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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/ September 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
August/
September 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
More of Me to
Love
By
Chris Adkins,
Idaho
I am not a thin
man. I won't need to be buried in a piano crate but, more than once, I
have used pliers to pull up the zipper on my pants. If a car salesman
were trying to sell me, he'd use terms like “roomy” and “ample trunk
space”. He might even mention “cup holders”, but I'm not sure what he
would mean by that, and we'd probably wind up fighting.
When I was a slim twenty year-old, my then-girlfriend-now-wife Lily said
to me, “How can you do that?!” as I ate my favorite meal of a burrito
smothered with chili and wrapped in a pizza. I merely laughed and dumped
on hot sauce in an orgy of youth. When I was a heftier thirty year-old,
Lily said, “Why do you still do that?” as I snacked on several peanut
butter sandwiches and a bag of sugar. Now that I'm a full-figured forty
year-old, she just shakes her head and says, “Honey, you need to stop
doing that!” as I lick from my fingers the remains of a stack of chicken
wings, a plate of nachos, and a can of frosting.
Lily recently reached her limit and scolded me severely after catching
me eating a pig. In my usual way I interpreted her concern for my health
as nagging and as a challenge to my independence. She watched in
pursed-lip silence as I dumped on more hot sauce, feeling like my twenty
year-old self again. Later that night, I made sure she was asleep before
I sneaked into the bathroom to swallow a bottle of antacid tablets and a
towel.
As I stood in front of the mirror, wisps of steam seeping from my mouth,
I began to wonder if Lily might be right. I didn't have the energy I
used to (I needed at least two rest breaks whenever I dialed a phone
number; a long- distance number also required a snack break.) I shopped
for my pants in the tent aisle at REI. Normal people would see those as
clear signals that something was wrong. I had assumed they were just the
subtle changes that all of us go through as we age, like finding a few
gray hairs in your nose.
Staring back at me from that bathroom mirror was a man much blobbier
than I remembered myself being. I knew we hadn't installed a fun-house
mirror and it started to sink in that the blob just might be me. I
decided to hop on the bathroom scale to see exactly how many pounds have
crept up over the years. After looking all over for the scale, I
discovered that I couldn't see it because I was already standing on it.
In fact I also couldn't see my feet and realized that I hadn't seen them
in a few years either. I then realized that I had been absentmindedly
slurping from a tube of mint-flavored tooth paste even as I stood there
worrying about my eating habits. Oh dear....
The shock of that night's revelations led me to make some lifestyle
changes, much to Lily's delight. I now exercise regularly (using my
walking shoes for daily walks instead of as potholders for deep frying
bacon). I eat less (five small meals instead of one twelve-hour graze
with occasional snack breaks). And I've started eating healthier food
(one skinless chicken breast instead of eighteen deep-fried pieces and
the grease-soaked bucket they came in).
The final lifestyle change was the most painful. I walked into Daphne's
Donut Den, my home away from home, and handed over my Donut Deal card
(“buy six-dozen donuts and get a free cardiogram!”) Behind the counter,
300-pound Daphne gasped in astonishment through the cigarette smoke that
wreathed her head (her donuts are tasty enough that I never complained
about the little extras they sometimes contained, like cigarette butts
or hair nets.) I left a sobbing Daphne behind me and set out on the
morning's walk with a spring in my step and a chocolate bar in my pocket
(I'm only human after all, but don't tell Lily.)
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 "End
of Days" for Granny Panties
By
Laurie Fabrizio,
Minnesota
It appeared in
my mail, disguised like an ordinary party invitation. It beckoned my
attention with, “You are invited to the ultimate shopping experience…”
Please, no more jewelry or home gadgets I thought. Curiosity got the
better of me and I read further.
“Imagine…viewing the latest designer fashion collection in a relaxed
home environment with your good friends.”
Hmm…sounds tempting. If they were designs for the body type challenged
and one size fits all, count me in.
I arrived amidst a crowd of thirty-something, perky- boobed, cellulite
free women. Gravity long ago shifted my bust towards my diaphragm. I
hoped my suck-it-in panties wouldn’t slingshot out of my pants, and
blind someone.
A few of my friends arrived and as we made eye contact, I saw they were
also sweating. Either this was a group hot flash or a George Clooney
sighting.
