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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June
/ July 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
June/
July 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Thing
And I
By
Danielle Allen,
North
Carolina
If you have known me for a while, you have probably concluded by now
that wildlife and I should just agree to go our separate ways. After the
hornet incident, the possum episode and the double bird attack, it’s
clear that I should only deal with wild animals at the zoo. Tell that to
The Thing.
I don’t know exactly what The Thing is, but it seems to be some small,
burrowing critter that has set up house under my front porch. You can
see the pile of dirt where It tunneled in. It is probably also a
nocturnal creature since I have never seen it, unless it waits until I
leave for work to come out and scurry around. So I think it’s mostly
likely a mole, a small possum, perhaps a cute little chipmunk, or
something much worse…a rat. As long as whatever it is stays outside
under the porch, I can deal with that.
Apparently The Thing has gotten bolder and has violated our unspoken
agreement that it would remain an outside Thing. Recently I saw tiny
footprints in the laundry room, which is a separate, add-on room to the
back of my house. There was something else too…drag marks. The Thing has
a tail!
It’s been in my laundry room. It climbs. It has a tail. It has to go.
I got myself straight down to the local hardware store and rented a
metal trap – the kind that traps but doesn’t kill the animal. The nice
folks at the hardware store wanted to know what kind of creature I was
trying to trap. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s The Thing that lives under
the porch. It burrows underground, comes in the laundry room, and it has
a tail.”
“Sounds like a rat,” said the man. “Or it could be a small possum or
even an in-diggy-ness wild weasel.” I didn’t care for any of those
choices. Then they showed me how to set the trap, gave me some
suggestions for bait and sent me on my way. I left there relieved that
in a day or two, I would have The Thing, could identify it and then get
rid of it.
The first night, I tried canned cat food as bait. No luck. Mr. Thing
turned up his twitchy little nose at that. Then I tried the next item on
my bait list: peanut butter. Nothing. After that I tried cheese, hot
dogs, eggs, fruit, even left over pork loin. I left so much food out
there, the fat, greedy Thing should have left me a tip. I imagine It was
having catered rodent parties for his friends under my porch. Each
morning I would peer eagerly out the window hoping to see The Thing.
Each morning, all I saw was an empty trap.
Finally, after a week, I took back the trap. “What was it?” the people
at the hardware store anxiously asked me. “I have no idea, “ I said. “I
didn’t catch so much as a fly.” Next week, however, I’m calling in the
troops. I’ll let the pro’s from Animal Control come get The Thing before
it leaves little footprints across my kitchen counters.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 In
Search of The Holy Maraca
By
Cameron Castle,
Washington
“I guess a lot of people would consider it a choking hazard. But it
really only is if you leave him alone with it.”
Standing alone, that sounds like the start of a story making fun of some
bad advice.
Au contraire. Our son Carter’s aunt Emilie gave him for his first
birthday, among many other thoughtful gifts, a maraca. Before she let us
hand it to Carter she prepped us fully.
“It was our son Jackson’s favorite toy. It is so simple but he just
loved it.” She held it up and gave it a little shake. Carter’s eyebrows
and ears rose up as if connected with puppet strings. Emilie was holding
a three-inch long, green plastic rattle. “See, this narrow end can go
down their throat, but the big part can’t fit in their mouth, you only
need to be nearby, so if you need to, you can just pull the thing out. I
know it sounds weird, but Jackson just loved his. Anyways, I thought
Carter might like it too.”
After everyone left Carter’s elaborate and beautifully orchestrated
First Birthday celebration, which his mother, Laura, went completely all
out on, we collapsed on the floor amongst the torn wrapping paper and
paper cake plates. Carter still had some gas left in his tank. He was
sitting, legs splayed out, on the floor next to his playpen. Around him
in a circle were presents and boxes forming a protective fort. Noah’s
Ark, complete with a dozen talking animals was listing to his left.
Shirts and pants and even two little pairs of shoes were cast about in
an arcing pile. Hard-covered children’s books and adorable stuffed
animals finished the circle of generosity surrounding our little boy.
In the center of it all Carter was smiling, and in the tight little fist
of his right hand he held the three-inch long, green plastic maraca. He
would shake it, look at our tired faces to make sure we were watching,
and then shake it some more. Emilie was so right. Hundreds of dollars of
gifts were lavishly and lovingly poured onto this kid this day, yet
nothing could compete with the little green maraca.
