…….was reading a comic, when the radio crackled into life. Gormley sighed; now he would never know how Little Willy Woozer and His Magic Underpants had overcome his arch-nemesis, Too Much Poo. But it was 1943 and the Jerries would insist on their war.

“Captain, C for Harold calling, C for Harold. Captain, do you read?”
Gormley flipped the switch to reply to “Dyslexic” Jones in the adjacent aircraft. “I was bloody well trying to, Jones. What is it now?”
“Three Fokkers are on your tail, Captain-”
“I’ve told you about that kind of language, Jones.”
“But Captain, they’re coming in at ten o’clock.”
“Idiot!” stormed Gormley, “It’s not even eight yet.”

Suddenly both wings of Gormley’s plane disintegrated and the plane plummeted downwards. Gormley realized he was done for - his parachute was on the other side of the blazing fuselage.

“Oh Lord!” cried Gormley, anguished. “Save me! Not for myself, but an innocent animal. My dear mother suffers from Rabid Halitosis and is unable to feed Tabby, our beloved cat. Should I fail to return, the beast will be dead of starvation within a week.”

The Deity chose to remain silent. However, Gormley’s plea did strike a chord in a most unlikely spot: the bosom of The Author, a miserable, depressive sort of fellow who spent his life denigrating those with more literary talent than himself. Somehow, his stony heart was touched.

“Oh, why not!” he muttered, and, with his usual plethora of typos and misspellings, wrote: “Fortunettly for Gormmley, his faithfull batman, Robin, had pakked a spare parashoot.”

“Thank you, thank you!” cried Gormley. However the parachute was not needed, as at that very moment the plane crashed.

Perhaps the Dieties had heard Gormley. He was in fact returning from bombing the Zonderbaum Feather Mattress Factory. (British Intelligence had ascertained that a sleep-deprived Army is vulnerable; thus, all mattress factories in Germany were Allied targets.) As a result, the field in which Gormley crashed was fifty feet deep in feathers.

The smell of burning feathers was choking. Gormley leapt from the plane to realize it was actually a German Buddhist goose that had doused itself in petrol and set itself alight as a protest against the factory conditions.

“Food, water, shelter," muttered Gormley, retrieving the burnt goose remains. “Travel only by night."
His survival training sprang into operation. By careful reconnaissance he was able to calculate that, due to lack of daylight, it was probably night. Thus, with a heart full of noble purpose, he struck off across the fields.
He was never seen again.

Sixty years later, historians have pieced together Gormley’s last days.
Medical tests conducted by a German doctor in1943 showed indisputably that Gormley had actually died on impact. It was only his steely resolve to save Tabby that had kept him going. However, he had begun to smell so badly that the locals had insisted on giving him a decent burial, handcuffed and shackled, with a stake driven through his heart. The location of his grave is lost.

Sadly, as Gormley predicted, poor Tabby died of starvation, drawing a curtain across one of the most poignant of wartime stories.
Oh, yes, Mrs. Plingbatt-Snopes replaced Tabby with a donkey.

At night the donkey comes. At least I think it’s a donkey. I suppose it could be a mule or an Asiatic Wild Ass. I’ve never been much of a zoologist. However, I do know it isn’t a horse; I can definitely tell a horse from a donkey.

It doesn’t sound half as terrifying as it is. After all, what’s wrong with donkeys? They are generally considered to be affable animals, useful if somewhat stubborn, a genuine boon to human progress. Yet, my family dreads his arrival each night.

He hasn’t caused any damage; at least no physical damage. The psychological trauma he has inflicted on all of us is unknowable. If we keep the curtains closed and the shades drawn, we don’t even see him. Nevertheless, we know he’s there. Every night, when the sun goes down, he arrives to skulk about our lawn and peer into our windows. No matter which window we try, pulling up a corner of the blind reveals a flaring nostril or a beady eye.

I tried calling the police. “Hello, I have a donkey in my yard.”

They didn’t understand. “Sir, raising livestock within city limits is a class three misdemeanor punishable by a fine of up to one-thousand dollars.”

“It isn’t MY donkey!”

“Are you calling to confess to a theft?”

“No! Look, this donkey started showing up a few nights ago. He hangs out in my yard all night and come morning, he is gone.”

“Is the donkey doing anything illegal?”

“Besides trespassing?”

“I’m afraid we can’t help you, sir. But, you must get rid of the donkey. Raising livestock within city limits is a…”

“I know, I know, a class three misdemeanor.”

If only I knew what the donkey wanted. My kids think he is looking for an ogre. My mother-in-law suggested that I might resemble a long-lost relative. I think it must have something to do with politics. I did have some campaign signs planted in the yard for the last election. When I told my wife my theory, her only response was, “It’s a good thing we aren’t republicans. An elephant would really damage the lawn.”

