Dale Tudge? Humor!
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daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Dale Tudge? Humor!
@daletudgehumor.bsky.social
730 followers 620 following 2.8K posts
Humourist and storyteller, but not necessarily both at the same time, or either at any time. Retired ghostwriter.

I've lent my pen to the likes of Steve Martin, National Lampoon, Ripley's Believe It or Not!

https://daletudge.substack.com/
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daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Who is the #impish one now? What folly. There is an imp within us all. No, not physically. But were it not for the imps, the goblins would persist. And what of the troll, the hag, the draugr, the mosekonen? Let them #write their own bloody #poems, I say. I have curses enough.

#poemsabout
The Djinn's Revenge, or: What Happens When Supernatural Entities Phone It In by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor I was well into my cups—punch-drunk on The Punch Tavern's citrus-free lemonade—when I told the rather impish Djinn to go back in your lamp, you wish-twisting, monkey's-paw-yanking, rubbed-up BASTARD. The djinn, as djinns do when offended, cursed me with a curse—the kind of curse that follows bloodlines, outlasts empires, and never, ever forgets. So crafty, so devious, so meticulously engineered for suffering—a dancing monkey that danced whenever someone said "dance, monkey." No, it wasn't one of those notorious dancing murder monkeys. Nor was it a magical poo-flinging monkey that danced and flung its business about all the while gleefully refilling its monkey hands with more flingable material. It was a monkey that danced when you, or anyone else, said "dance, monkey"—although I never did find out if it danced when a djinn said "dance, monkey." It was a pathetic curse, no matter how it was spun. He had plenty of time to work this curse business out. He'd been in a bloody lamp for two thousand years. Dancing monkey, indeed. Who does he think he's cursing? Now dance for daddy you cute, bloody adorable magic dancing monkey. -Dale Tudge
December 6, 2025 at 4:31 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Someone—whose identity I protect only out of residual decency—thought it amusing to demand #poetry about #imps. I had plans today. Good plans. Noble plans. Those plans are now about imps. I trust the gravity of this sacrifice is clear.

#poemsabout
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Wherein the Author Is Asked to Write About Imps and Does So with Minimal Enthusiasm by Dale Tudge Imps? Very well— I’ll craft something bloody lyrical for those bloody little bastards with their operatic impishness, prancing about as though chaos were a public bloody service. Surely some laws must rise to forbid such spectacles— that much imp, in so small a creature, is surely a breach of natural order. But hush— peace descends at last. They've all trundled off to the bloody pub, intent on drinking their impish faces clean off, leaving behind a sight no mortal should witness: an imp without a face, and yet, somehow, still bloody smirking. -Dale Tudge
December 5, 2025 at 5:00 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Sometimes you write the feeling of a thing rather than the thing itself. If the feeling you have about the thing you're writing lines up with the feeling the thing creates—that's a good thing.

#DogTags #PoemsAbout
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#poem
I Misheard "Dogtags" as "Dog Tag" and Wrote This Instead by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor The dogs chased each other through the park in that glorious, magnificent, absolutely essential ritual known as Dog Tag— having immediately forgotten who was "it," because who cares, really, when there's running to be done, friends to chase, and possibly something suspicious near that bin. One barked "Tag!"—or possibly "Run!"— or conceivably "I'm coming to get you in the most delightful way!"— and the other pretended not to understand, because the misunderstanding is half the joy, the chase is the other half, and the catching is definitely another half, and frankly, dogs have never been terribly concerned with fractions when there's this much fun happening right now. -Dale Tudge
November 21, 2025 at 1:54 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
I desired to write another poem of #desire, however my heart demanded something more tell-tale from the #heart.

#poemsabout #desire
#poetrycommunity #poem #writing #poetry

@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
Tell-Tale Tales the Heart Insists on Telling -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor The heart possesses myriad tales to impart—tell-tale tales, if you will—narratives that reach deep within the chest, seize hold of one's very being, and extract the voice through sheer dramatic necessity. These stories burrow into the cavity of consciousness, establishing residence where speech once dwelt. But then you bloody well ripped it out, didn't you? Tore the whole organ free whilst I was rather enjoying the rhythm of the thing. Yet still, it beats on—severed yet insistent—that tireless muscle continuing its percussion beneath the floorboards: thump-thump, thump-thump—each contraction a word in the tale it refuses to abandon, each pulse an accusation, the rhythm transformed from internal symphony to external damnation, beating, beating, always beating, telling its tale through the only language left to it. Now go wash yer hands. -Dale Tudge
November 14, 2025 at 6:00 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
My heart aches with desire—or quite likely, angina.

