Cockamamie excuses

Standard

funny chicken

 

“Might I remind you that I live inside that chaotic thing you call a mind? Lard, indeed.”
“Oops, I did it again,” I sang as I swayed my broad hips and knocked over a few innocent trees. They picked up their branch and leaf skirts and hurried away, muddy ground falling from their roots. I heard via the tree grapevine that they had set up shop in the Bermuda triangle as they figured that was one place where even I would not go.
“You cannot escape the mind of a writer you know,” I shouted after them.
“Don’t I bloody well know it,” the muse said. I actually understood what she meant Even for me, living inside my own skull was sometimes too chaotic as I ran the gamut from depression to euphoria in seconds it seemed.
‘Lard ass,” I said unkindly.
“Granted, but can you at least admit that this year’s NaNoWriMo has you scared stiff?”
“No-oo-oo, I was only looking for a worm today, honestly. I figure he took my mojo deep underground. If I can find him, I might be okay.”
“What kind of a cockamamie excuse is that?”
“Well, technically speaking a cock is a chicken, squawk,” I said, flapping my wings frenetically. Ladies never mention the other meaning except when you are an excellent erotica writer and have to call a spade a spade and not a fork.
Ready for something hot and steamy? Their +1

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