***
“Cam?” Laura sputtered as she maneuvered Carter in his stroller past the
screen door. She plopped Carter into his playpen, and tried to speak.
“His . . . his . . . maraca. I think I left it in the park. He had it.
Now he doesn’t. Oh my. What are we going to do?”
“Here, quick, distract him with these four hundred dollars worth of
toys.” is what I didn’t say.
“I’ll go right now and look for it.” is what I did say.
I jumped in the car and headed to the park. There were two young boys
leaving the park when I got there. I love children, as long as they
possess my DNA. These boys, on the other hand, had surely swiped
Carter’s maraca.
Not only did they not have it, but they helped me scour the park for it.
I saw three young girls fighting over two jump ropes on my way back.
They also jumped at the chance to help. One thought she saw something
plastic and green at the big park farther down the road.
At the big park two teenage girls helped me look. No luck.
The maraca was a goner. I drove to the drugstore and looked all over for
a rattle. A manager saw me struggling and asked to help.
I said, “A rattle. For a baby. But it might not be in the baby section
because it is kind of a choking hazard.”
No luck.
I went to the grocery store. Nothing.
I went back to the drug store and bought the next best thing.
“I’ll take these.” I said, plunking down $1.49 for a set of colored
plastic keys on a ring.
Carter was playing happily in his playpen when I finally returned. Laura
said, “Any luck?”
“Nope. The maraca is a goner I’m afraid. This is the best I could do.” I
handed her the toy keys.
“Oh, that is so sweet, but you didn’t need to go to all that trouble.
Look Carter. What a good daddy you have. Here, let’s see what daddy
bought you.” Laura reached in and lifted Carter out of the playpen.
“Wait a minute. Oh, my gosh. Look at that. Your maraca! You’ve been
sitting on it. Well, that’s funny. Cam? Don’t you think that’s funny?”
© Copyright
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Osama
By
Cy Creed,
New
York
It really
bothers me that I’m the same age as Osama Bin Laden. I would like to
believe I don’t look as weathered or as grey or as evil. When I mention
this to my children, they also point out I’m not as tall or as thin and
that my clothes aren’t as white. How does he keep those garments of his
so white? Why, with all our cleaning supplies, bleaches, detergents and
machines does someone who is allegedly living in a cave in the bowels of
Pakistan wear clothes which appear whiter and cleaner than ours?
I ponder this for awhile trying to think of anything that would take my
mind off the evening to come. This evening would be as traumatic as so
many and it would take all my strength to muster the courage to
withstand it. So I think about things and people as I prepare for this
agonizing evening ahead. It thankfully isn’t too hard to become
distracted with a 23 year old daughter hanging around. Her main concern
in life is whether or not to wax her eyebrows again. She’s adept at the
science of small talk and nonsense- quickly jumping from one topic to
another with no apparent segue.
“Mom, did you know Jackson Pollack urinated on his paintings?”
“Mom, do you know my friend Maureen is now a lesbian?”
“Mom, did you know my hamster’s eye fell out?”
“Mom, can I have some money?”
....and on and on it goes...to the point where at the end of all this,
I’ve forgotten what I was doing, where I was going and what my name is.
These conversations, or should I say soliloquies are a lot like Chinese
water torture. Nothing extreme but the constant drip, drip, dripping of
words is enough to make anyone numb.
The clock is ticking. My palms are sweating and I check the mirror.
Maybe I should get Botox injections as I look at my middle aged face.
The doorbell rings and I immediately feel the hair on the back of my
neck stand up. The dog starts barking and the evening I truly dread
begins. I practice my breathing exercises from La Maze classes twenty
three years ago and open the door.
A first date. There is nothing worse or more uncomfortable. Okay,
sure...root canals and mammograms aren’t fun. But nothing beats the
discomfort of a first date. There is no x-ray more penetrating. Every
detail is instantly dissected. And even though these guys may seem nice,
so did Ted Bundy. I’ve instructed my kids that if I’m ever missing, not
to advertise a detailed description of myself, i.e. don’t announce my
height and weight. Just say something like this, “Voluptuous, mature
woman missing”. It would be bad enough to be missing but if they
advertise a description of me, complete with height and weight, I’d just
stay missing!