The beautifully accessorized consultant handed us a catalog and began
her presentation.
“So, for how many of you is this your first time?” she asked.
I had been to more than a few of these in my time. Then I looked around
at the number of raised hands, like a preschool class before recess. How
old were these women?
“By the end of this party, you will no longer be virgins.”
What kind of party was this? Maybe I had been confused and this was one
of those sex toy parties I had heard about. Viewing kinky items in a
group forum was just wrong- well at least when they are all women
anyway.
I was breathing in and out in my purse, feigning searching for a mint
when I heard,
“This is a party where you take off your clothes with all of your
friends. I hope you wore your good underwear.”
I would have appreciated that information before I left the house. My
conservative friend, the hostess, was blushing and fanning herself like
a nun at a nudist colony.
After viewing the entire collection on a perfect size four frame, it was
time to embark on the ultimate shopping experience. I clawed through the
racks frantically trying to find something that would fit my “I look my
age” body. I noticed my friend Cindy staring in disgust at a shirt so
small even Nicole Richie wouldn’t have fit into it.
“Quick, into the storage area,” I said leading the way. “There is a dim
light in there and no one will see us.”
Unfortunately I was sporting what my daughters refer to as my “granny
panties.” They cover the battle scars from two Cesarean deliveries.
Okay, the scar is much lower than it used to be but it is how I justify
my “grannies.”
I glanced over and saw a pasty white object and Cindy was sporting a
thong! Oh no…she had been brainwashed by the younger crowd. It was an
undergarment conspiracy.
A piece of super floss stuck in my butt; how uncomfortable is that? I
can’t even remember to floss my teeth let alone pull off that whale tale
look. Why draw attention to where the cellulite fairy makes frequent
visits?
Wait, what’s that? I never knew Cindy had a tattoo there!
Feeling ancient, I shifted the “grannies” to half mast, creating a mock
bikini. I considered stuffing the excess fabric in my butt to pull off
the look.
“What’s with the thong?” I asked attempting to sound nonchalant..
“I hate panty lines and these are so comfortable,” she said.
Liar… I thought to myself. Walking around with a permanent wedgie my
butt; next she’ll start dancing and singing “The Thong Song.”
Perhaps I was just supersensitive because my daughter worked for
Victoria’s Secret. She was constantly pressuring me to ditch the
“grannies” and update my lingerie.
“Mom, Dad would love these, they are really sexy,” she would smirk.
Great. Now I was getting love life advice from my twenty-year old.
Eventually I purchased a few items that I was able to squeeze into and I
could actually visualize myself wearing. I was suddenly anxious to reach
the solace of my car.
Time to hoist those “grannies” back to where nature intended them to be.
Maybe my daughter was right. Even Cindy had succumbed to peer pressure.
Tomorrow I would trade in the “grannies” for thongs. At least wearing
one would remind me to floss more often.
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dirty
Secret Confessions
By
Mary Kirchhoff,
Pennsylvania
I think about it
all the time. I do it several times a week. I really want to do it every
day. Everybody I know does it.
It’s dirty laundry and it’s in my face constantly.
I suffer from a kind of laundry phobia. Forget that adage about seeing
the glass half empty or half full. To me, an empty laundry basket is
reason to feel happiness. Joy. A sense of accomplishment. But it is
always fleeting.
I know there’s others out there like me. But we remain silent in our
shame.
I was talking to a friend who who confindently told me , “I did every
single scrap of laundry. Clothes. Sheets. Towels. The bath mat.
Everything.”
I didn’t want to hear this. My hand started to tighten around the
receiver and I started wrapping the cord around and around. My knuckles
were getting white.
I looked at my pile in the corner that must be, easily, three loads.
She works full-time, I work part-time.
How was it she was able to get every blasted load done and I wasn’t? Who
did she think she was, June Cleaver? Did she do her laundry in pearls
and high heels, too?
My daughter’s voice echoed in my head.
“You extremely need to do laundry. I have nothing.”
How could I allow it to pile up like that? What kind of mother was I? I
was incompetent. Negligent. A total loser.
Sometimes I could get away without doing it by going to the store and
just buying whatever it was we needed, like underwear or towels.
Financially, it just wasn’t practical and it only gave me more laundry,
so forget that.
The machines are just a few feet from my door. What was my problem?
