the insanity that perhaps lurks deep within, I humbly offer seven Sevenlings.

Office Supply Fame
a square pad of paper, red glue on one end,
hides under its sheet and glares at the
yellow post it note.

sporting a fingerprint tattoo,
a black and white BIC pen clics its
stic while it waits for work.

Paper and pen make their mark together


Candy Pandering
the candy bar snickers at the can of soda
the can of soda, keeping tab, waits for its
chance to crush the bar of candy

suddenly, a pill bottle pulls out a tablet to
write a prescription but rolls off in disgust
after spilling acetycylic acid on its shirt

Trying to choose a snack gives me a headache


Data See and Data Do
bound although innocent, the network cable
waits patiently, ready to pounce on any
unsuspecting, incoming internet traffic

cursing the plethora of refrigerator decorations,
the critical back-up tape peers nervously
around the hectic office space

Neither servers, both serve up their data


Computer *yawn* Equipment
humming fans and clicking keys echo
like colliding tumbleweeds through the
desolated dessert of the computer lab

"Leading the AL in RBIs" squawks the
dingy, white speaker in squeaky stereo
"Best ERA in the majors," it offers a short time later

Watching computers, not have problems, is boring


The Cycle of Life
little blinking lights, yellow and round,
fight to keep up with the incessant
whirring of the tape drive

the old unit, yesterday's model,
wearing it's rolled up power cord like a crown,
waits paintently in the senior center under the desk

Eventually, the whirring will stop, and the two will rock side by side


Serving Their Own Interests
"Universal health care is too expensive,"
explains the fully insured bureaucrat
while his constituents fight to make ends meet

"here, have some more money,"
offers the slick, teflon-coated lobbyist
for the health-care industry

Obviously the twain have met


A Sad State of Affairs
"justice for most," screams the reformer
"justice for some," yells the status quo
"justice for all," wishes the repressed

black metal carts with beige metal drawers
stand at attention against the bleak wall,
holding the treasured secrets of a powerful giant

Neither justice nor secrets are well-protected

Footnotes
2  "a dull monday morning — 3 august, 2009" 

Footnotes
3  If I missed anyone, please drop me an email.

I grew up in a small town of 660 people that was nestled among the flowing corn fields of Southern Minnesota. Being a small town, everyone knew everyone else's business and it didn't take long for a person to be permanently marked over some kind of mischief or indiscretion. Take Dirk Bentley4 for example. Whenever anyone caused a ruckus or got into trouble, invariably people always blamed it on Dirk Bentley up the street.

We lived on the corner of third avenue and third street, in a two-story brick house with white siding. I don't remember the address anymore, but I do know there wasn't a NW or a SE tacked on the end because our tiny village was simply too small for the accoutrements of larger towns. There were two "main" streets though, and we lived on one, two blocks up from where it intersected with the other. Dirk Bentley lived about six blocks further up from us.

When I was four years old, the roof of our house sprung a leak and my dad enlisted the help of family and friends to put on a new one. Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Carl, dad's best friend Bobby, and dad met at our place one Saturday to knock the job out. They each wore tan, leather tool belts and they brought this huge. cardboard box of roofing nails and set it next to the stump beside my sandbox. While I played in my sandbox and stared with awe, Uncle Jimmy grabbed a handful of nails from the box and placed them head first in his mouth. Then one at at time, he spit them out and before each nail would reach the stump, he would pound it in with one strong swing. I had never seen anything like it.

After they laid out the supplies, dad asked me to keep watch on everything while the guys "ran an errand." The errand turned out to be a beer run and that left me with way too much time for someone with my curious mind. As soon as dad's old Chevy station wagon pulled away from the house, I had someone's hammer in my hand and a nail in my mouth. I tried spitting it out like Uncle Jimmy had done, but for some reason, the nail wouldn't stay upright like it had for my uncle. It kept turning over as it fell and even if it hadn't, I was much too slow to hit it in mid air.

After a few failed attempts, I started getting frustrated, so I grabbed a handful of nails and pounded them directly into the stump. I guess it must have been quite cathartic as I continued pounding nails into the stump until the large, cardboard box was empty. Hoping they wouldn't notice, I hid the carcass of my crime in the garbage barrel out back.

Dad and the guys eventually made it back from their beer run. They grabbed their tool belts, ready to load them up with roofing nails, but they couldn't find the box. What they did find, however, was that the old stump that the box had been sitting next to had somehow obtained a silver roof made up of thousands of tiny circles.

In the past, I'd learned I could get away with certain things that would otherwise lead to punishment by smiling and "being cute." Seeing the look of anger on my dad's face as he discovered my morning's activity left me doubting whether I would be so lucky this time around. Dad looked at the stump. And then he looked at me. Breathing an especially deep sigh, he picked me up in his arms and asked in a stern voice, "how did all those nails get pounded into that stump?"

Knowing I was in more trouble than I'd ever been in, I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and exclaimed, "it was Dirk Bentley up the street!"

Luckily they were too busy laughing to punish me.

Footnotes
4  All names have been changed to avoid nasty emails, libel accusations, and other sundry legal problems

Finit!