Having been divorced for nine years, my friends feel it their duty to
fix me up with dates. I tell them time and time again I am perfectly
content to be alone and do nothing. In fact, I’m very good at doing
nothing. But this concept is lost on my well meaning friends. They’re
not looking for any particular quality in a date- being male and having
a pulse seem to be their only criterion.
I hop into Boyle’s car and he tosses me an Entertainment book.
“We can go anywhere you want as long as I have a coupon for it.”
Great, I think to myself. Another wild evening at Denny’s.
The conversation is as anticipated. My eyes glaze over as Boyle recounts
stories of deer hunting and bowling, tossing in as many double negatives
as he possibly can. I perk up, however, as he utters the remainder of a
sentence.
“....but I ain’t never spent a night in jail,” he proudly announces.
Of course I have no idea what leads him to make that comment as I
stopped listening somewhere between drinking beer with this buddies and
ice fishing.
I come home after a forgettable night. My daughter is watching Fox News
which is doing a report on Osama Bin Laden. Turns out he’s actually a
year younger than me.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Child-like
Superstitions Crush the Best Team in the NHL… and It’s Mom’s Fault
By
Wendy
D'Alessandro,
Florida
I was in the den writing when I heard a scream from the other room.
“Aargh! No, no. It can’t be happening,” yells my oldest son.
What? What happened? I ask. I walk out to the family room and find him
sitting on his hands and staring intensely at the TV. With a quick jerk
he is up, pacing in front of the TV, dropping his head into his hands.
“This can’t be the end,” he says. “No, no, they tied it up. This can’t
be happening.”
It’s the Stanley Cup playoffs in our home and our son is at the brink of
a meltdown. We are from Hockeytown (yep, Hockeytown is the copyrighted
nickname for Detroit), so we worship the Detroit Red Wings. They are
supposed to win the Stanley Cup this year (as they should every year),
but first they have to make it through the playoffs. And that is a nail
biting, stressful process, full of child-like superstitions that my son
actually has me buying into.
Our son started watching the game while sitting in the big, brown chair
in the family room. Between periods he was at the computer working on a
social studies project, but he always found his way back to the chair
just in time for the next period to start.
Why? Because Detroit was winning 2-0 at the end of the second period.
So? So the Theory of Victory credits our son for this lead because he
happened to be sitting in the big, brown chair in the family room at the
time the lead occurred.
This reasoning comes from the boy who, at a mere seven years-old,
wouldn’t let me wash his hockey jersey during his own playoff and
championship games.
During the first two periods I was in the den working, listening to the
game from a distance. At the beginning of the third period, however, I
moved to the kitchen counter where I could work on my laptop while
watching the game.
I’ll admit, it didn’t feel right, me sitting at the kitchen counter
watching the game. That’s not where I was when the game started and
old-time superstition started gnawing at me. When Edmonton scored to
take a 3-2 lead I decided to tip-toe back into the den.
“I think I’ll go back to where I came from,” I said sheepishly to my
son.
“Yeah, Mom, I think you better. They were winning until you came out
here.”
Theory of Victory states when a team is winning everything must stay the
same. If you were drinking Pepsi while eating Cheetos and wearing a blue
fleece, then that is what you do the entire game.
If you were sitting in a big, brown chair at the beginning of the game,
you stay there until the game is over – unless, of course, the team
starts playing better when you move to the couch.
And, if you were listening to the game while working on the computer two
rooms away, that is where you stay. Consistency is important during a
hockey game, even more so during a playoff series.
If this theory holds true, and my son insists it does, then it is my
fault the Detroit Red Wings lost the series and is now officially done
with the season.
Wow, that’s a heavy burden for a mother to live with.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Is
There A Cure For Brain Freeze?
By
Elaine Luddy
Klonicki,
North
Carolina
Recently, I had an embarrassing episode at a local gas station when I
gave the attendant my BP card instead of my Shell card. You’d think that
the pictures on the cards would help to differentiate them. I mean, I
only have two. My BP card is white, and has a bright green and yellow
sunburst on it. My Shell card is blue, with a big yellow seashell on it.
Duh. But these days even company logos don’t get my attention,
apparently.
As I get older, I do embarrassing things like that all the time. What’s
worse, most of the time I don’t even realize that I’m doing it until
someone lets me know. If I’d been my normal witty self, when the
attendant pointed out that I had handed him the wrong card, I’d have
responded, “Oh yeah? Well your gas pump has the wrong number on it.
