The Chairman of the Board, a.k.a. The God Botherer
At precisely 9:07 a.m., the Board of Businessy Things, Inc. gathered for their quarterly meeting—a ritual feared even by the fearless. The room smelled faintly of stale coffee, fear, and whatever air freshener the intern had sprayed in a panic five minutes prior.
Then he arrived.
The Chairman of the Board.
Also known—never to his face—as The God Botherer.
Why the nickname? Because whenever he appeared, everyone silently prayed.
“Alright, team,” he boomed, dropping his briefcase with the acoustics of a small earthquake, “I trust we’re ready for some synergy?”
A collective whimper swept the room.
The Chairman wasn’t evil, exactly; he just had a supernatural gift for asking questions no one could answer.
He turned to Overlord of the Coin from Accounting. “What’s the projected per-capita output multiplier for Q4 based on the hypothetical rollout of that thing we talked about last month?”
The Overlord of the Coin, who did not recall talking about that thing nor anything at all, blinked rapidly. “Uh…”
“Good!” the Chairman said. “Confidence! I like it.”
He spun toward the whiteboard, grabbed a marker, and instantly began drawing what appeared to be either a revenue model or a horse. Hard to say.
“As you can see,” he declared, “this graph illustrates… something important.”
Everyone nodded vigorously. They had learned this was safest.
Then came the grand finale—the inspirational send-off.
“Remember, team,” he said, eyes blazing with corporate zeal, “success isn’t about understanding what we’re doing. It’s about believing we understand what we’re doing.”
The board erupted into anxious applause.
As he exited the room—still radiating dangerously motivational energy—the intern whispered, “Is… is he gone?”
“Yes,” Overlord of the Coin” exhaled. “And may whatever deities he bothers watch over us.”
……………………………………………………………………….
Assistant Chairman “Try Harder ” and the Never-Ending To-Do List
At The Village Green Social Club, everyone agreed that appointing “Try Harder” as assistant chairperson had been a brilliant idea. After all, nobody had more ideas than he. In fact, ideas practically leaked out of him like a tap with a dodgy washer.
The trouble was… well… he never finished any of them.
On Monday, he organised a “Super Efficient Filing System Makeover.” By Tuesday, the office looked like a paper cyclone had passed through, because he had emptied every drawer onto the floor, labelled exactly three folders, and then wandered off to “quickly start planning a new community garden.”
The garden project lasted 17 energetic minutes. He dug one enthusiastic hole, planted half a petunia, then remembered he was supposed to be repainting the noticeboard. By sunset, the garden consisted of a tilted stake, a packet of seeds he’d dropped in the dirt, and a watering can he’d completely forgotten to use.
The noticeboard? He managed one victorious stroke of paint before deciding he should really fix the club’s wobbly table first. This resulted in him turning the table upside down, removing four screws, losing six screws (nobody knows how), and leaving it perched diagonally like a mutant seesaw in the middle of the meeting room.
Members had to hold their tea cups at a 45-degree angle during the committee meeting.
But our assistant chairperson, “Try Harder,” wasn’t discouraged — oh no. “Progress is progress!” he declared proudly, stepping over the mountain of files, the half-painted noticeboard, and the hole that now acted as a booby trap near the door.
By Friday, the committee launched a new initiative: The Try Harder Taskforce, a rotating team dedicated to following behind him and quietly putting everything back together.
“Try Harder” thought it was a great idea. In fact, he promised he’d help the task force… just as soon as he finished starting the new newsletter project.
He opened a blank page, typed the title “The Village Green Pulse”, smiled, stretched, and said, “Perfect! I’ll finish it later.”
He never did.
But the committee didn’t mind too much — after all, “Try Harder” may never finish anything, but at least he always starts the day with enthusiasm, optimism, and a fresh disaster waiting to happen.
……………………………………………………………………….
Our Treasurer (Who Couldn’t Count Past… Well… Anything)
At the Village Green Retirement Village, the residents prided themselves on being organised, responsible, and financially sensible—
Except for the Master of the coin.
He was the treasurer.
Nobody was entirely sure how he got the job. Rumour had it he won the position in a raffle he accidentally counted backwards.
The Master of the Coin was a lovely man, always cheerful, always helpful, always ready with a cuppa… but there was one tiny flaw:
He couldn’t count.
Not properly. Not even a little bit.
Numbers to him were more like interpretive dance.
Flexible. Emotional. Open to personal reinterpretation.
