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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/ July 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
June/ July 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Teed Off
By John Brazell, Texas
I was standing on number one tee last Monday excited and glad to be
there.
It was not unusual as like any golfer worth his four-letter word
vocabulary, this was going to be my new best round. On or about the
fourth hole I was wondering why I was there, which also is not unusual,
as I was well into my new worst round.
All golfers -- without provocation, reason or swinging a golf club --
think their next score will be fifteen strokes better. My guess is that
Nike, Calloway, Taylor Made, et al, embed biochips in the club shafts
that cause irrational thinking and more trips to the toilet. I’m not
sure about the toilet as most of the people I play with are beyond the
age of consent (for Medicare) and therefore go to the toilet a lot
already. I’m pretty sure about the irrational thinking.
Frankly, I’ve never bought into the basic concept of golf though I’ve
been flailing away at golf balls for over four decades. After investing
all that money into clubs, balls, ugly hats and shorts it’s hard to
admit what you’ve obsessed about all these years is pretty much nothing
but aberrant behavior. Plus I’ll own up to a fear of inadvertently doing
something useful in my retirement years.
Rounding up to the nearest whole number, I’ve probably flailed two
million flails at white, dimpled and deceptively resilient hard-rubber
balls. More than half of which have been made within spitting distance
of the target, a four-inch can in the ground that moves of its own free
will. I should add a few hundred swings at yellow balls when I was
desperate to find a cure for the curse. They added nothing except for
matching the jaundiced streak down my spine that wouldn’t allow me to
toss my clubs in the lake and walk away still with a smattering of self
respect.
The problem with golf is the fierce dichotomy that renders it a hopeless
and embarrassing cause. It requires two different and mutually exclusive
physical and emotional attributes -- strength on the tee and touchy
feely-ness on the greens. There’s only one guy in the world that can do
both, which if you’re good with math, leaves you with a one in
six-billion –- less bin Laden as he’s inside a cave -- chance of playing
the game well. It’s not something to have etched in your mind as you
approach the first tee with a fifty-cent robin and your pride on the
line.
I’ll try to make reasonable comparisons here as it’s important to
understand the impossibilities of golf.
Gorillas are good at smashing things; ballerinas are better at locking
their knees together, standing on their tippy-toes and tapping a ball
twenty feet with a dainty curve to the right or left. Golfers are
expected to do both. That doesn’t happen in other sports as “going both
ways” on the field went out with girdles and feather balls (not
necessarily related). Off the field I guess “both ways” is still “in”
but this is not social commentary.
In football, three-hundred pound behemoths ram the ball down the field
so a hundred and fifty pound pantywaist can flit to the twenty yard line
and sidekick a ball through two cute little upright poles. The latter
might be a feat comparable to sinking a forty-foot putt, but behemoths
don’t waste their time trying to doing it. Point is, a lot of people can
putt, particularly if they’re light in the cleats and not inclined to
smash things.
Spitting and chewing, hard-ass Indy drivers aren’t required to go
four-hundred and ninety-nine laps, coast the last one and finish by
gracefully parallel parking their car in a precise hole in the ground.
Baseball players don’t keep their head still, back straight, bend over
thirty-degrees, stick a bat in their belly and roll the ball over the
pitcher’s mound to first or second base on the last play. If they did it
would be left to designated ball rollers.
So why are we still putting? You can do that through a clown’s mouth at
mini-golf. Let’s get rid of it and play smash-mouth golf. Smack the ball
as far as you can toward the green, pick it up if you can find it, put
it in your pocket, and go home happy. Or allow designated putters who
must wear dresses, with matching soft spike heels of course.
Yep, you’re right, I can’t putt.
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 Farm
Kids, Barns and Ropes
By James Butler, Oregon
I spent my first ten years of life on a small quarter section family
dairy farm in Eaton County, Michigan with a sister two years younger.
Being a kid on a farm is one great adventure after another but things
can get a bit out of hand when the parents are not around.
