#FOWC — I Hate Spunk

8B8BDF51-C848-4A90-A1CB-0C389156E719Do you remember that scene in the Mary Tyler Moore Show when Lou Grant, played by Ed Asher, says to Mary Richards, played by Mary Tyler Moore, “You know what? You’ve got spunk.”

Mary smiles and stammers and says, “Well, yes,” thinking that what her boss said to her was meant to be a compliment.

Until he says, “I hate spunk.”


This post is brought to you tonight by today’s One-Word Challenge, “ gumption.” Of course, “spunk” is a synonym for “gumption.” Well, it used to be, anyway. These days it’s considered a slang word for semen.

Typewriter Erotica

9E55B5BF-0295-453E-9408-4B56B0BCA4A5“Would you like to see my collection of antique typewriters?” Carl asked the woman sitting next to him at the bar.

She smiled at him, giving her head a toss, her long, thick, reddish-brown tresses swirling, “Sure,” she said. “I’ve always fancied antique typewriters. My name is Rachel.”

“Hi, Rachel, I’m Carl.” He got the bartender’s attention and closed out both tabs. He stood up, offered Rachel his hand, which she accepted, and led her out of the pub.

“Can I get you anything?” Carl asked when they got to his place.

“No,” she said, “just show me your typewriters.”

When she saw his collection, she pointed at one typewriter and asked him to take it off the shelf. He placed it on the table and she began sensually fondling the keys. She started groaning and in a few moments had orgasm.

“Yes,” Carl said. “You certainly do fancy antique typewriters.”

(149 words)


Written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt, where the word is “typewriter.” The post must be exactly 149 words. No more. No less.

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An Organized Mind

IMG_2499I originally posted this last August when my blog was relatively unnoticed. So when I saw today’s Weekly Prompts Photo Challenge using the word “organized,” I decided to recycle this post. Yes, I know it’s a photo challenge, but the post does permit us to turn it into a word prompt. So here is my recycled word prompt response.


I used to work for a guy whose desk was always a mess. I am not exactly a neat-freak, but I always tried to keep a reasonably tidy desk. Having papers and crap randomly spread out on my desk made me feel anxious, so keeping it relatively clean helped me maintain my sanity in what was often a chaotic work environment.

I used to dread it when I had to walk into my boss’s office and ask him for something. He would rifle through papers and folders that were scattered across his large desk for maybe five minutes before he’d finally locate whatever files or papers I had asked for.

When I commented on his disorganization, he would quip, “A messy desk is a sign of an organized mind.”

“No,” I would think to myself, not daring to say it out loud to my boss, “a messy desk is a sign of a messy desk.” I encouraged him to take some time to organize his desk. I even volunteered to help him organize his files. But he always claimed to know exactly where everything on his mess of a desk was located.

But this tale has a happy ending. My messy boss was ultimately let go and I was promoted to take his place. So while he believed that a messy desk is a sign of an organized mind, I learned that a messy desk is a promotion opportunity for someone with an organized desk (and mind.)

SoCS — Dinner Reservations

1F089DFA-D925-49EE-903A-5942AF2892FBMy wife was waiting for me near the entrance to the restaurant after I had dropped her off and parked the car. “I’m really excited to be here. I read about it in the paper and people are raving. Thank you so much for taking me here on my birthday.”

“I knew you wanted to try this place, so I made reservations several months ago,” I told her. She squeezed my hand as we walked into the restaurant, which was packed. I looked at my watch and saw that we were a few minutes early. “Wait here,” I said to her. “I’m going to check with the hostess on the status of our table.”

When I got to the hostess’ desk, I said, “The Wheeler party is here.”

She tapped on the screen of her iPad and then looked up at me. “You said ‘Wheeler?’” I nodded. “How many in your party?” she asked.

“Two,” I said. She tapped on her iPad again.

“For what time?” she asked.

“Eight o’clock,” I answered.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asked.

“Yes, of course I have a reservation. I made it two months ago.”

She tapped yet again on her iPad and then looked up at me apologetically and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wheeler, but I can’t find your reservation. Are you sure it was for tonight?”

“Of course I’m sure,” I said, a tone of indignation creeping into my voice. “Today is my wife’s birthday. When I made the reservation two months ago, I told them that and asked them to arrange for a special dessert for the occasion.”

“Would you excuse me for just a moment,” she said and headed back toward the kitchen.

My wife came over and asked me if there was a problem. “They don’t seem to have our reservation in their system,” I said. “I’m sure it’s just a glitch.”

“Oh, I hope they find it,” she said. “I’ll be so disappointed if we can’t eat here tonight.”

At that moment, a man came out, followed by the hostess who had been unable to find my reservation. He reached out to shake my hand. “I’m Henri, Mr. Wheeler,” he said with a slight French accent. “I am the owner and head chef. There has apparently been a mistake with your reservation, but if you’ll be patient with us, we can have a table ready for you in 20 to 30 minutes. Please have a seat at the bar while you’re waiting for your table and enjoy complementary cocktails for yourself and your lovely wife. And for your troubles, dessert will be on the house tonight. Is this satisfactory?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Très bien,” he said. “Lynn, our hostess, will escort you to the bar.”

Once my wife and I were situated at the bar and had been served our drinks, she leaned over and gave me a kiss, telling me how delighted she was that we would be eating at this restaurant and pleased that the reservation mess got straightened out.

“Yeah, me too,” I said, not mentioning to her that I had completely forgotten about her birthday until late that afternoon and had never made reservations at the restaurant.


Written for today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt from Linda G. Hill. The prompt is the word “reservation.”