Posts Tagged ‘funny’

Puppy Dead! Video story….

Wednesday, December 15th, 2010

Wrote a short-short story a while back called Puppy’s Dead.

Seems to be one of the more popular stories–at least people keep coming back for it.

So I’ve made a little video of it. Did the voice over myself.


Hope you enjoy. Thanks for coming by. –Vincent

Video: “Big Toe Walkabout” — flash fiction

Wednesday, July 7th, 2010

…Here’s this popular short-short story, comes in three different forms:

My short-short fiction piece, “Big Toe Walkabout” has proven to be popular story.

So after the story appeared, I made it into a Podcast/Audio clip.

Yet, maybe some out there would like to watch this big toe illustration while listening, so now I have made it as a one shot video story.

Yep, stories come in all sorts of packaging around here.

Enjoy, and endure. Thanks for reading, seeing, listening. And leave a comment below! Or in the YouTube comment box–I’ll get it.

AUDIO–Don’t Call Me Fluffy: Interview with a Cat

Monday, June 28th, 2010

Just a little while ago I wrote and posted a short-short story (read HERE) about a cat complaining about human behavour towards his person.

It has been one of the more popular stories that I’ve posted. So I thought I’d start recording and posting some of my favorites and reader favorites from the “Noses in the House” stories.

And we’re starting with pissed-off Fluffy: Listen (and/or download) here: Don’t Call Me Fluffy!

It’s less than four minutes.

Enjoy and thanks for dropping by. Don’t forget to leave a comment below!

STORY — Interview with a cat: “Don’t Call Me Fluffy”

Friday, June 4th, 2010

Grumpy cat called fluffy

Interviewer: First of all, thank you for your time in answering a few questions.

Cat: Meow meow meow, this is not a good move on my part.

Interviewer: How so?

Cat: A cat needs its mystery. But humans need to understand something, so I’m speaking out. Hope I don’t regret this.

Interviewer: Which is—?

Cat: I don’t like their hands all over me.

Interviewer: But I thought cats—

Cat: And what’s with the kitty-kitty crapola?

Interviewer: But you like to be petted and cooed at?

Cat: Yeah, sure, under certain terms and conditions. I’m not a bloody mobile phone you just pick up whenever the urge comes on.

Interviewer: But most cats—

Cat: Hey! Pay attention. I have no desire to be petted when I don’t want to be petted. Just because I have fur, am able to purr, and lick my privates with the greatest of ease, does not mean I want to be suddenly picked up and called really pathetic pet names. Sometimes I’m sitting there licking my rear end recalling what I had for breakfast and suddenly I’m in some sort of air elevator and being lifted and carried from the chair where I was perfectly settled and then dropped off at the bottom of the stairs where I had no desire or need to be. What do I look like, a stuffed animal, dirty laundry? I have hopes, and joys, I have feelings and desires.

Interviewer: So how do you solve…?

Cat: Once in a while I scratch the hell out of them. That’s after I’ve tried everything else. Stopping the purr machine. Narrowing the eyes. Squirming in their grip. Swishing my tale. Flattening the ears. I mean, I give signals. I have all sorts of ways that say no pretty clearly. Still they do the fur. Start between my ears and end at my tail, again and again, and then call me Fluffy. I mean, Fluffy? There’s no respect in such names. So when they call me Fluffy, that’s it. I scratch and take some skin off them. And they seem so surprised. They don’t get it. So I hope they read this and get it.

Interviewer: I see.

Cat: Don’t get me wrong. There’s hope for the long term relationship. After it’s out of my system and I’m settled down, I make it up to them when I’m hungry. Rub against their pants legs, make with the throat sounds, shed on them. Walk the figure eights, the whole cute deal. They forgive me and put some food in my bowl, maybe a puddle of milk if I’m lucky. I eat, I lick, but why is it when I’m getting to a difficult spot on my left shoulder, and hit a tough clump of fur I couldn’t dislodge last time—suddenly they have crept up behind me, lift me in the air, call me fluffy, and again I have to scratch the holy crap out of them. Do they not learn? I do, can’t they? Who trains them, exactly? Who’s in charge, that’s what I need to know?

Interviewer: I’m not sure—

Cat: I mean, put yourself in my place. Whoops! Is that a mouse over there? Gotta go. Spread the word!

Max Dix, Zero to Six: “The Monkey Brains Scene”

Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

Another short excerpt from “Max Dix, Zero to Six”. The first half of this scene (Garden Scene) was posted last Wednesday. See this if only for the monologue on watching orientals on TV eat monkey brains…


Here’s some stills from this video excerpt:

The elderly man describes what he sees on the tv screen:
Monkey Brains 1

Close-up, fascinated by what he sees:
Monkey Brains 2

Less fascinated…
Monkey Brains 3

Here comes the moment when they lift the skull from the monkey’s head….
Monkey Brains 4

Monkey Brains 5

Disgust begins to seep into the characters….
Monkey Brains 6

Max is told what he has learned.
Monkey Brains 7

Imparting more wisdom for Max to guide his life by…
Monkey Brains 8

Last words of wisdom into the dark….
Monkey Brains 9

STORY – Puppy’s dead!

