Let's give thanks this isn't us

Hi. I'm so sorry about last week. It was Canadian thanksgiving on Monday so I had to help get ready for all my relatives. I'm back though with my thanksgiving post. I know it's late, but I couldn't resist. Go scour mother goose readers, because you probably read it wrong.

   Thanksgiving dinner that year was rather awkward. The entire family had come together but Peters seat was noticeably empty. His wife had come but was sitting alone off to the side, still unused to people after her solitary confinement. Needless to say, they served Apple pie rather than pumpkin. There were so many children running around that tea cups smashed and shattered this way and the teapot whistled all night long. Poor Vivian Galosh sat, abandoned in the corner thanks to the pervading odor of feet that surrounded her. Finally, grandmother Hubbard called them all to the table. Her basset hound lurked in the corner, gnawing on a  milk bone(he had no teeth anymore, much like grandmother herself).
   At the children's table, miss Muffet fed the baby mush on a spoon while all the little Galoshes squabbled over who had to sit next to her. Jack and Jill sat at the adult table to accommodate casts and bandages. The prayer was said and the vegetables were brought out first. They were passed around, casually skipping the man rocking back and forth humming 'The Wheels on the Bus'. Finally, the goose was brought out. Jack burst out crying to see it, crying for his mother. Or possibly calling the goose mother? They blamed his head injury and finished the meal amicably, if stiffly. Finally, everyone was thrilled to realize that it was eight'oclock and they had a whole two moths until they had to do this again.
 

A rather predictable tumble

Everyone knew this would happen. For once, you may have read it right. 

    The unnamed social worker stood in the middle of a crowd of cops clutching a small bundle. The crime scene tape was up, the evidence labelled. It looked like the scene of a twisted case on CSI. The only difference? There was no body. They were lucky. 

    The small bundle she was clutching hiccuped once and began to cry softly. She was alarmed to see that the pale blue of the baby's cheeks had barely faded. Steeling her nerves, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. The commissioner of police stood in front of her, caterpillar mustache and all, glaring. 

    "Just where do you think you're going with our biggest lead?"

    " To my car. Unless we get some heat and formula your 'biggest lead' will develop hypothermia." 

    Grudgingly, they let her pass under the tape. Ignoring the mob of reporters surrounding her, she hid the infants face and dashed to the car. Inside, with the heat blaring and the baby nestled under layers of blankets, she allowed herself to remember what had happened that night. 

    It had been a druggie to find the baby, nestled in a small wooden cradle. He called the cops about a ufo crashed into a tree. The dispatcher sent out one car, to arrest him and bust whatever party he was coming from. It wasn't anything special. There was no caravan of cop cars. Just two caffeine fueled cops on the graveyard shift. 

    They arrived just in time. The small wooden vessel had begun to rock gently in a sudden breeze. It grew harsher, and faster and the cops could hear a baby screaming inside. Suddenly, it fell. The nearest cop stretched his arms out and caught the baby just before it hit the ground. The cradle was smashed in an eerie preview of what could have happened. 

    She shook her head in disgust that somebody would leave a newborn baby alone like this, up a tree in the middle of October. It must have been somebody with a sick sense of humour though, because the gentle rocking would have soothed the baby at first. But when the bow broke, the cradle would fall and down would come baby, cradle and all. 

Really? She's married to who?

   You might be right about it. Might. But then, maybe you aren't. What if you read it wrong?
    The square was full of people, rushing around their day. The only reason they would stop was for gossip.
    "Do you know-"
     "Yes, I-"
     "Absolutely shocking how he-"
      Amongst this crowd of babbling gossips stood a young mqn clutching a covered basket.  He was silent, listening to the waves of chatter surrounding him. His eyebrow was quirked and a wry grin spread across his face. He leaned in to the two women nearest to him.
     "Do you know the muffin man?"
     " The muffin man?"
     He lifted the corner of his basket cover to reveal a pile of steaming muffins. He nodded once.
      "The muffin man."
     The second woman pursed her thin, sour looking lips.
      "Do we know the muffin man who lives on Drury lane? Yes, we know the muffin man."
     The first woman looked excited.
      "The muffin man? The muffin man! What can you tell us?"
      She handed the boy a coin and he leaned in as though imparting great knowledge.
     "Well," the boy began and the two women looked at each ther excitedly, "she's married to the muffin man."
    Instantly the women's faces fell. The boy drew a muffin from his basket and strolled off.
   "Sorry ladies, no refunds or exchanges!"

How much wood would she sell by the sea shore?

   I'm getting annoyed here guys. I haven't got a single review. Or a married review! Just a simple hi, I liked this post. C'mon! Ok, rant over. What if you said it wrong?
   This was quite probably the worst way to earn money imaginable. Her grandmother may claim to have earned money off of it but she had her doubts. Grandma was just trying to get rid of her as usual and setting up a seashell stand on the beach was just one of many plots. It was almost funny how many people looked at her stand and then took two steps to the nearest seashell. This idea was never going to work, and she should probably just go home  

  Meanwhile, over a grassy verge a young woodchuck was returning to his burrow after an unsuccessful attempt to find a mate. Maybe his mother was right about him after all. Sighing, he entered his burrow, or at least tried to. The entire entrance was blocked by a tall stack of planks. What the heck? Oh well, this was easy enough to deal with. He grabbed the nearest plank and threw it carelessly behind him. It struck something with a thump and a "Hey!"and hit him square on the back. 