One summer day I was watching a western on T.V. when the hero tossed a
rope over a tree and lowered himself into a ravine to escape the bad
guys. That gave me a great idea. I had a rope. I had an empty upper
level feed loft. I had a tag-a-long little sister to escape from.
A few minutes later I was standing in the feed loft looking out the door
at the dusty barnyard 10 feet below. I tied the rope around my waist,
tossed it over a rafter and pulled it tight. One foot slipped past the
edge of the door then I froze. It was a long way down! Maybe I was not
the hero type after all.
“What ya doin?” my little sister said as she ran toward me.
What to say? ‘I’m chickening out’ certainly would not do. Wait a minute.
This could be a great opportunity!
“Playing elevator. I lower myself to the ground then pull myself back
up.”
“I wanna try!”
“Well, I don’t know. Mom might get mad. Remember swimming in the water
trough?”
“I won’t tell.”
“Okay. I’m getting tired of pulling myself anyway.”
I tied the rope around her waist real tight. I could not have my sister
slipping out half-way down. That would definitely negate the ‘won’t
tell’ pact!
“Ready?” I said.
“Yep.”
“Okay just step off…NO!”
She jumped out the door! The rope ripped through my hands. I let it go,
screaming. Then I heard a thud outside the door. I looked down, spotting
my sister laying flat on her back with a cloud of dust rising around
her. A moment later she shot up to her feet screaming.
“I can’t breath! You killed me! You killed me!”
She raced for the gate with the rope trailing behind her.
“MOOOMMM!!!!”
I was scared. My dad had wailed on me for kicking the dog. I could only
image what punishment killing my sister would bring! It was time to seek
shelter in my secret fort in the hayloft.
I sat inside that hot, dark little room built of fresh cut bales of hay
for hours. When my stomach told me supper time was near I began to
rationalize the incident. My dad was upset about the dog because the dog
could hunt. My sister could not hunt. In fact, I could not think of
anything useful she did. Maybe dad would not be that upset. In any
event, I was not about to die of hunger worrying about it.
My dad spotted me walking toward the house a few minutes later.
“Where you been?! Supper’s waiting,” he said then went in the house.
Wow. He must really love that dog! I took off running for the back door.
I froze in my tracks when I stepped in the kitchen. There she was
sitting at the table stuffing her face. She looked up at me and smiled
an evil little smile. She had not told but she could. Anytime. Anywhere.
Just when it suited her best.
Funny thing about it was I never found out what she did with the rope.
Years later I asked her about it and she did not remember. I still wake
up from nightmares expecting to see a noose made out of it hanging over
my bed!
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Hey,
Learn Some Manners, Jerk!
By Burton Cole, Ohio
How rude!
Of all the offensive surveys to be conducted, this one claims that
Americans are inconsiderate jerks.
Yeah, well, you can just take that and ...
Oops. That would be too rude to say. But the crummy survey deserves it.
In a telephone poll conducted this year by the research group Public
Agenda, 79 percent of adults claim that a lack of respect and courtesy
in American society is a serious problem. Then they blasted air horns
into the phones before smashing down the receivers, breaking the
eardrums of the survey takers.
Sixty-one percent of those surveyed -- before throwing their phones
across their rooms -- said they believe things have gotten worse in
recent years, according to The Associated Press.
They, of course, believe themselves to be the 21 percent who are
considerate. Most of the time.
Yeah, right. As if they would know!
Anyway, nearly half the 2,013 people surveyed said they walked out of
the store in the past year because of lousy customer service.
Try getting stuck in a drive-through lane with lousy service. They berm
those babies up, and stick cars in front and behind you so you can’t get
out. All you can do is sit there and beep and beep and beep and yell and
beep some more. It’s irksome, I tell you.
Half of those surveyed complained about people who talked on cell phones
in loud or annoying manners. C’mon, your friend has the phone up to his
or her ear.
