New story idea


I haven’t been writing much here because I am taking wild leap and writing a story that *might* turn into something more. So here is the first few pages. Opinions welcome, but don’t be too mean!

Arelia watched as her Fool morphed into a frog, then a snake, and finally a small rodent before he regained his normal form of a twelve year old boy. She was so used to his sudden morphing that she didn’t bother to pause in her rant about the lack of freedom she suffered. Jason, her Fool, was her constant companion, his purpose was to keep her entertained and out of trouble. She knew she vexed him beyond self control when she complained, bitterly, about her fate. Hence, the constant and rapid changes taking place before her eyes. But it simply was not fair that her fate was set in such a way that she could not take a short cut, evade, or refuse the road set before her. Up until her naming day last week, she could dismiss the fate as something in the far distance. However, she was now 16 summers old, and her naming day was the final day of freedom.

Arelia knew she was spoiled, and as far as spoiled princesses go, she wasn’t all that bad. Although, she did have a temper, and she had a wicked way of saying things that were cutting when she was angry. The entire country knew she could easily provoke a Holy One to lose its temper with her antics. It was not, as she often pointed out to the long suffering Fool, her fault people kept annoying her with nonsense and boring court functions. After all, a princess should have some control over her own choices.

She was still fuming and stomping back and forth across the stone floor of her bower when Fool got himself back under control. The creature he morphed into often reflected his thoughts. The frog was his inner fear that he would be stuck with Arelia forever, while the snake represented his disgust with the powers that made his fate twine with hers, and the rodent was the not so subtle refection of his feelings about the entire creepiness of the fawning members of the court. Nonetheless, Fool had heard the entire diatribe because when he morphed he didn’t the lose senses of his humanity.

As he watched Arelia work herself into a fine tizzy, he pulled his smock and trews back on, and began to search for his shoes. The most embarrassing thing about uncontrolled morphing was the sudden loss of clothing. Fortunately, his small clothes seemed to morph along with his body, but standing around in his under wear whilst searching for his clothes did leave him feeling rather at a loss for decorum. Being trapped in the body of a twelve year old boy, when he was really a man long grown also rankled. No one, not one single person in the Keep paid any attention to anything he said. As long as he was doing his job of Fool, they ignored him, or, in the case of a few of the young men, shoved him aside in contempt.

Arelia wound down from her snit eventually. Thankfully, for Fool, it was in time for him to prepare for the evening. There were more visitors and suiters than normal since the princess had just passed her naming day. The suitors were more underfoot than a starving hound. Every time he turned a corner, yet another swain was leaning against the wall in feigned lethargy with mooning eyes. When they saw it was only Fool, the pose would disappear until they thought they heard the light footsteps of the newly minted woman of the Keep. It was all Fool could do not to morph at their ridiculous behavior as it irked him beyond measure.

The Lord sat at the head table with his Queen and retinue laughing with the fathers of the young Lords. Although the atmosphere was jovial, the undercurrent clearly stated the seriousness of the courting at hand. Arelia was their only daughter, and the Lord and his Lady planned to make sure they got every bit of gold that she was worth. And she was worth a great deal since she would inherit the title of Queen and all the holdings as was the custom in Balewicks. The object of discussion spent the evening trying to escape the clutches of the suitors and their unwanted attention. She eventually settled between Fool and her childhood Nurse to maintain a measure of safety. Still seething about the news that she was supposed to choose one of the pimply faced, obnoxious twits as a husband, Arelia made no attempt to pay attention to any of them. She knew her father and mother would expect an announcement by week’s end, and her fertile mind went round and round, doing its best to find a way to stop the inevitable nightmare of being married to someone she barely knew and certainly did not love. Her mother told her that love would come after the marriage, or at least mutual respect, but a future Queen had no right to expect to actually marry for love. In her heart Arelia knew her mother had to be wrong. She had to be. Before she gave into her despair or temper, she prodded Fool and told him to do something to distract her.

