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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/ July 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
June/ July 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Never Leave
An Empty Roll
By
Cindy Argiento,
North Carolina
Here’s the deal, if you finish the toilet
paper, replace the toilet paper!
Don’t even think that by leaving two sheets of paper on the roll means
you’re Scott free (sorry, I couldn’t resist), you’re not. Two sheets to
wipe a #2 is two too few.
Also, if you do get a new roll, please, replace the roll; don’t just sit
it atop the old one. What does this tell your loved one? I love you,
but, gee, just not enough for such taxing, physical labor.
However, having a loved one at home when you run out of toilet paper can
be a blessing; just yell for toilet paper and ye shall receive toilet
paper.
Only, there’s a risk involved if the loved one who makes the delivery is
your child; your young child who has friends over. Friends who are under
the assumption they are filming an action movie and bust open the
bathroom door; friends who are not shy looking at you in an
uncompromising position. These friends seem shocked when told to “Get
Out.” These friends go home and spread rumors to their parents about
Crazy Potty Lady.
There are also risks involved to being home alone and running out of
paper. You realize too late there is no toilet paper and the tissue box
is empty. So, home alone, you rise and with ankles shackled by your
underwear shuffle to the spare roll drawer. You open the drawer, you
reach in the drawer, you curse the drawer, the drawer is empty.
Now, you try to make a mad dash for the kid’s bathroom, down the hall.
Only, with underwear binding your ankles, dashing is hard to do. You
feel like your running in a 3-legged race. You get to the bathroom and
realize it’s void of toilet paper. Not only is there an empty roll on
the spool, there’s a second roll atop of it, also empty.
While you question the intelligence level of family members you plan for
the trip which must now be made to the downstairs bathroom. The safest
way to make this trip with underwear at the ankles is to slide down the
steps, on your belly. It’s risky, but, drastic times call for drastic
measures. At the bottom of the steps you let out a symphony of curse
words because you now have third degree burns. In the third bathroom you
hit the jackpot, your search is over.
With all the risks it’s imperative for the toilet paper to keep flowing.
Going to the bathroom should not be a crap shoot.
www.cindyargiento.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 One
Hot Mama
By Mikie Baker, Texas
All vegetable gardeners know there is one magical moment
when the garden harvest yields the perfect variety of produce to
actually make a dish. It happened to me last week. I had vine ripe
tomatoes, fresh garlic, a large onion and jalapeños. Time to make some
homemade salsa.
I pulled out the food processor, which I never use. Normally, I’m happy
with a sharp knife and a chopping block. Of course, I’d be happier with
a rich, single man. Anyway, I read through the directions and figured
out the contraption. With my fresh ingredients assembled, the only thing
left to do was to remove the seeds from the jalapeños.
I slit them, scooped out the seeds with my fingers and threw all my
fresh ingredients into the food processor. In a couple of pulses, I had
created the perfect, spicy salsa. About ten minutes later both my hands
burst into flames.
I thought seriously about calling the fire department, but decided to
take my scissors to an unsuspecting aloe vera plant instead. Problem
was, with no feeling left in my hands, it was hard to hold a pair of
scissors. Wishing for a hand epidural, I still managed to slather my
hands with aloe vera by 11:30.
At 11:42, they began blazing so badly, I put out the second alarm and
called Hill Country Martha.
ME: “I’ve been attacked by a gang of ferocious jalapeños! My hands are
burning! I’ve already tried aloe vera. What do I do now?”
HCM: “Well, the jalapeños have oil on them. That’s why your hands hurt.
Wash them in vinegar. That should do the trick. And take a couple of
Advil.”
ME: “Don’t oil and vinegar make salad dressing?”
It didn’t put a dent on the flames and the fire raged on. At 11:48, I
took my trembling hands to the computer. My mouse felt like a porcupine.
I managed to Google “Help, my hands are burning up, what the heck do I
do now?” into the computer and saw there were plenty of other idiots out
there with fingers on fire. Guess we must all be victims of the
relentless Burning Hands Syndrome. The first suggestion I saw was to
dowse my hands in vegetable oil and wash them with soap. Now I was
certain I was making salad dressing.