Instead of $1.21/gallon, it says $3.21.” Don’t you hate when you think
of the perfect response when it’s too late to use it?
In addition to handing people the wrong item, I also say the wrong word
quite often. Like the time I told my daughter we’d have to go to the
mall to buy some more “This End Up” bras instead of “Limited Too” bras.
(In case you don’t know, This End Up is a crate furniture store, and
Limited Too is a pre-teen clothing store.)
Usually the incorrect word I use either starts with the same letter or
rhymes with the word I’m looking for, as if the sorting process in my
head got halted just one synapse away from the mark. Just today I was
babysitting a friend’s son, and I pulled a Sesame puppet out of the toy
cabinet and said, “Look, here’s Ernie!” And he looked at me perplexed
and said, “Uh, Elmo?”
When I have these “menopausal moments,” people eventually figure out
what I mean, and correct me. Even three year olds, as in the above
example. But when I’m not saying the wrong word, sometimes I’m not
saying anything, which is much worse. I just come to a dead stop, right
in the middle of a sentence, and nothing comes out. My Dad used to do
that all the time when I was a kid and it drove me crazy. What was he
thinking about? Where did his mind go? You’d think now that I’m doing it
myself, I’d at long last have the answers to those questions. But the
truth is, I have no idea. The best explanation seems to be the current
expression, “Out to lunch.” Or as my friend Bill says, “The lights are
on, but nobody’s home.”
It’s like my brain just freezes, as if it’s playing the “statue” game
that we used to play as kids. The one where everyone is running around
wildly and someone yells, “statue” and everyone freezes until the person
who is “it” releases them.
Not only do I have no idea why my brain freezes, but I also don’t know
why it starts up again. Which makes me wonder if one day, it will just
not start up again and that will be it. I’ll be an instant catatonic,
frozen for the rest of my life.
What I can’t figure out about this memory stuff, is that even though I
can’t hold in my head for twenty seconds whether my husband just asked
me to make him coffee or tea, I can remember the weirdest stuff from
grammar school. Like the poem,
The owl and the pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat.
They took some honey,
And plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
Or how to sing the French national anthem (in French).
If anyone has a good explanation of why this happens, or better still,
what to do about it (some magic thawing potion, perhaps?), please
contact me and let me know. Meanwhile, I’m out to lunch.
www.klonicki.com
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Reluctant
Spokesmodel
By
E. Mitchell,
Illinois
I have a dilemma unusual for a writer – I don’t want to promote my own
work. Slacker that I am, the fact that I actually have work to promote
is already cause for celebration so you’d think I’d be happy. Instead, I
look forward to celebrating my latest publishing credit like a turkey
looks forward to celebrating Thanksgiving.
The reason? I don’t want to become spokesmodel for a particular
demographic. Many a man or woman has landed on the chopping block due to
unflattering imagery. The examples are more plentiful than e.coli on a
kitchen counter so I have plenty to fear.
Baby boomers from a bygone era may remember a pert actress named Dorothy
Provine. She arrived on the scene in the sixties appearing in a string
of popular movie hits like The Great Race and Its’ A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad
World. Her star was on the rise. And then she did a commercial for a
hygiene product. End of career. She worked with great actors like
Spencer Tracy and Jack Lemmon yet is remembered mainly for “feeling
fresh.”
Florence Henderson: denture wearer.
Sally Field: brittle bone sufferer.
Kirsty Ally: battle of the bulge.
Need I say more?
The unpleasant association in my case is a book title. Most writers
would be pleased to be included as an author in a best selling series of
books. I was too. If nothing else it’s a good sound byte.
But imagine, for example, you’ve written a story about a hospital visit.
You make only an oblique reference to the reason for hospitalization and
focus instead on the humorous peripheral aspects of the experience. You
submit to a best selling anthology called “Turkey Broth for the Brain”
to be included in a volume entitled Turkey Broth for the Hospital
Patient’s Brain. So far so good
You are pleased when you receive your acceptance letter and happy to be
onboard until you notice that although they purchased your story it has
now been shifted to another book title.
Gentlemen, imagine telling all your friends about your latest publishing
credit: Turkey Broth for the Brain of Male Enhancement Patients. Gals,
how would you like to be included in a tome entitled, Turkey Broth for
the Brain of Wig-Wearing Wallflowers?
