It’s that time of the week again, and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for the weekend. Before then, here is another story challenge for you:
Can you tell a story in 24 words using the following words in it somewhere:
- THESPIAN
- GOAT
- WONKY
Last week’s challenge was to write a story in 60 words using the following words in it somewhere:
- CULT
- ORANGE
- HOTEL
- FRANTIC
- CHICKEN
- BINGO
- EARS
Here are your hilarious stories:
Nicola Daly:
It was bingo night down at the Hotel Tacky Gold and the leader of the Orange Cult was losing. Badly. This was not good. Imagine: a man-baby throwing a tantrum; his minions running around like headless chickens, frantic to appease.
‘Look,’ said the chief minion, clapping his hands over his ears. ‘Just call out his numbers before it gets worse.’
Kate in Cornwall:
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“Go on, I’m all ears.”
“To get to the bingo, of course.”
“Right… We were frantic when you joined that cult, shaved your head…
“…feathers…”
“…feathers, and donned an orange robe.”
“You needn’t have worried.”
“No? What happened in that run-down, isolated hotel?”
“The chickens taught us to play bingo, of course.”
“Hmmm…”
The members of the cult of the orange king worshipped before the tasteless gold-plated hotel, hands metaphorically over their ears, impervious to all but the lies of their leader. They remained unmoved by the frantic clamouring of the rest of the world who were waiting in hope that the orange menace would chicken out again… And he did… Bingo!
When I returned it seemed some cult had taken over the hotel lobby of old ladies with died orange or blue hair sitting at tables looking at large cards and eating fried chicken.
A nun said, “Before.”
I was stumped. Before what? Christ – BC?
The crowd frantically scanned their cards.
A great-great grandma with large ears yelled, “Bingo!”
Oh, “B-4”!
Murray Clarke:
Bingo, the outrageous orange chicken – best known for her long, floppy ears – enjoyed a cult following, due to an unwavering belief that eggs should be allowed to hatch naturally, and the chicks live a life of luxury in a five-star hotel – if that’s what they wanted to do – and thus avoid the frantic pace of life in the 21st century.
A van carrying members of the Orange Cult rushed to the hotel to play bingo.
With windows wide open to push the sound out to any ears available, willing to hear or not, they sang their theme song, “Bird Is the Word”, over and over again as a frantic chicken in the middle of the road yelled: “I’m crossing here!”
“Seven evenings – all booked!”
“Great – what have we got?”
“Monday, it’s Bingo.”
“Traditional, but boring.”
“Tuesday, the Hotellier’s Annual Hootenanny.”
“Hmm.”
“Wednesday, a lecture on the occult.”
“Nice.”
“Thursday, Bears Protection Society AGM.”
“Good cause.”
“Friday, Chicken Little – film club.”
“Seen it.”
“Saturday, an ‘Oranges for Freedom’ party.”
“Really?”
“Yup! Sunday, Wolfran Tickle’s book-signing.”
“His book about weasels?”
“ ‘fraid so.”
Ah yes, the Orange Cult. Do you remember, back in the day? Absolute lunatic at the head of it all, big in the hotel business, from what I recall. Orange face and ears. Weird chap. It was like he played bingo with every country’s economy he came across. Sometimes he would give interviews and come across like some frantic chicken.**
** This story bears no resemblance to people either living or dead. You ain’t suing my ass…
Pete:
In the shabby hotel meeting room the marathon Chicken Bingo Game ground on into the next morning. A classic orange cult, head in the sand pastime. The prize being a bucket of Kentucky Fried. Leggs Eleven, the frantic mob boss, grabbed the Bingo number caller by the ears shouting, “Said needed Two Fat Ladies!” he spat “Not Two Little Ducks!”
The hotel room reeked of orange peels and cigarette smoke. A frantic knock shook the door. Earl, trembling, whispered, “The cult found us.”
“Don’t panic,” Eileen replied. “It’s the chicken wings we ordered.”
Hearing voices coming from the adjoining room, they pressed their ears to the wall. Eileen heard someone call out, “Bingo!” Whoever it was had the winning card.
They were exiting the hotel after a raucous bingo game and saw an orange chicken cross their path. “Oh my” remarked Jinger, “that chicken looks frantic and my ears can’t stand that squawking!”
“Well this is where cults practice voodoo…maybe it’s running for its life!” The couple took a long look in both directions and decided to head back inside.
In East Los Angeles you can get a cheap room at the Frantic Hotel where it is said that a dark cult left a spell on room 1232. I requested this room when I went there for a weekend to play bingo, eat orange chicken with rice, and for dessert afterwards I feasted on the delicious deep fried elephant ears.