At 11:53, I oiled and washed. At 11:54 it turned into a three alarmer.
At 11:56 I called Broken Knee Spadette because her husband is an avid
gardener and knows about such things. She said to rub them with salt,
rinse thoroughly and take a couple of Tylenol. By 12:00, they not only
burned but now they were raw.
At 12:01, I stuck my entire body in the freezer for five minutes. At
12:06, I called Very Best Friend using my nose.
ME: “Help! I have jalapeño hands. It’s a five alarm fire!”
VBF: “Wrap them in bacon for fifteen minutes and take two aspirin.”
ME: “But won’t that cook the bacon?”
At 12:15 the dog came after me for the bacon. I called HCM back with my
big toe. She said, “Give the dog the bacon, wash your hands in laundry
detergent, and take an Aleve.” I asked her if she thought I’d live long
enough to see the Teenage Eating Machine graduate from high school.
At 12:23, Dearly Demented Mom’s babysitter showed up. She said, “I smell
smoke. Say, why are your hands so red?” I explained the situation and
she suggested rubbing some lemon juice and sugar on them. Oh great, now
I’m making lemonade.
I probably should have made a paste of the two, but after all the pain
medication I’d taken, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. So I squirted lemon
juice straight on my burning hands and let me tell you, the pain was
worse than running a marathon in five inch heels. I immediately stuck my
hands into the sugar canister. Suddenly, the flames went out. I don’t
know if that was the right remedy or if my hands had just gone numb from
the throbbing. Whatever, my Burning Hands Syndrome stopped.
So here’s your hope for the week. I hope you’ll be the first to buy a
pair of my new Jalapeño Fire Retardant Gloves. Hopefully I can invent a
pair that is easy to wash using oil, vinegar, soap, bacon, sugar or
lemon juice. And here’s hoping you’ve learned a valuable lesson from
this Hot Mama. Stick to store bought salsa.
www.banderacountycourier.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Email
Exchange Between Kobe Bryant And Bill Belichik
By
Jason Campbell,
Massachusetts
Note: The following is a work of fiction.
Captured from an Email exchange:
To: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
From: KoB@playaz.nba
Date: June 24 2008 1:01pm
Subject: Winning the big one
Bill; Hey, Bill; My name is Kobe, and I just lost the NBA championship.
Maybe ya heard. That wasn't cool at all, amn. I need to win one. Ok, so
I won 3, but I mean one just for me, if you now what I mean. I want to
avoid any "Shacky" entanglements, get it?
Since you win all the time, I want to know how you did it. I heard you
got all kinds of ways to get around all the lame "rules" and stuff.
thanks, dawg,
K
To: KoB@playaz.nba
From: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
Date: June 25 2008 2:11pm
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Dear Kobe: I heard about you losing the Championship. It was actually
pretty big news around the Boston area, believe it or not. Sorry about
that. Maybe you didn't hear about it, but I actually lost the
Championship this year also.
I'd love to help, but I'm not sure I can. I don't really know any ways
around the rules. Sure, I made some video tapes. Of the other team's
coaches. While he was giving signals to his defense. But that was just a
misunderstanding between me and the league. And the Refs. And the other
teams. And the rulebook.
To: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
From: KoB@playaz.nba
Date: June 25 2008 3:01pm
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Hey, Billy; right, right, cool.
so you got the jump by making some videos? Cool.
Hey, how bout hooking a brother up and showin me how to do that?
thanks, man
To: KoB@playaz.nba
From: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
Date: June 25 2008 11:31pm
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Kobe; Umm, you want to tape the other team? I think that's already been
done. It's called the ABC Sports NBA broadcast. Just set your DVR.
To: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
From: KoB@playaz.nba
Date: June 26 2008 9:01am
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Billy; right right, cool.
but don't say nothin, right? I mean, I don't wanna get caught and
humiliated like you did. You know? I don't wanna be all embarrassed in
the national media.
To: KoB@playaz.nba
From: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
Date: June 26 2008 11:01pm
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Kobe; yeah, thanks for reminding me of all that, I'd nearly suppressed
it.
But you know taping the other team playing isn't illegal. In fact,
you're supposed to do it.