Yeah, I know. You don’t need to raise your voice in the restaurant, for
cryin’ out loud. Apparently the only person who can’t hear you is the
person you’re talking to. The rest of us got it loud and clear.
By the way, we think you should use the ointment, not the cream, for the
rash you were yapping about while we tried to crunch our salads.
Sixty percent of the respondents, just before they kicked their cats,
said they regularly see other people driving aggressively or recklessly.
So they just ran them off the road to teach them some manners.
Hey, it’s a rough world out there. Don’t like it? Tough noogies.
So what happened to our society? What made us so blame cantankerous? All
of you goofs, I mean. I remain the sweet, cuddly bag of cheer I’ve
always been.
One respondent had a theory about that. Get this -- it’s Elvis’ fault!
Most of the people in the poll blamed our crass pleasantries on things
like overcrowding in malls or increasingly busy lives that leave us
barely enough time to stomp on the roses we used to stop and smell.
But one woman in Texas said it dated back to the 1950s when The King
held court.
"It was shocking when Elvis was shaking his hips up there, but now we
see whole naked bodies," she told The Associated Press. "It started with
Elvis, and that was a little overboard, but that was the beginning of
what we have today."
Nothin’ but a hound dog cryin’ all the time. So we stepped on her blue
suede shoes and told her we were loving her tender-like. Let me tell
you, that was no teddy bear who growled back.
There’s just no accounting for how rude some people can be.
www.tribtoday.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Squat
Toilets Are Not Meant For Women Over 50
By
Dodie Cross,
Washington
As many 50-something women find, their
lower internal organs begin to drop, droop, sag, bag and demand
attention, and do not ignore the familiar signs of urgency and/or wet
knickers.
A few days after arriving in Bangkok, Thailand, while shopping at
Robinson’s Department Store, I felt the familiar signs. I spotted the
unisex sign for “Toilet.” I thought of the scary stories I’d heard about
squat toilets. Dare I try this? I mean, how bad could it be? This was
Robinson’s, an international upscale chain.
I peeked inside. I wanted to turn and flee. I gagged. Think Kansas City
Stock Yard meets Los Angeles County Landfill. I held my breath until I
felt faint. I had to do this. There was no backing out now. I gave my
keigel muscles a huge clench and duck-waddled inside.
There it was, the ubiquitous Eastern squat toilet, waiting for the next
feeble foreigner. It was a hole cut in the tile floor, with porcelain
inside the hole and a thin porcelain ledge around the top to stand on.
The sides were splattered with various shades of… oh never mind!
I studied this enigma and tried to decide on the best point of entry. I
stepped up closer to the beast. Wait! How is a woman supposed to squat
on this thing? If you’re wearing long pants they must be pulled down,
along with your undies. To where do you pull them? If you pull them down
just a little, you’ll pee on them. So, you must get into a kind of
stooping position, then pull them down just past your fanny and squat.
While squatting, you must pull them down a little more and tuck them
under your knees. You then need to hike them up far enough so the
bottoms don’t touch the filthy floor. Then you must squat-walk towards
the hole.
But what if you have on a full skirt or muumuu? You must pull the front
of the skirt up and wad it under your chin, then grab the back of the
skirt and wrap it around your waist and try to make a cute little square
knot to hold everything in place. And while you’re trying to maneuver
yourself into position you have no idea where your feet are with all the
clothes piled up around your torso.
You scan the room for a toilet paper roll. Nada! You panic! But wait,
over in the corner you spot a spigot with a hose and pail ready and
waiting for the nice little butt lavage. This is Asia, girlfriend.
Forget about using paper to pat your tu-tu dry. Water is the cleanser of
choice.
It’s now time to conquer your fears—and damp drawers. You’re going to
need an Olympic score of ten on your mount, and hope your feet hit the
indents and not the hole. The porcelain is wet. The floor is wet. There
is no paper. You start to pray. You hike up your skirt, wrap it around
yourself, squat down a bit and drop your drawers, tucking them behind
your knees—and make the jump.
