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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/
May 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our April/ May 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
All The
Plants I've Killed
By Linda Marie Dugger, Colorado
I have
a confession to make. I am a serial killer of plants. Not intentionally,
of course, but any plant that ever came to live in my home eventually
died. The only reason I would ever need topsoil, would be to bury a
plant and put a little “Rest in Peace” sign on top.
As a female, it seems I am expected to have the instinctive ability to
bring the outdoors in, and make the leafy species flourish happily. But
for some reason they all croak on me. It isn’t that I am not
domesticated. I cook with passion, I am a perfectionist about cleaning,
and my animals live a long time, but beware foliage!
One of the saddest slaughterings I recall was when my boss gave me a
beautiful blue flowery number as a gift. (Unfortunately, I have never
been able to keep flowers alive long enough to remember the name of the
species.) I did not dare leave the plant on my desk, because my boss did
not need to know he had given the plant a death sentence. Death by Linda
Marie! I looked at the plant and gave it a two-week survival estimate,
but to my own surprise, I killed that plant before I got it home that
day! Record time! It was hot outside, and since my car did not have air
conditioning, I had the passenger window open. When I looked at the poor
plant in the back seat, all of the 50 billion little flower peddles had
fallen off and scattered all over the seat and the floor. I gave the
plant a quick burial in a parking lot dumpster.
Then there are the cacti varieties. “It is hard to kill cactus.” You
say? Leave it to me! I know more ways to kill cactus then a US Navy
SEAL. I have given them too much sun, too little sun, too little soil,
too much water, and even too little water. Cacti are hardy enough to
withstand sand storms, droughts, floods, and other harsh natural
conditions in the desert, but bring one to my house, and it will die.
The cool thing about succulent plants is they always let you know when
to water them. One day they look fine, and the next day the leaves droop
down to the floor. It is like they are screaming out, “Hello Bozo! This
is it! I am a goner! Please water me now!” Those are messages that I can
see. That kind of plant lets me know it needs me. It speaks to my
caretaker instinct. The succulent plant knows how to ask me for
something. My nurturing, domesticating impulses are being nudged, but
unfortunately, I have unwittingly off-ed plenty of succulents too,
despite their ability to adapt to indoor living.
The longest living plant I have ever had was a bamboo branch. It was not
even a whole plant with roots buried in soil, but it must count for
something, right? The first bamboo branch I had lived two years in an
unlit bathroom. I only needed to change the water every three months.
Now there is a strong, low maintenance plant I can keep alive for a
while. I just put it in a glass vase with pretty glass "stones." I
changed the water and cleaned the stones every 3 months, and it took two
whole years to kill it.
Today the plant kingdom can take a sigh of relief, because I do not have
any plants, and I don’t plan to get anymore. No plants are on death row.
No leafy green species are living on borrowed time at my house. I live
in a condo, so no trees, shrubs or grass are endangered. The closest
thing to a plant that I have is in a rock filled piece of pottery on my
balcony. In it are five brightly colored, decorative, metal flowers. I
suppose they could rust if I get careless, but so far so good. They are
still alive.
http://www.lindamariepresents.com
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 Standing
on the Shoulders of Midgets
By Richard Eimer, Illinois
Didn’t a brilliant man named Isaac
Newton once say if a professional midget wrestler has seen far it is by
standing on the shoulders of Andre the Giant? I think so. I think his
brother Fig said that a keyhole doubles as a midget-peep-hole.
I have peered through the voyeuristic peep hole that is a professional
midget wrestling match and it appears that the purpose of the sport is
to entertain the same protozoa who laugh at senseless violence and cheer
during Jerry Springer episodes. In the same breath, you’ve gotta love
the market economy of this country! This time a bunch of diminutive
entertainers got together and capitalized on the lower-case iq of their
target audience. Trust me. The little people were the first ones to
realize: professional midget wrestling = lowbrow entertainment = easy
money.
Now I’ve never been a fan of regular old (standard-sized) professional
wrestling to begin with. To me it’s as bogus as a midget transvestite
wearing high-heels and a mini-skirt with a curvy set of D-cups (unless
of course the ‘D’ stands for Dixie). Hey, “Dude Looks Like a Lady-bug!”
But I expected to see midgets wrestling each other the authentic way.
