Bedtime Stories, Twain-style

Tales So Dull, They’ll Have You Snoring in Minutes, by Gloriously Obscure Authors Whose Works Redefine the Art of Boredom

A Tale of Twisted Turkey Feathers

By Basil Q. Ponderous

Basil Q. Ponderous has the rare ability to make even the most engaging subject matter feel like a never-ending lecture on the history of rocks. His prose is so heavy that it’s been known to cause severe drowsiness and a deep sense of existential dread. Reading him is like trying to wade through a bog while holding a brick—utterly exhausting and, by the end, you’re not sure what the point was.

In the sleepy hamlet of Possum Junction, where the only sign of progress was the church bell that chimed three minutes late on Sundays, lived old Eustace Grimble, a man of towering opinions and towering temper. Folks said he could sour milk just by glaring at it. But Eustace had one soft spot in his otherwise stone-hard heart: his prized turkey, Beauregard.

Now, Beauregard wasn’t just any turkey. He was a monstrous, strutting spectacle of feathers and pride, weighing in at forty pounds of pure arrogance. Eustace swore Beauregard had won “Best Bird in the Tri-County Fowl Extravaganza,” but the truth was, Beauregard had only entered—and promptly bit the judge on the backside.

One fateful morning, Eustace woke to find Beauregard missing. “By the grinning whiskers of Methuselah!” he hollered, stomping into the yard. “Who in the name of tarnation dared turkey-nap my bird? Why, I’ll string ‘em up faster than a possum on a persimmon tree!”

His first suspect was his neighbor, Horace “Half-Pint” Wiggins, a man so small and sneaky he could steal molasses out of a jar without leaving a sticky trail. Marching over to Horace’s fence, Eustace bellowed, “Come out, you pint-sized poultry purloiner! By the scalded feathers of Saint Barnabas, I know you’ve got Beauregard!”

Horace shuffled out of his shack, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Now, Eustace,” he drawled, “don’t get your britches in a bunch. I ain’t laid eyes on that turkey of yours since it bit the judge. Besides, if I’d nabbed it, do you think I’d still be standin’ here with all my fingers?”

“Confound your jabbering!” Eustace barked. “I’ll find that bird even if I have to dig up half of Possum Junction!”

Eustace scoured every henhouse, hayloft, and hollow log in town, muttering colorful oaths like, “By the snoring snood of Solomon!” and “Well, butter my beard and call me biscuits!” But Beauregard was nowhere to be found.

As the sun sank low, casting long shadows over Possum Junction, Eustace heard a faint gobble. He froze, ears twitching like a rabbit near a foxhole. “Beauregard?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Following the sound, Eustace crept through the woods, tripping over roots and cursing under his breath. “By all the pickled pigs’ feet in Kansas, if this is some fool’s idea of a joke, I’ll skin ‘em alive!”

At last, he reached a clearing where Beauregard stood, surrounded by a gang of wild turkeys. The big bird strutted and puffed out his chest like a feathery general addressing his troops.

“Well, I’ll be a one-legged rooster on roller skates,” Eustace muttered. “He’s gone and started a rebellion!”

Beauregard spotted Eustace and let out a triumphant gobble, as if to say, You may have fed me corn, old man, but I was destined for greatness!

Eustace’s anger melted into begrudging admiration. “Consarn it, Beauregard,” he said, shaking his head. “I ain’t never been proud of much, but by the tarnished tongs of Vulcan, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The wild turkeys parted as Eustace approached. He scooped up Beauregard, who allowed himself to be carried back like a conquering hero returning from battle.

From that day forward, Eustace never locked Beauregard in his pen. Instead, he built a roosting perch on the front porch, where Beauregard could survey his domain. And whenever folks asked about his turkey, Eustace would puff out his chest and say, “That there’s Beauregard Grimble—the finest feathered revolutionary in all of Possum Junction!”

And the two of them lived happily ever after—until Thanksgiving, when Eustace had to barricade his house against half the town showing up with empty plates.

The Great Potato Caper

By Ethel F. Whomaybe 

Ethel F. Whomaybe’s work is a true exercise in ambivalence. If you ever wondered what it would be like to stare at a blank page and wonder if something will eventually happen, her writing provides that experience in spades. Her novels are so meandering and undecided that even the characters seem to be unsure if they should bother continuing their stories. Ethel’s biggest achievement? Making even the most thrilling subject seem like a series of missed opportunities.

