Guest Writer Spot

It’s Friday and time for my Guest Writer Spot, which gives writers the opportunity for their  work to be seen and read by others. I accept stories, poems, articles – in fact, anything and everything. All you have to do is make sure your prose is no longer than 2000 words and your poems no more than 40 lines. If you would like some of your writing to be featured on my blog, please contact me here or by e-mail:

This week,  Donny Marchand is my guest writer. He’s featured several times before in my Friday slot but if you haven’t come across his work before, here’s a little bit about him, in his own words:

‘I have only started writing for publication a short time ago, and been fortunate to have had some modest success, in the placement of my work.

‘I have had four short stories published in a magazine entitled ‘Dimdima’ whose main office is in Mumbai, India. Two articles  published in a newspaper, ‘UK Column’ who are based in Plymouth,UK, and one short story in a magazine ‘Stories for Children’ out of the U.S.A.’

Here’s his latest entertaining story – a tribute to political correctness. This is part one. Part two will feature in a future Guest Writer Spot:

Absurdity Rules


Donny Marchand

“Emergency Services. Your estimated wasted time is eighty-two minutes and thirty-three seconds. You are number eight hundred and forty one in the queue. Your call is important to us, please continue to hold…” 

Recorded music begins to play. Some time later a recorded voice interrupts… “You are now number two hundred and seventy-three in the queue, please continue to hold…”

Recorded music begins to play again. More waiting, and then a recorded voice enters once more… “You are now number thirty- seven in the queue, please continue to hold… your estimated wasted time is thirty-six minutes and ten seconds. Your call is important to us, please continue to hold…”

Yet again recorded music begins to play. Then suddenly out of the blue a real live person starts to speak.

“Emergency Services, please state your problem.”

“Someone is in my house, stealing my valuables.”

“Do you need the fire department, police, or the ambulance service? Anything else and you will have to call the trivial complaints department. Their number can be found in the telephone directory. I’m very busy so please get on with it, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve already told you, I’m being burgled!”

“At this very moment?”


“And what is your name, sir?”

“Mister Fruztraited.”

“Are you married?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I need all of the relevant information before I can catalogue and list a formal complaint.”

“I don’t see the relevance, but yes I’m married.”

“Do you have any children?”

“For heavens sake, yes two.”

“And are they boys or girls?”


“So, you have two trans-sexual children, is that correct?”

“No, I have one boy and one girl. One of each, do you get it now!”

“I think so, but it would help if you spoke more clearly.”

“For crying out loud, when are you going to ask me about the burglary?”

“I’ll be getting to that soon, sir. Please try and be a little patient.” 

“A little, don’t you mean enormously?”

“We do have to follow the correct procedures, and make sure that everything is properly processed according to the rules.”

Rules, what are you talking about? I’m trying to report a crime, and all your concerned about is some dumb rules. Are you insane?”

“Now, sir, there’s no need for that attitude.”

“There certainly is a need, more than you seem to realise.”

“Tell me, Mister Fruztraited, do you know the burglar’s name?”

“That’s absurd, of course I don’t.”

“That’s a shame cause it would have made things much easier for the police to catch him.”

“These days, I’m not so sure about that.”

“Right, lets get back to the questionnaire, do you smoke?”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Oh indeed, very much so. We don’t help people who smoke.”

“Why not?”

“Because smokers attract burglars, and all other sorts of bad people. So it’s their own fault, and we don’t help people who, ask for trouble, like smokers.”    

“For Gods sake! No I don’t smoke okay?”

“Good, what about drinking?”

“Do you mean alcoholic drinks?”

“Yes, but we do allow two and five-eights of units per week, do you fit into that category?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me how much is a unit?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well, I do have a glass of beer about once a month.”

“That doesn’t sound like a large amount, so I’ll put you down as acceptable.”

“Fabulous, now can you please send the police around?”

“For what?”

“The burglary!”

“Oh yes, let’s see now where was I? Oh yeah I remember now, what is your address?”