I'm surprised Coach Jackson doesn't show you the tapes at team meetings
and practices.
To: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
From: KoB@playaz.nba
Date: June 27 2008 10:21am
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Bill-dawg; right, right. Ya know, Coach probably does show those tapes
at team meetings.
I should really check one of those out sometimes.
To: KoB@playaz.nba
From: B_Belichik@cheaters.nfl
Date: June 27 2008 11:02am
Subject: Re: Winning the big one
Yeah, you do that, and get back to me.
Oh wait, you know what? I'm going to take a job with a football league
in Tokyo. Yeeah, I umm.. almost forgot.
I have to leave tomorrow, and they umm.... don't allow email in Japan.
So I won't be able to get any email.
So please don't - I mean, you won't be able to email me.
Sorry. And I hope that whole going to practice works out for you.
http://secretblogsofcelebs.blogspot.com/
© Copyright
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The
Mystery of the Bird, Herd, Kurd, Nerd, Word Not Heard
By Arthur Carey, California
"Mystery Writing 101"
Section 1143
Prof. Moriarty
Word Choice Quiz (25 Points)
(Fine tuning language is an essential part of the writing process.
Select the word or phrase that best improves the following passage. For
this exercise, use of dictionary, BlackBerry, apothecary, hari-kari is
not permitted.)
1. Moonlight (spilled, splashed, splattered, sidled, sauntered) through
the open window, illuminating the motionless form on the carpet in the
duke’s library.
2. “Wat's son, observe the murder weapon," Shirley Lock Homes
(meowed, mewled, moaned, mimicked, murmured).
3. Projecting from the victim’s chest was a (cattle prod, iPod, ripe
cod, piece of sod, lightning rod).
4. “The killer must have gained (access, egress, excess, digress,
finesse) through the unlocked window,” Homes observed, taking note of
the shambles in the book-strewn library.
5. Just then, Edwina, the duke’s daughter, (flitted, floated, flew,
flapped, flounced) into the room.
6. “Oh, no!” she gasped, “it’s (the butler, dear father, my faithless
lover Snidely, another wretched homeless person, our dog Spot)!”
7. Miss Misanthrope, the quarrelsome governess, whimpered: “Who could
have (effectuated, facilitated, fulminated, perpetrated, perambulated)
this dastardly deed?”
8. Homes (leaned over, towered over, sprang over, stumbled over, puzzled
over) the supine corpse.
9. She paused and (gaped, gasped, gulped, grinned, grimaced).
10. Suddenly, Homes cocked her head and listened intently. “Do you not
fail to hear what I fail to hear?” she inquired in a (silky, surly,
soft, sotto, sensuous) voice.
11. “It’s almost dawn, but the rooster didn’t (call, coo, cackle, crow,
cock-a-doodle-doo). In my experience,” the detective said with
deliberation, “when a bird, herd, nerd, Kurd, word isn’t heard,
something is amiss.”
12. “Not I,” blurted Edwina, tearfully. “Alas, I have been secretly wed
to the gardener’s ne’er-do-well son, Snidely, for six months. Besides,
we
(decapitated, defeathered, disjointed, dismembered,
disestablishmentarism) that stupid bird for waking us up months ago.”
13. “Oh,” said Homes. She straightened abruptly, aware of (a sudden
epiphany, muscle spasms in her lower back, the pangs of nicotine
deprivation, slipping panty hose).
14. “What now, Homes?” grumbled Wat's son. He watched as Homes peered
through a (Coke bottle, periscope, jeweler’s loupe, electron microscope,
8x32 bird watcher’s binoculars) at a hair recovered from the body.
15. “This follicle appears to be from a (bearded cactus, imitation mink
stole, elk shedding hair, balding symphony bassoonist, six-year-old male
Abyssinian cat that has been spayed and has received distemper but not
feline leukemia injections)” Homes observed.
“Ah…the latter…your pet, I trust?” Wat's son muttered.
16. “Quite possibly,” conceded Homes, depositing the hair in a plastic
bag. “I must admit to failure in (discerning, disguising, dissembling,
discovering, disgusting) the culprit.”
“Gad, Homes,” expostulated Wat's son, “why does this case in particular
confound you?”