In the far-flung village of Whistlewood, there was no such thing as “just another day.” Every day was a spectacle of oddities, from the mayor's wild ideas about building a "soggy" bridge to the town barber, who had a peculiar habit of cutting hair with his eyes closed for “extra style.” But nothing in Whistlewood could top the fabled incident of the Great Potato Caper, which, as everyone knew, started with a single tuber and a whole lot of mistaken identity.

It all began when Alpheus Tuttle, the town’s self-appointed “agricultural expert” (though he couldn’t grow a potato to save his life), strutted into the village square holding the world’s largest potato ever seen by human eyes—or so he claimed. “By the hooting owls of Hades, this here’s the biggest spud you’ll ever lay eyes on!” he shouted, lifting the oversized potato like a prize fish.

The townsfolk gathered round, murmuring in disbelief. Mrs. Gribbles, the widow with the world’s loudest voice, was the first to speak. “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled! That potato’s bigger than my Aunt Gertrude’s foot! And she’s been wearing a size twelve boot for thirty years!”

But there was trouble afoot, as there always is when potatoes are involved. Just as Alpheus proudly offered the “world’s biggest potato” for public inspection, there came a low growl from behind the bakery.

Out of the shadows slunk Buster Braggs, the notorious farm thief known for stealing livestock, small children’s kites, and most recently, a basket of lemons from Miss Lottie’s farmstand. Buster eyed the potato and grinned. “Well, well, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a snake about to strike, “that looks like a fine specimen of a spud. Reckon I’ll be takin’ it off your hands, Alpheus.”

“Not so fast, you low-down bandit!” Alpheus shouted, his chest puffing out like a rooster on a fencepost. “This here’s a prize, and no scoundrel’s gonna lay hands on it without a tussle!”

By now, the crowd had gathered in a tight circle, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling through the air. “By the bending branches of Babel,” Alpheus muttered under his breath, “if you think you can just waltz in here and claim my potato, you’ve got another thing coming!”

A brief and very one-sided scuffle ensued. Buster, being as nimble as a weasel and twice as slippery, ducked under Alpheus’s flailing arms and grabbed the potato with a speed that would make a raccoon blush. “This here’s mine now, Alpheus. I’m as good at potatoes as a dog is at belly rubs!” he yelled, dashing toward the woods with the potato clutched in his arms.

But just as Buster disappeared into the trees, the crowd, which had been eagerly watching the showdown, erupted into a chorus of “Hoorays” and “Oh, no you didn’t!”

“You get back here, Buster Braggs!” yelled Old Man Finkle, who had been asleep in the town square until the excitement woke him. He was now waving a broom, a weapon with which he had never successfully threatened anything larger than a mouse. “By the whiskers of a frozen cat, you’ll not get away with this!”

But it was no use. Buster had already made it to the edge of town and was out of sight. The crowd, though deflated, didn’t lose hope. Mrs. Gribbles shook her fist toward the horizon and said, “We’ll get that potato back, mark my words. We’ll do it with the same spirit as our ancestors—persistence, determination, and a little bit of thumbtacking!”

The next day, a ragtag team of Whistlewood’s finest, including Alpheus, Mrs. Gribbles, Old Man Finkle, and a handful of confused children, embarked on a rescue mission. They scoured the nearby woods, calling out for Buster as if they were searching for a lost dog. “By the curly tail of a fire-breathing dragon,” Old Man Finkle said, “I swear I’ll find that potato if it’s the last thing I do!”

But after hours of searching, there was no sign of Buster or the potato. Tired, hungry, and thoroughly disgruntled, they returned to the square.

“Blast it, we’ve been had!” Alpheus cried. “That potato’s gone, and it’s all my fault for trusting a scoundrel like Buster Braggs!”

Just as they were about to disperse, Mrs. Gribbles, ever the pragmatic one, spotted something sticking out from behind the old well. She rushed over, and to everyone’s astonishment, there was the potato, sitting untouched as if it had been waiting for them.

“By the loquacious larks of Liberty!” she cried. “It’s here, it’s back, and it’s whole!”