Friday, April 9th, 2010

dead puppy
Puppy dead!
My cutie little puppy.
I used to hold him fluffy and round and all warm all in my arms.
Now he’s a flat rug in the driveway. He no move.
I throw the ball for him to go fetch but he still no move.
Daddy bad daddy forgot to look when backing up big car this morning.
Puppy-doggie all brown and flat and squishy and not my cuddly-cuddly doggie out in the middle of the red wet driveway.
Who let puppy out?
Bad puppy.
Bad all the way asleep now puppy.
Why did this happen when I went to bed a happy very happy boy with puppy-puppy in his life?
Is mommy bad a bad mummy too?
Is Daddy dumb daddy?
My puppy is all dead and I am feeling dead, all too.
I cried.
Cried real loud, real long.
I cried for three days.
I cried for two and one half nights.
Then I sobbed some more.
Everyone left the house to take a walk around the block.
Away from my unhappy sobs for the dead puppy.
Then someone cleaned up the driveway.
No wet red driveway ex-puppy spots.
I walked to the middle of my lawn.
Stood there green all around my feet and the sun came out. Big and wide where I could not miss it.
I stretched me big and rolled down to the grass bounced once and smelled it deep in my nostrils and then in my all my insides.
Turned over, looked at some funny clouds for a while.
I wondered, cloud wondering, if it wasn’t time I ask to get a pussy cat.
Kitty, kitty, I will call. Kitty, kitty.

Max Dix, Zero to Six, video clip, The Soap Opera Scene

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010

Isabel Walsh, Mehran Khalili, actors, Max Dix Zero to Six

In 2008, I wrote and directed a play that went on to win a couple of national and international writing awards called Max Dix, Zero to Dix. A modest video was made out of two performances, and I’ve taken the decision to start posting some snippets and scenes of it.

The quality of the videos does not live up to the quality of the acting, but I hope generous viewers will be forgiving. The video was shot over two separate evenings in front of an audience during its run in Brussels, and sometimes the lighting, the cuts, the grainy images, aren’t all they could be. Yet the videos will certainly give a taste, and one hopes, pleasure, in what was presented.

Scene from the play, Max Dix Zero to Six

I haven’t spoken at length about this play because there hasn’t been a need or an urge, but perhaps in time, and with interest.


Soap Opera Scene 1

Soap Opera Scene - Vincent Eaton play

George Taylor Memorial Award in the UK's National Drama Festival Association Playwriting Competition for 2008

Verulam award for best original play, Festival of European Anglophone Festival, Stockholm, 2008

Conference Tongue

Friday, March 19th, 2010

on writing, sex, writers conferences
The very first thing of the very first morning at the very beginning of the twelve-day writer’s conference, I was waiting outside the dining hall to take an initial tour of the campus lead by some young post-graduates who possessed minimal tour guide skills.

My reader, the professionally published writer-teacher guy who would be reviewing my manuscript and conferencing with me, came up out of a crowd of people, and introduced himself—later, from co-conference-goers more experienced than I in such matters, said this was out of the ordinary, your reader approaching you—and because of this they looked at me as though I was someone of potential special interest.

He introduced himself to me. “Mr. Roberts? I believe you are one of my victims.” Then mumbled, “I never remember titles and names”–then remembered me and mine. He asked if I had really, truly selected him to be my one and only favorite reader over all the fourteen other prominent teacher-writers available. I indicated I had, tactically avoiding saying he was my second choice, really. He said, “I want to know because I apply the scalpel differently to those who have specifically chosen me compared to those who have not.” I then definitely allowed him to believe he was my first, best choice…after all I wanted to get my full money’s worth.

He asked me what I was most worried about with my manuscript.
“…I am not confident of its shape…?”

We began walking on this tour, taking up the rear, chatting. He thought that I needed to rethink the material more as a straightforward memoir, just as a possible alternative.
He was intense, focused, sardonic.

He confided that he wasn’t too sure of the value of this conference, or any writing conference, although he was there for the third year. “There are four levels this works at,” he told me. One: socializing: drinks, receptions, parties. Two: business contacts, literary agents, editors, visiting publishers. Three: physical favors with the opposite sex. Four: writing. With so few hours dedicated to actual writing discussions, he seemed pessimistic about any in-depth fixing of writing. And there were a 144 of us 12-day students. He led me to believe, without stating it too obviously, that it would be up to me to reverse the order. Writing first, sex second, etc….

“I’m going to cut off here because this tour isn’t going anywhere.” He turned, noticed a woman passing, a student. Made a remark to her: “Where you staying?”
“In the French dorm.”
“You’re lucky.” He eagle-eyed her. “And why don’t you invite me there?”
She smiled and shrugged and kept walking. He watched her as she moved away, then turned to me.
“Is that number three on your list?” I asked.
He smiled and cut off.

* * *

I had to wait till mid-way through the conference to get my chance at some of that “physical favor with the opposite sex” stuff which was supposedly so rampant at these conferences. It was to be from an auditor. That is someone who sits in on classes but cannot participate. Like a groupie, like an auditor, like a hanger on. Kathleen was her name: a wanton healthcare professional, I was to find, with whom I had spoken now and then during the first week.

