Funny Potter Novels & Stories

“He’s a ten but… he kisses his BMW goodnight every night.” Terri chuckled and gestured toward a tall, gangly guy with oversized glasses. “He’s a ten but… he says, ‘That’s all folks!’ after every joke he tells.” We both doubled over in laughter. I pointed at a shorter guy in a bright, colorful sweatshirt. “He’s a ten but… he writes erotic Dora the Explorer fan fiction.” Terri nearly choked on her drink. When she looked up she said, “He’s a ten but… he’s not potty-trained,” motioning toward a guy in JNCO jeans.

She frowned and then took another drink of her beer. “I bet that you spent your days making voodoo dolls of the Lycan Kings and Queens and stick pins in them!” This came from Eric who also worked in the kitchen. He had a darkness to him and had a rather interesting taste in dark humour. He was funny most of the time but somehow managed to take some of his jokes a little too far.

I like him, I realize. He’s kind, relaxed, someone who moves through life without hurting people or pretending to be someone else. “Is this your job? Pottery?” I ask. “Well,” he says, crossing his legs and turning slightly toward me, “kind of a long story, but yeah, I do pottery. I love it. But I also love photography… and a lot of other things.” He talks with enthusiasm, passion. I vaguely remember what it feels like to be like that.

Life’s so unfair, man. “What does a spoon matter when we’re literally stuck in the middle of the woods with invisible monsters, shady, bad men and whatever else creeps around here? Can you please, for once, use your brain and kick some sense in the gear?” He whisper-hisses, so red in the face, he reminds me of a tomato. “You could join a casting for vegetable commercials looking like this,” I remark and laugh at the brilliant joke my brain just reacted. Shit, am I not the funniest guy out there? Look at me - sense of humor, looks, body and an impressive spoon collection, I have it all, damn it. No wonder my little vixen couldn’t deny me.

“Especially with clay under your nails.” We finished later in the day, few minutes to six pm Dean with a bowl that somehow came out sleek and masculine, like him, and me with a vase that was a little crooked but charming. I liked it. It looked like something that had been made with care, with laughter, with good tension humming beneath clay stained fingers. Leah clapped her hands as she packed up. “You two make a great team. Seriously. You could sell these.” Dean looked at me, one brow raised. “Pottery side hustle?”

Even though the parrot had stopped, those words echoed in her mind. After feeding the parrot, Terry glanced back at Jessica. "I’m going to prepare the hotpot ingredients and make the soup base. Feel free to relax." Jessica was surprised. "You really are planning to make hotpot at home?" "Why not?" he replied, raising an eyebrow, his gaze warm and inviting. "It’s not that you can’t," she said, still somewhat surprised. "It’s called 'Dummy.' It’s quick at learning to talk, so if you get bored, you can play with it," Terry suggested with a half-smile before heading back inside.

another muttered. “I just started, okay? This is, like, day one. Everyone’s first spell is a mess.” “My first spell was a weather manipulation hex that saved a village from drought,” Mr. Yellow quipped. “Mine was a growth spell,” said a potato from the shelf. “My cousin became an oak tree. Good times.” I groaned and sat down, the glitter-chicken gently laying an egg near my boot with a pop of confetti. Fantastic. “I am cursed. I am wolfless. I am surrounded by petty produce and judgemental pests. And now I’m the clown princess of poultry summoning.”

It's a dirty mud substance of horror. Yes, that makes me odd. I live in a world made for coffee and coffee drinkers. Every funny mug, shirt, or notebook has a coffee saying on it. Someone out there should design something for those of us who don't like coffee. We like funny mugs too. Crispin stares at me as I stick the mug to my lips and reach my tongue out, tasting if it's too hot. Thank God it is and I move the mug back blowing on the top, pretending I can't wait to get my hands on the black abomination.

Then a buyer who made the request would come over to pick up his pot. He would look at it and say, this isn't what I wanted, make me another one! And then my father would break the pot and soak the dust into water….and it returns, back to the wet lump of clay that it once was…” He turned to the three, Thomas Milner, Alexander Xermia and Sigrid Hemon, weighed down by the immense weight of the chains around their necks, hands, and feet. “ the imperfect pot has been presented to the buyer, and he has deemed it unworthy to hold

"You, on the other hand, are always so sweet. All the girls must adore you." Barton pushed open the door and happened to hear it. "What's so funny?" Debra asked, confused. "Nothing. You just haven't seen Mr. Andrew Potter outside," he replied, barely holding it in. "What's he like?" Andrew cut in. "Drop the tea and go." "Yes, sir." "So, what's he like out there?" Debra grabbed Barton's arm, shaking it playfully. He whispered, "Outside, he's meaner even than Mr. Marion Houston."