Fool had just downed the last of the meat on his trencher, he took a deep drink of his ale, climbed on the table. Thinking furiously, he tuned his small harp and began to sing a drinking song that soon had the people in the hall bellowing the chorus at the top of their lungs. As ladies were present, it wasn’t all that bawdy, but the men appreciated the meaning. Fool wasn’t all that great a singer, but he knew a great number of tunes and twiddles with which to entertain the folks around him. And if that failed to do the job, he could always morph and mock, or mock and morph as the case may be. All the while the music and song was going on, Fool was watching those around him with a sharp eye. He felt, in his deepest bones, that something was not quite right. Shifting from the drinking song into a ballad, he exaggerated the love song with longing sighs and batting eyelids, mocking the very thing that the song spoke of. The longer evening went on, the more dissonance Fool felt, as if there was a string out of tune just enough to irritated the ears of the player. Still, he could not lay his eyes or his fingers on the dissonance.

The more the men drank, the louder they sang. Eventually, the ladies withdrew, and the men began to sing truly bawdy songs from days of marching armies when men had only a bottle of spirits to keep him warm late at night. Fool played until his fingers hurt, and then he played even longer until the men began to fall asleep in the great hall. Wrapping themselves in their cloaks, they simply rolled up against the wall and began to snore. A few of the lucky ones found a dog or a willing maid to curl up next to them, and even fewer found a place near the great fireplace to help them stay warm.

Fool quietly jumped down from the table and headed up to his usual spot outside Arelia’s chamber door. Placing his foot on the stair, he heard a muffled squeal and a loud thump followed by more muffled speech. There was the trouble he’d been waiting for all night. Off he went at a dead run, forgetting that he was supposed to be the clumsy Fool. On the landing he heard a slam against the door to Arelia’s chamber. As his hand touched the latch, the door flew open and a young princeling flew out and dashed up against the opposite wall. Giving Fool the most peculiar look, he slowly slid down in a heap on the floor. Dreading what he would see, Fool inwardly braced himself as he turned back to the door.

Arelia stood in the doorway, hair standing on end like a mad cat, hands clinched into fists, and a rage filled countenance that would frighten the most stalwart of men. “He . . . that little . . . he tried to kiss me!” She scrubbed her hand over her mouth then spit at the limp body. “Is he dead? I hope to the Holy Ones that he is dead!” Arelia suddenly realized she was standing in the corridor in her night dress as she grabbed Fool and hissed at him to get inside before anyone else came along. “Do you not think,” he ventured carefully, “that we should make sure he is not dead?” She gave him a withering look, shoved him inside and slammed the door.

60 years.


I was sitting in the doctor’s office this morning waiting , as usual, and filling out paperwork, when an elderly couple came in. She was a tiny, sprite of a woman, who moved with quick, birdlike starts and stops as she urged her husband across the floor to the sign in desk. He was a tall, heavy set man, with a manual laborer’s hands, and pure white hair that contrasted beautifully with his dark mahogany skin.

She was talking as fast as she could, and just kept on talking as the receptionist asked the man questions. He was, I understood, the patient. She was, however, his designated speaker. She answered every question, told him where to sit, told the receptionist that she didn’t want to wait long, and to hurry up the nurse and doctor so they could go have lunch. She fussed and fiddled until the elderly man reached up and took her elbow. And just like that, she stopped talking and sat down next to him.

While he filled out paperwork, she started telling him what to write down, he just kept on doing what he was doing, as if he didn’t hear a word she said. Soon she was carrying on a conversation with the woman next to her, and they set about solving the problems of the world. Well, she did, the other woman’s end of the conversation was pretty much, “mmhum” and “I hear ya on that one Sister.”