   

   She was angry now. Some kind of jerk had just thrown a plank of wood and broken her seashell stand! She grabbed it angrily and threw it back. Slowly, an exchange of fire developed until they were almost juggling the planks. The beach emptied out except for an older woman sunning herself and laughing. 

Jack ain't nimble

Hello people of the internet! I greet you again this fine day and ask you one question. What if you read it wrong?
    Jack was no longer a small boy who enjoyed playing with fire. He was a tall, strong, moderately hot stuntman. He had been in everything from Galactic Battle to Twinklepuff movies. He was most famous however for his motorcycle stunts and today he was planning his most audacious yet. He had jumped over shark tanks, little old ladies crossing the street and an entire preschool once but this was even better. He was going to jump an active volcano live on camera to the tune of Rise of the Valkeries wearing no protective gear whatsoever.
    It was the stunt of a lifetime and he was born ready. He reved his engines once, twice before slowly backing up. The music began and he steeled his nerves. The volcano rumbled and just as he began to wish for a helmet a taunting voice cried
"Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candle stick"
    He turned to scream at Carl and his foot slipped. Shouts of anger turned to screams of terror as  instantly his motorbike shot forward. He went up, up, up soaring just as the music reached it's climax. He came down just before the ramp. There was a collective intake of breath. Would he make it? It looked like he would when just in front of the ramp he stopped and fell straight down into the lava.
     Three months later, Jack lay recovering in a body cast. He sat and stewed over the accident the whole time. Two important lessons had been learned that day. Those who play with fire get burned and also, you can't trust Carl.

Row your boat right off a cliff.

Hello. I am experimenting with format right now so bear with me. Let me know how I can improve.
SCENE ONE
(The camera cuts to a man, paddling down a calm river in a small canoe with a camping pack clearly visible in the back. The man, clearly alone in the woods, begins to whistle to himself. Time passes and he breaks out into song)
MAN: row row row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily merrily merrily merrily
(Scene cuts to a crude campsite near the beach during this line. The canoe next to him, the man curls into his sleeping bag by a fire of dying embers)
MAN: life is but a dream. (Yawns)  What a good day. I should sing everyday if this is any indication.
End scene
SCENE 2
The man is again seen paddling his canoe. The water is rougher, and he is rocking from side to side to stay balanced. He continues to sing.
MAN: rock rock rock your boat, gently down the stream
If you see a (pauses) oh crap.
(A loud scream is heard and the camera is splashed with water. Flashes of scaly green are seen. Picture loses definition.)
(When picture resumes, the man is holding a paddle with a large bite mark at the end. His supplies seem to have been  violently attacked. He is visibly rattled and extremely shaky. A wave splashes against the boat, which has returned to calmer waters. The man jumps, tipping the canoe.)
End scene.
   SCENE 3
   (The man paddles the canoe into the cameras sight. He is shaking and remains dripping wet. His pack is visibly absent. He is shaking as he inefficiently paddling in almost circles with the bitten paddle. Each splash seems to startle him to the point of almost flipping each time. His voice sings out shakily.)
MAN:Ok, last verse guys. I just have to finish this.
Row row row your boat
Underneath the stre- wait what?!
(A periscope emerges from the water with a loud splash. The man leans towards it cautiously, just as a surge of water tips his boat. He lands on the top of a huge metal submarine with an audible clang.)
MAN: (groans) what the hell?
(He raises his head, examining the submarine. He thumps his head down heavily. He lifts his bitten paddle before dropping it in submission.)
MAN: I give. I GIVE! (Mutters) so much for a relaxing holiday.
Fades to black, credits role.

Thank you thank you. For more of this awesomeness check back every Sunday. And comment. Please. 

Teapot terror+marathon pigs

So, hi. Sorry about the timing, I got back from vacation way more tired than I thought. To make it up to you I will give you two stories. They both are kind of short, sorry.
Marathon pigs
  When pigs are mentioned the first thing in your head is probably filth, or slop. Definitely not speed, sleek finesse and OCDlike cleanliness, however these pigs were a little bit different. Formerly known as the three little pigs, Sam, Tim and Bruce were now marathon runners. None of them wanted anything like that to ever happen again. Old habits die hard though and none of the brothers could agree on how to train.
  Steve wanted the easy way. He went to the gym on Mondays and Wednesdays and ate the same way he always had. Tim watched videos at home every day and participated half the time. He made a big show of eating organic and vegan. Bruce ran. He ran one mile in the morning and two after work. He focused, worked hard and ate healthy. Guess who won?

Note: there is actually a different rhyme behind this other than the three pigs.Kudos to you if you catch it. Leave me a comment if you do or just  want to know.

Teapot terror
  She lived her life in constant pain and terror with no hope of escape and no choice.  Her whole life she had been frozen, unable to speak but to scream. She hadn't asked the witch to throw a curse and miss. She hadn't told the potter what  she wanted to be(a beautiful statue of a golden mermaid). She was made alive and each day she suffered. Boiling water scalded her, somehow reaching new, tender spots. As the tea  began to cool, and comfort it was slowly robbed  from her, drop by drop. All she could do was scream.
  The little teapot was a family favorite. Her design was pleasing to the eye and easy to use. She held enough tea for the family and the butler without overfilling cups and her whistle was calming instead of shrill.It seemed to call gently "Teatime, Teatime." Nobody ever suspected she was screaming for her life.