Bet you can’t wait to proudly post that title on your website and send
out a local press release. Tell your neighbors tell your friends.
Suddenly a hygiene commercial is starting to look pretty good by
comparison.
Okay, so the title in question isn’t quite as hideous the aforementioned
books but it does have unglamorous associations. What’s an author to do?
The options are limited to using a pen name or faking your own death.
So that’s my dilemma. I hope you’ll all rush right out and buy the
latest edition of my work. Sorry I can’t tell you the title. If you want
to find out you’ll just have to attend a local book signing. No need to
ask who I am - I’ll be the only author wearing Groucho glasses and a
hazmat suit.
www.freewebs.com/emitchell
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The
Garden Hat
By
Duncan Moreland,
Devon, UK
It’s Monday afternoon. I’m in the garden. My face is slowly getting
sunburned, I can feel it. That means soreness and an abundance of new
freckles, not good. ‘I need a hat.’ I think.
I never wore a hat when I was younger. Only one person in a group of
friends can. It’s an unwritten rule. My best friend Jack was our hat
guy. So I was without a hat throughout childhood and adolescence. Jack
had several hats. He had one for general use (falling into rivers with
me). One for formal occasions. One to sleep in. Possibly one for bath
times, although I will never know for sure. The hat was even part of his
morning regime. He’d put it on his head and turn it round three times.
No need for a comb. You can’t compete with dedication like that. So I
let the hat issue lie. I let Jack be the one with the hat.
‘I’m nineteen now.’ I think ‘I need to start branching out.’ I go
indoors to my bedroom. After a few minutes searching I stumble upon an
old Mighty Ducks cap lurking in the depths of my cupboard. It’s not
chance.
It calls out to me “Dunc, get me out of here. It’s time.” I imagine it
hanging out in the cupboard for years, humming We Are The Champions,
just waiting. I put it on, it feels like a missing part of me has been
returned.
“Ever had the sun kept out of your eyes, without using your hand?” It
asks.
“No!” I exclaim. I run outside. The sun is blazing, and my eyes are wide
open. What a sensation! No heat abusing my milky pigmentation. Life as
it was meant to be.
“What else can you do?” I ask.
“Well you can turn me backwards and poke some of your fringe through my
behind.” The hat replies.
‘That sounds a little sordid’ I think, “OK.” I say, and do it.
For the second time in my life I feel cool. The first was when I dressed
up as a new age cowboy at my girlfriend’s Murder Mystery party. I wore a
bowler hat and a vest. It lasted until her older brother and his friends
arrived when I swiftly discovered Le Coq Sportif and trousers tucked
into socks were cool, not plastic guns.
“You like what I‘ve shown you so far?” The hat says.
“Yes!” I say.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” It says, “Would you do
something for me?”
“Yes. Of course!” I say. After all it’s opened my eyes to so many new
things.
“Tilt me up really high and wear me on the back of your head.” It says.
I stand still, “But then I won’t look cool and the sun will be in my
eyes.” I say.
“You owe me.” It replies.
I do as it says. I tilt the hat up and put it on the back of my head. It
lets out an excited squeak, then goes quiet.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Pe-Perfect.” Its voice sounds throaty and out of breath.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“Yeeeah. Oh Yeah.” It groans.
“What’s going on?” I say, starting to worry.
“Yeah that’s the spot.” It says and then shudders.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.” I say.
“Come on Duncy Babes, tilt me back farther!” It shouts.
“You’ll fall!” I shout back.
“I can hang on. Do it. Now!” It starts grunting.
“No!” I scream, “I won’t be part of this!.” I grab it by the peak. It
lets out a cry of agony, or pleasure, I can‘t tell. There’s a snap. The
hat falls to the ground.
‘It’s not moving, that can’t be good.’ I think. It’s just playing.
“Come on get up. It’s not funny anymore.” I say. Nothing.
* * *
It’s three weeks since the incident. I’m thankful the case didn’t make
it into court. I appealed, declared my actions an act of love, which is
technically true. Even if the love wasn’t reciprocal on my part.
It wasn’t all in vain. I learned a lesson that day; you can never trust
a hat. People out there with less resistant minds could fall prey to
their hats’ will at any time. Imagine the monstrous things the hats
would have them do: kicking car doors, smoking weed, stealing beer,
shouting obscenities, spitting. The list is endless. It could - God
forbid - make them wear matching tracksuit bottoms and tops.