When the man got up to return his paperwork, he reached over and patted the old woman’s shoulder. She stopped spouting words, and sat still in her chair. When he got back and settled, she started talking again, and he reached over and patted her knee. He noticed the other woman and I exchanging a “can you believe that” look, he grinned at me and winked. Leaning toward me, he said, “It’s the signal we came up with years ago when she was talking too much or too loud. She can’t hear a thing, deaf as a post, but she surely does like to talk anyway. She reads lips real well, so you’d never know she can’t hear a word you say.”

I asked him how long they had been married. “Almost 60 years, now. And she is still the most beautiful woman I ever seen.” Then he turned and patted her arm, as she was talking a mile a minute to the woman next to her. He pointed at the door where the nurse had just called his name. The woman got up and started fussing and hurrying him along as if he were a toddler. He winked at me again. “Don’t tell her I said that though, cause I will never hear the end of it.”

When I left the doctor’s office, they were getting in their car. She was fussing and fretting as usual. I wondered if she was a backseat driver, or if she just prattled on until he reached over a patted her to remind her to let other’s get a word in edgewise.

Election Season


I am, unashamedly, an American Patriot. As such, I tend to lean to the right on most issues. Although I am an independent, it is the right side of the political spectrum that most closely matches with my personal understanding of what our Constitution, History, and purpose as a country mean. This particular election ‘season’ is filled with frustration for me and most people I know.

First of all, I have no respect for the man in the White House. I believe him to be a liar, anti-business, anti-constitution, anti-military, and anti-American. The man has not followed through on anything he ‘promised’ when he was elected four years ago. He has only thrown our country into further financial difficulties, embarrassed his office in the world arena, and made the United States look weak to our enemies. Not to mention he is friends with some of the biggest criminals and terrorists worldwide. In short, I loathe the man, so much so that I refuse to use his name.

On the other side of the election is Mr. Romney. Despite all the press digging to find dirt on him, Mr. Romney is proving to be an honest, decent, patriotic, and intelligent man who deeply cares for our country. I don’t care what his religion is, I do care if he can fix the financial mess we have before us, and if he is willing to protect the constitution of the United States of America. I do care that he is pro-life, and I do care that he has been faithfully married to his wife for over 30 years. I care that he understands how hard it is to be a parent, I do care that he is pro-second amendment, I do care that he will appreciate every single man or woman serving in our military and the service that they provide the country. And, I do care that he is a man who will stand by his principles, fulfill every promise he makes, work with both sides of the congress, that he has integrity, honesty, and humility.

This election has caused more divisiveness between myself and my friends than any other in my adult life. I am not quiet about how I feel about that man in the White House. My liberal and progressive friends are not happy about that. In fact, two of my oldest and dearest friends are no longer on my social network. Mainly because I got tired of all of the victim nonsense that most liberals spout. I also got tired of trying to explain things like finances, spending, honesty, and integrity. It hurts to cut them off, but it is either that or stay frustrated and upset every day.

I suppose I could try to let them whine and moan, and just keep my mouth shut, but to do that I would have to deny that which I know is true. Lying by omission is as great a sin as outright lying on purpose. I can’t do that. Not for long anyway. Eventually I would end up spouting my opinion and the whole thing would start all over again. It is very frustrating. And the choice was heart rending. The saddest part of all is that my progressive and liberal friends will never understand why I felt pushed into making this decision. Will we be friends again, maybe. But it won’t be the same because now I don’t really trust them and I don’t think that they will forgive me for being so daring as to delete them from my social network world.

So, here I sit, two of my oldest friends out of my daily life. It is depressing, but also empowering. Depressing because I will miss them, empowering because I stood my ground and made a difficult decision to protect my mental health. Sigh . . . sometimes I hate being a grown up with integrity.

I got an award!


The Rules:
Nominate three bloggers. Place the award on your page. Write down seven thing about yourself.

I nominate:

http://memyselfandkids.wordpress.com/ A dad who posts about being, well, a dad.

http://accordingtohoyt.com/ A writer who writes about writing and other things.

http://www.fromthemixedupfiles.com/ Because it is always fun, they have contests, and the people there love to write.