You made it! Now you’re on and in the full squat. You wonder if you can
keep your balance long enough to empty your bladder. You wait. It
freezes. It’s not going to cooperate. It trickles out one drop at a
time, punishing you. Your back hurts, your thighs are screaming and your
hamstrings are losing ground. Your purse handles are between your teeth
as you try to dig out a piece of tissue with one hand while the other is
flailing overhead for balance. One wrong move and you could do a
pratfall onto the filthy, wet floor, or, the unthinkable—the hole.
You’re bladder quits pouting and finally empties; it’s now time to
dismount. But how? You realize you must get up, and you must do this
before the store closes. There’s nothing to hang on to. Both arms are
now flailing about, your teeth are losing their grip on your purse
handles, and your clothes are tucked into your wrinkles. You must
prepare for your dismount before you fall face forward or backasswards.
You know you’ll have no help from your burning thigh muscles. You give a
giant heave and fling yourself up and out of the crouched position.
Yes! I made it! I’m sure everyone in the store knew I’d successfully
landed my dismount when they heard me yell, “Thank you, Buddha!”
www.abroadinthailand.com
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My
Tuba
By Joseph Ellers, South Carolina
The world is a very unfair place for big
kids. Besides all of the jokes and teasing, there is one thing that no
one ever considers…and that’s what happens when you play music. When
you’re big, you want to kind of blend in and there’s no better place to
blend in than the marching band. Everyone gets the same uniform and at a
distance when they’re marching, a big guy looks just like everyone else.
And its nice to be part of something bigger than yourself, if you know
what I mean.
As a kid, I decided to join the band and I’m thinking about all the cool
instruments I can play. A saxophone is what I want to play because it’s
the coolest instrument there is or maybe a trumpet. I would even have
considered a clarinet—they’re black—kind of cool and slimming.
When I go in to see the music teacher to pick out an instrument, he
takes one look at me and says the magic word, “Tuba.” Now, for those of
you that don’t know, the tuba is the biggest instrument there is, other
than a piano, and I’m sure that I would have had to play that if they
had a piano for the marching band.
So, I ask why. And he says, “You’re the only kid big enough to carry
it.” Super.
The “beauty” of the tuba comes in so many ways. Its big and bulky. It
needs its own seat on the bus. And tuba music can best be described as
monotonous. And a tuba is definitely uncool and not the least bit
romantic. (Think about the scene: you’re on a date and you reach over
and take a forty pound instrument out of its packing crate, sling it
over your shoulder, look seductively into your date’s eyes and play a
few oompahs. You’re feeling me, right?)
And you don’t even blend in on the field because you have this big thing
sticking over your head that says, hey look at the big kid carrying the
big instrument…
The only revenge you get is banging everyone’s knees on the school bus
as you drag the hulking instrument toward the back of the bus.
Well, I really did want to be in the band so I took the tuba and learned
to play it. For years, I lugged it back and forth to school. I marched
with it and during the marching band off-season, I played it in the
concert band…which is a lot like the marching band only we added a few
wierdos that play things like oboe, bassoon, violin and cello. Luckily,
I escaped that part of the music scene. (Probably the only thing less
cool in high school for a guy than playing the tuba is playing the
violin…)
My senior year in high school rolled around and the band director
decided that it was time for a heart to heart talk. After practice one
day, he confided in me that he had been a tuba player himself in the old
days. I looked at the skinny guy and tried to imagine him wrestling a
tuba around voluntarily. Then he dropped the bombshell on me, he had
found a piece of music that included a solo part for tuba. I would take
center stage at the homecoming and play about 30 seconds of music
accompanied by all the other parts of the band. I could see it all…me
playing the tuba as the Homecoming Queen walks forward to accept her
crown---maybe even looking over at me and giving me a smile. Maybe
even…who knows?