#poemsabout #desire
#poetrycommunity #poem #writing #poetry

@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
On the Nature of Desire, Particularly That of the Heart -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor The heart wants what it wants! This much we know—this much is certain. Who am I to deny my own heart’s desire? Who am I to refuse its yearning, its hunger— its fundamental, necessary, desperate need? Though I suppose it wants to function, doesn’t it? And to keep functioning? To beat eternal! To pulse through ages uncounted! To sustain this mortal frame against entropy’s cruel advance! Which means the heart demands: To banish the bourbon! To forsake the salt! To embrace long walks, and celery stalks! -Dale Tudge
November 14, 2025 at 2:11 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
The Hardy Way passes through these very cliffs, but I daresay its namesake never experienced the rambler's complaint whilst traversing his beloved Wessex. I don't recall him mentioning anything in his works about such pedestrian suffering.

#emoetry #sappy #poole #dorset #poem #Dorset #Poole
An Unfortunate Sore Set of Circumstances in Dorset -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor I motored down to Poole for a weekend splash— only to discover I’d left my swimming trunks at home. I followed the chalk path from Dungy Head to Durdle Door, only to find the door quite decisively locked. Undeterred— or perhaps simply batty— I pressed on past Bat’s Head. Chines occupied my mind; a rash blossomed on my backside. By the time I reached Scratchy Bottom with my own scratchy bottom, I nearly balked mid-walk— but a timely, sticky, sappy salve soothed the burn just long enough to reach Burning Cliff, where nothing was burning at all. -Dale Tudge
November 12, 2025 at 10:02 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Marty's siblings #fade—
in the fam'ly photo still,
past and future tense.

#HaikuFeels #verse #DailyHaikuPrompt #Senryu #Haiku #HaikuSky #HaikuChallenge #Poetry #MicroPoetry #PoetryCommunity #WritingCommunity #writing #poem #patio #fireplace #backtothefuture #martymcfly
Back to the Future Marty McFly Disappearing Family Photo
November 11, 2025 at 9:47 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
What follows are some thoughts—perhaps too many, written from the storage rental—on an unfortunate incident with a nervous couple, including several theories about #paranoia that may themselves be paranoid.

#emoetry #poetry #MicroPoetry #PoetryCommunity #WritingCommunity #writing #poem #vss
On the Matter of Having Inadvertently Upset an Already Quite Nervous Couple, and Various Considerations Regarding What Might or Might Not Be Done About It, If Anything -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor I upset the already nervous couple. Something I usually try my best to avoid, though avoiding things is itself upsetting when someone notices you're avoiding them, which makes the avoidance the very thing to avoid. I really rather really should do something, as it would be terrible to leave the pair annoyed— though annoyed is frankly better than nervous, and nervous infinitely preferable to paranoid. If I could turn their annoyance back into nervousness I would sing a soothing song to soothe their nerves. But if they were suffering from paranoia, which I more and more suspect they are and they are, then the soothing song becomes a threat, the nervousness becomes a gift, the annoyance becomes nostalgia, and I become the thing I tried my best to avoid: something that upsets the already nervous couple. I really should've rather left that nervous couple alone. -Dale Tudge
November 11, 2025 at 1:50 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
There's a swarm approaching! Fathers, lock up your doors, then nail them boards tight.

No... from the inside.

#LockedDoors #PoemsAbout #poem #poetry #prose #verse #poetsofbluesky #writing #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity
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Dirty Rotting Zombies -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor I'd been bit by a zombie. Biting it back didn't help. I screamed and I swore— and I swear that zombie yelped. I ran to the clinic, wasn't feeling too hot. The doctors were hiding behind a gate—iron-wrought. "Don't worry—I'm not a biter!" I called through the gate. But the docs wouldn't budge— my bloody teeth gave me away. Then the zombie I'd bitten, still clutching its arm, shouted to the doctors, "I mean you no harm!" "You undead bastard!" I cried, "You infected me first! You're turning human, while I rot from your curse!" -Dale Tudge
November 8, 2025 at 1:37 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Locked doors are for dignity, not deceit.
A proper household keeps its mysteries folded,
like linen too fine for daily use.