Seven thing about me:

1. I am pretty boring most of the time.

2. I don’t like driving on the interstate highway.

3. I spent 13 years working with Boy Scouts of America as a leader and trainer.

4. I have always wanted to learn to be a painter/artist.

5. I was a tomboy growing up.

6. I like to cook.

7. I like road trips.

The Day before Mother’s Day – 2006


There was a funeral on Saturday. It was attended by dignitaries, police officers from across the country, a motorcade of cars miles long. In one of the black limousines sat two young children with their father. Their mother was in the hearse in front of them. She had been shot and killed in the line of duty trying to stop a madman from killing other police officers. As with all tragic deaths, hers was senseless and inexplicable. She was one of the golden ones who changed the lives of those who knew and loved her. It was a sad day and the community grieved for the family so brutally torn apart.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I couldn’t get the thought of those young children off my mind as I sat with my family and celebrated my years of motherhood. Those children will, forever, have to take flowers to their mother’s grave to honor her on Mother’s Day. No early morning breakfast in bed, sticky kisses, home-made cards, or presents hand-made with too much glue and glitter will be handed to their Mom. There will be no flowers from the garden, whispered secrets, or silly jokes to share with her. From now on, Mommy will become more and more of a memory and less real by the day. The grief will follow them for a long time, and then be pushed into the back of their minds as the move on into adulthood and life.

But, deep inside, that little girl will long for her mommy to help her grow into a woman and that little boy will long for her to help him understand how to be a good man. And every year, when it is Mother’s Day, they will remember the long line of cars, the speeches, the music, and the sadness on the day they lay their Mom to rest. In the blink of an eye, life changed for them, though they don’t yet know life will never be the same. They will have their Daddy, true, and he will love them with all his heart. But a Mother’s love, a Mother’s care is irreplaceable in a child’s heart and mind. They knew her very heart beat from the day of conception, and now it beats no longer. The rhythm of life is shattered beyond repair, and they will have to find a new rhythm with a heart that skips a beat where their Mother’s used to be.

I pray that she can be an eternal influence on her children. I will remember, even when I am very old, the quiet respect shown by all the bystanders as the funeral cortège slowly rolled by, and I will always remember the long black limousine where two young children sat as they followed their mother to her final resting place the day before Mother’s Day in 2006.

He cried.


He didn’t cry when he enlisted, because he was both proud and scared. But his mother did.

He didn’t cry when he was at boot camp, worn out, and so tired he could lie down and sleep in the mud. But his buddy did.

He didn’t cry when he was sent to the war zone, he was scared and worried, but proud to serve. But his girlfriend did.

He didn’t cry when he was so miserable with the heat that he thought every last bit of liquid was sucked out of his body. But he wanted to.

He didn’t cry when he had to spend days outside the wire, sleeping in the sand, and living off MRE meals. But he did get mad and cuss a lot.

He didn’t cry when the EID blew up in front of him, he was too busy trying to save the lives of the men and women in his unit.

He cried, when he saw the rifles and boots lined up, helmets on top, representing those who didn’t make it. Then he cried, because those were heroes, brothers and sisters in arms, men and women who laid down their lives for him, and all Americans, in a miserable desert far from home. But, not for long. He had to get back to the job he was trained to do.

He cried, when the airplane carrying him home lifted off from that evil land, and he cried again when he saw his family waiting for him when he got stateside. He cried to see the girl he wanted to marry. He cried when he walked into his home after nearly two years away.

He cried when he didn’t stop having the dreams about wounded and mutilated bodies of his friends and companions.

He cried when everyone told him to just forget and get on with living.

He cried, then he pulled the trigger that ended his life.

Maybe . . .


Friendship is important to me. I have friends from all over the world, people I have actually met, not just people on line. I miss them, and I appreciate them, even if I don’t often say so. For the most part, my friends are wonderful, and I am so happy I have them in my life, albeit, distantly.