The laundry police would find out about me, come into my apartment,
observe the offending piles and question me.
Playing a game of Good Cop/Bad Cop, Bad Cop would say, “How many are in
the household?”
“Just me and my daughter.”
He’d shake his head in utter disgust.
“But she’s a teenager,” I’d plead. “ She uses a towel once to wipe her
face and throws it on the floor. She puts clothes on and decides to wear
something else and heaves them in the corner! ... I never know what’s
clean or dirty...” my voice would trail off.
“Just the facts, Ma’am,” Bad Cop would say, like Joe Friday. He’d have
that monotone voice along with the shoulders that never move.
Good Cop would look at me sympathetically and say, “I have teenagers,
its tough.”
Bad Cop – “It’s not even sorted - you had no intention of doing it.”
I would hang my head in shame.
“And what’s that basket over there?”
“They’re clean towels. I haven’t had a chance to fold them yet.”
Bad Cop would fold his arms over his chest, shaking his head.
Even Good Cop would have to admit there was no hope for me.
“We gotta take you in.”
I’d go before the judge.
“All right! I admit it! I’m a laundry failure! I hate it and I don’t
wanna do it! I’m a no good, detergent-challenged, rinse-cycle fearing,
non-folding failure!.”
I’d break into tears and try to offer an explanation.
“I used to like it better when I used liquid fabric softener. But I
could never catch the rinse cycle.. and now I have dryer sheets and
they’re just not the same! I hate laundry! I despise its very existence!
People in the courtroom, all conquering laundry pros, would stare at me.
“Take her away,” the judge would say, throwing the book, or in this
case, the box of detergent at me.
It would be all over. But someday, I know, I’ll be reunited with that
great big pile in the sky of all those lost socks and everything will be
okay.
www.pittsburghdietdiaries.blogspot.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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First
Date
By
Angelica L.,
Maryland
We were on our first date. We had dinner, had gone to a movie, did
coffee , and still didn’t want the night to end. So, we headed to my
place at about 4 in the morning; he had to be at work by 7.
Shortly after we
got to my apartment, he asked me where my bathroom was. I told him. He
was gone for a minute, then returned, head hung low and he asked, “Do
you have any toilet paper?”
I about died. [I
thought to myself, is he really going to do a number 2 in my bathroom on
our first date?]
On top of that, he
thought we actually had toilet paper in the house -– WRONG.
I told him he
didn’t have any. My roommates and I were engaged in the classic
stalemate of who’s turn it was to buy the next roll. The only solace I
could offer him was some napkins I had saved — I gave him a handful.
He went back to the
bathroom and I started to notice a strange smell. Part of me thought it
was coming from him, the other part of me knew it was coming from my
room. I knew I had limited time to find out where this embarrassing
stench was coming from so I armed myself with perfume and began the
hunt. It was his shoes! And here I was thinking it was something of mine
-– WRONG. I sprayed the inside of his shoes like my life depended on it.
Just as I sprayed one last time, he walked into my room, head hung even
lower—this time not even looking up at me—and he asked, “Do you have a
plunger?”
GASP! 1. He went
number 2 in my bathroom on our first date! 2. He clogged up my toilet!
3. He really thought we would have a plunger – WRONG! We had no plunger,
we had no stick, we had nothing to help him out.
Off we were to a 24-hour grocery store. There we were in line as I
flashed him the
if-you-think-I’m-paying-for-this-plunger-after-you-just-blew-up-my-toilet-you’re-crazy
look. I thought he was going to pick up the bathroom-recovery-trip-tab
-– WRONG! He had spent all of his cash on the date!
So, I paid for the
darn plunger myself, we went back to my apartment, he fixed the toilet
just in time for him to leave for work and he left thinking I would
never call him again -- WRONG AGAIN.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Chaperoning
the Middle School Dance
By
Mary McCarthy,
Maryland
"I Chaperoned the Middle School Dance… and All I Got Was This Lousy
Migraine"
My hell began with an innocent email from the Middle School Band
Director. She needed parents to chaperone the dance. The request landed
on vulnerable ears: me, a guilt-laden mother who had neither purchased
the requisite amount of band fundraiser chocolate nor properly altered
daughter’s marching band uniform pants (how was I to know packing tape
did not withstand rain puddles?…).