17. Homes frowned. “Because it’s a (corundum, puzzlement, sticky wicket,
riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, crime that can be solved
only with DNA testing). I fear that we must turn to our American cousins
for technical assistance,” she said regretfully.
“I must say…” Wat's son’s voice tailed off in disbelief.
18. “Yes,” continued Homes. “I shall employ the services of the (CIA,
CSI, FBI, Park 'n' Fly, wash and dry)."
“I wish I’d thought of that,” remarked Wat's son ruefully.
19. “It’s (primary, secondary, tertiary, very berry, fireman's carry)”
replied the detective.
20. “Ah, but not so elementary this time, is it my dear Homes?” needled
Wat's son as the first golden rays of dawn (creeped, leaped, peeped,
seeped, weeped) into the room.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Selected
Words And Phrases From The Baby Boomer Dictionary
By Stephen Joseph,
India
A. Anacin episode: The huge headache you
get when being informed that the factory where you have slogged for the
past thirty-two years is closing down because the labor is cheaper in
Tijuana, Mexico.
B. Bloomingdale moment: When you suddenly realize the exact same
raincoat that you purchased at Bloomingdale’s last week is 75% off at
Wal-Mart.
C. Cat philosopher: You have so much free time on your hands that you
start debating with your wife whether a dog is a better pet than a cat.
D. Dog philosopher: In order to get your husband of thirty years to shut
up about how much better dogs are than cats, you simply agree with
whatever he says.
E. Elephantiasis: The gradual hardening of your husband’s arteries
caused by continuously lying in front of the TV and watching Gunsmoke
reruns on DVD, this a result of losing the job at the factory.
F. Fifty: The age at which: one becomes solidly disillusioned, begins
menopause, develops arthritis, begins starting stage of Alzheimer’s,
becomes agnostic, the body starts to atrophy, all in all, an age that
everyone looks forward to.
G. G-spot realization: You turn fifty and you conclude – based on
scientific trial and error analysis - that the G-spot does not exist.
H. Hissy fit: The actions taken by a woman in her fifties whose husband
will not allow her to buy her 400th pair of shoes. Sometimes the fit
takes place in a public setting like a shopping mall, which is called a
public hissy fit; other times the fit takes place in the home, which is
called hell.
I. Irrational: A baby boomer.
J. Junior’s homecoming: Your thirty-year-old married son calls you up
and tells you that he is moving back in with you because he has also
lost his job at the factory (see ‘A’).
K. Kundi: Your wife is having a hissy fit at home (see ‘H’). You don’t
want to make the situation worse but you just have to shut her up. In
order to confuse her, you deliver the Hindi equivalent, “Oh, kiss my
kundi!”
L. Language barrier: When your wife tells you, “If you’re ready, I’m
ready,” and all you hear is, “It’s time to cut the grass.”
M. Maxed out: Is when you have to see a therapist because all twelve of
your credit cards have reached their pre-determined spending limits.
N. Nostalgia: Is when you long to see reruns of ‘The Jeffersons’ and
‘Late Night with Johnny Carson’ on TV.
O. Oh hell moment: You’re out with the boys on a Saturday night, you’ve
run up a $1,000.00 tab at Wild Bill’s Tavern and you suddenly realize
that you left your wallet in your house.
P. Penile dysfunction: Occurs when your mind is willing but your manhood
and your missus are not.
Q. Quarantined: Is when your wife does not allow you to leave the
bedroom because you have a bad case of flatulence.
R. Railroaded: When your wife of thirty years leaves you to run off with
a rail engineer working for CSX.
S. Stuck-in-a-rut: You have put up with the naggin’, the groanin’, the
bitchin’ and the complainin’ for thirty years. You don’t have any valid
grounds for divorce so you just become a philosopher.
T. Technologically challenged: You’re passing The Sharper Image and you
realize you’ve never held an I-Phone, a PDA, an X-Box or a Blackberry in
your hands.
U. Underground Utopia: Is the place where your grown up, married
children and their kids come to escape their horrid living conditions,
better known as your house.
V. Viagra: Viagra
W. Wainscot: Wooden lining of the lower part of the walls of a room. (Oh
yeah? how 'bout you trying to write 26 funny phrases about baby
boomers).