Needless to say, there’s a big difference between pro-wrestling and
cauliflower-ear-wrestling. Wrestling at the scholastic level is full
contact, no mercy, raw and barbaric. I was ninety-five pounds my
freshman year on the high school wrestling team. I was the antithesis of
barbaric. I was pinned more than an arthritic acupuncture patient. I
really perfected the art of losing. I should have received a Rold Gold
medal for my fortitude and limberness. I was twisted and folded and
contorted into so many different shapes that “Pretzel Time” at the food
court could have named six or seven pretzels after me. The size
advantage that my opponents had on me allowed them to flaunt and flex
their egos and thereby easily put mine into a rear naked choke hold.
“Hey! Leggo my ego!”
The phoniest part about pro-wrestling is not the chair hitting nor the
chest slapping. THAT’S ALL REAL! The fake part is the muscle-bound
entertainers themselves. Did the Ancient Greeks have painted faces, fog
machines and abdominal twelve-packs? Hades no! The Greeks kept their
theater, mythology and wrestling distinct and separate. They were just
happy if they were still wearing their respective fig leaves after three
intense periods . . .
Let’s face it folks! Pro-wrestling and steroids go together like midgets
and footstools. Believe me. I am not thumbing my nose at midgets. After
her first marriage my mom remarried a midget. Nicest guy too. He used to
take me fishing, to see baseball games, and on the way back home he
would always let me sit on his lap and steer the go-kart (he couldn’t
see over the wheel). To this day he proudly sips his morning joe from
the personalized espresso cup that I gave to him on Father’s Day: “#1
Step-ladder-dad!”
So, why midgets and wrestling? I believe boxing is a sport better suited
for a midget than wrestling is. My logic: midgets fit nicely into boxes.
Furthermore, the Greek translation for wrestling is “pale” while boxing
translates to “pygme”. Thus, their midget boxing events on Mount Olympus
were probably referred to as “pygmy pygme”. Now that’s a ticket stub I
would pay a premium for.
I agree that pro-wrestling is just a male soap-opera (which is still far
better than a female soap-opera). Pro midget wrestling is just a
pre-shrunken 50% poly-cotton blend. It’s an internal self-aggrandizing
delusional reflection of the ideal masculine figure projected outward
onto a guy in a bikini (or a onesie in the case of the midget).
Look, if you have a chance to see a midget wrestling contest, don’t take
it. That’s my advice to you. Stay home. You become just another common
denominator to the pathetic immature behavior of the yelling
finger-pointing crowd as a-whole, thereby feeling like the smallest
person at the event.
If you’re offended by the completely meaningless nonsense which you have
just read...well all I can say is “Elf you and the pony express you rode
in on pal!”
On the other hand, if you have a chance to see a midget wrestling
contest, take it! It may be the only time you’ll ever get to see the
diametrically opposing image of a midget on a Jumbo-tron. And if you buy
too many beers at the micro-brewery call a cab!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Hair
Today, Gone Tomorrow
By
Faith
Foyil, Pennsylvania
When I was in 7th grade, my neighbor,
Robin, climbed onto the school bus one Monday morning sporting a mop of
hair so greasy you could have lubricated your skateboard wheels with it.
As Robin plunked down on the seat next to me I stared surreptitiously
out of the corner of my eye at the oily mess on her head. Perhaps Robin
had mistakenly washed her hair in Crisco instead of Clairol. If I had
been Robin, I would have taken one look in the mirror and run back in
the house, never to be seen again.
A few decades later and I’m still cringing at bad hair. Mostly my own.
But I’m not the only one who is worried about hair. If the Brothers
Grimm were alive today, the Rapunzel hair story would go like this:
Prince: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair so I may climb the
golden stair.”
Rapunzel: “Are you nuts? These hair extensions cost me 200 bucks! Find a
ladder!”
We women complain because our hair is too thin, too straight or too
curly. We wash our hair religiously, then condition, perm, gel, spritz
and spray it. We get highlights. We get lowlights. We spend hundreds of
dollars on routine hair maintenance which is money that could be better
spent on more practical household purchases, like Coach pocketbooks.
Getting to the root of the problem, it’s no wonder why there’s an
approximate $26 billion plus salon industry out there, with over 80% of
it owned and staffed by women who are not happy with their own hair.