Before I knew it, I was reviewing the map of chaperone parent locations
for The Dance. God apparently did not hear my prayers to land a role
doling out Sprite and Chex Mix in the cafeteria and horror or horrors: I
would be In The Gym. With the DJ, the cavalry of short-stick drawing
teachers, and 150 pimple-faced, hormone-revved 6th, 7th and 8th graders
bouncing up and down to music videos of an unrecognizable music genre.
I remember my own Junior High dances. Girls on one side of the gym, boys
on the other, an invisible equator line down the middle. It was
agonizing- waiting for a boy to ask you to dance, having to fear
rejection asking one to dance with you. But those were more innocent
times, days when turtlenecks existed and Air Supply cassettes played.
Now there are dress codes (no skirts short enough to see your belly
button, no tank tops smaller than toothpicks) strict rules (no naked
pyramids, no heavy artillery) and a principal armed with dog-catching
equipment and a fire extinguisher.
The wide-eyed, quivering parents are instructed that tight circles
around students, ‘girl on girl’ interaction and visible underwear are
forbidden. These rules are repeated over the microphone for the benefit
of the students, while I grapple with the concept of ‘girl on girl’ as
it might apply to 11 year old children.
The parents are told to ‘break up’ any suspicious physical interaction,
but most of us are hunched in shadowy corners trying to look invisible.
I am busy trying to NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT with my 13-year old, who has
painstakingly chosen my outfit, from the
why-do-all-the-fashionable-tops-look-like-maternity-clothing to the
my-feet-are-killing-me wedge shoes borrowed from her closet. I send text
messages to no one on my phone in an effort not to look dorky.
The music is so loud it is vibrating my earrings; the only break from
the noise comes in the silence-beeped censorship of bad words from the
rap songs. I had enjoyed threatening my daughter by telling her I was
going to ask her bald, bespectacled 60-something science teacher to
dance… to a slow song. Such an action may have caused a judge to elicit
a ruling of justifiable homicide for my offspring as my battered corpse
rotted in a grave.
There wasn’t even a t-shirt… so I survived chaperoning the middle school
dance and all I got to show for it was a lousy migraine.
Next year I will spend $200 on band fundraiser chocolate. And hem the
band uniform pants.
www.marytmccarthy.com
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Completely
Lost In Translation
By
Judi Veoukas,
Illinois
My mother and stepfather have retired to what she calls “the country.”
If you’re picturing cows, pigs, and chickens, erase that image. They
moved into a subdivision with 350 beige houses. Still, to my mother it’s
the country because “it’s near farms.” In truth, the closest farm is ten
miles from their house, but my mother’s sense of reality has always been
questionable. Also questionable is why they would move at least 25 miles
away from their children and friends. My mother’s explanation, “Well, we
could have moved to Florida.”
(Why didn’t you, Mom? We would have had a warm place to go during
winter.)
My mother says that 25 miles isn’t far to drive. This from the woman who
won’t drive on expressways, avoids making left turns, and won’t venture
out if snow is predicted anywhere in the state. But she tells me that my
making the trip from my house to theirs is nothing.
So I prepare for my first trek out, which according to Google, is a
26-mile fairly straight trip. I call to tell her I’ve printed a Google
map. “Google, Schmoogle,” she says. “I have a better way. “First,” she
says, “you go to Route 21.”
I live near the city and refer to streets by names, but my mother has a
new-found countrified talent. She uses the word “route.”
“Does Route 21 have another name?” I ask.
“Don’t confuse me,” she says.
I agree to Route 21. “Where do I go on that?”
“To Route 45,” she answers. I don’t dare ask if that has another name,
but just which way I take it. “You go west,” she says. Then she
hesitates and mutters to herself, “Is it west?”
“Mom,” I ask, “when you’re driving on it, do you sometimes see the sun
setting?”
“No,” she tells me. “I don’t drive in bright sunlight.” She follows
with, “It’s the road that passes the street that goes to Rhonda’s house.
She’s the one with the blind cat . . . .”
“Mom, just tell me if I go west.”
“Honey,” she calls to my stepfather, “if she goes on Route 45 past
Rhonda’s street, is she going west?”
“Is who going west?” the poor man--probably in the middle of a
nap--asks.
I wait as they converse in the background.