As the townsfolk circled the potato in awe, Alpheus straightened his back. “Well, I reckon this here’s the world’s largest potato,” he said, dusting it off, “and it ain’t going nowhere except into the town stew pot!”

And so, the Great Potato Caper ended not with a grand theft, but with a great feast. And from that day forward, Whistlewood was known for two things: its famous potatoes and its famous ability to turn any event into a spectacle worthy of a fine story.

The Case of the Mismatched Socks

By Ambrose D. Unfamiliar

Reading Ambrose D. Unfamiliar is akin to watching a snail attempt to solve a Rubik’s cube while floating in molasses. His descriptions are so vague, his plots so indistinct, that even the most dedicated reader would struggle to recall a single detail after putting down his work. "Unfamiliar" is an understatement—it's as if he’s writing in a language that doesn't quite exist yet.

It was a cold Tuesday in Ducktail, the kind of day that made your bones ache and your beard freeze in awkward directions. Every winter, the good people of Ducktail found themselves huddling inside their homes, staring at the same four walls and occasionally squabbling over who owned the town’s only patch of sunlight.

But this Tuesday, there was more than just frost in the air. There was mystery.

It all began when Clarence “Clutch” Varnish, the local cobbler, woke up to find something that no one could quite explain: a pair of mismatched socks, both neatly folded in the middle of his front doorstep. One sock was red with green polka dots; the other, an undistinguished shade of brown, with a faint, almost imperceptible pattern of what looked like bumblebees in flight. He scratched his head, trying to make sense of it. “By the jumping jackrabbits of Jasper, this is a fine kettle of fish,” he muttered, poking the socks with his boot.

As the news spread like wildfire (a slow, steady wildfire, due to the frigid temperatures), everyone in Ducktail was abuzz with questions: “Who left the socks?” “What did they mean?” “Are they a sign of something bigger, like a sock revolution?”

Mrs. Thistlebottom, who had once read half of a mystery novel but couldn’t finish it due to the plot’s complexity, declared, “This is no ordinary sock affair. Someone’s sending a message, mark my words!”

Clarence, not one to be outdone by the town’s amateur sleuths, decided to investigate. He began his inquiries with his neighbor, the suspiciously cheerful Jebediah “Jeb” Bunker, who wore a new pair of socks every day and was known for his eccentric habit of collecting buttons.

“Jeb!” Clarence yelled, knocking on the door with a vigor that startled the neighbor’s cat. “What’s the meaning of these socks? You hiding something from me?”

Jeb opened the door with a smile that could charm the frost off a pumpkin. “Why, Clarence,” he said innocently, “I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talkin’ about. Socks? Here? Hah, I couldn’t wear those silly things if you paid me in butter!”

Clarence scowled. “By the rattling bones of Old Man Crinkle, I smell a conspiracy!”

After interrogating half the town, Clarence discovered the culprit: it was, in fact, Mrs. Thistlebottom herself. She had been so enthralled by the mystery that she’d gone around switching socks from everyone’s laundry, just to create a little excitement.

Clarence shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be turned inside out like a cat in a windstorm. You went and caused a hullabaloo over a pair of socks?”

From that day forward, Ducktail became the town that always had something unusual to talk about—usually socks, usually mismatched, and always hilarious.

The Great Bugtussle Cucumber Conundrum

By Reginald J. Whocares

Reginald J. Whocares could write a thousand-page epic on the invention of the spoon, and the result would still leave you wondering why you should care about spoons at all. His works are more about the lack of excitement than the presence of it, offering prose that perfectly mirrors the slow death of enthusiasm. His characters are as engaging as a loaf of bread, and his dialogue? Well, let’s just say it's the literary equivalent of watching paint dry on the most beige wall imaginable.

In the quirky little town of Bugtussle, Tennessee, where the roads were more suggestion than direction and the weather was as unpredictable as a rooster on a caffeine binge, there was always something happening, even if it wasn’t exactly worth writing home about.

It all began one lazy summer morning, when Big Clyde Calhoun, the town’s self-proclaimed agricultural genius, strode into Bugtussle’s General Store with a grin that could only mean trouble—or a new invention involving cucumbers, which was nearly always trouble in Bugtussle.