I have had enough. Tonight is the night. Instead of cowering in fear of the donkey, we are going to face him. Tonight we will let the donkey in.

Jimmy Whatever Blahblahblah was being escorted through the circus grounds by Freddy “Big Cheese” McGee, the circus owner. It was Jimmy’s first day on his first job. Normally, a healthy and reasonably intelligent person like Jimmy would have held several jobs by the age of 26, but prospective employers rarely got past his name on a job application before assuming he wasn’t serious about wanting employment.

He’d just been hired to clean up after the animals and Big Cheese was familiarizing him with the areas he’d need to focus on – which, it turned out, were everywhere. Kicking up dust as they walked behind the main tent, Big Cheese explained that the circus was comprised entirely of animals. There were no people anywhere, except for Freddy, his wife Helga (nicknamed “Swiss Cheese” due to her country of origin), and a couple of handlers: Clem and Wilberforce.

Jimmy was having a very difficult time adjusting to the concept of an animal-only circus. As he looked up at one of the circus’s attractions, his thin frame and oversized proboscis made him look like a flag on the 18th green of a golf course.

“Why is there a donkey on the high wire?” he asked.

Big Cheese followed his gaze and watched through slits in his puffy and swollen eyelids as the donkey hesitantly put one hoof in front of the other on a wire twenty feet above the ground.

“Because he refused to be shot out of the cannon,” Big Cheese replied.

He pointed toward a cannon several yards away, where Wilberforce was shoving a protesting chicken into the oversized barrel. Jimmy shifted his weight, what there was of it, from one foot to the other.

“Don’t you get protests from PETA?”

“Peter who?”

“People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”

Big Cheese bit down hard on the cigar that seemed to be permanently affixed to his lips. “These animals are treated perfectly ethically. They’re well fed and have an excellent health plan!”

Jimmy flinched as the cannon went off with a loud BOOM and shot a perfectly roasted chicken onto the ground fifty feet away. Big Cheese walked over to it while Jimmy followed.

“Of course, what we spend on the health plan means we have to skimp in other areas, like life insurance.”

Big Cheese picked the chicken up and brushed off clumps of dirt with his pudgy fingers. He looked at it for a moment, and Jimmy thought he saw a hint of sadness in his expression. Then it disappeared as Big Cheese lifted the chicken up by its legs and called out toward a trailer at the far edge of the fairground.

“Honey! Dinner’s ready!”

A friend and I signed up after a long night out on the town. When we woke up the next day, we had killer headaches and sign around our necks that read “Donkey in Training.” We tried to get out of it, but the contract was unbreakable. Jimmy and I were off to Hoof Camp.

The first week was the hardest. Taking passengers to the floor of the Grand Canyon isn’t for sissies, and the Donkey Drill Instructors were determined to weed out the weakest wannabes. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

To be a member of the Donkey Corp, you have to be fearless at all heights, so the first test was the Altitude Attitude. Taken straight from the diving horse act in Atlantic City, each Donkey in Training (DIT) was required to climb a 100 foot ramp. At the top, he or she was required to walk out onto a diving board and jump into the pool below.

Poor Sammy was the first to go. He was third generation Corp, and his dad and granddad were determined that he would follow in their hoofprints. But Sammy was terrified of heights. He managed to climb to the top, but there wasn’t any way that he was going to step one hoof off of that board. One of the DDIs started shouting at him, urging him to jump. Instead, Sammy sat down on the end and refused to budge. Finally, the DDI and a couple of DITs managed to push him off the board. He fell toward the pool, all four hoofs frantically pawing at the air, braying like he was about to be castrated without anesthesia. The noise was suddenly cut off as he hit the water. A dejected Sammy crawled out of the pool and wandered back to the stables to pack his saddlebags for the trip home.

The Corp prides itself on Drive, Determination and Discipline, and discipline is another lesson they teach early. Bubba came into camp with a little skill and a lot of attitude. The most physically fit of the group, there were rumors that he had chewed a few illegal plant steroids to improve his physique. Declaring that the morning workouts were for weaklings whose mothers ate grass, he decided to sleep in. When he showed up for the first training run, the DDIs had a special surprise for him. The rest of us were fitted with training saddles, each holding 10 pound weights, to get us used to carrying passengers. Bubba was fitted with a training saddle – and the Commandant’s 250 pound wife. That was the last morning workout that Bubba ever missed.