“Tell her,” he says, “to look for the restaurant that’s right after she
passes Rhonda’s street. That way she won’t turn left accidentally.”
“Did you hear that?” she says. I want to ask why I would accidentally
turn left, but I don’t. I just ask what the name of the restaurant is.
“Honey,” she says again, “what’s the name of the restaurant?”
He hollers, “It’s the name of a fish.”
“What fish?” my mother asks.
“Let me think,” I overhear. “Trout? Flounder? Halibut?” Finally he
surrenders. “You can smell fish when you drive by. “Tell her not to turn
there.”
“Mom,” I say, “just tell me the name of the street NOT to turn left on.”
“Route 45,” she says.
“But,” I say, looking at my notes, “I’m on Route 45.”
“Routes change directions--just like that,” she says. “You don’t want
to. You want to get to Route 83 and you’ll get there by staying on Route
45, which becomes Route 83 and Route 60. They all smoosh together.”
I write “smoosh together,” and pray that I will be nothing like her 25
years down the road, or route . . . .
“Route 83 turns again,” she warns
“Is there a landmark where it turns?” I ask.
“Honey,” she calls out, “is there a landmark where 83 turns again?”
He answers, “There was a tavern but they tore it down.”
“Look for rubble,” she says, “and turn left.”
“Then how far will I be from your house?”
“When you see the bank, you’re close.” Before I can ask how close, she
calls out, “Honey, how far is the bank from our house?”
My stepfather picks up the extension. “The bank isn’t a good landmark,”
he says. “There are seven banks near our house.”
“Then what do YOU suggest?” she asks him.
As they argue, I discreetly put the receiver down, print out the Google
map, and drive to their house. I get there 40 minutes later and she
answers the door, cradling the phone on her shoulder, still talking to
my stepfather on the extension--about what the best landmark is.
“You followed my directions!” she says. “Welcome to the country!”
© Copyright
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My
Shameful Obsession
By
Kathleen M. Wooton, New Jersey
I am a woman with varied interests. I am fond of animals. I play musical
instruments. I like to watch crime shows and British situation comedies
(and by watch, I mean hoard the DVDs and watch them repeatedly until my
corneas glaze over). I like to read any humorous material I can get my
hands on. I am a closet Trekkie. I adore Barry Manilow music. I could go
on, but I think you get my point. I am not afraid to admit to any of
these interests, even if admitting I’m a n animal hugging, Manilow
worshipping Trekkie does open me up to a certain amount of ridicule.
Hey, I can take it - I like to think these pastimes make me a more
interesting, albeit mildly eccentric, individual.
I do have one hobby, though, one that I dare not reveal during polite
conversation. This pastime teeters very close to obsession for me, and
it is only with the help of my husband, the chief bread winner and bill
payer in my home, that I do not give in to it. I am, alas, a doll
collector. (I am bowing my head in shame as I divulge my deep, dark
secret). I admit it, I like dolls, and I have more now than I ever had
as a child. And their wardrobe - it’s far more extensive than my own.
I do realize that dolls are primarily for young girls. And I’ll even
concede that it was the desire to recapture a little bit of my youth
that got me started as a collector. But how can you stop at replacing a
few well-loved dolls, when there are so many dolls, pricey as hell, I
might add, made specifically to entice the adult collector?
For those out there who are perplexed by the appeal of dolls to the
adult collector, let me try to explain their appeal by comparing them to
the cute little humans they are molded to represent:
1. On staying put
Dolls will, if balanced properly, stay exactly where you put them. They
will not climb bookcases, up end trash baskets, taunt you while you
read, sneak out after curfew, hide in the laundry hamper, or juggle your
cat. Children, well, they can be expected to at least attempt to perform
all of those feats, often, more than once. And they’ll keep practicing
until they perfect their technique.
2. On staying neat and clean
Dolls will never soil their clothing. They will never muss their hair.
They will never smear chocolate on their dresses, get grass stains on
their jeans, put bubble gum in their hair, take a permanent ink market
to their best shoes, or finger-paint their socks. Most children will
have done all of these things before they hit their fourth birthday.
3. On matters of food and drink
Dolls do not eat, nor do they drink. They will never blow bubbles in
their milk, fling peas at the walls, smear creamed spinach in their
hair, bathe in gravy, shove beans up their noses, paint with pudding, or
throw spaghetti at the dog. The average two year old child, on any given
day can be expected to perform all of these stunts before nap time.