Each month, he presented the accounts at the committee meeting with great ceremony.
He’d stand up, adjust his glasses, clear his throat like an opera singer, and proudly announce:
“Ladies and gentlemen… the Village Green bank balance is currently… forty-eleventy-two–two dollars!”
The room would fall silent.
One day, the auditors came for their annual inspection. Poor souls. They opened his ledger and stared in horror at entries like:
“Bought biscuits: $6-ish”
“Income from sausage sizzle: lots”
“Petty cash: see envelope (if missing, check biscuit tin)”
“Total expenses: probably fine”
The auditors aged three years on the spot.
Meanwhile, our Master of the Coin beamed proudly.
“Neat handwriting though, right?”
The crisis peaked when the Master of the Coin attempted to count the raffle ticket money from the weekly raffle.
“We made… um… let me see… one, two, five, eight, ten, a heap… around one hundred and something-ish dollars. Give or take.”
“Give or take what?” asked “The Smiling Assassin” chair.
Master of the Coin shrugged.
“…Give or take all of it.”
In the end, the committee decided the Master of the Coin should “move into a role that better suits his strengths.”
He became the Morale Officer.
His first act was to announce, “Good news! The committee raised about a million dollars today!”
They hadn’t.
But everyone agreed:
With him in charge of morale, the numbers may still be wrong—
But at least everyone feels wonderfully rich.
……………………………………………………………………….
Secretary of the board = The Smiling Assassin
Every club has one — that person who somehow runs the whole show while making it look effortless. At the Village Green Retirement Village, that person was “The Smiling Assassin”, long-winded Secretary, clipboard commander, and self-appointed keeper of order.
The secretary was famous for his radiant grin — a dazzling, toothy smile that could calm the rowdiest committee meeting. But those who had crossed him knew the truth: behind that smile lay a deadly precision that could silence even the most talkative Treasurer.
Take last month’s sausage sizzle, for example. When Sticky Fingers in catering forgot to bring the actual sausages, The Secretary didn’t shout. He simply smiled, handed him a list titled “Things to Remember Before We Starve”, and quietly “accidentally” signed him up for every future working bee for the next six months.
At the AGM, he was even more ruthless. As the chairman droned on, the secretary sat poised, pen clicking like a sniper rifle. When nominations came up, his smile widened. “Any volunteers for Vice Chair” he asked sweetly. No one dared move. “No? Excellent — “Try Harder”, congratulations!” The applause was half-hearted, mostly because everyone else was too busy avoiding eye contact.
The secretary’s minutes were works of art — crisp, accurate, and mildly threatening. If you missed a meeting, you could be sure your absence was recorded with suspicious detail:
“Apologies: from the kitchen chair (claimed he was unwell — sighted mowing his lawn at 3:47 PM).”
Still, the community was wary of the “smiling assassin”. Without him, nothing would happen. Events would collapse, raffles would vanish, and chaos would reign. He was the quiet engine that kept everything running — and everyone just a little bit terrified.
At the end of every meeting, he’d flash that signature grin and chirp, “Thanks, everyone, lovely teamwork!” And as members shuffled out, muttering about their new ‘volunteer duties,’ “The Smiling Assassin” would sip his tea, smile to himself, and jot one last note in his minute book:
“Mission accomplished. Smiled again — no casualties (yet).”
………………………………………………………………………..
Activities of the Board
……………………………………………………………………….
Events of the Board
……………………………………………………………………….
The Bastard in the Village
Every village has that one person — the one who can turn a sunny day into a thunderstorm just by walking past. At the Village Green Retirement Village, that person was “The Smiling Assassin” otherwise known (affectionately or otherwise) as “The Bastard in the Village.”
He wasn’t evil, exactly. He just had a natural gift for being… inconvenient. If you planted new flowers, His dog, Diesel, would christen them before the petals even opened. If you were painting your fence, the “Smiling Assassin” would “just pop by for a chat” and lean on the wet section.
His favourite pastime was “supervising.” He’d wander around with a mug of instant coffee, shaking his head at people’s DIY efforts. “You’re holding that hammer wrong,” he’d tell Jim from across the street — usually just before Jim hit his own thumb.
When the village committee held its annual bake-off, “The Smiling Assassin” turned up late, declaring, “Didn’t bother baking, but I’ll be the judge — someone’s got to save us from food poisoning.” He sampled every entry, declared them all “inedible,” and took the leftovers home “for Diesel.”