“Fifty-two and a half Peaceful Place.”

“Oh I’m sorry, we’re only doing even number houses this year.”

“But fifty-two is an even number.”

“Yes, but fifty-two and a half isn’t, it’s odd. Try calling me next year, maybe we’ll be doing odd numbers then.”

“This is all a joke right. You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“I would never do that! Pulling your leg would be considered sexual harassment.”

“Oh please, Lord save me.”

“You can beg all you want, but I won’t pull your leg. Do you want me to get into trouble, and lose my job?”

“That’s not a bad idea!”

“Hey, I just realized something that can help you. Why I didn’t think of it before, I’ll never know.”

“We’ll let’s hear this brainstorm then, I’m sure it’s a real gem!”

“Right, if you stay on the line till next year I’ll come back to you then. And if you report today’s burglary to me at that time, I can treat it as a historical crime, and that will allow me to send the police around to you right away. How does that sound?”


“Hello, hello.”

* * *

Councillor Bloomberg was at it again, ranting and raving about the unfairness in school sports and games. Always complaining about the necessity of those competitions having to have winners as well as losers. In his hair-brained opinion races and their like should have all the contestants finishing equal. Everyone should trot home with a first place medal hanging around their neck.

When it was pointed out to him that the events were all about competitiveness he argued, “That’s what makes them so unacceptable. You can’t have some kids thinking they’re not as good as the others because they lost, and others strutting around like peacocks, thinking they’re better than the rest, just cause they won, now can you?”

“Why not?” he was asked. “It teaches them that you can’t always win, and shows them how to be a magnanimous loser.”

“And what about the winners?” asked Bloomberg.

“It will teach them how to be unassuming victors,” was the reply.

”Nonsense,” replied Bloomberg, “The conquers will turn out to be our biggest corrupt capitalists, and the failures will become our street criminals.

“So, in your opinion Councillor, everybody is going to turn out bad.”

“Not if they all finish first,” retorted Bloomberg, “no one will feel like a washout, and nobody will feel superior to others. They’ll all feel equal, and live happily-ever-after.”

And the most astonishing thing about this ridiculous theory, was that some people actually agreed with it.

* * *

“All rise, all rise, the right honourable Judge Phil Mypockets presiding,” said the court clerk. As the judge entered, sat down, and tapped his gavel three times the clerk continued, “The court will now come to order.”

“I have considered the arguments from Counsel for the prosecution and defence,” said the Judge gruffly, “and have now arrived at my decision.

“While it is true that the axe attack and subsequent slaughter of his wife by Mister Fashure ibn Lucki was a most heinous crime, and an act of barbarism beyond the pale, he is still entitled to the protection of the Human Rights Act. And in particular to this case, section 25a of the act guarantees Mister Lucki the right to a family life.

“It is obvious to this court that it would be impossible for Mister Lucki to have a family life whilst incarcerated. So that kind of punishment is completely out of the question.

“Additionally, as Mister Lucki has a cat at his home, he is entitled to spend his life with his cat, who is all that is left of his family, and therefore is the family of the family life he is entitled to. Also, the cat needs Mister Lucki for the family which it is entitled to, and for the emotional support the feline needs at this terribly trying time.

“Therefore, I dismiss the prosecution’s action to order the deportation of the defendant. Bailiff of the court, please remove the chains. Mister Lucki, you are free to go and enjoy your family life.”

* * *

Thousands of citizens in Norton Hill Plow, East Yorkshire couldn’t believe their eyes as sunset fell upon the burg on Christmas Eve. All across town the holidays decoration lights had failed to illuminate. At first everyone assumed it must be a fault at the power plant, where the main switch to the city’s overall lighting lived. But as sunrise rolled in, the real problem with the luminescence became obvious. The daylight revealed that somebody or many somebody’s had removed the lamps from the sockets of the Christmas decorative lighting display. And it wasn’t long before the culprits brazenly claimed the deed. Boldly stating the accomplishment as if it were an act of chivalry, they announced their exploit to all who would listen, especially to the media.