One evening, at a mini-celebration halfway through the conference, she told me she had three favorite people at the conference, and that I was at the top of her list.
She was already pretty drunk when she said this.
I said, Ah.

Just like that she placed her hand flat against my chest, and alarmed my delicate artistic sensibilities by suggesting, “Blow jobs and the clitoris. We could do that.” I tried to think of a witty retort to this, but nothing in my background or social skills had prepared me for this type of provocative suggestion.
“Yes,” I murmured, “we could.”

Now for eight days it had been hot and muggy and sticky and for these eight days I had grown plenty horny so what-the-heck I tried a kiss on for size, just to sort of get the lay of the land, check if my testicles would tingle as our tongues probed and partied.

I was anticipating, even hoping for slightly parted plump lips, and gradually to work our separate ways to a more sophisticated tongue tango. What I got was the romantic equivalent of the Grand Canyon.

She placed her upper lip somewhere just below my nostrils. I believe she hooked her lower lip under my chin.

Startled, and not a little concerned, I nevertheless tossed my tongue in there to see what would happen. No slick, moist porpoise of a tongue rose to meet mine in order to frolic and splash. My tongue hung in the dark, in the void, alone, like a diving board over the deep end of an empty swimming pool.

I made a valid effort, and waggled my tongue in the generosity of her whole-hearted though unskilled desire. I believe I licked a couple of molars.

It was at that moment that my testicles realized that they would be retaining their testosterone burden for another sticky night.

Story – Speed Dating

Friday, March 5th, 2010

speed dating

My favorite color is blue. My favorite food is pizza. Do you like me yet?



My parents divorced me when I was very young. No, that’s negative….did I say “divorce me”? Well. Wow. Freud slipped right in there, didn’t he? Well, you’re starting to get to know me.

Hey, how many minutes do we have again?

I like films, TV, anything based on reality. That’s not true. I have fantasies. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a fried egg, sunny side up, and be the yolk as the edge of a crust of toasted bread broke me open and all my yellow would flood and run everywhere. Always wondered that. Or maybe it’s all sexual. Who knows! Mysteries of the human—sorry?

Time’s awasting.

Maybe you want to know this stuff about me. Dior. Picasso, the European car not the painter. Saab. Let me say that again so there is no mistaking. Saaaaaab…. Sensuous, huh? Vogue. Vanity Fair. The New Yorker, optional. Silk. Silk. Silk. I cannot emphasize that enough. “Houston, we have a problem.” That still works for me. Shakespeare, the comedies, if I have to. Teen comedies, no. Slapstick, I’m a girl, so I don’t get all of it. Piercing, tattoos, goes without saying, not on my body. Terrorism. What is this big deal about terrorism? Did none of those people have parents when they were growing up? Oooh, terrorism. So scared!

Is this helping any? How about family stuff—

My father has a mustache, my mother dyes her hair red. I had an aunt who was a drunk and an uncle who I think tried to touch me improperly when I was young but I have blocked it all out, almost. Sorry, again, too negative.

I’ve never been to Bermuda but I’d like to go to Spain. Yes, the Bermuda Islands. No, not the shorts. You must think I’m crazy. I’m looking for love. I don’t have any pets. I think about politics but don’t get involved—what? Pets? Allergies. Ah-choo. Their fur. Or saliva. I need to take some medical tests on that.

Snow. Surf. Turf. Like it all.

God, where’s the time gone!

My grandparents are dead.

What more did you want to know?

Food, pizza. Color, blue.

I was toilet trained at an early age so I’m good that way. Same with tying my shoe laces. A snap.

Also, I may be allergic to dust or I don’t clean my place enough. One or the other. Love drives in the desert. Hate it when I’m in an airplane and hit an air pocket and everything goes zoom and people scream and things go flying and my stomach comes up. What? You too! Gosh. We have so much in common!

I’ve had maybe fifteen boyfriends. Sean, Bob, Frank, Tony—oh you don’t want those details.

I have a driver’s license, own a bicycle and went go-carting once. I follow my instincts. I’m very emotional, but don’t believe in Astrological signs. I mean, please, the Big Boom happens and the Milky Way comes out so neat that my future is foretold up there? I wish. If you look up at the stars tonight and see my fate, please, give me a shout. I’d really like to know. What? The Big Boom was the Big Bang? Big difference. I’m sure the universe wants us to get that terminology right.


I’m taking cooking lessons. Drugs—just say no.

Do you sort of like me yet?

Foods. Not too processed. Love. Not too processed. This—what?

No! No! My time is not up. We still have a chance of making this work. This is my life! It’s not ending. It feels like it’s just at the start.




But what about our love then?

Business & Identity – a story on finding yourself through business

Friday, January 15th, 2010

How to findThis week I offered a somewhat serious side to business, called The Job Interview. Today, a more humorous (or still somewhat serious?) story about a man who wants to find himself in business.

This story to read here is from my How To Find Yourself humor book. It is called Business & Identity. Or how to find yourself through business.

We’re just trying to keep the universe in balance here….