Every now and then, however, I make a mistake and end up with one of those friends who sucks the life right out of me. They are always needy, always wanting, always talking, and always have to be the center of attention in the relationship. They make me tired, and I know if I needed help, they would never offer. However, if they need help, and I am not quick enough to help, they will use everything from guilt to anger to get even with me. I have learned, the hard way, over the years that it is better not to have friends than have someone eating into my life like that.

I realized the other day that I hadn’t spoken to another adult outside my husband, Crystal, or Drew in weeks. (Making a doctor’s appointment doesn’t count.) Since moving to Mississippi, I have really gone out of my way to not to get to know people – women especially. I should be lonely, but I’m not. I should be feeling left out, but I don’t. I should feel isolated, but it hasn’t happened. And that makes me wonder why.

Maybe it is my age, I am comfortable with me, as I am, as long as I have access to books, computers, music, and my family. I keep up with my friends via social media, and letters, so I don’t feel lonely.

Maybe it is because I am too tired to make an effort to get to know people. When I think about it, I just can’t be bothered to go through all that social yada yada and make nice to strangers. I guess I want that feeling of instant recognition I had with those who are my dearest friends.

Maybe it is because people annoy me most of the time, and I am turning into the crabby cat lady that seems to live in every neighborhood. Because, I honestly think my pets need me more than most humans over the age of 16 need me.

Maybe it is because I don’t want to be friends with people who bore me, or worse, who are shallow and unsubstantial in their beliefs, actions, and thoughts. Heaven save me from women who shop, lunch, shop, do spa days, shop . . . I would go stark raving mad after one day with someone like that.

Maybe it is because I have the neighbors from hell with whom I have issues concerning their bullying behavior toward everyone else. The two of them are chummy as all get out, and try to force their idea of how things should be on everyone else.

Maybe it is because I just don’t quite trust the syrupy souther belle types, who bless my heart to my face, and treat me as gossip fodder when I am not there. Well, actually, they gossip about everyone who isn’t with them at the moment.

Or maybe, I just don’t care one way or the other. I think I should care, after all, humans tend to have that latent gene that makes them want to be part of a group. But I don’t care, and maybe that makes me a bit odd. Really, I would much rather read a book, be on line, researching, writing something, or spending time with my family that talking on the phone, chatting with people, or doing anything social. I guess I am turning in to the local crabby cat lady after all.

I Don’t Get It


So, I was out with Crystal today finalizing the order with the Cake Lady for the upcoming Baby Shower. We decided to go over to Joanne’s Craft and Fabric store to pick up a few things we need to prepare for the shower. I drive a honking big Silverado pickup truck, so it takes up plenty of space in the lane as I drive. I was driving the speed limit, 10 MPH, in the parking area. This crazy woman pulls in behind me and starts honking. I look up, decide she is in a hurry and that is too darned bad because I am not going to speed just to make her five seconds earlier to where she is going.

Because she started tailgating me, one of my biggest pet peeves about driving, I slowed down a bit more and took my time going where I needed to go. When I went around the parking area to head to the bookstore, she was at the end of it waiting to yell at me. I was tempted to go on, but me being me, I stopped and rolled down my window.

Me: “Do you have an issue?”

Crazy Racist Woman: “You have an issue!”

Me: “I do?” “What might that be?”

CRW: “Why don’t you just get out of that truck so I can kick your ass?”

Me: “Why should I do that? I am not going to fight with you, especially since I have no idea why you want to fight?”

CRW: “Your Mama!”

Me: “My Mama what? Died, laughed, went to the bathroom, what?”

CRW: “Screw you, bitch.”

Me: “No thanks, not into women.”

CRW: “Your Mama!”

Me: “Not into incest either.”

CRW: (now screaming at me) “Get out of that truck and I will kick your ass!”

Me: “Nope, because I have no reason to fight you.”