If you see someone displaying any of these symptoms it’s probably best
not to approach them, and remember one thing: it‘s not their fault, it‘s
their hats.
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Blonde
Putty
By
Lisa Spense,
Mississippi
Once again I find myself in the middle of a project. This time in the
process of, school starting, trying to get a home business up and
running, plus involvement in a friend’s divorce, I decide to do some
home decorating and re-arranging.
I decide to switch and redo my son’s room. It had awhile since I
undertook anything of this magnitude. Why didn’t somebody tell me to
wait, reconsider, sell or leave town? Any of the above would have been
better!
First of all, I should probably say up front that blondes have their own
system of doing things and usually it does not match the rest of the
world’s ideas. They can’t seem to see how they’re doing it wrong. I do
try my best to tell them, but they don’t get it.
Now that we’ve cleared up who’s right and who’s wrong, I can begin my
tale of butt- aching physical labor. Number one, I’m not into physical
labor unless it involves a member of the opposite sex. But that’s just
another story!
First I had to clear out all the stuff from a room that belonged to my
oldest son when he lived at home. Then I had to paint it. That’s always
a party when I’m involved. What was supposed to be aqua-blue turned to
the color of crème-de-menthe.
I know when cutting in the edges, the idea is to not get any on the
ceiling. The likelihood of me accomplishing that is zip. So is the
avoiding green hair after the painting is done.
Since Halloween is not here, it would seem a little out of the ordinary
if I had my hair streaked with green permanently. It was purple
permanently once until my first child was born, due to hair color that
didn’t like my change in hormone’s.
The first night, rolling aggressively attacked the first large wall. I
accomplished a lot, which was good, because by the second night I felt
like I’d been attacked aggressively! My arm’s, and my back hurt. Even my
hair hurt! I felt butt muscles I didn’t think at forty years old, were
still there.
I bent to pick up brushes and my favorite shorts became the color of
crème-de- menthe. I also did something I’d never done before. I had a
hole in one of the walls about ten inches across. I don’t need a man to
help me, I thought, “I can do it myself.”
So I cut some sheetrock, stuck it in the hole, and proceeded to putty it
in place. I found out they have professionals that get paid to do this
stuff.
This stuff is very sticky. I was almost through painting when I slipped
forward. Yep, straight into the wall! Boob first one side into fresh
sticky putty, and the other side only with nose firmly in green paint.
Can you visualize that? If you can’t, I have a son who has pictures! Men
for hire is starting to look real good.
I’m in the middle of a dilemma and there’s nobody but my son in the
room. I’m in this most uncomfortable position and trying to get relief
from my quandary. How to get myself unstuck? I’m not blonde putty! If I
wanted to get myself stuck to something it wouldn’t be a wall. It’d be a
…. Never mind! I don’t think I’m allowed to go there in a family column.
My son finally says, “Hey Mom, you got something green on your nose and
it ain’t a booger.” He seems to find this amusing. A true comedian!
Wonder who’s genes he has? By this time my back has begun to feel like a
pretzel and I don’t find it funny. I can’t ask his help to get me
unstuck because of the body part that is involved.
I can’t put an ad in the paper because I’d have a house full of
rednecks. I can just see the results, Wanted: Someone to get blonde’s
boob unstuck from wall, this translates in Mississippi into free-boob
feeling contest. I’d once again be making the headlines and not getting
paid for it.
So I do what any other blonde would do I tell my son to dial a friend. I
feel like Regis Philbin on the “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Game.” My
friend answers. I put her on speakerphone so I can explain my dilemma
and ask the stupid question of the day.
“Help! How do I get myself unstuck from this wall?“
“Honey, did someone not tell you it’s not like super glue and you’re not
really stuck to the wall. You’re just sticky.”
I think she’s laughing in the background but I can’t tell for sure. It’s
a hell of a lot easier being born a brunette that is all I’ve got to
say! People should make allowances. As blondes we should get special
awards for making it to forty and alive.
“You mean I can just get up?” I say indignantly.
“Yes, dear.” she said.
I get up, untwist my body, and thank my friend. She’s now gone straight
from snickering to belly laughs. That’s okay! One day she’ll need me for
something. Where will I be? Probably stuck to a wall!