Ooops, I guess I should say more than just that.

I've found that dealing with blog comments, both giving and receiving them, has turned into a bit more of a distraction than I have time for and so I've turned off blog comments for this blog altogether. I'll still be checking other people's blogs, but I probably won't be commenting as much as before.

For those of you who would still like to take part in my prompt contest5, which runs until Wednesday, July 29, 2009, you can either send me your entry as an email or post it as a separate item in your port and send me a link.

I'll start judging all the entries for the month on Thursday or shortly thereafter.

Have a wonderful rest of the summer everyone.

Footnotes
5  "Invalid Entry" 

It's warm, breezy, and Thursday -- perfect conditions for another round of:

Last night, susanL and I had a get-together with some of the members of our local writer's group. We sat out on our wonderful friend Barb's patio and ate the most delicious meal: chicken salad croissants, chicken Caesar salad, deviled eggs, homemade salsa, tortilla chips, rolls, and round cheese. The chicken salad was made with red grapes and almonds and melted in our mouths exquisitely inside the perfectly browned croissants. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.

After dinner, we retired to Barb's sitting room for chocolate silk pie, Dove candies, Bailey's Irish Cream, and delightful conversation. One of our friends, Dee, has circled the globe as a tourist and yet he's 100% free from pretension. One minute he'll be talking about his job as night audit at a local motel and the next he'll be regaling his experiences touring Egypt or Taiwan or China.

Another friend, Kit, is a published novelist, award winning short story writer and poet, and a truly skilled artisan. One year for Easter, she decorated an egg in the Ukrainian style6 for everyone in the group. Each one was uniquely painted with an intricate, traditional pattern.

Lucy was with us as well. She's a retired nurse who is enjoying her newly-acquired freedom from one of the most prestigious medical facilities in the world (I won't say the name, but I was born and raised in the shadow of it). I'm especially fond of Lucy because when we first met, she took a motherly stance toward me and encouraged me to send my writing to a number of venues. It was on her insistence that I sent off the article that became my first paid writing job.

Barb, our hostess for the evening, was a social worker in her earlier years. She can go on for hours with humorous and touching stories about her time as a case-worker. We keep encouraging her to get the stories down on paper as her riveting accounts of that challenging career field can bring you to tears one moment and have you doubled up with laughter the next. And don't get me started on her story about visiting a "psychic."

Our final guest for the evening, besides the enchanting and beautiful susanL whom you already know, was Barb's best friend Kate, visiting from Ireland. She has recently published a memoir detailing her experiences as an American with both Catholic and Protestant ties in that religiously torn land and as a cancer survivor.

The whole evening was a pleasure, a treasure, a thrill, and a joy that refilled my spirit and buoyed up my creative, expressive, and fascinated mind.

Footnotes
6  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egg_decorating

cotton puppies chase their tails
fluffy soldiers fight
cotton kitties play as well
lightning lights the night

cotton puppies chase their tails
across the threatening sky
but when the rainstorm starts to wail
the cotton puppies die
 

OK, here's the deal. I'll be continuing with the usual writing prompts next week, but for a change, this week's prompt is a single sentence. You have to use it somewhere in your poem/story/essay, but how you use it is entirely up to you. Here are the slightly modified rules.

After my last writing prompt, one of our dear readers posed a serious and delicate issue:

I really could have happily gone my entire life without knowing what my uvula was. Now it itches. I blame you, Thomas, so it's only fair that before you end this round, you explain how to scratch your uvula. -- ES Morgan

My thoughtful and inspirational response affected him on such a profound level that he recommended I share it with all of blogdom. Out of deep appreciation for his spiritual and enriching experience, I have decided to honor his heart-felt request, and share my response to him, with the world in its entirety.

My response (slightly edited):

How to scratch the uvula -- ah, one of the world's oldest and least understood mysteries. During the Paleolithic Age, people would gargle with small stones they created by smashing large stones against other large stones. Consequently, this was also the age that the Heimlich maneuver was invented, although back then it was called, short grunt-short grunt-long grunt. After the worlds first broken rib resulted in the worlds first lawsuit -- ironically, nearly 100,000 years before the first lawyer -- man moved into the Mesolithic Age and people started using small sticks to scratch their throat. This of course, lead to throat slivers which lead women to "get headaches" more often then before and was thus quickly frowned upon. Eventually, after much experimentation, man entered the Modern Age. With our increased intelligence, understanding, and all around wisdom, we had finally happened across the perfect solution for handling the uvula -- not realizing it existed -- something that now, you can no longer do. Sorry about that -- sucks to be you, I guess...

In keeping with my legendary consideration and deep respect for all things sacred, I have chosen to leave off the final that I had originally included with my reply. Feel free to close your eyes and imagine the above response with a final , if it makes you feel more attuned to the original message. Thank you for your cooperation and time.
 

It's hot, muggy, and Thursday -- perfect conditions for another round of:

Why Some Things Never Change
Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.

A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.

Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.

A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

Famous person - Betsy Ross
Strong verb - implicate
Common noun - bottle
Uncommon noun - hoarfrost
Adjective - triangular