|Fiction: Grandpa's Cookie Recipe added a few kicks to the mix|
The WriteRight Speakers Club (WRSC) had convened again; made up, mostly, of an insensitive bunch of self righteous bastards with neither award winning best sellers nor scholarly tomes to their names. This time, the WRSC Board met to discuss the grave matter of Grandpa’s profanity laced tirade at the annual Holiday dinner.
“I had to let the MoFos have it. I was tired of their shit. Oh, they know alright how to lampoon “hyperbole, digressive shmuckity shmuck and specious diatribe.” Grandpa scoffed. He took a sip of his pomegranate Kefir, and leaned back into his favorite armchair. I sat by the fireplace, waiting to hear his spiel.
“In the old country, Griots were highly respected. We were gifted orators; telling our stories to kings, their subjects, and even warriors on the battlefield. Each story was a yarn, woven over several days. People would gather to hear an oft told tale embellished; they liked the meanderings and even the illogical twists and turns in a story. Like life, our stories weren’t linear; they segued here and there, and were pithy with warnings and wisdom. But these old WRSC farts insist on order, precision, and a specific cadence…”
Why a specific cadence? I asked.
“Because most of our club members wear hearing aids and can’t hear a damn thing. They want our speeches LOUD and real slooooooow! It messes with my rhythmic flow. Sheesh, we have members who talk over each other, constantly interrupting my story. Others spend time preening or pontificating on material from decaying members. I keep telling the Board to invest in a bullhorn with a siren attached to help shut the Viagra deprived schmucks up but, Prissy Preamble, our club president, wants none of it.” Grandpa explained.
“Can you imagine the audacity? Prissy had the nerve to ask me why I was being so ornery; calling my fellow members Viagra deprived schmucks! I told her: Look around our club. Our members are all over 60 and that mess about wisdom coming with age is lost on them, for sure. They need some action on both ends and…”
What led to the tirade? I asked, interrupting my 75 year old Grandpa, before he launched into another invective.
"Chutzpah - a kind of cosmic attitude, as though there’s nothing really there stopping you from doing whatever you want.” Rabbi Tzvi Freeman
|Fiction: Grandpa's Chutzpah story kept the fireplace glowing.|
“Kismet! Fate, my dear child. The assholes had it coming. At the annual Holiday dinner, we took turns singing our versions of popular songs. Like I said before, I was tired of their shit and wanted hot blood coursing through their veins instead of congealed fat and ice. When Winter Wonderland came up, I swapped my version for the bridge:
"In the meadow we can bone a showgirl,
then pretend that she’s our good ole spouse
If the ole girl asks us, We'll say 'No maam,’
but I’ll take a blowjob now while you're around!
When it snows, ain't it thrillin'?
Tho' your butt, gets a chillin'
We’ll frolic and play, the ole doggie way,
Fr***kin' in a Winter Wonderland.”
Whoa Grandpa, you’re on a roll. I said, blushing.
“Okay, I know… They hated my version; not everyone, but the folk who laughed and loved it were outnumbered by the fried-n-frigid set. I offered to show them what I learned from the Chippendales on my last trip to Vegas, and proceeded to rip my shirt off, gyrating feverishly to the next song - Donde Esta Santa Claus. Before I could pull down my shorts, Prissy had called security. Security chased me around the room to the strains of Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer playing loudly on the speakers. They pissed me off and I cursed them out too. As I was escorted out the Elder Care Community Center, I shouted that I quit the WRSC for good!
Between gasps of laughter, I had to ask: "And the outcome of that grave matter, Grandpa?
“Right… At my “hearing” Prissy and the Board wanted apologies as restitution: ‘Tone down the excessive vulgarisms. Apologize.’ They repeated in unison.
“I apologized. I even brought a batch of my special peace cookies and offered them around. My cookies were always a hit with the club, you know. This time, I added chocolate laxative to the mix… The next day, Prissy called to ask if, like everyone else, I had the nasty stomach flu symptoms too. ‘NOT yeeeeeeeeeeet!’ I said, loud and slow. My child, they were in the bathroom for days.” Grandpa chuckled and winked at me.
I winked back at my chutzpah cookie monster! “Grandpa told the best stories.” (746 words)
Speakeasy #139: This week’s sentence prompt can be used anywhere in our piece: “Grandpa told the best stories.” The media prompt is a song, Winter Wonderland, and we must make some sort of reference to it in our submission. Check out this week's submissions for Speakeasy #139. Join the email list to get the Speakeasy delivered right in your inbox for weekly Flash Fiction fun.
Some Food for Thought: Do you have stories to share from your Grandpa? What kind of relationship did you have? If you could change one thing about your relationship with your grandparents, what would it be? Happy Holiday Season. Love and Peace!
I would love to hear from you: Please leave me a comment. Thank You!
PHOTO CREDITS/ATTRIBUTIONS: All Photographs: Fireplace, Cookies, via Wikipedia
Until Next Time…
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Mirth and Motivation