We just finished our fourth week, and Jimmy and I are both still here. If we can make it through Expletives and Aggressive Rider training, it should be smooth sailing until graduation, when Jimmy and I will become Donkeys, 2nd Class. My parents will be thrilled, and I will be one of the few, one of the proud, one of the Donkey Corp.

Setting:
Hotel lobby. Rear stage wall is two floors of room doors. An open-cage elevator connects the floors at center. Brad and Phil enter holding electronic room keys and luggage.

Phil: So give! What’ve you got planned for our Harvard debate? We can’t fail the MIT tradition and not pull off some prank!

Brad: Okay, but you can’t tell Sarah. She better not find out it was me.

Phil: Yeah, yeah, sure. But if you weren’t dating a member of their debate team, you wouldn’t have these conflicts of interest.

Brad: Okay, here’s the idea. We get an animal, dress it in their school colors, and have it on stage when the curtains open. I’ve arranged for it to be dropped off here soon. I figured we’d hide it in your room tonight.

Phil: My room?

Brad: Well, Sarah’s meeting me here for dinner and then…

Phil: Got it. So what animal?

Brad: A donkey.

(Dr. Wilma Stone, voluptuous, sensual academic has entered carrying her bags past the boys.)

Phil: DONKEY?!?

Stone: Donkey?

Brad: (Startled) Oh! Dr. Stone! Uh, just uh my nickname.

Stone: Really? (Showing interest.) Why is that?

Phil: Because he’s got a big (Brad elbows him.) -OOF- ass.

Stone: Sorry, Phillip, what was that last bit?

Brad: Oh, nothing, Dr. Stone. The nickname is a private joke, that’s all.

Stone: (Turning seductive) Private? Bradley, help me with my bags.

They turn upstage as Phil staggers off. Brad puts his room key into his back pocket but unknowingly misses as he goes to pick up Stone’s luggage.

Stone: As faculty advisor to the team, I think you need to meet me later to discuss some finer points of your form. Here’s my spare key. Shall we say around midnight? Caio.

Brad is left standing there with his mouth open, holding her room key as Sarah and Phil walk up.

Sarah: When I found Tweedle-Dum outside, I knew you couldn’t be far.

Brad: Oh! Hi, Sarah.

Phil: (Taking the room key from Brad with an evil grin.) Why don’t I just take this and I’ll see your bags and THE package get delivered to your room while you kids go have fun. (Goes to elevator with his bags)

Brad: No, wait, that’s not… (Looks at Sarah) … necessary.

Sarah: Package?

Brad: Oh nothing. It’s a surprise. (They go to exit)

Sarah: Funny thing. On the way in, there was a guy with a donkey out here. (There’s braying offstage)

Brad: (Does an about face) You know, there’s a side entrance that is closer to where we’re going. (They exit)

Dean Franklin exits his room, picks room key off the floor as Phil is returning to get Brad’s bags.

Franklin: Phillip, is this your key?

Phil: No sir. It must be Dr. Stone’s spare. She was here talking to us before she went up to her room. Do you want me to drop it off to her?

Franklin: (His eyes lighting up) Dr. Stone? Uh, no, I’ll drop it off myself. Personally. That is, I have some things to discuss with her about tomorrow’s activities. But first, where is the hotel bar?

I was leaning back in my office chair, napping and having the same recurring dream: I'm at the Super Bowl and I'm running back the opening kick off, but I'm wearing nothing but a pair of green and red argyle socks, and the opposing players are all elderly ladies dressed like Elvis impersonators. Suddenly the office intercom went off. "Mr. Garduntewl, your two o'clock is here."
I fell over backwards in my chair and banged my head on the stuffed muskrat. I got up and hit the intercom, "Thanks, Dolly, send her in in one minute." I got up and straightened the chair. I checked myself in the the reflection of my chrome George Foreman grill. My scar was still in place under my left eye. I grabbed my fedora from under the desk, and put it on: the fedora, not the desk. A moment later she walked in.
She was tall, with lucious lips, deep brown eyes, and cheekbones so high, you could cliff dive from them. She had legs that went on longer than an MTV Real World marathon. She wore a blue hat, blue blouse, and short blue blazer. "Hello," she said in a whisper, "I'm Anita, Anita Spainking."
I did my best not to laugh. "What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Spainking?"
"It's Miss," she said. She turned around and her shoulders slumped like the Atlanta Braves in the post-season. "I...I've lost my donkey," she said before bursting into tears.
I nodded to myself. I could tell she was a forgetful person. It was either that I had a sixth sense for these things or the fact she was not wearing a skirt and just had on a pair of panty hose and had a hair roller still on the back of her head helped clue me in. "A missing donkey, eh? Well, I've lost my ass before!"