X. X-files: The hundreds of files and folders that are lying in your
attic collecting dust that you are too lazy to organize and too afraid
to throw away because they may be needed during an IRS audit one fine
day.
Y. Your youth: Something you can’t go back to, can’t own rent or lease,
can’t purchase, can’t relive and can’t remember much of anymore.
Z. Zombie: What you have turned into ever since your husband lost his
job (see ‘A’), your eldest son and his kids moved back in with you (see
‘J’), you are maxed out (see ‘M’), you just turned fifty (see ‘F’), and
you came to know that there is no such thing as a G-spot (see ‘G’).
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Twice
Bitten
By Kim Schultz, New York
Thud. I hear something in my
window. I look at my clock. 2:17am. I’m in St. Paul, MN in bed in my
cute apartment in a questionable neighborhood, alone. I start to panic.
Burglar? Thud…I get out of bed and go to the window, cause clearly if
it’s an intruder, the safest thing to do is to go towards him. Thud! I’m
still half asleep. As I shut the window, something jumps out and hits my
arm. I scream. It screams.
AHAHHAHHAHHHHHHHH EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
It’s a bat. I don’t know who’s more scared—me or him. I run out of my
bedroom into the living room, shutting the door behind me. I try to
catch my breath. I can still hear the dirty bat…stard in the other room
EEEEEEEEEEEE. Thud thud thud.
And I decide to do the only thing I can do right now. I call my mom.
Now, if you’re a mom and you get a 2am call from your daughter
screaming, clearly she’s being raped or murdered, which is what my mom
naturally assumes when I call her saying,
“Mom! Oh my God, MOM!”
Eventually, she manages to calm me down and I notice it has gotten quiet
in the other room. I stand in front of the door, waiting, watching. Then
suddenly he comes flying UNDER the door! He beelines for my head. I hit
the deck.
We both start to scream again. I don’t know who’s more upset. Him?
Because he had a taste of the sweet Kim, wants more and is thwarted. Or
me…BECAUSE I JUST HAD A BAT BEELINE FOR MY HEAD!? Now of course, my mom
is still on the phone
“Honey! You’ve got to call the police!”
I hang up and call 911.
“Ma’am, this is not an emergency.”
“Not an emergency?!?!?
So I call animal services.
“We can send someone in the morning but if you suspect you’ve been
bitten, we recommend you seek immediate medical attention.”
Bitten? Was I bitten? Holy crap. Medical attention. Medical attention.
“Nurse hotline, what is your question?”
“Hello. I had a bat break in and I don’t know if I was bitten, or if…”
“All right, ma’am, calm down. Bat bites are VERY rare. I doubt you’ve
been bitten.”
“How would I know though?”
“You would know by 2 fang marks where you suspect the bite”
I look down at my arm . There’s a lump the size of a golf ball and 2
….little …fang marks.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Into the emergency room comes some on call doctor carrying the hugest,
dustiest old tomb of medical knowledge, trying to figure out how to
treat a bat bite, to avoid, well, death.
“Are you sure you were bitten by a bat?”
“Yes”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a dog?
“Yes. Fairly certain”
“Are you? Dog bites are far more common.”
“Yes! I’m sure it was a bat. I saw it. It flew. It was a bat!”
“Well…if you’re certain…it‘s just we get a lot of dog bites…”
So, he gives me every shot known to man, including rabies. But, you see,
rabies shots are given in a series. And the next week, I’m off to rural
France for a vacation.
“You need your second shot in the series in 7-10 days. That’s your
window. It’s very important you get this shot then.”
I am in rural France. And I have been practicing my French---especially
the sentence which will save my life. I call the French hospital.
“Bonjour! Je M’appelle Kim. Je voudrais une fusil pour je me suis bouche
de le bateau”
“Comment?”
“Parlez-Vous Anglais?”
“Nooon”
Next day, I try again. Foam building in the corner of my lips
“Bonjour! Je M’appelle Kim. Je voudrais une fusil pour je me suis bouche
de le bateau”
Giggle, giggle.
“Parlez vous anglais??? C’est Tres important. Window.”
