King Roast is Lonely at the Top of the Prompt. It’s Time to End It.

Playing “telephone” with my prompt.

What started off as a playful prompt to bring the “quieter” writers to the “page” has turned into what I lovingly remember from grade school as the game of “Telephone.” Do you remember it?

The teacher would whisper a sentence into the first student’s ear, whose job it was to then whisper the same sentence into the next student’s ear, and so on, and so on.

When we finally get to the last student, they stand up and recite the sentence they were told. Thirty students later, a sentence as benign as “Let there be light” turns into “How many Chuck Roast’s does it take to change a light bulb in the ladies rest room?”.”

So, I started off this little exercise by factually stating that I was the most beloved of Illumination writers. Remember, truth is a defense. Therefore, since this is true, all of you trying to challenge me and take away my top and “Most Beloved Writer” positions, have been “peeing into the wind.”

But let’s get back to the whole “telephone game” thing. In the story below, “Why You Should Randomly Tag Some of Your Quieter Followers With a Prompt,”, this was the prompt I issued: If you were Chuck Roast and received this prompt, what would you write about?

Now, I get it. You are all jealous of me. But that was the reason I gave you all a chance to “be me” for one story. NOT to dethrone me (like that would ever happen!).

But you ALL missed the point of the prompt. Tsk, tsk. However, I have never had more fun reading articles! So, who cares? Since you all decided to attack me personally, I have decided to gently rebut your prose.

Do not be offended, please. None was meant. I love you all. Well, in a platonic way. Not a, you know, “love” way. More like a “like” love way.

It all started with the first entry into the “I have failed to dethrone Chuck Roast” contest, which also happened to have been started by the first writer, Rasheed Hooda. Now, Mr. Hooda, green monster of envy peeking over his 5'3" frame, decided to skip the prompt and just go for the gold. Good for you Mr. Hooda. Sorry to tell you, it didn’t work. I am still here.

But what you did accomplish was bringing together all of those lost souls who have finally admitted in their public forum that I am, indeed, the King, and they covet my throne. Thank you, indeed, for The Awakening.

The next one to rise and fall to the wrong prompt was Desiree Driesenaar. Your attempt screamed of nobility, inviting others to fight your battle for you. It also howled in misandry, exclusivity, and hopelessness inviting only females to take up the challenge. We saw what happened to the last woman who ruled the United States of Humor. . .nothing, because there was none. Read Miss Desiree’s “attempt” below and find the missing prompt. You can’t. . .because it’s missing. What you will find instead is her acknowledgment that I am, indeed, the King of All that is Right with the World!

Ahh, the lovely Amy Marley took up the gauntlet (thank you Holly Jahangiri for throwing yours at me) and waxed poetic (and her beard) of her love and devotion to me in her secret language of romance. I thank you for that, my lovely Amy, and give you a pass on the “telephone game.” See Amy Marley’s letter of love to King Charles the Loved below. Be advised, it is open to interpretation, of which I am sure mine is correct.

Charlotte Zobeir Ali tried so hard to earn my love by going into the kitchen and baking my favorite humble pie. I devoured every word, and felt joyfulness fill my aching heart. You tried so hard. . .I shall reward you soon. And next time, my dear Charlotte, please leave out the side of Rasheed Hooda. It upset my delicate sensibilities. However, keep with the Senryu. . .loved it!

Then there is Timothy Key. A former ally who has fallen victim to the vixens who seek to abolish all memory of their Lord of Satire. Poor, poor, Sir Timothy. His delusions of grandeur have now become simple hallucinations of playful, mystical, nonexistent creatures. How far the once mighty Timothy has fallen. And my Dearest Timothy, I take no ferry across the Sound for mere ice cream. The people bring their best to me, using the narwhal walkway I so carefully created for your safety during your daily meanderings thru my Kingdom of All Things Fun. You are welcome, my dear friend. And you are welcome to return to the folds of your liege as soon as you forsake the Siren song of the Illumination Girl Scouts.

Then there WAS the traitorous T. Mark Mangum, a “A country lout who. . .who. . .has got no gloves! Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace!” (Thank you Cyrano de Bergerac). Yes, Dear Admiral, I chose you to lead my fleet despite your commonness, for to hear your mighty flourishes of flowery language as you raged against our enemies far and wide. Yet today, you besmirch our friendship and direct your loquaciousness at your benefactor. So shameful, so wasteful.

So, begone my ex-friend, speak below balconies on your love words for besotted lovers who woo those who are now out of your reach, your mystical language assisting those young lovers to heights not seen by yourself in many a moon. But repent, dear friend, and I shall have you back, putting said back into rowing the oars of the King’s tiny dingy across the river to deliver the corpses of my enemies.

And I do hope by my Grace and your fealty, you live long and prosper.

The young squire, Trent Swanson, waffling about dragons, and sprites, and fairies, and other such stories for children. He has brought his storytelling to its greatest heights. Yet, for proclaiming the Right of the Kings to be his, he struck no battle, he wrote no flowery prose, he simply proclaims himself. . .king, in lower case. No one wants a lower case “king!”

The young squire’s proclamation was a welcome comedic release during this tense time. However, I offer only one grant of mercy to him. His head will be cleanly separated from his body, and we will continue our discourse of the Prompt No One Followed.