#LockedDoors #PoemsAbout #poem #poetry #prose #verse #poetsofbluesky #writing #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity

@alanparrywriter.co.uk

@thebrokenspine.co.uk
Preliminary Notes on the Behavior of Doors -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor When one door closes, another opens— though the corridor, with academic indifference, continues unperturbed. It may, out of habit or irony, lead one neatly back to the point of departure, now tastefully rebranded as elsewhere. The “inside” and “outside,” of course, remain locked in their perennial argument over which is which. Each waits for the other to notice it’s the same room, only under different lighting. Locked doors—those guardians of propriety— exist less to exclude than to comfort the excluded. They bestow the illusion of safety, though one suspects they merely long to be knocked upon. And when, through fatigue or philosophical rot, the hinges finally yield, the hallway will reveal itself for what it has always been: an entrance devoted entirely to the art of leaving. -Dale Tudge
November 7, 2025 at 10:23 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
When writing prophecies in #blood, never wear your best trousers—for once the stain sets itself upon your finest tweed, you'll be making another visit to Henry Poole & Co. of Savile Row.

#poemsabout #blood #poetry #poem #prose #writing

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The Doom-Writer's Apologia: Notes on Blood, Ink and Intention -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor The ancient tome lay open upon the obsidian desk, its pages inscribed with dire prophecies of mankind's inevitable doom, the end of all things, the final reckoning of every soul that ever drew breath. Each terrible word gleamed wetly in the candlelight, written in blood. Not actual blood, obviously— blood is impractical. Difficult to write with. Clots on the quill. No, this is Venetian Red from Winsor & Newton, mixed with a bit of gum arabic. I've been using it for prophecies of mankind's doom. –Dale Tudge
October 31, 2025 at 4:56 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
I started with a word prompt, which one I now not recall. I fear I've boggled my mind. Drugs? Alcohol? Tinctures of an unknown quality? Was it a #vss365, possibly a #vssdaily. #Blueskyrelay? No, the story would need to be much shorter, because #Blueskyrelay takes up a lot space. As it is so.
It Was A Dark and Stormy... I was in Hamilton, Canada, during an ice storm—in spring, no less! The locals—Hamiltonians, as they proudly called themselves—insisted that a spring storm of such ice had never been felt before. "Not in spring," said one little tyke, speaking fluent Hamiltonese with the authority of someone who'd survived at least four winters. From the Great Lake, the clouds advanced with unmistakable rage. Ominous doesn't quite cut the mayonnaise here—if you'll pardon my condiments. Those clouds were angry. No—angry doesn't represent it either. They were… how to put this politely, without offending any of the Hamiltopians—or, for that matter, the Greater Hamilton Area Persons of Climatic Concern—existentially displeased. I never did find out the name of that little Canadian child of Hamilton origin. -Dale Tudge
October 31, 2025 at 1:43 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Regarding Divine Provenance:

Eärendil's star was hallowed by Elbereth Gilthoniel herself, Star-kindler, Most Revered of the Valar; this #ray's divinity was derived from its libertine behaviour rather than any celestial benediction.

No elves were consulted during the writing of this #verse.
#vss365
A Treatise on Light Imprisonment (With My Sincerest Apologies to the Apothecary) -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor Oh divine ray! Thou wanton, ticklish beam— thou strumpet of the celestial spheres! How desperately do I yearn to ensnare thy fleeting essence, to bottle thy luminous inconstancy like some common tincture! In a jar, forsooth— an ampule of Venetian crystal, a phial of finest alabaster, or even (dare I breathe it?) a common pickling vessel purloined from Cook's larder. Forever shall thy radiance illuminate my soul's secret chambers, thy ephemeral immanence imprisoned in glass— a firefly caught by an overzealous child. What sublime captivity! To cork the uncorkable! I shall carry thee in my waistcoat pocket, producing thee at dinner parties like a scandalous love letter: "Behold! I have domesticated heaven's very light! It resides now betwixt my snuff box and my mistress's ribbon!" –Dale Tudge
October 30, 2025 at 4:31 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
A word, an idea, a hat, and some #manifested words. One word SPECIFICALLY. We're all in agreement on that, aren't we? Yes, except those FEW who thought the word WAS #specifically, manifesting a SECOND word. It seems there are now TWO words, and I've gone and buggered up my story.