So Wednesday comes…last day in my “need to get my rabies shot so I don’t
die” window. And I’m at what appears to be the nurse station
“Bonjour! Je M’appelle …” More giggling. Finally...
“Helllloooooo! Kim??? Welcome! Please tell me how we can help you.”
Hello. My name is Kim. I need to get a rabies shot because I have been
bitten by a bat.
“Ahhh! Of course we can help. You have given us quite a laugh these last
days.”
“What exactly is so funny??”
“You have been calling every day and saying you need to be shot because
you have the mouth of a baseball bat.”
…Stupid French people.
www.kimschultz.net
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The
Secret Truth Behind Diners
By Joel Schwartzberg, New
Jersey
Just like everyone in the Northeast has a favorite road rage swear
word, so too does every man, woman, and child in the urban Northeast
have a favorite diner, and I mean everyone: Steak-lovers, vegans,
politicians, Average Joes, kids, seniors, people who put ketchup on
their eggs, celebrities, politicians, American Gladiators, the
cholesterolly-challenged, people who eat tapioca pudding... everyone.
To be fair, you can find diners in many more places than the Northeast,
but as a rule of thumb: if it has a tablecloth or a "Happy Meal," it's
not a diner.
It's not clear what draws such diverse people to this particular kind of
eatery, but in my 40 years of in-depth diner observation, I've noted
similarities so striking that there must be some kind of secret society,
complete with secret rules and an official secret handshake (so long as
they wash hands before returning to work).
These rules and regulations -- let's call them the Officially Recognized
Diner Eatery Regulations for Universal Patronage (or O.R.D.E.R. U.P.) --
would have to look something like this:
Variety
A diner must be able to make basic foods well, like club sandwiches,
eggs, burgers, simple salads, mashed potatoes, tuna fish, and pancakes.
But it also must offer every other conceivable dish under the sun, from
moussaka to pastrami Reubens. It doesn't matter if 99 percent of
traditionally-ordered items come from 1 percent of the menu; a diner
must always be prepared for that one customer who doesn't realize he
could get a better Penne a la Vodka almost anywhere else.
-----------
Menus
A diner menu, the U.N. of restaurant menus, must be no smaller than a
car windshield cover, and laminated for guaranteed protection through
the year 2050. Handwritten "specials" may be clipped to menu, but they
must contain grammatical errors involving misused apostrophes:
meatball's, dinner roll's, chicken finger's, etc.
The diner must also have a separate kids' menu, preferably doubling as a
colorable placemat. This menu must be accompanied by the cheapest, most
easily-broken and most unwashable crayons in the bad crayon industry.
This food portion must offer spaghetti, grilled cheese sandwiches,
hamburgers, and some sort of chicken formation which is 83 percent fried
batter, 15 percent thoroughly-processed chicken and 2 percent something
else entirely.
-----------
Wait Staff
Diner waitresses and waiters have to be courteous, but not overbearing,
with a touch of attitude at no additional cost. They should also be
qualified to steer you in the right direction. For example, a man
sitting next to me at a certain New Jersey diner counter once told the
waitress he wanted a slice of the grey-looking lemon meringue pie in the
display case.
The waitress said, "No you don't."
"I don't?"
"No you don't."
(O.R.D.E.R.U.P. Rule of Thumb: When a diner waitress says you DON'T want
something, trust her without hesitation.)
-----------
Food Displays
The refrigerated display case usually behind the counter must be stocked
with several 16-layer cakes and deep dish pies, but also many food items
you can't imagine people ever ordering, such as rice pudding, pineapple
topping, green Jell-O, and Oreo cheesecake. Where these foods go or
where they come from is like asking how socks get lost in the dryer or
wire hangers mysteriously multiply in our closets. It just happens.
-----------
The Check
O.R.D.E.R.U.P. stipulates that the check should be handwritten and
illegible, especially to someone wanting to know if he was charged for
that extra Diet Coke. It should contain a math mistake corrected with a
huge slash or overwritten numbers. The back of the check can have no
more than two of the following three features: a first name, a goodbye
greeting, and a smiley face. Use of all three should be reported
immediately to the O.R.D.E.R.U.P. protocol crimes division.
