After slaving over Christmas dinner, to little appreciation,
Mrs Wick doused her little pudding in brandy and set it on fire.
Mr Wick coughed and died from the agonising burns,
Cursing his wife’s stupid pet name for him.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The couple stood by the bonfire.
As the woman stared into the man’s eyes, he exploded.
His passion screeched its way above the field, filling the sky with the colours of his love.
When bits of bones and clumps of flesh began falling on the crowd, the woman moaned how he “always took things too far.”
© Carl Burkitt 2015
‘I’ve got an iron deficiency,’ revealed George.
‘My wife has that,’ said Mack.
‘Never manages to get my shirt creases out!’
The mates laughed their heads off as George ever-so-slowly died from anaemia.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The house had four windows,
One door and a roof.
The decor was quite like Bauhaus
And the owner used the place as a
Sort of “prostitute stockroom”.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The cat was gorgeous
and an absolute handful.
She loved being stroked
but if you so much as even
looked at another animal
she’d bite your bloody tits off.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The block of flats was silent.
Josh farted.
64 lights flicked on and at least three texts were drafted.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The man lost an ear.
He was fuming but secretly loved
the fact he finally had an
icebreaker for work functions.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The wrestler did some wrestling.
It was the “fake” wrestling
but he really hurt his back.
He went home and his wife cried,
until his cheque came in and they
bought a brand new house.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
The Pope got home and slumped on the sofa.
‘How was work?’ asked Little Jimmy.
‘Ah, you know. The usual fire-fighting. Now, enough about me. Let’s pop those off, shall we?’ said the Pope, pointing at the boy’s trousers.
Little Jimmy giggled and did as he was told.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
“What do you make of the quinoa?” asked an old friend, sipping his strawberry Weetabix protein drink.
A tear trickled down my cheek.
“What’s wrong?!” he tried.
“Sorry,” I said, playing with my phone charger. “I’m just trying to work out the quickest way to murder you with this plug.”
“Go with the chord,” he nodded, solumnly removing his leather trilby.
© Carl Burkitt 2015
Carl tells tales 