The Orange Hotel is the home of the Frantic Ears cult. Daily, members make their way down the hall from their rooms to the out of order escalator that takes them to the entrance of the Grande Restaurant. The menu choice is an unrecognizable chicken entree they will all ingest before indulging in the all night marathon of blacklight bingo.
At the Orange Hotel, a frantic man burst in, clutching a squawking chicken. “The cult is after me!” he shouted. Guests paused their bingo game, eyes wide. A bellhop with large ears whispered, “Room 6.” Inside, candles flickered. The chicken clucked once—ominously. Moments later, silence. Only the faint hum of chanting remained behind the door.
The Cult of the Fuzzy Orange Chicken was due to meet at the Estonia Hotel. It was all going so well. Everyone was wearing Blue ears as directed by their leader Hyram C. Bingo. But then a passing Stag do called in for beer and pies. The Orange Chickens were frantic as their ears were stolen. What a clucking disaster!
Sanny M:
His ears pricked up – did someone say chicken? He’d been going mad for days since being shut in the hotel with only oranges to eat. The only sound from the bingo caller in the next room. Was this a dream or some weird cult?
The hotel management cult-ivated an orange grove on the property. One day a chicken got into the trees and began pecking the oranges. She would cackle ‘BINGO!’ every time she finished one. The managers were frantic, as their ears kept hearing, BINGO over and over. Later that night, the chef presented a fried chicken dinner for the evening meal. BINGO!
Tony:
One-night cult, dying orange,
in the frenzied hotel with leprous walls.
A roasted chicken laughs under the neon lights.
Bingo rings—the hell is applauded.
Ears hang out, drunk on prayers.
Everything speaks. Nothing listens.
The angels flee the corridors.
The real, made up, sells its soul
for a warm caress
in the dark moist
of a room without sky.
The Orange Footed Chicken Cult bingo game organizer went into a frantic fit when discovering the ears of corn, which were to be the prizes, came up missing. His life passed before him, and the vision in his brain of a Popeye’s menu could not be shaken away.
We were in a bingo group, more like a cult, really. The group met weekly in an orange conference room in a local hotel.
Everyone frantically grabbed bingo cards and sat with dabbers close by. The caller yelled out numbers, our ears tuned in, no one talking. A woman with a chicken leg in her mouth called “Bingo!” Darn!
This week on the cult fan favorite Survivor, contestants were taken to a hotel where they had to play a strange version of bingo. They were told to keep their ears open as they sipped on orange soda. Game play got frantic when they heard their prize would be to go have fried chicken and French fries on the island.
Chicken was on the menu at the hotel for Pensioners Night.
The Bingo caller turned up dressed as Big Ears with an orange beard and one old lady became frantic that Donald Trump would be after her money if she got a full house.
This started a discussion about cults and followers instead of two fat persons or Kelly’s Eye.
Rall:
bingo
alice looks rather frantic
her eyes ringed in hookah blue
hates these hotel tea parties
her cult following is hard to deal with lately
what with the rabbit all ears and neurotic running about
with a pocket watch declaring he is late again
spends too much time hanging out in the orange grove
with creepy chicken and meanie mushroom
So I have heard tell there was this cult of chickens with orange ears that would kidnap yellow bellied sapsucker chicks and attempt to convert them. The sapsucker adults were so frantic that they would gather their young and hide out in the No-Tell Hotel where a rowdy group of seagulls would caw the nightly bingo games. Feathers would fly!
We were all ears, intent on the dilemma of how to spend the weekend. I was frantic to watch the cult film, A Clockwork Orange .
My sister had other ideas .She wanted to go to Bingo followed by a chicken and chips supper .
My brother had booked dinner for three in a posh Michelin starred restaurant at the local hotel.
Frantic Chicken Little cries, “The world is burning.”
Do we have ears to hear?
Orange sun peers dimly through clouds of smoke and smog
Reminding us this is our only hotel, folks.
Do we need a cult to tell us
our bingo card has only four squares – Warm. Warmer. Warmest. Meltdown!
And the caller’s about to call the next number.
Rumors of Godzilla cult members carousing in Gracery Hotel had frantic Shinjuku residents scurrying like headless chickens. Mayor Kenichi Yoshizumi stormed into the lobby, grabbed hotel manager Wada’s ears, and shook him until his orange toupee flew off!
“What the hell’s going on here?” Yoshizumi demanded.
Mr. Wada, grimacing in pain, replied “Nothing, you damn fool! It’s the bingo championships!”
***
Esther Chilton 
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