“Morning, Earl!” Big Clyde bellowed to the store owner, whose name was, in fact, Earl, but who’d been so used to being called “Earl” that he didn’t realize it was a name anymore. “I got somethin’ big—bigger than my Aunt Mabel’s hat collection! And let me tell ya, that collection’s big enough to make a man need a neck brace just to see it!”

Earl raised an eyebrow, adjusting his apron, which had seen more days than any man should have to live with a mustard stain. “What in tarnation are you rambling about now, Clyde?”

Big Clyde’s grin widened. “The Great Bugtussle Cucumber Contest! I’m gonna grow the biggest cucumber this town’s ever seen!”

Earl’s face lit up. “A cucumber contest? Clyde, that’s just what we need to put Bugtussle on the map! The world’s best cucumbers—hell, that could make us famous!”

But Clyde wasn’t finished. “Oh, it ain’t just any cucumber contest, Earl. I’ve got a secret ingredient, a little something I like to call ‘Calhoun’s Secret Sauce.’ It’s gonna grow cucumbers so big, they’ll need their own zip code.”

Earl’s curiosity peaked. “Secret sauce, eh? What’s in it?”

“Ah,” Clyde said with a wink, “now that’s a mystery I ain’t lettin’ out till the contest. You’ll see—by the time the judging happens, we’ll be eatin' cucumbers the size of melons!”

The news of Clyde’s grand plan spread faster than a turkey on roller skates, and by the next morning, everyone in Bugtussle was talking about the Great Cucumber Contest. Even the cows, who were normally too preoccupied with chewing their cud to pay attention to anything else, seemed to be giving an extra nibble of interest to the cucumber vines that lined the streets.

The contest day arrived with the usual fanfare of a town celebration that included more fried food than a person could safely consume in one lifetime and more gossip than anyone could reasonably filter. The judging table was set up, with Mrs. Pearl Jenkins—a woman whose opinion on cucumbers was as firm as her unshakable belief that the moon landing had been filmed in her backyard—serving as the head judge.

“Alright, folks,” she said, adjusting her glasses, “let’s see what you got!”

One by one, the townsfolk brought up their cucumbers. There was Uncle Lester’s entry, a modest-looking cucumber that was just about the size of a regular garden-variety cucumber, and old Miss Mabel’s, which was so thin and crooked that it could have passed as a metaphor for her dating life.

But when Big Clyde rolled up, pulling a wheelbarrow with a tarp draped over it, the crowd went silent. “Here it is,” he said, his chest puffing out like a proud rooster on a parade float. “The Calhoun Cucumbers, guaranteed to break records and set world records for the size of a vegetable!”

He yanked the tarp away with a flourish, revealing the largest cucumbers the town had ever seen. They were monstrous, reaching well over six feet long, with the kind of thick, green skin that could double as an emergency inflatable raft.

The crowd gasped. “Well, I’ll be a pickled cucumber,” said Earl, scratching his head. “That’s the biggest dang cucumber I ever laid eyes on!”

Mrs. Pearl Jenkins was squinting suspiciously, though. “Now hold on a minute,” she said, tapping the largest cucumber with her glasses. “That’s a mighty big cucumber, Clyde. But I’ve seen some funny business in my time, and I’m mighty good at spotting it.”

Clyde looked offended. “Funny business? Pearl, that cucumber’s as real as a squirrel’s tail in winter! You can’t fake this kind of vegetable!”

But Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t having it. “Let me take a closer look,” she said, moving toward the giant cucumber. She prodded it with her glasses and then, with the precision of a woman who had baked too many pies in her life, she gave it a little squeeze.

The cucumber popped open like a jack-in-the-box.

The crowd gasped as out tumbled—not a cucumber at all, but a pile of perfectly ordinary, perfectly peeled cucumbers stuffed inside a hollow shell.

“You’re a cheat, Clyde Calhoun!” Mrs. Jenkins barked, hands on her hips. “You’ve been hollowing out your cucumbers and filling ‘em with regular-sized ones! That’s a disgrace to the honor of Bugtussle!”

Clyde’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. “No, no, it’s just a new technique! I was tryin' to show off innovation!”

