The Quirky Life of P

Humor and satire revolving around Mr P- a fictional mix of an avatar of Mr Bean and the veritable Bertram Wooster of Wodehouse fame.

Archive for the category “Funny”

P floats like a butterfly

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He had always wanted to be

Super strong as Muhammad Ali;

‘To float like a butterfly and sting like a bee’

P believed was also his own destiny.

 

So not to be a silly noddy,

To the gym he went to build his body;

But work-outs got him tired so badly,

He gave up his dream ever so gladly.

 

Let butterflies float and bees sting:

P realised it just was not his thing,

To strive so hard with the training

And to be beaten around in the ring.

 

He now says he’s happier just being lazy

And for muscles and sinews, he’s not very crazy;

Why then on his Facebook, is a picture of Ali?

The brawny body is Ali’s but the quirky face is that of P!

It’s what is inside that matters…

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P had been invited to a party that evening by the local youngsters and he had wanted to turn up looking young and good. Looking at himself in the mirror as he was brushing his hair into spikes, he found a gray hair peeking out. He parted his hair with his fingers to grab and uproot the culprit when he found that there were a few more of those whites scattered on his crown. He was devastated. It looked like age had finally caught up with him. He could only blame all those “Oh come on …. Grow up!!!” comments he often received from his friends and family. His body must have started listening to them perhaps, he thought.

He peered at himself more closely in the mirror. His heart fell as he saw tiny lines on his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. “Wrinkles” P muttered in shock! A few gray hairs were alright and might even be welcome. It could give him a dignified, salt and pepper look. As for the wrinkles, he decided that some skin renewal had to be done urgently…..

P made several phone calls to friends to find home remedies for blemishes and fine lines. Scanning through a lot of information, he finally picked chick pea flour, eggs, turmeric powder, lemon juice and honey. He closed all the window blinds and curtains to give the impression that no one was home. He did not want to be surprised by any visitors with his vanity treatments on. Gathering all the needed stuff from his kitchen,he made a paste according to the directions he had read, applied the pack on his face and sat down to do the daily crossword.

Quite soon, there was a knock on the door and P walked to the window and peered through the curtains. It was only his neighbor who had come to collect his garden shears that P had borrowed. Hastily P gathered the shears and opened the door.

“What the…..!” words choked in the neighbor’s throat in fright at the sight of the masked being coming at him with the shears…

“Oh, it’s only me” said P.

“What happened to your face?” asked the neighbor anxiously.

P then had to explain to his neighbor  about all his troubles with his looks and how he was worried that he may not get a girl friend or a wife and so on…

“Don’t worry too much about your looks P,” comforted the neighbor. “It’s what is inside that matters.”

“Oh? Are you sure?” asked P. “I don’t think I have much inside as well!” he said after a quick glance, inwards.

“Well, then that’s what you need to work on. You need a good person to be your friend or wife, and to such people, definitely it will be what’s inside that counts”, said the neighbor.

P stood stunned at his doorway as his neighbor collected the shears from his hands and left. Gathering his wits about, he walked back into his drawing room and looked around, more thoroughly this time. He rushed out into the porch and managed to catch his neighbor just as he reached the gate.

“Hey! Do you know any  good, interior decorators?” he shouted.

P’s confidence was in tatters,

His looks brought him to tears;

‘It’s  what is inside that matters’,

Is often what one hears.

Yet these words brought no solace,

He couldn’t help feeling inferior;

Though he worried less about his face,

He had to redo  his shabby interior

P’s tears flow….

P had a box of tissues handy to wipe his flowing tears. P’s heart was breaking, looking at what was going on…..

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P felt he needed some dope,

Or he wouldn’t cope;

Though not end life on a rope,

He would sit around and mope;

For answers he might grope,

But he couldn’t see any hope!

Could he change the situation? Nope!

For how could he alter things in a TV soap?

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P gets stuck with a P…… word

P had nothing to write on the daily prompt;

This one word had him stomped;

For words with the meaning of plunder,

He was determined to keep asunder

From his life, simple and quirky

And even from his vocabulary!

 

P’s neighbour: “Hey P, it’s good to see you tending to your garden. What’s up?”

P: “Well, the Daily prompt today was a word that I don’t gel with and I decided to give it a miss. So I had some time on my hands…”

P’s neighbour: “Good! At least now you will be able to get rid of all those overgrown weeds. They are not only sore on the eyes but the pests and vermin they harbour come over the fence and pillage my herbs and sprouts…”

P rushes back inside his home even without a goodbye, to turn on his laptop and go to his blog….

P takes refuge in music

It’s not that P does not like to mix with people. In fact he loves interacting with people. But there are times when P wants to retreat into his den and lick his wounds when life deals him some of those staggering blows. At such times P does not like to have visitors who came to offer their condolences. Perhaps they thought it comforted him but P felt it drained him more to listen to their commiserations. The one strategy he developed to tide over these situations was to get his violin out and play some mournful melodies……..

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A social being, P enjoyed company;

But at times he preferred solitude

To hide in his den and lick his wounds;

To muse and dwell on life’s vagaries

And quietly laze in his retreat,

Till all mended he could face the world again.

But friends and relatives would come calling,

To comfort, commiserate or maybe even gloat;

This often seemed to get his goat;

But all was good when in music he took refuge;

For, as soon as his violin started to wail,

His guests beat a retreat without fail.

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A standing ovation? His unrealized dream!

Moody times

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The sky was dark, overcast and grey

As the sun was brooding behind the clouds;

Raindrops dripped, thunder rumbled,

The wind threw a tantrum with the window panes.

 

P couldn’t help be moody; it was such a gloomy day;

Though the clime was to blame he could hardly say;

With the weather and the traffic jam he was late for his date

And she had simply driven off with his best mate.

 

Aside: Of course P makes it a habit of being  late…

Gone Fishing…

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Anyone who knew P well was convinced he was good at fishing. Often when  he was away from work, there was a note stuck on the door of his office which said “Gone fishing….” But…

Many a time P had gone fishing

And come home without any catch;

To bait the hook, he kept forgetting;

The fish were sharper, more than his match!

 

All he ever caught was once when he pulled in the reel,

Out came a soggy shoe hanging by its lace!

Another time a tug from something live he could feel,

Was a puffer fish, P let him go when it pouted up its face.

 

Yet P never thought of giving up the fine sport of fishing;

He loved to sit with legs dangling down the side of the pier;

With homing birds in the crimson sky, the sun slowly setting,

His reel idling in the rippling waters, the breeze caressing his hair.

 

Something seemed to soothe him then:

His catch didn’t matter, nor the past or the future;

It was like meditation or serene and calming Zen

As he blended in blissfully with Mother Nature…

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