The Great Raspberry Rebellion of 1851

When, I saw this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods   http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  I  cried, “Aww, raspberries,” in the same dismal tone of frustration as Alfalfa of Little Rascals fame.


But after twenty seconds of exhaustive research, I uncovered this tasty morsel of little-known history regarding the lowly raspberry.

The Great Raspberry Rebellion of 1851

In 1851, textile mill owner, Robert Knight, traveled to Rhode Island to seek the perfect symbol for this trade name, Fruit of the Loom.

A cornucopia of fruit auditioned for the underwear manufacturer. An apple and currants were hired immediately. A banana and peach were caught in an illicit affair and disqualified for immoral behavior, leaving only grapes and raspberries to battle for the remaining positions.

The raspberries rose up in defiance, only to be crushed by the purple and green grapes. Historians refer to this incident as The Raspberry Rebellion, or by its more common name, The Wrath of Grapes.

The Perils of Penelope

What’s up with all the insects? Is it because it’s summer? Those are just two of the questions that occurred to me upon seeing this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods   http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  I realize bugs have their place in the grand scheme of things, but is inspiring creativity really part of the job description?  I think not. Had it not been for its name, you would be staring at a blank screen.

The Perils of Penelope

“Help, help! Please saaa-ve me!”

“Give it a rest, Penelope. I’ve rescued you from a speeding train, a buzz saw, a five-hundred foot waterfall, and an IRS auditor—and it’s not even noon yet.”

Four years at Hero Academy had not equipped Raul for the constant whining, screaming, and over-acting forced upon him by this little drama queen. To her, life was one perilous misadventure after another—with Raul, her trusty safety net.

“You’re resting on top of a fat man’s bald head. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Oh, wise guy, eh?” said Moe. 

He swatted Curly on the noggin.

Myth Confirmation

When I saw this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods   http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  my mind started racing like a heavily sedated sloth on an exercise wheel.  Could that be the road less traveled? Nope, the grass is worn down. Is it the path of least resistance? I don’t think so. It looks like an uphill climb. This fat boy would be out of breath before he got to the first bend. Unable to generate even the tiniest spec of genuine creativity, I did what any self-respecting humor writer would do in times of duress.—I stole an idea from a cartoonist.  Let’s just say I’m “borrowing” it. He can have it back after you’re done reading.

Myth Confirmation

Marty had been planning this hiking trip for months. He and Judy both loved the outdoors, and their children, Will and Teresa, had finally reached the age where they could run wild in the forest with only limited supervision.

They’d spent a small fortune on gear and supplies only to be confronted by a large bear at the edge of the woods.

The bear rose to his full height, thrust forth a gigantic paw clutching a half-roll of Charmin. He leaned forward and whispered, “Trust me on this . . . you don’t want to go in there right now.” 

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

I can really relate to this week’s photo prompt from Madison Woods   http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also become wider. (That’s right WIDER, not wiser) Some have even accused me of being full of hot air. The joke around my house is that my wife, Connie, could write “Goodyear” on my sides and rent me out to fly over sporting events and private parties. So far, I’ve not been able to overcome gravity, but I’ve got high hopes! 

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

When I was a young rubber tree, springing up on a plantation in Indonesia, I often fantasied of becoming a blimp. Not just any blimp, a genuine, bona fide Goodyear blimp.

I could imagine my milky latex sap being refined into a glorious covering for the world’s finest airship.

I would be the star attraction at the coronation of kings, the Indianapolis 500, the Super Bowl, and of course, the annual Walmart Shareholder’s meeting.

But the hands of fate are often cruel. So here I lie, used, abused, and thrown on the trash heap of life—just a soiled prophylactic.

 

Medical Marvels

I know my blogging buddy, Douglas MacIlroy http://ironwoodwind.wordpress.com/ , was thinking of me when he sent this week’s photo to Madison Woods   http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/  for Friday Flash Fiction.  You could hear the snicker echoing across the waves all the way from his mountain-top perch in Hawaii. This one’s for you, Doug. I hope you’re still snickering when you read the last line.

The encroachment of civilization brought death and disease, decimating the tribe’s number. Their only remaining virgin was the Chief’s nine year-old daughter.

Still, the belly of the mountain grumbled, belching smoke and fire, demanding a sacrifice.

Three castaways were captured near the lagoon—a white man and two women. The Chief forced the man, a college teacher, to choose which woman would die.

“You bastard!” screamed the redhead, hurtling into the fiery pit.

The next morning snow, frigid and unforgiving as a jilted lover, covered the mountain.

The Medicine Man noted in his journal; Ginger cures mountain God’s molten reflux.

Medical Marvels