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a magnificent castle on the top of a glass mountain. She was said to be very beautiful, but nobody really knew, since nobody ever saw her. Well, nobody who could tell the others, anyway.

Many princes tried to reach the top of the mountain, but none of them succeeded, because the glass was actually diamond and couldn’t therefore be roughened. Luckily no one realised the fact and so the mountain remained preserved as well as its secret.

In a village far away lived a boy called Jack and his mother. Since she was getting no younger, she wanted Jack to get married to have someone to look after him once she’s gone.

“All right,” said Jack one day when she reminded him again. “I’ll go and find myself a wife.”

But he, of course, longed to marry the princess from the glass mountain. He packed a few things and set off. He didn’t get very far when he met an old man.

“I know where you’re going, Jack,” he said.

“I bet,” the boy remarked.

“Just follow this path for three days and three nights and you’ll get to the mountain,” said the old man and vanished.

Jack did as he was told. He followed the path for three days and three nights – and died of exhaustion the fourth morning.

In a town a bit closer lived a rich merchant. In spite of his wealth, he was unhappy because he didn’t have anyone to share the money with and was getting no younger either. When he heard about the princess, he didn’t wait too long.

He decided to walk, as he knew there were robbers in the forests around the town and he didn’t want to attract too much attention. He walked – oh, by the way, let’s call him Robert, shall we? – the whole day and in the evening was clever enough to stop and find a shelter in the fork of branches of an oak tree.

He just fell asleep, when he was woken up by a loud noise from under the tree. He carefully looked down and saw a bunch of robbers having an argument with a magician, who happened to be their leader.

“Why did you want us to steal the damn animal?” one of the robbers asked and glanced rather nastily at a donkey that stood beside the magician, trying to look as innocent as it possibly could.

“Why, it’s a talking donkey!” the magician said.

“Someone’s been trying to be original,” thought Robert up the tree.

“So what?! It’s been rude to us all the way! It’s a nuisance!” the robbers protested.

“Nuisance, but not brainwashed,” remarked the donkey.

“Shut up!”

“Certainly, master,” said the donkey.

“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll get rid of it a.s.a.p.,” the magician promised.

They all went to sleep and the donkey hummed quietly to itself, apparently bored.

“Oh, hi,” it said to Robert, as he quietly climbed down the tree. “Will you rescue me or shall I wake them up?”

“Will you show me the way to the glass mountain or shall I cut your throat?” Robert replied.

“Deal,” said the donkey hurriedly.

It was a warm summer night and I was really excited about my mare that was about to have a foal. Her foal was due any day. I would more than likely keep the baby and take it to the local horse shows. As I was camping out in my barn I waited for any signs to show she was about to have the baby. Since I purchased her already in foal, I wasn’t positive who the sire was. They told me it was a very expensive and beautiful Quarter Horse stallion.

I shone the flashlight in the stall to see what my mare was doing. She was just standing there munching on hay. She had eaten all of her dinner and was likely not going to have the foal tonight. All night long I checked on her, but nothing. I kept hay in front of my mare at all times and was comforted by her continuous slow munching. She was starting to fill up with a lot of milk; the foal was coming soon.

The next day I looked into the stall, all that was there was a very pregnant mare looking back at me wonderingly. She had milk dripping and was starting to act restless. It would probably be coming tonight. I fed all the horses and gave them a lot of hay and water. I stood waiting in front of my the stall for a while before remembering she would probably have the baby at night. I went back inside and waited for the night to come.

It had to be tonight, it just had to! After waiting for several hours, I went back inside and came out about an hour and a half later. My mare was lying down and biting at her sides. This was it, the moment I had waited for! She stood up and started lying down again. For about two hours she just left me totally flabbergasted. Over and over again she was up and down for about two hours. Occasionally she would roll or do something silly to trick me. Nothing happened for a long time.

Finally she stayed lying down for a very long time and was breathing very heavily. This time it was really coming. I started wondering what the baby would look like and what gender it would be. I waited a little while and my mare started lifting her tail and pushing. I noticed a wet little nose inside the birth sac. Then came the ears, bigger then usual. I guessed maybe they just looked that way for now and the foal would grow into them. Then came the rest of the body. It went surprisingly easy for her. It took me a while to realize it, but the foal was unusually small even for a newborn. Oh no! They didn’t know for sure who the sire was. The baby was a donkey, it had to be! So many thoughts went through my mind. What was I going to do with a donkey? I had wanted all my friends to come and see it. I had this beautiful mare and wanted a beautiful foal I could show and look what I got! I guess a donkey isn’t that bad, in fact they are pretty cute. Well anyway, that’s the last time I ever purchased a mare in foal.