These stylists will tell you that the average human head has
approximately 100,000 hair follicles and will agree with you that at
least 50,000 of both your and their own follicles will grow into hair
that’s too dry, too frizzy or in need of more “Product.”
Women’s hair has been a big topic for centuries. William Shakespeare
joked “She hath more hair than wit.” Eighteenth century poet, Alexander
Pope, poignantly noted “Beauty draws us with a single hair.” Then
there’s my hairdresser who offered: “So maybe you’re just not using
enough Product?”
It’s not only us women who have hair issues. A lot of the guys from the
bus in 7th grade now look more like John Malkovich than John Melancamp.
Some of these guys probably have more hair on their backs and chests
than heads. If these guys were smart, they would accept hair loss with
tranquility, knowing that male pattern baldness, like belching loudly
after drinking beer, or picking noses when behind the wheel at red
lights, is simply a part of their genetic destiny.
Guys worrying about hair is not a new phenomenon. Only a few months ago
Irish scientists discovered the remains of a man from around 362 B.C who
must have had big hair concerns. He apparently used a gel-like substance
on his hair to make himself appear taller. Judging from the shriveled,
leathery complexion of this early mummy metrosexual, I would think his
friends might have suggested a good facial moisturizer instead.
In ancient Greece, mariners offered locks of their hair as a sacrifice
to the Sea Gods before going on a long voyage. I would trim a bit of my
bangs in hopes my son aces his Science exam, but then I’d have to lop
off a piece for the other son’s upcoming soccer match, then a real big
chunk for world peace.
My dog,Buddy, has a healthy coat of hair that remains thick and shiny
despite a meager personal hair care routine consisting of licking his
hair, mostly in areas that nobody really cares to look at anyway.
Buddy’s hair stinks up the vacuum, gets caught in my refrigerator coils,
falls out in clumps when he’s nervous, but never looks any thinner. His
shedding makes me want to tear my hair out sometimes, but that would be
counter-productive. So I simply sweep.
Women like me spend lots of money to make the hair on our heads look
thicker, then turn around and torture ourselves with hot wax,
electrolysis or even expensive laser treatments to remove hair from our
arms and legs. Go figure.
I guess it’s just another example of hair today, gone tomorrow.
www.faithfoyil.com
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An
Apple A Day Keeps The Cheeseburger Away
By Christine Gauvreau, New York
My doctor told me to lose some weight.
For this pearl of medical wisdom, I spent two hours reading outdated
magazines in his outdated waiting room.
I may not have a bunch of framed medical degrees hanging in my bathroom,
but I do have a mirror and a scale; both of which can render the same
conclusion in a matter of seconds.
I should be relieved that aside from being fat, I have a clean bill of
health, but my mood has turned to cranky; it’s been a long time since
breakfast and my stomach is roaring a request for lunch.
Considering the average wait time to be seen by the doctor, a vending
machine in the reception area doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’ll have
to remember this suggestion when I’m filling out the survey from my HMO.
When a search of my glove compartment yields no snacks, I consider
fishing some cookie crumbs from beneath the child safety seat. It is in
this moment I realize I am not an over eater, but simply an under
planner. Had I only packed an apple, I might not find myself cutting off
two lanes of traffic at the sight of a drive through restaurant.
I should have thought to visit the drive up ATM prior to the drive up
burger window. I wouldn’t be limited to the dollar menu, trying to make
the best of the seven quarters scavenged from the bottom of my purse.
Funny how my failure to plan has driven me to a cheeseburger, yet at the
same time, saved me from washing it down with a milkshake. Still, I
don’t think this is enough to make a difference. In an effort to eat
healthier, I don’t remove the lettuce and tomato from under the bun.
Later that evening, I find myself staring into the depths of the fridge,
hoping to conjure up a healthy dinner. There are chicken breasts that
need skinning, carrots that need dicing and potatoes that need peeling.
As I prep dinner, the microwaveable macaroni and cheese taunts me from
the pantry.
I used to eat healthy. I used to plan and shop and prepare menus. Then I
became a mother. And life became a game of chance. Will I sleep through
the night? Will I find the time to exercise? Will the lettuce get
cleaned before the next tantrum unfolds?
Unfortunately, the only thing not in question was whether my waistline
would continue to expand.
