April's Real Blog

Friday, October 19, 2007

Making short stories long

In case NE1 wondered what happed next @ the l8est in Mike-congratul8ing parties, Mike sez this:
April,

Formerly little sis. Getting back to my party. I should mention there was a point in the party where my friends did ask for their free copies of my book, which I promised them, and Deanna was forced to head up the stairs to get them from wherever it was that she hid them. When she came back she reported that my children were on the stairs and my daughter was definitely acting like she was my daughter and not her daughter.

To make a short story long, she went up the stairs and spotted my two kids lying on the landing at the top of the stairs looking in through the narrow door opening which led to the room where our party was being held. She said, “Hey, what are you two doing up?” This was a rhetorical question, since Deanna informed me she really was not interested in what they were doing up. My daughter did not realize the question was rhetorical and answered, “We wanted to see what was going on.” I think it was at this point my lovely wife realized either she had not actually told our children why people were coming to our house, or she did tell them and she forgot about their incredibly short attention span.

She grabbed each of them by the nape of their neck and said, “Some friends are here to congratulate your dad on his book. Come on…it’s bedtime.” According to my wife, my son was too fascinated by the fact he could cast two individual, unconnected shadows with both his feet to respond. In contrast, my daughter cast no shadow at all, and complained, “Awww!” Deanna said it was about this point she was wondering if our daughter was actually a vampire or some other non shadow-casting member of the undead.

My daughter did nothing to alleviate this suspicion, because she launched into the type of rejoinder a vampire child might pose, “Why do we always hafta go to bed? Why can’t we stay up as late as you do?” My wife reported that my son put his finger to his mouth as some sort of secret vampire signal to my daughter. So, Deanna responded, “Meredith, I am not going to argue with you tonight.” Vampires, you see, are much more powerful at night.

According to my wife, my daughter got a strange look on her face, which was not so much vampiric as “eyes too close together” –ic. Frankly, I don’t know which one is more frightening.

My daughter came back with “OK….We can argue in the morning.” Well, formerly little sis, that kind of argumentative style is pure Patterson. Make a pun about the time of day. My daughter was clearly not a soul-sucking vampire, unless you consider all Pattersons to be soul-sucking vampires. My wife simply concluded she was really my daughter. And then at that moment, she noticed my son had a weird sort of satisfied grin on his face, which could only mean one thing---time for a diaper change. I hope this doesn’t mean that hearing a good pun, causes him to lose control of his bowels. That could be very bad in our family.

Love,
Michael Patterson
Ooh, mayB I'll inform Mom an' Dad that punning makes Robin poop his pants! And that whoever it is who makes the pun is responsible 4 the diaper change and kid-cleanup. LOL, that would @ least cut back sum of the punnage!

Apes

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13 Comments:

  • At 7:13 AM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    What the hell did Deanna expect? That she could make all that moise and they wouldn't want to know what was happening? That she didn't have to tell them what was going on in the first place? What's wrong with her that she doesn't foresee the inevitable? Is she stupid? OK, trick question. She married Mike and had his children so she's pretty dumb to start with but, let's face it, any dimmer and she'd qualify as a houseplant.

     
  • At 7:50 AM, Blogger April Patterson said…

    lol, @ 1st i read that as "qualify as housepaint." i think i mite like that the best!

    apes

     
  • At 8:55 AM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    Well, at any rate, some sort of interior desecretation. She's not my idea of what belongs in a house.

     
  • At 10:05 AM, Anonymous michael patterson said…

    April,

    Formerly little sis. If you ever decided to tell Mom and Dad that whoever makes a pun, which in turn makes my son need a diaper change, has to change the diaper; be sure to give plenty of notice so I can get my ear plugs in. My wife, lovely Deanna, hopes you will do that, because she feels certain that if such a statement came from your teenaged mouth to my mother's ears, that teenager would end up being assigned all the diaper changes. I would have to agree that is a possibility, but seeing that it doesn't affect me, I simply will give you a warning that perhaps you don't want to do that.

    As for your friend, the Amazon vampire catfish, obviously in the Amazon they have different ideas about discipline than Pattersons have. For example, when a Patterson parent puts their children to bed, they do not have to have any reason for it, and they expect that "to bed" order to obeyed without question. I am sure in the Amazon, the baby catfish just run around all the time with all their information demands before they go to sleep. It may work for life in the Amazon, but not at Sharon Park Drive.

    By the way, I would also tell you that if you are going to tell a joke using the word "dimmer", you need to have a matching pun to go with it, and not "house plant" or "house paint". It should be something light or electrically-based to be funny.

    Love,
    Michael Patterson

     
  • At 10:27 AM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    My apologies on not having an appropriate pun, my 15-watt friend. A burnt-out candle of a man like you would seems incapable of realizing that your wife is incapable of elementary foresight. Not that that's a problem from your end. You'd still be single otherwise.

     
  • At 1:55 PM, Anonymous michael patterson said…

    DreadedCandiru2,

    I don’t know how the pickings are in the Amazon River, but for Michael Patterson there were plenty of fish in the sea. If my Deanna had failed to respond to my invitation to marriage, there was also Rhetta Blum and Martha McRae, who I am sure still regret not having married into the Patterson family.

    As for my wife being incapable of elementary foresight, that may be true. However, she is a triumph at secondary foresight, as my current position as a “kept” man and best-selling author would attest.

    I do, however, appreciate your apologize for not punning properly.

     
  • At 1:58 PM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    Martha and Rhetta regretting not riding the holy Patterson pole? If it makes you happy, pal, just keep telling yourself that. After all, Liz keeps telling herself that Mtigwhatever will get overrun by the mutant rats because they didn't tell her about Paul and Susan.