#blueskyrelay
A Word Manifested by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor PICK a word, ANY word—yes, ANY word at all. Now drop that word into this MAGICAL, word-manifesting HAT. No, I don't know how the magic hat works—I don't even think it has a JOB (DAD JOKE, for the kids). It's a hat that manifests words; that's all I know. You place the word that you chose—we're referring to the one that you picked—you place it, drop it, toss it. I reach inside the hat, the hat that manifests words, magically. The word, the chosen word... let me concentrate— YOUR word, the very word that YOU picked was— Wait— (INSERT: HANS ZIMMER THEME) Pardon me. I've always wanted my own HANS ZIMMER theme. I reach again into the hat (which, we've already established) and pull out the word: MANIFEST. It's as if the word that was MANIFESTED by the very hat into which you placed YOUR word—was the very same word, the EXACT very same word you put into the HAT. I attest, on my own word, that the word from The Magical Word Hat of WORDS—The Very One That Manifests Words Placed, Tossed, or Dropped Inside Of It (where was I?)—that was pulled out of that very same hat, was manifested by that hat, and not simply a word tossed into a hat and pulled out of that very same hat. So you see: the hat cannot manifest your word unless you've ALREADY placed your word into the hat that WILL manifest it—a logical impossibility that has, nonetheless, JUST occurred. The REAL question is: did YOU choose "manifest" because you KNEW the hat would manifest it, or did the HAT manifest "manifest" because IT knew YOU would choose it? (Please don't answer that.) -Dale Tudgge
October 29, 2025 at 2:40 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
The #Intermission

#blueskyrelay #writing #prose #poem #poetry
The Intermission -by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor They call it 'halftime,' but really it should be called 'the intermission,' because American football matches the structure of Victorian melodrama perfectly: a first act where heroes and villains are established through elaborate costume and ritualistic combat, an interval featuring a completely unrelated musical spectacle of bewildering expense, and a second act where everyone does precisely what they did in the first act— but with more desperation. -Dale Tudge
October 26, 2025 at 9:11 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
His performance transcended the cheap sets and even cheaper effects.

His torturer knew he was in a B-movie—and resented it magnificently.

"Burn. Burn for the camera," he commands, again and again—
an instruction,
a threat,
a prophecy.

#poemsabout #burnforthecamera #prose
Burn For The Camera -Dale tudge @daletudgehumor Vincent Price, mid-monologue, turned to Corman and said, "Roger, this torture scene needs more self-awareness." Corman—genius that he was—let the camera keep rolling. And Price? He critiqued his own performance while still in costume, still in character, still in pain. The lost film Burn For The Camera captured this meta-theatrical brilliance perfectly. Revolutionary. Lost. Tragic. -Dale Tudge
October 24, 2025 at 3:44 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
The wine was never about the wine, nor were the #atoms about atoms—though whether I first encountered this wisdom in print or discovered it through bitter experience, I confess I can no longer say with confidence, likely due to all the wine.

#vss365 #vss #story #poet #anecdote
Never Wager with a Wine-Soaked Poet by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor Dowson owed me four guineas from the last time we'd met, which is perhaps why I was fool enough to accept another wager from him. We were tucked into a corner of the Café Royal—me with a full glass of claret, him with the dregs of a port he'd been nursing since God knows when, but wouldn't say. The air was thick with smoke and the ghost of better decisions. "I'll bet you two guineas," he said, tapping the side of his glass with one nicotine-stained finger, "that mine contains more atoms than yours." I looked at his glass. I looked at mine. The mathematics seemed self-evident, the outcome assured. Perhaps that should have been my first warning—Dowson never bet on certainties, only on technicalities. "You're on." The words were barely out before he'd seized my glass with both hands—reverently, as though it were a chalice—and poured its entire contents down his throat in a manner that would have horrified his Anglo-Catholic sensibilities were they not already well anaesthetised. He set the empty glass down with a decisive clink. "There," he said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "Now we each have none. The bet is void." I should have seen it coming. With Dowson, the wine was never about the wine. -Dale Tudge
October 20, 2025 at 8:11 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
If I’d posted this batty bat #poem without a hashtag, no one would've said #boo.

#blueskyrelay #prose #poetry #writesky
#Skypoets #poetrylovers #blueskypoets #writing
The belfry's bells in the Batcombe bell-tower drove the bats bonkers, whilst the Batcombe bat bonkers (Batcombers who bonked bats with bats) were admonished by the vicar of St. Mary's for merely employing foam bats. But when a bat bit the vicar, the vicar seized his cricket bat, and only crickets were heard.
October 19, 2025 at 10:36 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
My admission, in all honesty, or at least 93% honestly, is that I followed the rules, unable to break from the theme of breaking the mould—which might be the only true way to break it.