I’d like to hire a live in chef, or better yet, a life planner/personal
assistant. Someone to micro manage my days, to tell me what to buy and
where to buy it, someone to check me before I leave home and make sure I
don’t forget my cell phone, my wallet or to brush my hair. Basically, I
need someone to do for me what I already do for my family. I just need
her to do it better.
I wonder what someone like that would cost. Expensive, no doubt, but if
I could get her to stand on the doctor’s scale for me, she would be
worth the expense.
http://www.pajamamommy.net
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Adaptation
Is For The Birds
By
Jennifer Graham,
Ohio
At the entrance of our local grocery, you
will find an antiquated and all but abandoned contraption mounted to the
wall.
It is not the cotton gin, or the Floridian voting machine.
Nor is it Ed McMahon.
It's a payphone, wedged right there between the Beanie Baby Shoppe and
the claw and skill crane machine.
I actually missed it on my first pass and had to ask an elderly
gentleman in a red vest if there was, in fact, a public phone on the
premises.
He gave me a skeptical look.
"I thought I was the only one without a cell phone," he said.
"No," I replied, "there are two of us."
There was a brief period when I actually did own a cell phone, but I
rarely turned it on. The idea of being accessible to all people at all
times really ran against my grain.
Being a mother of four will do that for a person.
Then there was the issue of retrieving messages, remembering a password,
negotiating the buttons.
I ended up snapping a distorted picture of a double chin.
To make matters worse, there's a possibility I messaged it to my
gynecologist.
No, technology and I are not fast friends. It's not that I haven't
tried, but my understanding of gizmo pretty much ended with the
microwave oven.
My gifts obviously lie elsewhere.
Still, there are times when I feel I'm not trying hard enough to get
with the groove and go with the flow.
I was reading an article this week in "E/The Environmental Magazine"
that describes the adaptation of wild parrots to new environments.
Reportedly, there are literally thousands of these colorful birds,
originally from the jungles of South America and other subtropical
habitats, that are living and thriving in the likes of Brooklyn and San
Francisco and even across Western Europe.
These feathery friends are threatened and endangered in their own
stamping grounds, but will most likely be preserved elsewhere because
they learned to cope with the changes.
Adaptation. I hate it when a bird shows me up.
If a parrot can go from Fiji to Philly and live to tell about it, surely
I could figure out how to record "American Idol" with my DVR and
actually get "American Idol."
The last time I attempted such a feat, I ended up with two and a half
episodes of "Gunsmoke"...in Spanish.
Deep down I know that I am not unlike the wild parrot. I too am a
survivor.
And, so, I am going to make a better effort to progress beyond microwave
popcorn and public payphones.
Salvador Dali is credited with the quote, "Intelligence without ambition
is a bird without wings."
I'm ready to fly.
Now, where did I put those quarters?
http://jpgraham.typepad.com
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Leaves
of Three, Let Them Be
By Jennifer Graham, Ohio
I think from time to time we all do things we know aren't good for us.
It's just part of the human condition to take a little risk, have a
little fun...to be a little stupid, and then pay for it.
One person stays up late for a movie, and misses his alarm clock the
next morning.
Another eats three Krispy Kremes, and pretends the weight gain is a
coincidence.
My favorite form of self abuse is contracting poison ivy. I do it every
summer.
Mom's poison ivy- a family tradition from hell.
I get it from the dogs. I get it from the landscaping. I get it from
pulling out groves of poison ivy, pretending the arm length gloves will
protect me.
It's not that I try to get poison ivy, it's that I don't try hard enough
not to get poison ivy.
Like childbirth, I forget the pain and agony of a season gone by, and
I'm up to old tricks again.
After all, I have to pick those elderberries!
Naturally, this year is no different. I decided I just had to attack
some poison ivy that was threatening my clematis and choking out my
Asiatic lilies. I figured if I didn't protect the flowers, who would?
I covered my arms, and tried to keep my legs out of the way, and made
sure not to touch my face.
Whatever.
Within a day, my arms turned into sausage like appendages, tight and
swollen with that oozing red rash. When I woke up the next day to find
my legs stuck to the sheets, I decided I would have to see my
dermatologist...again.
I have a personal relationship with my dermatologist, who ironically is
named Christ.
I guess his name is pronounced like "Chris" with a T sound thrown on the
end, but I have never asked, as I derive too much pleasure from saying,
"Christ healed me."