CRW: “You’re scared.”

Me: (looking her over) “Nope, not scared. Smarter than you. Because if I get out of the truck, you will hit me, I will call the cops, you will go to jail, and I will have to waste my time in court when they send you to jail for 3to six years for battery. I have better things to do, you ignorant cow.”

CRW: “You’re a scared white bitch. ‘Cause you know I will kick your ass.”

Me: “You already said that twice. You are beginning to repeat yourself too much. It is boring me, and you are still an ignorant cow because you can’t explain your rage.”
CRW: “F*** you, white bitch.”

Me: “I already told you, I am not interested in women. But, thanks for asking. And thanks for noticing I am a bitch. Took me a long time to be one. I used to be a real wall flower.

CRW: “I f***ing HATE white bitches like you, you racist pig.”

Me: “Hey, I am not the one throwing around hateful rhetoric and calling people names based on skin color here. You are. So who is the real racist?”

CRW: (Stomping off) “White Bitch!”

Me: “Actually, I am not white, I am beige, cow.”

CRW: “White bitch, racist f***ing bitch.”

Me: (Okay, I know it was snarky and rude, but I was getting tired of the woman.) “MOOOO”

She stomped into the store, I went round to the bookstore and she left Joanne’s before we got back. Too bad, I really wanted to see what she would do when she saw me in the store.

Nothing ticks me off more than someone honking and tailgating when I am doing the speed limit and obeying laws. That followed by her ignorant ranting nearly made me lose my cool and get out of the truck. I would have dearly loved to see her go to jail, but I managed, barely, not to go to her level. She was, as you might have surmised, a woman of color. In her rage, she only saw my skin, she didn’t talk to me, she raged at me from the moment she started talking. Instead of having a dialogue, she stuck to her racist and hateful behavior. I don’t get how she could be that angry over having to wait five seconds to get to her parking spot. I can only imagine what she must be like if someone does something dire, like walk in front of her car.

I don’t care if she is green with yellow polka dots. It is her automatic hate that bothers me. If I had been black, would she have been as hateful, or is it really just my skin color that annoys her to that degree?

I live in the deep south. This area is more black than white for the most part. I get along with every black person I meet. Most of them are great people, very polite, caring, and loving. The women are loud, strong, and passionate. The guys, well, they don’t talk to me much. Anyway, the only people I have run into with that kind of attitude are generally boys and girls in their teens. They wear baggy pants, shirts to their knees, and hoodies. They run in a pack, slouch when they walk, and all of them seem to have anger issues. They don’t bother me because I have an attitude that tells them I am not afraid, so bring it on if they dare. They don’t dare. Anyway, I don’t understand that kind of racist rage. I think the woman really needs some mental health help and a chill pill.

The Waltz – A true story from my past.


It was a typical winters evening in Nottingham. The streets were glistening with rain, the air was cold and damp, and the walk up the hill to catch the bus seemed extraordinarily long since I had stayed late doing my daily shopping in the City Centre.
As I trudged slowly along, my ears caught the sound of someone playing old tunes on a piano. I glanced up and saw, through a large window, an elderly gentleman playing on an old upright piano in what seemed to be a recreation room in a pensioner’s home for the elderly. The walls were industrial gray green, the floors cracked brown linoleum, and the furniture the dismal Formica and plastic found in many such places.
As I stood listening to the piano player, he began to play a waltz. Suddenly, out of the shadowed corner of the room, a couple began the long sweeping steps of an old-fashioned ball-room waltz. The man was stooped with age, and the tiny, white haired woman seemed fragile in his arms. As the danced, they gazed into one another’s eyes with winsome smiles. They moved in perfect harmony, born, no doubt, of many years of dancing together.
The cold, wet evening seemed to disappear as I gazed at the dancing couple and in my mind’s eye, they were no longer elderly, but, instead, I saw a young, tall pilot in his RAF uniform dancing with a beautiful, dark haired girl with smiling eyes. A couple, obviously, in the first steps of love and passion waltzing in a crowded ballroom lit by crystal chandeliers and candle light. As he held her close in his arms, they began the steps that would lead them into a life together. One filled with love, pain, worry, and joy. As the waltz ended, he softly kissed her temple and swore he loved her.
The strains of the old piano faded and I was abruptly brought back to that rainy winter night, and the elderly couple stood in the middle of the floor as he softly kissed her temple. Hand in hand they slowly turned and walked back into the shadows of the room. The street was unexpectedly quiet without the music and the wind rushed around the corners of the buildings bringing freezing rain, but I felt warm in the glow of the light spilling from the window of the pensioner’s home and the small slice of life I had just witnessed in a waltz between a man and a woman who would love each other for eternity.