But the crowd wasn’t buying it. Uncle Lester cleared his throat. “Clyde, if you wanted to grow big cucumbers, you should’ve stuck with hard work, not hollowed-out tomfoolery!”

From that day on, the Great Bugtussle Cucumber Contest was forever remembered for one thing: the day Big Clyde Calhoun tried to cheat with cucumbers. It became a legend that the children of Bugtussle would tell for generations to come, usually with a cucumber in hand and a grin on their face. And Big Clyde? Well, he spent the next year growing cucumbers the honest way, with a little less bluster and a whole lot more humility.

And as for Mrs. Pearl Jenkins, she always got the first cucumber for her pickle jar, as it was rightly deserved.

Bugtussle’s Big Parade and the Day the Band Got Lost

By Mavis W. Hushnow

Mavis W. Hushnow's writing is like being trapped in a room with a clock that ticks loudly and incessantly. Each sentence feels like a gentle nudge toward unconsciousness, and before you know it, you've been lulled into a stupor. Mavis has perfected the art of saying nothing in a thousand different ways, ensuring that her readers are left wishing they could un-read her books.

Every year, Bugtussle, Tennessee, had a parade. It wasn’t the kind of parade that would make it to a television special, but it was special to the folks who lived there. It was, after all, the only time of year when everyone—literally everyone—got dressed up and did something with a sense of purpose, if only for one morning. The rest of the year, Bugtussle's residents mostly walked around with the air of folks who'd given up on doing anything with any particular direction, except for when it involved sitting on porches and talking about who had the best biscuits in town.

This year, the parade had a theme: The Wonders of the Modern World. Now, in Bugtussle, "modern" wasn’t exactly the same as what you’d see in big cities like Nashville or Memphis. Modern in Bugtussle meant things like the newly built outhouse at the mill or the shiny new tractor that Mr. Earl Jenkins had saved up for three years to buy. But Big Clyde Calhoun, in his infinite wisdom (or possibly from a few too many sips of Aunt Mabel’s "special" lemonade), decided that the theme should be "Modern Marvels of Invention."

On parade day, the streets were lined with folk who had come from every holler and patch of dirt within twenty miles. The kids ran about with flag-waving excitement, and the old folks, mostly seated under wide-brimmed hats that could shade entire gardens, muttered things like, “I heard this year’s float’s got a mechanical rooster on it. I don’t know what to think about that.”

As the parade began, the Bugtussle marching band—if you could call it a marching band—mustered at the starting line. Now, the Bugtussle band had only one drummer, two saxophones (one of which was held together with duct tape and more ambition than actual musical skill), and a tuba that squeaked like a dying mouse. But the band was loud, and that’s what counted.

Big Clyde, who had taken it upon himself to “direct” the parade, stood at the front of the procession wearing his “Best Director” sash, which was really just a piece of cloth he’d found hanging on the back of his truck. His float was next in line, and it was a sight to behold: a rickety wooden contraption that looked like a half-finished version of something that might have been designed by a mad scientist. At its center was an oversized model of a cucumber, powered by a small engine he’d borrowed from his cousin Ned’s lawnmower.

As the band began to play the opening notes of "Yankee Doodle"—more like “Yankee Doodle Dandy Meets a Herd of Cats”—the float lurched forward with the grace of a baby calf learning to walk. Big Clyde, who had been so focused on the cucumber float, hadn’t noticed that the band had, in fact, gotten completely lost and was now marching in the opposite direction.

The crowd, unaware that the band was in full retreat, applauded with fervor, assuming the musicians were just warming up. But as the sound of off-key saxophones and rhythmic tuba noises faded into the distance, a few townsfolk began to murmur. “Where’s the band going? They’re supposed to be playing in front of the float!”

Big Clyde, noticing the absence of his parade's soundtrack, looked around in a panic. “Where in tarnation’s that band?” he muttered, stepping down from his cucumber-laden float.

Earl Jenkins, who had been walking beside Clyde, wiped his brow and pointed in the direction of the receding music. “I reckon they’re getting lost, Clyde. Happens every year.”

But Big Clyde wasn’t about to let a little thing like the band being lost ruin his parade. “Well, we’ll just have to keep going! We can’t have a parade without music, but we sure as shootin’ can have a parade without a band!”