The first time I sought his services, I stood across from the
receptionist, filling out all 84 required forms, while my son perused
the waiting area.
Two framed 8x10's, photographs of the doctors within, were hung on the
wall, their names displayed on tiny gold plaques.
One man, one woman, both fairly serious sorts with just a hint of a
smile- enough to give you the impression they are indeed concerned about
your skin.
The name Christ stood out for my son, as did the middle initial "J."
"Mom," he said quietly, "Do you think his middle name is Jesus?"
"I'm not sure, son. Let's see what kind of work he does."
Christ was a professional all the way, right down to his little argyle
socks. Clean, snappy, and to the point, but not unkind or impersonal.
He carries a "Here's what we have, here's what we'll do" attitude.
Poison ivy cases must be his favorite.
He gets a kind of wild look in his eye, shakes his head as if he's never
seen anything so severe, and then describes how he WILL methodically
conquer and destroy the enemy within.
And, he always does.
Christ never admonishes me with that stupid phrase "Leaves of three, let
them be."
He knows I'm a bright, college educated person who doesn't need a
lecture.
He also knows I would become physically violent.
One should never scold a woman who is doing a really great impersonation
of a puffer fish, regardless of the cause.
He simply gives me a two week course of heavy duty steroids, which
allows me to not only eat 4000 calories a day, but to survive on a mere
20 minutes of sleep a night.
Let the healing begin!
I have gained at least 15 pounds since week one, and have a really clean
house.
It's clean, and it's decorated...for Christmas.
http://jpgraham.typepad.com
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 How
To Vote Twice. Legally.
By Kali Karagias, New York
I’m no crook or criminal. I don’t deliberately cheat the system although
sometimes I make honest mistakes that make me look like I cheat the
system.
Like when it comes to voting.
Last presidential election, I ended up voting twice, causing quite the
ruckus.
Allow me to defend myself.
It was election year 2004. I bounce into P.S. 99 with my voting card in
hand. I am getting some stares because I am overly ecstatic knowing that
my vote is the one that is going to make the difference. There is a long
line and each time it gets longer I chat more people up.
I ask them who there voting for. I pry into their personal lives. I
nonchalantly rubberneck trying to get a peak between the striped-colored
curtain and the Hospital Green voting booth.
"You, hello! You. You're next! Go-"
Three different voices coming at me at once. Two are from behind and the
other from the tiny, iron-fisted Senior ushering me towards the booth.
I don't know what I was thinking but as soon as I walked into the booth,
I pull the lever, the curtain closes behind me and then I pull the lever
back and the curtain opens once again. I felt like a magician.
KALI: "I'm sorry, I didn't get to vote." I accidentally pulled the
lever."
BLUE HAIR: "Whatdya mean, you accidentally pulled the lever? You just
voted!"
KALI: "No I didn't. I forgot to vote. I just pulled the lever back and
forth without thinking. Or maybe I just thought I had to wash the other
voter's vote off the machine so I can start fresh-I don't know. I just
didn't vote-"
BLUE HAIR: "What the hell are you talking about? Have you ever voted
before?"
KALI: "Yes, I have- I screwed up. I'm sorry-I didn't vote-"
BLUE HAIR: Calling loudly across the room. "Bruce, I have a problem!
This one pulled the lever but didn't vote!!"
HUSKY BRUCE: "What do you mean she didn't vote?"
BLUE HAIR: "I mean she didn't vote. She forgot to vote".
Impatient Woman in line behind me: "Just let her vote. She screwed up"
Outspoken Guy at the end of the line: "How do you forget to vote! That's
her problem. She doesn't get to vote again."
Impatient Woman: "She didn't even vote-".
Outspoken Guy at the end of the line: "She lost her vote. She already
voted. No one gets to vote twice!"
Impatient Woman: "She doesn't just lose her vote-!"
Bruce walks up to me.
BRUCE: "You didn't vote?"
KALI: "I'm sorry, Sir, I did not vote-"
BRUCE: "So then why'de you pull the lever?"
BLUE HAIR: "She says she didn't know. There's always one in the bunch."
Impatient Woman: "Just let her vote for Christ sake!"
At this point I am purple with embarrassment.
I lean into the Blue Haired Lady's face.
KALI: "I really need to talk to you-"
BLUE HAIR: "What now!"