Things came to a head when the committee decided to give the bastard a sign on his fence. Everyone pitched in — everyone except “The Smiling Assassin”. He stood there sipping coffee, muttering, “Waste of paint. Still a dump, isn’t it?”
But fate, it seems, has a sense of humour. The painter ran out of space while writing Welcome to our village, and in a stroke of cosmic justice, the last letters got squeezed together so tightly it looked like:
“Welcome to Villagebastard.”
The entire village howled with laughter — except our “Smiling Assassin”, who sniffed and said, “Finally, some honesty.”
And that’s how our village officially became the friendliest little village in the district — home to our Smiling Assassin, The Bastard in the Village, and proud of it.
………………………………………………………………………..
Mail at The Village Green
It all started one Tuesday morning at The Village Green Retirement Village, when the normally peaceful letterbox outside the community hall became the scene of a scandal. Someone had been slipping mail into residents’ pigeonholes.
It began innocently enough — a note to Mavis from “A Concerned Citizen” saying, “Your begonias are a public hazard. They look like wilted lettuce.” Mavis was deeply offended. She’d just entered them into the Village Garden Show.
Then came a note to Douglas: “Your lawn mower sounds like a wounded cow. Consider oil.” Douglas immediately took it personally and spent the afternoon revving his mower just to prove a point.
By Thursday, everyone was on edge. Notes kept appearing:
“Whoever keeps stealing the biscuits from the community kitchen — we know who you are.”
“To the person doing Zumba in your house next to the sports hub — the walls are thin, and your rhythm isn’t.”
“The pool is for swimming, not for discussing rashes, Beryl.”
The social committee held an emergency meeting in the lounge. Fingers were pointed. Mild insults were exchanged. The secretary accused the treasurer, the events coordinator accused the secretary, and everyone accused the chairman.
To get to the bottom of it, the assistant chair set up a sting operation — he planted a fake letterbox camera (actually his old iPad taped to a lamppost). The next morning, at precisely 6:17 a.m., the culprit was caught in the act.
It was none other than the smiling assassin, the sweetest, smallest chap in the whole village — the one who always brought shortbread to meetings and said things like, “Now, let’s all be kind.”
When confronted, the smiling assassin looked innocent. “Oh, those notes? I wasn’t being hateful, dear. I was offering constructive feedback.”
He’s now in charge of the new village suggestion box, officially renamed the Complaints & Confessions Corner. Every week it fills up faster than the recycling bin after happy hour.
And as for our Smiling assassin — he’s writing a book about it:
“Dear Idiot Neighbours: A Guide to Community Improvement.”
……………………………………………………………………….
The Village Retirement Village’s New Incentive Scheme: “Dob In a Neighbour!”
When the secretary of the board at the Village Green Retirement Village unveiled their brand-new initiative—“Dob In a Neighbour and Win!”—they honestly thought it would encourage harmony.
It did not.
The idea was simple: report any “community-disturbing behaviour,” earn points, and redeem them for exciting prizes like a free bingo card, priority seating on the community bus, or the holy grail of retirement perks—early access to the dessert trolley.
Within an hour of launch, the system collapsed under the weight of enthusiastic participants.
Residents who hadn’t moved faster than a garden snail in years were suddenly sprinting—yes, sprinting—to the complaint box. The board members were stunned. They’d expected maybe two or three reports a day, not two or three reports per minute.
The first complaint came from someone who insisted that their neighbour was “whistling aggressively.”
The next one accused someone of “mischievous shrub trimming.”
Another claimed that a rival resident had “stared suspiciously at the communal biscuits.”
By lunchtime, the board was drowning.
One board member tried to organise the stacks of forms but got buried under an avalanche of complaints about “chair hogging,” “over-enthusiastic line dancing,” and one mysterious allegation simply labelled ‘unauthorised fun.’
To make matters worse, residents began creatively staging offences to earn points. Flowerpots mysteriously toppled. Garden gnomes were found facing the wrong direction. Someone placed an empty tin of baked beans outside a villa, resulting in a full-scale investigation and a temporary lockdown of the barbecue area.
Finally, after a particularly heated board meeting interrupted four times by residents rushing in with “urgent dobs,” the board declared the scheme a disaster.
They cancelled it immediately.
That didn’t stop the residents, though—everyone kept “helpfully” reporting things anyway, just in case the board gave prizes retroactively.