With that, Clyde leaped onto his float and began to shout orders. “Alright, folks! Time for Cucumber Jazz! Everyone clap along, and we’ll pretend like we planned it this way!”

The crowd, eager to participate in the chaos that was Bugtussle tradition, began clapping. Not in time with the music, mind you, but with a kind of fervor that suggested they were glad for anything to happen.

The float moved slowly forward, the sound of reluctant clapping filling the air. The band, meanwhile, had gotten thoroughly lost down an alley and was trying to figure out how to turn around. Mrs. Pearl Jenkins, from her perch on the sidelines, took it upon herself to start a chant. “Cucumbers! Cucumbers!” she yelled, waving a handkerchief in the air.

The rest of the crowd, unsure of what was happening but always willing to join in, began chanting too, “Cucumbers! Cucumbers!”

Now, while this was happening, Big Clyde was in a full panic. He rushed back down to where Earl was standing, trying to figure out how to fix the mess he’d made. “Earl,” he said, “this whole thing’s gone sideways. What if we—”

But Earl wasn’t listening. He was too busy stuffing his face with one of the gigantic cucumbers Clyde had brought along, which had somehow become the highlight of the day despite being intended as nothing more than part of the display.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Earl asked between bites. “This parade’s going just fine. We got music, we got cucumbers, and we got confusion. What else does Bugtussle need?”

And sure enough, despite the missing band and the fact that no one was quite sure who had won the “Modern Marvels of Invention” prize (since Clyde’s float was, frankly, a bit of a mess), the Bugtussle Parade ended up being a rousing success. It wasn’t the success anyone had planned for, but it was a success all the same.

The crowd cheered, the cucumbers were devoured, and Big Clyde Calhoun—though a little embarrassed—ended the day with a new title in Bugtussle: "The Man Who Could Lose His Band and Still Win a Parade."

And from that day on, everyone in Bugtussle learned that if something goes wrong in a parade, the best thing you can do is clap like a madman and call it "Cucumber Jazz."

Dog My Cats!

By Thurston B. Blahblah

Thurston B. Blahblah could write a dissertation on the color grey and still manage to make it sound like the most tedious task imaginable. His endless, circular descriptions of completely irrelevant details leave the reader wondering if he's trying to be profound or if he's just fallen asleep mid-sentence. Either way, his work has the uncanny ability to put you in a trance—a dull, uninspired trance.

​

In the sleepy little town of Squishville, where the biggest news was when Mrs. Polly Snoozlepuff once accidentally wore her bedroom slippers to the post office, there was a house unlike any other.

It was a slightly lopsided, ivy-covered cottage on the edge of town, home to a man named Percy Squigglebum, his dog Chompers von Tailwag, and two cats, Sir Pounce-a-Lot and Miss Scratchypaws.

Percy himself would’ve been the first to tell you that he was not exactly a man in control—of his household, his pets, or even his socks, which were rarely, if ever, a matching pair.

Percy had never intended to be the ringleader of a household circus.

He had started out with the best of intentions, adopting Chompers von Tailwag, a droopy-eared, big-hearted dog, as a companion to help bring some order to his days.

Chompers was a Saint Bernard, a large, lovable breed known for their gentle temperament, goofy personality, and tendency to knock things over with their sheer size and enthusiasm. 

His massive frame and friendly demeanor made him both endearing and clumsy—perfect for stirring up the kind of chaos that kept Percy and the cats on their toes.

Chompers was a joyful dog who excelled at wagging his tail with such enthusiasm that it sometimes knocked over small pieces of furniture.

He had the kind of enthusiasm that could get him elected mayor if he were ever asked to run.

What Chompers did not excel at, however, was being quiet, calm, or, as Percy would put it, “remotely cat-compatible.”

That had become a problem because the house already had two permanent residents when Chompers moved in: Sir Pounce-a-Lot, a dignified gray tabby with a tail that seemed to convey all the haughty disdain of a Victorian butler, and Miss Scratchypaws, a petite calico whose primary hobbies included staring judgmentally at people and batting delicate glass objects off tables.

From the moment Chompers had burst through the front door, wagging his tail and yelping in delight, the cats had looked upon him with something between horror and disgust.