KALI:(Whispering) I'm dyslexic and I can't read that well. The letters
dance. That's why I pulled the lever.
Blue Hair has an "Ahhhh she's just stupid" look on her face. She leans
into Bruce.
BLUE HAIR: "Bruce- she's disabled!"
Bruce: "She shoulda said something. Eh, just let her vote". He walks
away.
So now I am in the voting booth, fake-crying real tears.
BLUE HAIR: "Why didn't you just tell me?"
KALI: " I was too embarrassed.'"
A reassuring Grandma's hand on the shoulder.
BLUE HAIR: "Honey, you gotta ask for help...next time, just ask for
help."
I force a shameful smile.
We vote together. Grandma and me.
I walk out of the booth. As I exit, I walk along the long line of people
still watching.
I stop in front of Outspoken Guy At The End Of The Line.
I lean into him.
"Hey", guess what? I just voted. Twice".
http://adhd.typepad.com/kali_karagias/2008/02/how-to-vote-twi.html
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Ha!
In YOUR Face!
By Victoria Milillo, Pennsylvania
"Ha! I win again! In your face!"
My husband, Michael, stood up, arms raised overhead, and turned around
to face his imaginary adoring fans. His victory dance rivaled those of
football players in the end-zone after a touchdown.
“Who’s the chess master in this house? Come on, who’s the best? Say it.”
Ignoring him, I put the game away and reflected on his past victories
from board games to miniature golf. The Good Sportsmanship Award isn't
hanging on our wall. He wouldn’t win, or even qualify.
An example of his competitive nature happened during what we now refer
to as "The Mr. Bucket Incident." Mr. Bucket was a child's game that my
daughter received as a Christmas present. He was shaped like a bucket
and spun around shooting-out colored balls, which you scooped up with a
little scooper, and put in the bucket. Whoever got all of their balls in
the bucket first, won.
We stood ready with our scoopers as Michael started the game. Mr. Bucket
shot out the first ball - mine. As I bent to scoop it up, Michael
whacked it across the room. I tried to get between him and Mr. Bucket,
but was promptly butt checked. I flew across the room, scooper falling
from my hand. My nephew tried next, but he too was butt checked and flew
into the next room, his scooper flying through the air, hitting the cat
who promptly knocked over a lamp. Michael stood triumphant, Mr. Bucket
held high overhead. My two-year old daughter, traumatized by the whole
incident, stood in the corner, eyes wide with terror, still clenching
her unused scooper tightly in her little hand. She never again played
with Mr. Bucket. To this day, she has an aversion to anything
bucket-shaped including hats, purses, and well, buckets. (I imagine her
future home will have dirty floors thanks to her father.)
The following Christmas it was the board game Don't Wake Daddy. Again,
the obnoxious competitiveness of Michael shined through.
"You can't beat me! I win again! You two are LOO-OO-SERS!"
Next we attempted the family card game Uno. Arguments erupted frequently
during the game and continued long after it ended. I found myself
saying, “Let’s have green vegetables tonight since the Uno-Master thinks
yellow is the only color in the world.” And, “Ask Mr. I Like the "Draw
Four" Card if he knows where the remote is.”
Finally we gave Five Hundred Rummy a try. Michael turned it into the
Super Bowl of Card Games inventing rules as he went along. “I can take
this card because I was thinking ‘Rummy’ even though I didn’t say it.” A
quick check through the Hoyle Book of Card Games proved him wrong.
Of course, when we win, he‘s quick to whine, "You cheated!" or "I wasn't
ready yet! ” and the ever popular, “I was gonna pick that one! ”
We can't hear him. We're too busy doing our victory dance. Being more
obnoxious than Michael is our new family game.
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Classical
Gas
By Glenn Parkhurst, Florida
It woke me up in the middle of the
night causing me to search frantically for the source of the foulness
before I realized it was me. Not wanting to suffer the same shock and
awe again, I decided to fix the problem. I’m grateful for
eMedicineHealth.com. Now I can carefully watch what I eat to determine
what causes the sheets to riffle and my eyes to water.
Of course reading about flatulence can be as confusing as trying to
figure which food causes it. I found the list of the five thousand foods
that I need to avoid to reduce the severity of the condition and only
identified one or two items I don’t swallow. Unfortunately the list did
not include beets and okra which I would gladly give up. Lima beans
however did make it and now I have found another excuse to not eat them.