     
  • At 2:26 PM, Anonymous michael patterson said…

    DreadedCandiru2,

    You catfish certainly use a different language in the Amazon River than we do in Milborough. I have not heard of any mutant rats, but our rabbit does like to chew on electrical wires. I don’t think that is the same thing.

    Love,
    Michael Patterson

     
  • At 2:39 PM, Blogger DreadedCandiru2 said…

    You know very well what I mean, pal. Jus like she wants the people of Mtigwhatchamacallit to suffer some inexplicable, horrific catastrophe because they refused to bow to her will, you wish a similar horror to be inflicted on the EEEEvil Mister Gluttson and his hateful pornographic rag, Portrait. (As if there's a worse fate than being denied your 'greatness.')

     
  • At 5:13 PM, Anonymous michael patterson said…

    Dreadedcandiru2,

    I think you have mistaken us Pattersons with some of your supervillain friends, Mr. Catfish. No one needs to be denied my “greatness” as you call it. They can go down to the bookstore and buy a copy of my book Stone Season (Lilliputs’ bookstore has a whole display), for a quite reasonable price of $25. I would recommend you buy a copy and read it. It could probably convert you from EEEEvil to good. That’s what I have been told. One of my early reviews said, “Stone Season, by Michael Patterson is the type of instrument the Spanish Inquisition might have used to convert people.” You see, little vampire catfish, if it’s good enough for the Spanish Inquisition, it should be good enough for you too.

    Love,
    Michael Patterson

     
  • At 6:38 PM, Anonymous keesha grant said…

    Thanks for meeting me 2day 4 the interview on yr book, Michael.

    April, I think U'll find the interview.... interesting. I don't want 2 give NEthing away till it's published in the school paper on Monday, tho. Stay tuned!

    Keesha

     
  • At 6:45 PM, Blogger April Patterson said…

    guess u lived 2 tell the tale, eh, keesha? 2 bad the school paper doesn't pay u!

    apes

     
  • At 3:31 AM, Anonymous michael patterson said…

    April,

    Formerly little sis. Sometimes a son has to do what his mother asks him to do, even if it is against his will. You may remember mom and Connie Poirier went over to talk to Iris about how when Connie was a single mom she was slutty, as a way of helping Iris out. Mom popped up to the house today for her free copy of my book Stone Season, and she said, “I thought after Connie and I spent the whole day talking to her about Connie’s whoreishness, she would back off of my dad and let me come in to make unsubstantiated medical judgments about him and give him a miracle cure simply from being in my presence; but no!! I went there today and she was still there. It’s time to call in the big guns. Mike, I want you to go visit your grandfather and take your book. If the mere sight of it is not enough to bring Grandpa Jim to his senses, then I want you to read it to him until he is forced to snap out of it to stop you.”

    I said to mom, “Does he still have the IV in him and the oxygen mask? I don’t want to see him with the IV and oxygen mask.” Mom said, “No. He doesn’t have those.” I said, “I still don’t want to go. I hate visiting him with Iris around.” My mom said, “Michael James Patterson. You will go there and cure your grandfather. I’ve edited your book, and I know that if there was any book in the world which could bring a man out of a coma to stop you from reading it out loud, it is this book.” That was quite a compliment, so naturally I had to go.

    Well, I got to Grandpa Jim’s hospital room and sure enough, Iris was there. He seemed to be lying on his back and sleeping; but Iris insisted he was actually awake with his eyes open. So I said, “Grandpa? It’s me…Michael.” Then I gave him a little pinch on his arm, so he would know it wasn’t a dream (come true). Iris, of course, had to reiterate what I just said. She said, “It’s Michael, Jim! You know who Michael is!”

    Then I pulled out the book and showed it to him, just as mom asked. I said, “I brought my book to show you. (Note I didn’t say to give to you; because Deanna wouldn’t have let me have the copy to use otherwise.). It’s just been published.” This time Iris felt the need to reiterate what she felt Grandpa Jim was saying, as if she could read someone’s mind who was asleep. It was very strange. She said, “I know he’s pleased, dear…and very proud!” Then she put her left hand on my arm and her right hand on my…goodness, I don’t want to think about that again.

    Just in case Grandpa Jim wasn’t following the conversation, Iris pushed me aside, and grabbed my book. At first I thought she was going to clock Grandpa Jim across the head with it, but then I realized it was not a frying pan, so Grandpa Jim was safe. She put the book close to Grandpa Jim’s chin (as if he could see it out of his chin), pointed to it with her thumb(?) and said, “Your grandson is an author, Jim! Isn’t it wonderful? This is his book! Can you see it? Do you know what I’m saying?—Hello! Is anybody home?

    Well right about this time a miracle occurred, a miracle which allowed me to stop Iris’ caterwauling and to make a graceful exit while claiming I had met my obligation to my mother. Grandpa Jim got a funny look on his face similar to the one my son had yesterday. I figured it was a bowel movement, but I am not one to pass up an opportunity to get away from an old, sick person. I said, “He’s home, Iris!... He’s smiling!” Iris looked skeptical, possibly because she hates for someone to give an unsubstantiated medical diagnosis of Grandpa Jim aside from her. Nevertheless, there was an irrefutable grin on Grandpa Jim’s face, and I knew that I could leave and claim the miracle mom wanted.

    Mission accomplished, formerly little sis. There’s the miracle cure, and I didn’t have to read my book to get it. I can only hope that Grandpa Jim has a bowel movement every time I come to visit him.

    Love,
    Michael Patterson

     

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