“Well, dog my cats!” Percy had exclaimed that first day as he surveyed the chaos: Chompers barking and spinning in happy circles, the cats hissing and bolting for the highest surfaces they could find.

Percy had picked up that phrase from his grandfather, Homer Squigglebum, who always used it as a colorful way to express frustration. It was only much later that Percy learned the phrase had its roots in an old, combative sentiment: “Well, sic your dogs on my cat, why don’t you!”

But in Percy’s household, it had come to mean something more like “What on earth have I gotten myself into?”

Despite the rocky start, Percy was determined to create a harmonious home.

One particularly dull Tuesday afternoon, after a night of barking, hissing, and very little sleep, he came up with a grand plan.

He called it “Operation Pawsitive Friendship.”

“All right, Chompers,” Percy said, kneeling down to scratch the hound behind the ears.

“We’re gonna make peace with Sir Pounce-a-Lot and Miss Scratchypaws. No more barking. No more chasing. You’re going to be a gentleman, like... like those dogs in fancy paintings.”

Chompers tilted his head, tongue lolling out in a way that suggested he had no idea what Percy was talking about but was entirely on board with the tone of encouragement.

Percy turned to the cats, who were perched on the top shelf of the bookcase, watching the proceedings like disapproving spectators at a clumsy amateur play.

“And you two,” Percy said, pointing an accusatory finger, “are going to meet me halfway. No more acting like you own the place. This is a shared space. Shared!”

Sir Pounce-a-Lot flicked his tail in an elegant arc that seemed to say, Dream on, peasant.

Miss Scratchypaws responded by yawning dramatically, as though the very idea of compromise had exhausted her.

Percy sighed. It seemed he had underestimated the amount of effort this would take. But he wasn’t a man to give up easily.

He had faced down tougher challenges in his life—like the time he tried to put together an IKEA bookshelf without reading the instructions. This couldn’t be any worse than that.

Still, Percy Squigglebum was nothing if not stubborn. He began his campaign with military precision, setting strict rules and schedules. 

First, he would get Chompers to stop barking at the cats, then he would convince the cats to stop pretending they were too good to be bothered.

Percy would start by sitting quietly—he’d seen it done before, so how hard could it be? As for the cats, they’d be given treats for cooperating. 

It was simple: carrot and stick, except the carrot was some tuna fish, and the stick...  the stick was also tuna fish.

Chompers was trained to sit quietly in the presence of the cats (a task that lasted approximately six seconds before the excitement of seeing them sent him into a tailspin of barks and tail wags).

The cats were bribed with treats and toys to come down from their high perches (they took the treats but remained steadfast in their refusal to descend).

The breaking point came one afternoon when Percy decided to stage a supervised meeting in the living room.

Armed with tuna for the cats and peanut butter for Chompers, he tried to orchestrate a peaceful gathering.

For a brief, shining moment, it seemed to work. The cats cautiously sniffed at their tuna, while Chompers lay on his belly, tail thumping against the floor.

And then Chompers von Tailwag sneezed.

The sudden, explosive sound sent both cats rocketing into the air like furry fireworks.

Sir Pounce-a-Lot clawed his way up the curtains, while Miss Scratchypaws made a dramatic leap onto the chandelier. Chompers, thinking this was all part of the fun, began barking gleefully and chasing his tail.

Percy threw up his hands. “Dog my cats!” he shouted, the words echoing through the chaos. “Why don’t you just sic the dog on the cats and be done with it!”

But as he stood there, watching Chompers spin in dizzying circles and the cats glare down at him from their lofty perches, Percy had an epiphany: maybe instead of trying to force the animals to become best friends, he could embrace their differences and find a balance.

After all, this wasn’t some fairy tale. Perhaps he’d been going about this all wrong. 

Maybe Chompers didn’t need to stop being a dog, and the cats didn’t need to stop being cats.

Maybe the key wasn’t in forcing them to get along but in finding a way for them to coexist as their true selves.

From that day on, Percy adopted a new strategy: he let things be. Chompers had his space, the cats had theirs, and Percy got a new pair of earplugs for the inevitable barking and hissing.

Over time, an uneasy truce began to form.

The cats learned to tolerate Chompers’s enthusiastic antics, and Chompers learned to admire the cats from a respectful distance.