The board now holds meetings in total silence. Not because they need quiet.
But because even whispering too loudly could earn them a complaint.
……………………………………………………………………….
The Committee Siesta
The board members of the Village Green Retirement Home assembled for their quarterly meeting—an event so important it required fresh biscuits, lukewarm tea, and at least two reminders that they were, in fact, having a meeting.
The agenda was long, the chairs were soft, and the air conditioning was set to that perfect temperature known as “mid-afternoon nap mode.”
The Chairperson began with great enthusiasm. “Item one: reviewing the—”
But that’s as far as they got, because the minute they opened the folder, a gentle whoosh filled the room. It was the collective sigh of five people realising the documents were 27 pages long.
Someone tried to take notes but dropped their pen after the third bullet point. Another leaned back to “rest my eyes,” which was an ancient boardroom code for “I am already halfway asleep.” One member valiantly fought drowsiness by sipping tea, only to nod off mid-sip and nearly baptise their shirt.
By item two on the agenda—something about lawn bowls maintenance—the first official snore was heard. It echoed around the room like a tiny chainsaw. The others followed like dominoes: a snore here, a whistle-breath there, and one mysterious honking noise no one later admitted to making.
The Secretary’s head slowly drifted forward until their forehead rested gently on the minutes book, stamping a perfect imprint of “Agenda Item 3: General Business” upside-down on their cheek.
The Treasurer slumped sideways and used their own spreadsheet as a sort of financial-flavoured pillow.
The entire boardroom fell into such blissful silence (broken only by intermittent snort-snoring) that the motion sensor lights turned off. The room went completely black, which only improved the napping conditions.
Forty-five peaceful minutes later, the Chair startled awake with a loud snort, followed by, “Right! Excellent discussion, everyone!”
The others jerked upright, nodding vigorously, pretending they had absolutely been awake, alert, and contributing deeply to whatever they thought had just been decided.
“Meeting adjourned,” the Chair announced proudly. “We’ve made great progress.”
None of them had any idea what—if anything—had been approved.
But it was unanimously agreed that it was one of the most productive meetings they’d ever had.
……………………………………………………………………….
The Board vs. The Gnomes
At the Village Green Retirement Home, the monthly board meeting was underway, and for once, the agenda was short. In fact, it had only one item:
“Garden Gnomes: Discussion Urgent.”
The Chair cleared his throat. “We have received multiple complaints about the sudden explosion of garden gnomes around the property.”
A murmur rippled across the table. One board member shuddered dramatically. Another whispered, “They’re everywhere… watching.”
The Treasurer pulled out a photo as evidence. It showed a cheerful ceramic gnome holding a tiny fishing rod. “This one appeared outside the office window yesterday,” they said grimly. “I nearly spilled my tea.”
The Secretary added, “Three of them are lined up by the rose garden like they’re planning something.”
“Planning what?” someone asked.
“No one knows. They’re gnomes. They operate on a need-to-know basis.”
The Chair tapped the table. “We need action. Residents are divided. Some love them. Some think they’re cursed. One person insists the gnomes are creeping closer every night.”
Everyone nodded. They’d heard the rumours too.
The Treasurer leaned in. “I propose we set a limit on gnome numbers. Maximum: five.”
“Five?” another board member gasped. “Have you seen the speed they multiply? Last Tuesday, there were three. By Friday, there were twelve. This is exponential gnoming.”
Someone else suggested tagging them like wildlife. Another proposed is to assign a dedicated Gnome Patrol Officer. The Secretary wondered aloud whether the gnomes could attend board meetings to ‘explain themselves.’
The debate raged.
One board member dramatically claimed their motion sensor light kept turning on at 2 am, and when they looked outside, a gnome was facing a different direction than it had the night before.
Suspicious.
Terrifying.
Oddly impressive.
Finally, after 40 minutes of intense discussion, the board reached a solution that satisfied absolutely no one but sounded official:
“All garden gnomes must remain stationary at all times.”
The Chair read the final motion aloud. “If any gnome is found changing position, location, or facial expression, it will be confiscated and placed in the Lost Property Box.”
The board nodded proudly, unaware that the gnomes—at that very moment—were already gathering by the bird bath in what looked suspiciously like a committee meeting of their own.
And as the board members packed up, one whispered, “I swear the one near the pond winked at me.”
The Treasurer replied, “Don’t worry. If they take over, we’ll form a subcommittee.”
……………………………………………………………………….
