bodhrancomedy
Bodhrán: the Stand-on-a-Chair Comedian
A Tumblr account for a pint-sized comedian and their dumb queer jokes. Hard-of-Hearing, but a baby culturally Deaf. Find me as bow_asintakea_rawn on TikTok! (Because they don't allow fadas...) He/They
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He’d be great for a filler episode. Besides, everyone wears masks, not his fault he can’t hear them telling him the laws. 🤷
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Hey, Disney. Disney.
Please hire me, I’m funny AND Deaf.
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I have decided that in my wildest dreams when testosterone takes hold that I’d like to be close to James Cole but way shorter.
I mean, I’d suit this hair I think?
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Listen, I do not need more books but I want more books because I have a long train journey coming up and the book I have right now (Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell) is making me cry way too much to read in public.
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That is an excellent suggestion and I shall leave it for anyone who has not yet had the pleasure of meeting Terry Pratchett - but my parents were sure to introduce him to my sisters and I at very, very young ages.
(My favourite is Maskerade)
Listen, I do not need more books but I want more books because I have a long train journey coming up and the book I have right now (Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell) is making me cry way too much to read in public.
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Oberon my Beloved. By Bodhrán M
“Oberon,” Eleanor said, “he’s still in the house.”
“Your house? The house -“
“- the house they’re breaking into, yes.”
Mal inhaled sharply. “Any chance…?”
Eleanor jammed the bullet into the chamber and thumbed the trigger. The click echoed in the alleyway and her heart jumped with it. “No. I swear, I’ve never seen that man move faster than an amble.” She seized the youth by the arm, dragging them in her wake. “Let’s go.”
There was someone in his workshop.
Oberon stood at the door, almost paralysed with bewilderment.
This was not part of the schedule. It was nearly six o’clock. He came in here every day at six o’clock to work on his projects and now there was a muscular young man dressed in a dark grey suit and green shirt standing in his workshop looking at his tools so he couldn’t do that.
It would be incredibly rude.
But then again, Oberon thought, he was looking at the tools. Maybe he a fellow student of the practical arts. Maybe he also liked long conversations about wood grains, and chisels, and very nice new hammers.
Brightening a little, Oberon put his box containing his shiny new hammer down beside him and gave a polite little cough.
The man turned as smoothly as a shark. When he saw Oberon, he smiled.
Oberon smiled too. “Hello, are you here for Eleanor? I’m terribly sorry if you’ve been abandoned. She tends to do that.”
The man tilted his head to the side, looking Oberon up and down.
He took a few steps towards him, ending up between him and the doorway.
“Mr Fitzrobert, I presume?”
“Yes,” Oberon said. “This is my workshop. If you’re a guest of Eleanor’s, you probably won’t find her in here.”
The man turned and - with a strange deliberation - closed the door. “Do you like it? Are you a dabbler yourself?” Oberon added hopefully.
“We’re not guests, Mr Fitzrobert,” the man said quietly. He was still smiling and Oberon couldn’t work out why. “But we were hoping that you and the lovely Mrs Fitzrobert could do us the great honour of becoming our guests.”
“Oh that’s very kind of you,” Oberon said, looking past the man to his half-made little sailboat. “But I think we’re both very busy at present. What about November? I think we’re both free in November.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know Eleanor’s schedule, but the wading birds are returning this month and I can’t miss that, so we could possibly take up your offer later in the year.” He could feel the frustration building up in his chest that this terribly rude man was still crowding him when he just wanted to get stuck in.
But the man only took a step closer, muttering under his breath. He reached inside his suit for something.
“Pardon?”
“I said,” the man snapped, “that they were right. You really are stupid.” The gun he pulled was small, but Oberon immediately recognised it as one of the nastier ones. “And I must insist that you come along with us at once.”
“But I have my boat to make -“ Oberon put his hand in the toolbox to emphasise his point.
“Fuck your bloody boat! Are you coming or do I have to shoot you in the knee?”
Oberon looked at him for a moment, considering it. Then he picked up his lovely shiny new hammer and hit the man in the temple.
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Sixsmith my Beloved (Tocktick extract)
“How could you have been so…”
Stupid wasn’t the right word. Sixsmith wasn’t stupid. He was – in Emmett’s opinion – quite clever, if not very well-educated. It was the lack of long-term planning which infuriated him.
If they’d both been given a keg of explosives and told to blow up a bridge to stop an advancing army, Emmett would have spent an inordinate amount of time calculating the exact force about to be exerted, the reach of the shockwave, and what would happen to the remnants, until he got a bullet in his head when the army arrived.
Sixsmith would have lit the fuse before the commander had finished speaking and probably still been standing on the bridge.
Emmett still remembered his friend’s completely bewildered reaction to his first grey hair – the man had no right to have survived to adulthood let alone old age.
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The Vengeful Man Revealed by Bodh M.
St Martin sat forwards in his chair, removing his spectacles with great ceremony. Gone was the doughy vagueness, gone the dull, watery eyes. For the first time, his gaze was sharp and sparkling with disturbing, crow-like intelligence. “The acorn was a cunning symbol, if I do say so myself.”
Jean-Marc gaped at him, gripping the silver pin with enough force he felt the edges begin to cut into his fingers. “You…?” he whispered.
“The symbol is one of my proudest achievements,” the Vengeful Man said, smiling wryly, “aside from convincing the world I was another empty-headed experiment of our gracious late monarch.” He tilted his head to the side and added, “Although how anyone bought that one of the foremost actors of his generation could be that dim, I’ll never know.”
Jean-Marc’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Claude St Martin was the ringleader of the most successful revolutionary movement in a hundred years? Claude St Martin?
Abruptly, St Martin coughed and straightened back up again. “Sorry, I have to put these back on,” he said, gesturing to his spectacles. “It is so much more theatrical with them removed, but I can’t see your expression.”
“It’s… very surprised,” Jean-Marc assured him.
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Listen, I do not need more books but I want more books because I have a long train journey coming up and the book I have right now (Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell) is making me cry way too much to read in public.
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He has parkoured off my ankle twice and leapt on my foot once.
He’s gonna die.
When I say catch, I mean literally chase around our bathroom for hours with a trap which doesn’t spring on its own.
I caught him.
I’m a hero.
#deaf#queer#tiktok#mouse#mice#I don’t want to kill things#but he’s shitting on our kitchen floor#he needs to go
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I should reincarnate as a cat.
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I thought I was really funny.
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I thought I was really funny.
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Half an hour left!!
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