One evening, as Percy sat in his armchair, sipping tea, he noticed something remarkable.

Chompers was lying on the rug, his head resting on his paws, while Sir Pounce-a-Lot and Miss Scratchypaws perched on the back of the sofa.

From that day forward, Chompers and the cats coexisted in a delicate peace.

They didn’t become fast friends, nor did they suddenly decide to form a band together, but they learned to share the space without incident. 

“Well, slap my hat,” Percy murmured with a smile, “we might just make it after all.”

And so, in that sleepy town of Squishville, in a lopsided little house, a dog, two cats, and a man who wasn’t really in charge of anything managed to live together in their own imperfect harmony.

It wasn’t a fairy tale, but it was good enough for Percy Squigglebum—and that was all that mattered.

Where Dog Leg Drive Meets Bug Hill Road

By Mortimer H. Whoisthis

If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to forget everything you’ve ever read just moments after finishing, Mortimer H. Whoisthis is the author for you. His books have the rare gift of being entirely forgettable, like a bad dream that you can’t remember but still leaves you with a strange sense of disappointment. He specializes in vague characters with motivations as unclear as his narrative style.

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Crocodile River flowed like molasses down the middle of our sleepy little town, where the trees whispered secrets to the wind, and the wind passed them right along to anyone who cared to listen.

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If you ever visit, just remember this: where Dog Leg Drive meets Bug Hill Road, trouble brews faster than Ma’s dandelion tea.

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It all started one summer morning when Old Man Thornton’s goat, Petunia, got loose.

Petunia had a mind as sharp as a tack and a temperament as prickly as a porcupine’s backside.

The last anyone saw of her, she was perched proudly on a road sign that said “Crocodile Crossing – Take Two Left Turns,” looking more like a traffic officer than a barnyard escapee.

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Now, Dog Leg Drive was named after the peculiar way it zigzagged like a hound chasing its tail.

Bug Hill Road, on the other hand, earned its name from the clouds of gnats that swarmed like gossip at a quilting bee.

Where these two paths crossed lay Accident Corner, a spot famous for its ability to tangle wagons, buggies, and reputations alike.

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The low, low bridge over Crocodile River didn’t help matters.

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And Old Jeremiah Skinner had always said you had to "take two left turns" just to make one right decision in this part of the county.

The bridge had a warning sign that read “LOW CLEARANCE,” but locals swore it was only there to bait out-of-towners who fancied themselves smarter than a painted plank.

If a cart could squeeze through, the driver would brag for weeks. If not, well, there’d be splinters in places no splinters ought to be.

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On this particular morning, young Billy Shoemaker, who wasn’t old enough to shave but plenty old enough to cause chaos, decided he’d take his mule cart to fetch supplies.

Ma warned him, “Billy, you steer clear of Accident Corner. If you must cross the river, go the long way.”

But young Billy had a knack for disregarding advice as though it came with a price tag.

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Billy set out whistling a merry tune until he reached the low, low bridge.

He was just about to dare his cart through when Petunia the goat trotted up behind him, carrying herself like she owned the place.

Startled, Billy lost control of the mule, which bolted faster than a greased pig at a county fair.

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The cart barreled onto Accident Corner, where the mule collided with none other than Widow Perkins’s delivery wagon.

Barrels of molasses burst open, drenching Billy and the mule, and the Widow—bless her soul—was heard hollering about the sticky state of her rhubarb pies.

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Meanwhile, Petunia took to the river, hopping across like some shaggy amphibian.

By the time the sheriff arrived, the low, low bridge was jammed, Bug Hill Road was covered in molasses, and Old Man Thornton was yelling, “I just want my goat back!” from the safety of his front porch.

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“In a home this size,” Ma later scolded Billy, “you’d think there’d be room for a lick of common sense.”

Billy, still picking molasses out of his ears, nodded solemnly and swore he’d listen next time.

But of course, everyone in town knew better.

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To this day, travelers are warned to steer clear of where Dog Leg Drive meets Bug Hill Road.

And if you find yourself there, take two left turns and keep an eye out for Petunia—because legend has it she’s still outsmarting folks on that bridge to this very day.​

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Stay Tuned: Next, we are diving into the topic of Epithets from England.