Take that mom.
It wasn’t all bad news. High protein (steak), fatty foods (steak), and
rice (as in rice pilaf with a steak) do not cause gas. I can see where
Adkins got his idea. He was simply trying to reduce his level of
flatulence.
The internet also states there is an average number of passes per day
(fourteen), and quantity (one to three pints), all adding to global
warming, which melts the ice cap, which raises the sea level, which then
allows my affliction to be noted by bubbles. Whose parents paid for a
three hundred thousand dollar Ivy League degree for their kid to get a
research grant in that particular statistic? I don’t want a job of
counting the average number of farts per day per person of my own much
less someone else’s silent but deadly - SBDs. I do seem to remember an
ex-girlfriend that thought I was above average.
Being fully educated in the Art of Fart, I can now regulate my intake of
starch, carbohydrates, and fiber. I can try not to swallow so much air,
although it is free and very low in calories. I might quit chewing gum,
sucking hard candy, and drinking carbonated beverages. I can also learn
to belch like a sailor.
Of course the alternative is to take my act on the road as did the
Frenchman Joseph Pugol. Pugol, it has been said could do ‘it’ at will
and with different pitch, playing music for sell out crowds at the
Moulin Rouge. My act however would probably be more in line of the flame
thrower as it has more visual appeal.
At least either path should allow me to learn to love it or hate it or
perhaps only date deaf women that can’t smell.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Walk on the Wild Side
By Judi Veoukas, Illinois
If memory serves me correctly, and it
seldom does, the builder of our development said something about a
future hiking path becoming a key feature in our lifestyle.
That was six years ago. There is no hiking path. There is a swamp-like
trail in back of our house, but the only ones accessing it are those
thundering by on all-terrain vehicles. Yes, I could on walk that ”path,”
but the remote chance of being obliterated by an ATV or sinking
waist-deep in mud leaves me no choice but to head out on the sidewalks.
Those, however, are not devoid of danger.
I. Dogs. I swear I must give off the essence of Milk Bone because if a
dog is there, allegedly being watched by its owner, it will inevitably
tear away from said owner and come sniff me in places I really don’t
want to be sniffed. And the owner will say, “Old Max won’t hurt you.”
Try standing eye to eye with a Great Dane you don’t know and not see
your life pass before you. Or try smiling while a yippy Shitz-Tzu dances
at your ankle, its mouth wide open, and see if you’re not thinking about
a sleep-deprived ER doctor sewing you up.
2. Children on Skateboards. There must be 800 children in our
development and 795 are the best-behaved kids ever. But there are five
who decide as I tread near their area, “Let’s skateboard right up to
Granny at warp speed and scare the living daylights out of her.”
I’m pretty sure that if they could get away with it, the bunch of them
would become a sidewalk performance troupe and do flips that would land
them not back on their boards, but on me. So far that hasn’t happened,
but their favorite moment came when I stepped on goose poop in wet grass
in order to avoid them. I didn’t think kids could laugh so hard.
3. Little Children on Big Wheels. These are the same children whose
arrivals were announced just last year by seven-foot wooden storks on
their front lawns. Now they’ve learned to navigate plastic devices on
wheels, and one day soon I am going to happen by at the precise moment
the combined weight of a 24-pound child on a 12-pound red and yellow
missile shoots down the driveway and into my leg. I’ve narrowly escaped.
4. Power Walkers. I dare not power walk. If at my age I walked faster
than sloth pace, I’d probably have a heart attack. However, the parents
of those 800 kids in our development are young enough to walk at a speed
only Seabiscuit could have matched. Each time I venture out I hear,
“Coming by,” by someone in a tank top and Spandex shorts, and jump out
of the way just before I'm hit by one of their swinging elbows.
But it’s not only the young who scare me. I know one of these days the
following is going to happen: an octogenarian using a walker will grunt,
“Coming by,” as he cruises past me, and I'll trip over him and his
walker.
An older man on a bike already shocked me when he yelled from the road,
“Step lively, Lady!” Turned out to be my husband.
I am not giving up though. Each walk, according to my pedometer, burns
73 calories, and I want to break 100 so I can eat the equivalent in
Twinkies when I get home.
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