The Lost Art of Swearing: Disclaimer, NOT MY WORK. I just thought it was SO funny.


As excerpted from the University of Wisconsin Student Voice – 15 April 1999

Everyone can swear, but very few can do it with any degree of style.
The art of swearing has all but disappeared from our modern language. Gone are the days of witty insults and stinging barbs. What used to be a creative process has been replaced by a short list of four-letter words.
When was the last time you heard a guest on the “Jerry Springer Show” call someone a “knotty-pated fool,” or “obscene greasy tallow-catch,” (a tallow-catch was a large tub used to collect the waxy drippings from candle making)?
These clever Shakespearean invectives have been swallowed up by unintelligent, unimaginative and overused swear words.
Anyone can use a common swear word, but a truly creative person would strive for the uncommon.
Shakespeare loved insults, invectives and curses. He was a master of the art of swearing, whether through a full-blooded volley of words or a quick, sharp barb. Some are even almost too graphic to say out loud.
So instead of hearing, “Away, you scullion! You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!” the viewing audience hears an annoying string of beeps.
These garden-variety insults have wormed their way so deep into American culture that we have forgotten what a true insult really is.
How much heat is really behind a five-letter word for a female dog? We have become desensitized to these worthless excuses for swearing. There is no other way to explain the emergence of these words on prime-time television. With the exception of the mother of all swear words, what haven’t you heard broadcast across the networks?
The viewing audience and newspaper readers deserve more witty repartee from writers than what the guests on “Springer” are capable of engaging in.
People have simply become complacent. Who wouldn’t rather hear someone called a “lump of foul deformity,” a “poisonous bunch-backed toad,” an “elvish-marked, abortive rooting hog?”
Even those who wrote in classical Latin had more imagination when it came to hurling insults at each other.
Plautus once said, “Do me a favour and get that twaddle-talking tongue of yours surgically removed from your mouth.” Which is infinitely more inventive than a simple shut-up could ever be.
So the next time you find yourself in a situation that requires a witty epitaph, consider these. They are considerably more imaginative and effective than the commonly used utterances. You can thank Shakespeare later.
The all-purpose insult: “Were I like thee I’d throw away myself,” or “You are as a candle, the better part burnt out.”
Curses: “Son of sixteen, / Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire; / With it beat out his brains!”, “Gods give me strength to endure the torture of your company!” or “Thou cream-faced loon!”
Threats: “Let me go grind their bones to powder small / And with this hateful liquor temper it; / And in that paste let their vile heads be baked.”

Other Clean Insults:
“I beg your pardon! I had not realised how utterly outmatched you are by me. As worthy as you are of a good thrashing, there is no honour in shaming one who is less than a fool.”

“You have the face of a swamp troll, and the brains of half of one.”

“May each of your days be worse than the last and may you live forever!”

“Do you realise that you are depriving a village somewhere of an idiot?”

“Is ignorance really bliss, or are you just faking it?”

“Anyone with half a brain could have figured that out! Oh, pardon, I forgot for a moment who I was speaking to.”

“Your tongue trips over your words as if they were obstacles set before you.”