Advancement

Got drunk on Saturday night, among other regrettable incidents I stood on my laptop and the screen is officially cracked and broken. Used the time I had not on my laptop pondering. There's a deep self-loathing running through me, a vein of untapped creative resources, so I came up with an idea for a story.

People walk along and are faced with a decision and then their future selves zap in front of them and say 'Do/Don't do this, it worked out so well for me.' Then they'll disappear, the people take the advice and die. The idea was their future selves were ghosts and they were tricking them. Ghosts do that, or at least did in the Middle Ages according to an essay I once wrote for a module at University I didn't turn up to. Someone investigates. Would be a really good plot for a serialised sci-fi show. Or a horror film like Final Destination. It wasn't a well thought out idea but lots of funny scenarios came to mind. All of which were dark in humour and a bit disturbing. Now all the people who end up looking at my blog because you're redirected from ad-sense, tell me that's not a good idea!

Oh and while I was thinking his I decided to graduate from Haikus to Limericks. I'm that versatile folks. Here's what I've got so far.

There was an old man called Lester,
Who once used to work as a jester,
He danced for the queen,
In a coat from James Dean,
Until he learnt to his dismay it was polyester.

A chap from Bangor was a blessing,
He loved to keep everyone guessing,
He went out for a laugh,
He made a big gaffe,
They've learnt he's really distressing.

A lady met a man who was spotted,
He was ugly but she was besotted,
They made love for a week,
She would whimper and squeak,
Oh how she loved being motted.

There was a young couple from Reading,
Who were having a wonderful wedding,
She had a wicked smile,
They were gone for a while,
They were later found knotted in bedding.

There was an old crone called Joan,
Who owned the right to moan,
She'd rant and she'd rave,
Attention she'd crave,
But all that left her was alone.

There was a chap called Archibald,
Who acted incredibly ribald,
He used to be something,
But that was the spring,
Now all the girls are appalled.

Once upon a time there was a ghost,
Who couldn't finish off this blog post,
It's so hard to type,
When everything's tripe,
To be fair these poems are shit.

Damnit limericks are supposed to be dirty or funny, two things these are not. I'll get back to you. I tried dirty... failed miserably.