4. On matters of education
Dolls don’t go to school. There is no hassle over homework, no arguing
about getting ready for school, no after school activities, and no
exposure to elicit substances or elicit behavior. Oh, and of course, no
college tuition. Children, well, do I even have to say it?
So, taunt me if you will, but now that my own children have reached
their teens, I’ll take dolls over precious little children, thank you
very much.
Of course, this all changes when I’m a grandma - I’ll have someone to
play dolls with!
www.savvy-women-magazine.com/Humor/humor-column.html
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The
Last Holdout
By
Marji Yablon,
New
York
Can you conceive of a civilization where no one is ever considered
unreachable?
Oh. Right. Forgot.
Apparently, I’m the only person now residing on Planet Earth who intends
never, ever to hear her purse ring while she’s interviewing, say, the
Dalai Lama. No doubt His Holiness would pause courteously in the midst
of revealing the solutions to all that ails us, so that the significant
other calling me direct from the supermarket aisle might pose an equally
crucial riddle of life: “Scott or Charmin?”
I’m convinced we live in a world where, shortly, “I’m in labor” won’t
constitute enough of a reason to turn your cell off. We’ve probably
already lost, “I’m riding the perfect wave on my first vacation in 25
years. You want to know where which file is at the office?”
The irony here is that, until cell phones came along, I would have been
voted Most Likely to Be on a Mobile Phone During Her Every Waking
Moment. That’s because if I ever came across a job listing, casting
call, house for sale, store for rent, potential paramour, I’d
immediately search for the nearest pay phone. A friend or acquaintance
would have popped into my mind as the perfect candidate. How could I
wait even a moment before passing along the contact info?
I must have inherited an agent gene from some ancient ancestor.
This condition led to such scenes as: Me in a restaurant’s vestibule
with only a public phone and a pile of coins for company. The friends
I’d traveled to meet for dinner? Sitting inside, ordering, feasting,
catching up on old news, and, oh yes, every now and then sending out a
search party to check for the latest on my whereabouts.
One astute acquaintance described me (lovingly, I trust) as having been
born with a silver receiver in my mouth.
I’m still doing it, but, darn it, by pay phone. Actually, since they’re
rapidly evaporating, I often wait till I get home to that equally
endangered species – my land line.
Here’s the riddle: Where did all these phone lovers come from? Back when
“cellular” was a word we heard only in biology class, hordes never raced
me to the nearest pay phones. Nope. I used to be a rare breed. Who cast
the spell that makes everyone certain no time is a bad time to be on the
phone?
More puzzling: How come I, of all people, disdain those ubiquitous,
shrinking communication devices that can now do everything but your
laundry? My theory: They’re too popular. If someone had presented me
with one as a rarity,I might have been far more intrigued.
Just the other day, the impact of cell phones, even on me, hit home. I
was glad home was where it hit, rather than smack into several of my
vital organs. It occurred as I was walking along in my small, charming
town. I was crossing the street – at the light, I hasten to add – when I
was nearly plowed into by a suddenly appearing Suburban. Its driver’s
placid expression did not change, even as she perused the hair’s worth
of space between me and her front bumper. I would have appreciated a
look of shock, guilt, apology, splashed across her placid visage.
Unfortunately, her expression was already occupied by deep concentration
toward the conversation she was having on her cell.
As I calmed my heart rate enough to make it to the opposite curb, I
wondered whether I should flag down the police car I now spotted coming
down the street. I wished to inquire how much effort was currently being
directed toward enforcement of that No-Hand-Held-Phones-While-Driving
law.
Unfortunately, the policeman in question had one hand on the wheel, the
other at his ear to hold his phone. I figured it wasn’t the best time to
disturb him.
And so I carry on, looking both ways with added zeal.
What’s that? Oh. You’re curious as to whether I own a cell. Well, my
goodness, of course I do. What a question.
However, the ring, vibrator, flashing light -- all turned off. And
nobody has the number, least of all me. I can never remember it. Still,
I usually bring the gizmo along. I’m perfectly willing to concede that
it could come in handy in cases of emergency – that is, if they occur
far from signs of human life or public phones. Naturally, that’s
assuming I’ve remembered to bring the darn thing with me.
.
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