‘Concerned’, a group of religious zealots admitted responsibility for the removal of the bulbs. Supported both politically and financially by the local Council, they appeared to have free reign in their actions. And it came as no surprise to anyone that two-thirds of the Councils committee for awarding grants, were members of the Concerned flock. The proposed agenda of Concerned was to protect and promote the equality of all religions, excluding Christianity and Judaism. The exclusions of these two faiths didn’t seem to concern Concerned one bit. In fact they seemed to treat it as a mandatory prerequisite to their doctrine. It didn’t faze them at all, that it was contradictory to their so-called dogma of religious parity.

The Council on the other hand always turned a blind eye to the Concerned groups activities. When asked by the Archbishop what they intended to do about the situation, they replied,

“Being a public body we can not get involved in religious affairs.”

“Tell me,” enquired the Archbishop, “how would you respond if some group or organization interfered with a religious holiday of a faith that Concerned supported?”

“As we stated before,” retorted the council, “we are not allowed to interfere with religious concerns or disagreements.”

“Well the least you could do without interfering is to restore the decorations back to the state they were in before. Why can’t you at least do that?” continued the Archbishop.

“Were sorry,” replied the Council, “but there isn’t any money left in the Council’s kitty, to buy more light bulbs, so there’s nothing we can do.”

* * *

It looked like a sad day was in store for Freedomville, Pennsylvania, this coming Christmas. Ido Whinemore the town grump and troublemaker was up to his old tricks once again. Last year he tried to spoil the holidays by spreading a rumour that Santa’s reindeers were all carrying a deadly decease. However, after a thorough investigation the Health and Safety Department declared the report to be an error of judgement, and Christmas was allowed to go ahead.

This year though the outcome looked much more gloomy, as the charges against Santa were a lot more serious. Historical sexual perversion was no laughing matter, and the Sexual Crimes Squad got into action without a moment’s hesitation.

It seems Mister Whinemore had come forward with an accusation against Santa of a historical sexual suggestion and persuasive motivation. Whinemore claimed that when he was six years old his mother took him to see Santa Claus at Larks and Wrenches department store. He continued by saying that when he told Santa of his hearts desires Santa replied ho, ho, ho. On hearing what Mister Claus was suggesting, his mother immediately dragged him away from Santa and quickly out of the store.

Later on that evening he said he overheard his mother tell his father, that she heard Santa tell their six year old that what he should want for Christmas was a prostitute, and as far as she was concerned they should report him to the police for sexual solicitation to a minor. He said his father asked her if she was sure Santa said that? She replied by asking him, “You tell me, what else does a ho mean?” His father told her to forget it, as it would be too hard to prove. Then Whinemore told the police that he just couldn’t let Santa get away with it any longer, and was worried what he might do to other children. Therefore, he wanted to press charges.

The police would have a difficult time apprehending the real Santa, as there were numerous impersonators. Some stood outside shops ringing bells, and collecting money. While others sat in grottos inside emporiums asking children what they wanted for Christmas. To the cops they all looked like dubious characters, but they knew there was only one real Santa, and it was he that they needed to collar. The rumble on the streets suggested that he was lying low someplace up north, so they concentrated all the efforts in that direction.

The sensitiveness of the matter meant there could be no mistakes. “Let’s get all our facts straight,” said the Chief, “and let’s make sure our proof is solid. We don’t want to make any false allegations, and then have to retract them later on. So, for the time being keep everything close to your chest, understand.”

Surprise, surprise the story was leaked to the press Although he had promised the investigators he would keep his mouth shut, Whinemore was the suspected blabbermouth. The cat was out of the bag, and Santa’s reputation was in ruins. Although he could very well be innocent, the renown of the police, media, and even his accuser could not be brought into disrepute. So, for the sake of the establishment, and without question Santa must be found guilty.

* * *



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