The Skateboard Situation
The Village Green Retirement Home’s board members gathered for their monthly meeting, blissfully unaware that today’s agenda item would shake them to their orthopaedic shoe–wearing cores.
The Chair cleared their throat. “Next item: Resident behaviour concerns. Specifically… skateboards.”
Every head snapped up.
The Treasurer blinked. “Skateboards? In this village? With our hips?”
The Secretary nodded grimly. “We’ve had reports. Verified ones. Several residents have been spotted zooming around the footpaths on skateboards.”
A gasp went around the room.
One board member clutched their heart. “At their age? That’s a health hazard!”
Another corrected them. “At our age, everything’s a health hazard. Even the biscuits.”
The Chair held up a printed photo for evidence. It showed a resident in slippers performing something that suspiciously resembled an ollie. “This was taken near the community garden,” they said. “He nearly flattened a tomato patch.”
The Treasurer shook his head. “I’m more concerned about liability. If someone attempts a kickflip and ends up in the pond again, the paperwork will be enormous.”
The Secretary piped up. “There was also a report of two residents challenging each other to a race down the driveway. One shouted ‘Last one to the mailbox buys the sherry!’”
The board instantly understood the seriousness. No one wanted to be responsible for a runaway skateboarder barreling toward the mailroom at Mach 3.
Suggestions flew:
“Ban skateboards!”
“No, encourage walking only!”
“No, encourage waddling—safer and more realistic!”
“Should we hold a training session? Helmet fitting day? Skateboarding etiquette workshop?”
One board member raised a hand thoughtfully. “What if… we simply create speed limits?”
“What, like tiny road signs?” someone asked.
The first member nodded. “Yes. Speed limit: 2 kilometres per hour. Anyone exceeding that must undergo mandatory tea-and-calming-down time.”
The Chair considered this. “Reasonable.”
The Treasurer added, “And we require safety gear. Helmets, knee pads, elbow pads…”
“And bubble wrap,” someone chimed in. “Lots of bubble wrap.”
By the end of the meeting, they had produced the most dramatic policy in the village’s history:
THE SKATEBOARDING PROTOCOL
– Maximum speed: elderly brisk.
– No tricks higher than 2 centimetres.
– No racing for alcohol.
– No skateboard jousting.
– Helmets must be worn at all times, even while thinking about skateboarding.
Feeling quite proud, the board adjourned the meeting.
As they left the room, they heard a loud clatter outside—followed by an excited voice shouting:
“Look at me! I’m doing EXTREME RETIREMENT!”
The board stared.
A resident zoomed past on a skateboard, scarf trailing behind them like a heroic windsock.
The Treasurer sighed. “We’re going to need more bubble wrap.”
……………………………………………………………………….
Retirement Village Talent Show
At the Village Green Retirement Home Talent Show, anticipation crackled through the air like someone had plugged the kettle into a lightning socket. The highlight of the evening—though no one had ever explicitly asked for it—was the performance by the Chair of the Hall Operations Committee “HOC”, who insisted on calling the event “a showcase of emerging talent,” despite the fact that most of the performers had emerged sometime around 1958.
When the Chair strutted onto the stage, the room fell into a reverent hush. Not because of awe, but because half the audience was bracing themselves, and the other half was turning down their hearing aids in self-defence.
The music started: a grand, sweeping ballad that had once been a chart-topper but now sounded like it had been exhumed from musical history just for this moment. The Chair clutched the microphone with theatrical flair, took a deep breath… and unleashed a sound that could best be described as a warbling smoke alarm trying to sing opera.
Several residents flinched. One volunteer dove behind the curtain. A woman in the front row whispered, “Oh dear,” as though witnessing a slow-motion train wreck involving tambourines.
But the Chair was committed. Arms spread wide. Eyes closed dramatically. Hitting notes so unexpected that even the pianist looked offended. At one point, the Chair attempted a long, soaring high note. Somewhere in the village, car alarms went off in sympathy.
Despite it all—or perhaps because of it—the room erupted into applause at the end. Some clapped out of politeness. Some clapped in disbelief. Some clapped because they were thrilled the ordeal was over.
And the Chair took a deep bow, utterly convinced the standing ovation (mostly people stretching their legs) was a sign of musical triumph.
The Talent Show judges awarded the Chair a special prize: Most Memorable Performance.
They didn’t specify whether that was good or bad, and wisely, no one asked.
……………………………………………………………………….