I’m not even going to end this another-day in-the-life-of-a-blonde thing
by trying to explain just how dumb I felt the day I became blonde putty.
If I want to make myself feel better, I just make fun of the cat. She’s
had a green tail ever since I commenced painting. Do you think there’s
such thing as a blonde cat?
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A House In 30 Minutes Or Less!
By
Judi Veoukas,
Illinois
Have you ever watched that TV show in which people hunt for a place to
live, are shown three listings by a real estate agent, pick one of the
three, and live happily ever after-—all in 30 minutes, minus
commercials? If you haven’t seen the program, it goes something like
this:
A perky hostess tells viewers that today’s house seekers are “Betty and
Jim.” They’re in search of another home because Jim commutes four hours
and can’t spend time with his kids. “Not being with my children kills
me,” Jim says, as his three little boys, engrossed in video games,
ignore him.
Betty is playing kissy-poo with a miniature Schnauzer. “Our Gloria needs
more space. This house is closing in on her.”
Enter the real estate agent. He says, “Jim and Betty are looking for
$750,000 houses with a budget of $300,000 in an area that doesn’t have a
lot of inventory—-but I’m confident I’ll find them exactly what they
want.”
The agent takes Jim and Betty inside House One.
Betty leads the way, right into the kitchen. “Yuk,” she says, “rooster
wallpaper. I hate rooster wallpaper.”
“Easy fix,” the agent says.
“Are you going to fix it?” Jim asks him.
The agent clears his throat. “Let’s peek at the backyard.”
“Hey, no mowing,” Jim says, “it’s concrete.”
“Gloria hates concrete,” Betty snaps.
The agent ignores Betty. “There’s a cozy deck,” he says. (It’s a
two-by-four-foot stoop, but what the heck.) “You can put a table on it
and have coffee in the morning.” He’s so passionate you can practically
smell caffeine.
“I hear noise,” Jim says, looking up.
“That would be from the airport,” the agent says.
“Must be close,” Jim says, as the shadow of a Boeing 747 covers the
yard.
“Let’s go back inside,” shouts the agent over the drone of the plane.
As they climb 25 steps to the second floor, the agent regales the value
of exercise.
“Gloria is arthritic,” Betty says.
The agent must know the sale of this house is doomed, but Jim promises
to consider it.
They go on to House Two. “This one is a mid-century fixer-upper,” the
agent says. He warns that the house is a bit dated, as he opens the door
to a world of khaki-colored knotty-pine.
“If you can get passed the paneling the view is spectacular,” the agent
promises. “You’ll see sunsets.”
“Can we see them from the yard?” Jim asks.
“Well, there isn’t actually a yard. This is a hillside house.”
Betty and Jim look out the back windows, beyond which the hillside
abruptly ends. They stare into a deep abyss.
“Where will the kids play?” Jim asks.
“Where will Gloria play?” Betty asks.
”There’s a great park two miles from here,” the agent says.
They take a quick look around and even though Jim says the house has a
moldy odor (he’s gagging), he promises to consider its purchase.
Lastly, the agent takes Betty and Jim to House Three, this time with the
kids and Gloria in tow. “This house,” the agent says, “just came on the
market and I thought of you right away, even though it’s really far from
your desired locale.” He saves the best for last. “It has a pool and hot
tub!”
The three kids run poolside. “Daddy, Mommy, buy the house!”
Jim goes to his children, kneels down and says, “You know that this
house means a longer commute than I have now. I’ll see you even less.”
A chorus of ‘‘don’t cares” comes from the trio, as they bolt toward the
pool’s slide.
Betty is sitting on the side of the hot-tub, holding Gloria in the
bubbling water, massaging her canine’s arthritic parts.
“Do you want to see the inside?” the agent asks.
The couple and agent do a perfunctory walk-though. The boys and Gloria
jump in the pool. Betty and Jim put the house on consideration status.
As the TV show closes, we wait to see which house the couple has chosen.
We don’t learn if they’ve sold their old house, looked at dozens of
other homes, or if their move was a nightmare. All we finally learn
they’ve picked the house with the pool. Before the show ends, we’re told
it’s two months later. The camera pans over Betty, the three kids, and
Gloria blissfully settled in their hot-tub. Betty says that this is the
perfect house and they will live there forever.
Jim is on the road somewhere, commuting.
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