-----------
Despite all these commonalities, we each cling to our favorite diner as
if it were somehow outstanding. And it is, really. It's the one closest
to home. It's the one in which we run into friends and colleagues. It's
the one in which we're called "honey," and in which managers say "how
are you?" and mean it.
And I'll compare my hometown diner's egg's, toast's, and potato's to
anyone else's, any time.
www.jesttokill.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Yellow
Jackets, Tight Pants
By Mary Tompsett, Wisconsin
Uh-oh. A black-and-yellow fuzzball the
size of a winged guinea pig is straddling my sandwich. Whew! It’s a
bumble bee, not a wasp. In the bug world, bees are the football linemen,
intimidating yet mild-mannered, usually history majors. But the wasp
families, including hornets and yellowjackets, resemble skinny
basketball players with an attitude. And they crave meat—preferably
still breathing.
Discover the fascinating world of wasps through: (a) books; (b) picnics;
and (c) mowing over a ground nest. Interactive learning is such fun!
Wasp removal by lawnmower, however, is generally frowned upon by animal
rights people and emergency room staff. So I make tiny traps out of
staples and peanut shells, then release the caged individuals in another
neighborhood. Not yours, I’m 50% sure.
How do we differentiate between males, females, and the queen? Tying
them down for observation under a microscope can be tricky. Practice
your knots. And remember, branding wasps is illegal in most states, so
if you see little numbers, contact the authorities. Or remove the price
tag from the lens. Just kidding, hahaha. Of course, that never happened
to me.
I’ve examined yellowjackets. Oh, the deception wrought upon us!
Goodness, they’re not wearing jackets at all! Each male swaggers around
in skin-tight black matador pants, flexing his bare, oiled thorax. Dear
me, what narcissistic libertines! The jingle of little tool belts will
clue you to the workers. And Her Highness? Look for the big gal in a
yellow tutu and platform shoes.
Workers communicate directions to distant food by dancing. Usually the
Hokey Pokey. We know it works because scientists strapped radar
transponders to dance spectators and tracked them from the hive to the
buffet line. Er, strapped? As in harness?? How ridiculous. Ankle
bracelets are lighter. Better yet, ear tags!
Only a trained naturalist like myself knows when these secret, elaborate
party dances occur. Pssst. Want a tip? Look for a hive leaking confetti
and cocktail napkins.
Wasps love a home-cooked meal, and will squeeze nectar out of a captured
bee, actually slurping it off the bee’s tongue. Far out. And they will
even continue eating while they are being eaten by a mantis. Farther
out! What I’d give for such focus, such concentra—great haircut, Ruth!
Where’s Tom?
So, are six-legged courtships the same as twelve-step dating? That’s
cute, but no. Wasps LUST!! (That’s hard to say ten times.) Each
wannabe-queen flies out for a mid-air tickle fest with up to 40 drones.
Yes, 40!! Why, those little sluts! And everyone’s doin’ the nasty in our
yards??!? Have mercy, O ye gelded gods in gabardine!!
Workers then scope out the returning wannabes to see who had the most
“dates,” so to speak, and crown her as queen. How can they tell? Well,
the literature makes a big whooptidoodle about pheromone alteration. Oh,
puh-lease! Anyone with half a brain could spot the salacious tart who
tumbles into the nest, exhausted, with her antennae and ponytail askew.
For shame! Yet I cannot believe that all wannabes trade their chastity
for a shot at the throne. Surely, a few say no to doing the back-seat
watusi, and will instead visit an ailing aunt, or perhaps write a humor
column.
And the males? The poor bastards die quickly, forever denied the glory
of bragging in the locker room. A pity.
The workers then produce a goo called royal jelly, and feed it to all
larva (the Latin word for ugly babies). Depending on how much the larva
chow down, they’ll become workers or wannabe-queens. God only knows
where males come from.
Some people eat royal jelly as a health supplement. But I cannot in good
conscience support such a godless, hedonistic entomological system.
Instead, I’ve adopted a battalion of workers, and milk them for my own
“free range” royal jelly.
I don’t mind rising before dawn, but perching for hours on a teeny
milking stool is brutal.
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