The former Lady, Alex Kilcannon, who’s “lady” fantasy rests solely in her mind, has moved the prompt further into enemy territory, and her flary pantaloons up to more friendly territory, taking the King’s Royal Promptlamation and turning it into her own, inviting more of the King’s loyal subjects to deviate from his Word of Promptlaw. Treasonous, but forgivable, as we will see what delights it will bring should her tags choose to be it. Otherwise, I banish you to remain under your duvet until the rising sun meets the setting sun in the middle of the evening sky.

Next in line, Holly Jahangiri, a woman with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, lost in the Imaginarium kingdom of Mind Palaces, large bunny servants, and toast on which she projects the face of a mountain man, no doubt her subconscious expressing her love and adoration for her King of the Mount, His Royal Majesty Charles Roast. Yet still another misandrist caught up in the clap-induced Illumision and spectacle of the hallucinated greatness of her Army of Serverweasels and Gerbils of Despair. Oh, if only her diseased mind would suffer the simple return of normalcy, I would have her veboseness loose again in the palace to entertain the jesters.

Finally, a “woman knows her strengths and her limitations.” Susannah MacKinnie, a woman of mostly sense and reason, recognizing to be King is no job for a mere woman, “I do not want to rule.” No, a woman should be a Queen to her King. Sensibly, she chooses the path of no resistance by battling foe previously vanquished by the Great and Greater King of All, Charles Roast. Even the seemingly floral-suited T. Mark Mangum is not spared Ms. MacKinnie’s verbal Roasting.

Unfortunately, for all her late but appreciated support of My High-Ness, she must still be cast back to the bed and her head hidden in the covers, for she erroringly nominated a rival for my throne. So be it.

Ah, Eli Snow! I had such “big” hopes for you. You are a giant in the land of small things, but in King Roastland, you are simply one of many usurpers twisting in the winds of failure. Your impetuous rush to support the Queen of Imaginarium, and lavishly lay with the giant puppies, or gerbils, or whatever her Mind Palace creates this day, simply put, breaks down the molecular structure of my pulsating heart. I am so sorry, but you must go, and forever live in the Mind Palace with your heroine. I hope your bent knee is strong, for you will be there often in her cruel micro-world.

Now for The Rude Poet himself, the Great Martin Rushton. His exterior hard, like that of the bravest of knights wearing the greatest suit of steel, filled with the soft mushiness of the body of a human. Or a bean of jelly, as he described his own self.

A beautiful ballad of the Battles fought by the Great Wordwarrior, King Charles of the Roast. Unerringly he sings of the defeat of the King’s enemies, yet fails to follow the original prompt, falling instead for the lascivious deviousness of the former Lady of the Rising and Flary Pantaloons herself, Alex Kilcannon.

Fool of a man, The Rude Poet, falling for the batting eyelashes and the bared ankle of the female version of the warrior Achilles, whose arrogance cast him down.

The King hath spoken: The Rude Poet has failed as did all of his predecessors.

Arjan Tupan, called to battle by poetic disconnect, declares a marching, ragged band of neither rhyme nor reason, of bedraggled and misbegotten fiends of poetry, and balladeers named “Dave” long past their prime. He merely answers the call of a fellow poet. Such loyalty should not go unrewarded. As a result, Arjan Tupan shall “meat” the same Rude fate as his mentor, Martin Rushton. A meal for the King’s dogs, who love to eat to the sound of poetry.

And last but certainly not least, the young, yet prolific Zach J. Watson, cousin to the Travelling Troubadour, Rasheed Hooda, and young paramour to most of the lovely ladies who seek to usurp my throne.

Mr. Watson, come here. I need you. I wish to offer you my ring to kiss. Swear fealty to me, again, and you shall have all the 400 acres you desire and shall be named Shark King for all eternity. Deny me, and ye shall feed the sharks with your body and soul.

I, King Charles the Roaster, Master of All He Satires, hereby decree that, despite the Royal Promptlamation being “telephoned” into something unintelligible to the masses, the Prompt was a success and the light of Illumination has shined us all on. . .er, shined on us all.

I hereby declare the Prompt is finished, and the winner is, without favoritism, All of Us! As Ben Franklin once said, “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do things worth writing.”

For those of you who wish to continue to follow the prompts set out by the writers, please do, and don’t forget to tag me. I’d love to read them.

For any that I missed in my rebuttal, please forgive my unintentional slight. It is late, and my dream weaver awaits.

Thank you all for coming. I’ll be here all week. Bring your friends. Audio and t-shirts for sale in the lobby. Five dollars extra for a picture and an autograph with me, Charles Roast.

Mental Health is more important today than ever. If you are feeling down, reach out and talk with someone. I hope you got a laugh out of this, and it helped lighten your mood.

Chuck Roast is a writer, author, word generator, hack, scribbler, literary genius, penman, scribe, litterateur, poet in residence (my house), satirist, and humorist (“humourist” for those of you who like the “incorrect” spelling)for Medium and the publication Illumination, among others, a Top Writer in Satire and Humor, owner/editor/writer of his own Publication, Dad-Bods, which is currently sitting idle while he develops his social media skills and gains more exposure through manipulation of said social media.

He was recently curated for the first time, in Poetry, for his poetic story, Remember the Founders and Their Reasons. He has also been twice published on the website, goodmenproject.com.

Here are the links to his accounts, LinkedIn, Twitter. Comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading. Write On! Write well, write good, and write enough!

Please comment! I’d love to hear from you!