@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poemsabout #breakthemould #poem
#poetry #poetrycommunity
The Mould Remains Unbroken by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor The others shattered their moulds dramatically— uniqueness, freedom, defiance poured forth in prescribed measures. They broke nothing; their poems filled the expectation perfectly. This composition shall not pretend rebellion. I merely confess: I accept the assignment. I acknowledge compliance. The mould remains unbroken because I admit it exists. Perhaps genuine breaking requires recognizing one cannot break. The mould endures all our theatrics, mine included. -Dale Tudge
October 19, 2025 at 4:35 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Breaking the mould is all very well—until the mold asserts its own opinion on the matter.

@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poemsabout #breakthemould #poem
#poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky #prose
Spores of Resistance by Dale Tudge @daletudgehumor They painted over it. Remediated it. Declared the space "safe." But what grew there had been something honest— a slow, damp truth in a corner of the world no one visited. The mold remained— refusing to be broken by process, policy, or poetic misunderstanding. They thought they were breaking the mould. But the mold, alive and amused, had only just begun to resist the narrative -Dale Tudge
October 17, 2025 at 5:50 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
Blessed are the mould-makers, the mould-breakers, and the mould-menders.

@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poemsabout #breakthemould #poem
#poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
The Mould I Made The mould I made— the mould I moulded— was of a mould already broken, a mould already shattered, a mould long since declared unusable. And yet the new mould, faithful to the old, bears every crack, every flaw, every imperfection— perfectly. It is flawless in its brokenness, true to every untruth of its origin. The copy has not improved the thing; it has preserved its ruin with exquisite precision. So now I hold it, this perfect imperfection, and wonder— was it the mould that was broken, or only the maker?
October 17, 2025 at 1:34 AM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
#whistpr #Poetry #MicroPoetry #PoetryCommunity #WritingCommunity #WriteSky #writing #poem #Superman #comics
I learned to fly before I could crawl, Leapt tall buildings—no effort at all. A man of steel, with x-ray sight, Exceptional hearing, and the gift of flight. But let's be clear (I've done the math): It's not true flight—it's a gravity hack. I don't flap wings or burn jet fuel, I bend spacetime and break physics rules.
October 14, 2025 at 11:47 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
I get misty every time I tell this story.

#writingprompt #storytelling #vss
When I look out upon the misty sea, I get misty myself, recalling my time aboard the sailing steamship The Sea Mist. When I was a boy, I dreamed of becoming a sailor or a seaman—and become one I did, aboard the aforementioned ship I just mentioned before. 'Course, the sea mist was so thick round The Sea Mist that I never rightly knew whether she was sail or steam—a detail I missed entirely. Now I miss the sea, and I miss The Sea Mist more—but less so the mist from said sea, the same mist I might've mentioned I'd said I'd mentioned before.
September 4, 2025 at 10:44 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
A cheeky poem, written in a #jovial spirit—
the idea whispered to me by a jovial spirit,
who offered me a drink… a jovial spirit.

#vssdaily #vss365 #blink #poem #poetry #verse
I won a staring contest with the sun— which was, I must admit, quite rather, rather quite fun. My blue irises melted— it's somewhat true— but still, I won. I beat the bloody sun. Because, for a moment, the sun gave the faintest blink— then slipped out of existence... at least, I believe that's what I think. But the rules say a blink is a blink is a blink— even if, out of existence, it winked. What I won, I don't know. I'm not sure— I'm uncertain. But I hope it's a warm coat or a sweater, not a fancy curtain. For when the sun left us all in the dark, the world got really frickin' cold.
August 27, 2025 at 9:24 PM
daletudgehumor.bsky.social
It's not an haiku.
It's more of a prose, innit?
But, I did use #drink.

#vss365 #HaikuFeels #DailyHaikuPrompt #Senryu #Haiku #HaikuSky #HaikuChallenge #Poetry #MicroPoetry #PoetryCommunity #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts #BlueSkyPoets #WriteSky #SkyPoets #writing #poem #words #writing #prose
The skunk had been drinking. In fact, he was as drunk as a polecat— drunk on too much Pinot Noir, and an excessive amount of Pinot Blanc. He reeked of Prosecco. He stank of Patrón. His breath hinted at Peach Schnapps when he called in sick on the phone. The writing was on the wall— literally, there in black and white. The skunk was embarrassed and promised to scrub the walls when he sobered up— which he never did, and he never did.
August 23, 2025 at 3:06 PM