Well, my big night came and I was ready. My uniform was crisp, my
buttons shiny—the tuba itself was shiny and bright. The band played
softly in the background as the Homecoming Court was introduced and the
Runners-up announced. I marched out fifteen paces, did a left face and
took center stage next to the announcer and began my solo.
Now, you have to understand that at my school, Homecoming Queen is
pretty much a popularity contest where the winner is elected by a vote
of the school. That being said, the winner that year was Harold Feinleib…who
had run a pretty good campaign as the ultimate darkhorse for Homecoming
Queen.
So there I was playing my solo as Harold strode confidently forward to
accept his crown.
After that night, I laid the tuba down permanently.
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The
Life And Times Of A Wolf Spider
By Tracy Farr, Texas
It is with great pleasure that I
hereby present to you my scientific treatise on the roaming habits,
reproductive cycle and life span of the North American Wolf Spider (Rabidosa
rabida) that was living behind my bookshelf last Tuesday – until he met
his untimely demise.
Many people believe that spiders should be classified as enemy
combatants or viewed as agents representing a foreign “Axis of Evil”
(which is quite fortunate because I hear the U.S. is looking for a new
one), but Wolf Spiders are quite harmless to humans.
According to Wikipedia (the only website discriminating scientists
choose to trust), Wolf Spiders wander from place to place, all alone,
preferring not to keep a permanent home due to the high cost of upkeep
as well as the possibility of foreclosure. Some build burrows complete
with trap doors, but those are the across-town “rich” cousins who can
send all 800 of their offspring to private school without blinking any
of their eight eyes.
Wolf Spiders are said to be “robust and agile hunters,” preferring to
roam in pastures and fields, pouncing on harmful insects, eating them
piece by piece, then paying the bill without forgetting to leave a 13
percent tip. Even if they do scoff at government regulations (like
hunting without a license, refusing to attend hunter safety courses or
wearing little orange vests), I have no qualms about them being out in
those fields eating little nasty insects. They are doing a job we
Americans (and even illegal aliens) wouldn’t stoop to do – and I say,
“God bless them, each and every one.”
But a scientific treatise is no place for quoting Tiny Tim. So let’s
continue.
Again, according to Wikipedia (that bastion of arachnid information),
Wolf Spiders carry their eggs in sacs under their belly, and continue to
hunt without ever complaining of morning sickness or back pains. When
the spiderlings emerge from their egg sac, they climb up their mother’s
legs to her abdomen where they hang on for dear life (which gives me the
willies just thinking about it). When old enough, the spiderlings
disperse through the air – scattering hither and thither – to start
their own lives.
(Since this particular Wolf Spider was without egg sac, we can assume
either he was male or she was female and had already “dispersed” her
children all over my house. And if that be the case, I beg of you not to
mention it to the female humans who abide with me. Thank you very much!)
The Wolf Spider that inhabited my home was fairly intelligent due to the
fact he chose to hide behind a bookcase full of volumes written by Poe,
Dickens, and Twain. Why he decided to venture across open floor to the
bookcase which held Foxworthy, Benchley and Carlin, we may never know.
But he did, and in so doing, risked being seen, which he was.
A Wolf Spider can move about its environment quite stealthily, but when
they are discovered, they are very easy to track – especially if you
follow the high-pitched screaming of little voices yelling things like,
“It's over here, kill it,” and “I'm not going to kill it, YOU kill it,”
and “Daddy! Don’t just look at it! Kill it NOW!”
The spider I encountered could be described as brown in color, looking
apprehensive in a McGyver (I’m gonna get out of here using this
toothpick and dental floss) sort of way, and not as small as Charlotte
the Spider but big enough to evoke an “Oh My Word! It's a Monster! Run
over it with the car” kind of response.
Which brings us to our next question: What is the average lifespan of a
Wolf Spider?
No one really knows how long a Wolf Spider can live in his natural
environment, but the average lifespan of a Wolf Spider found residing
behind a bookcase in my house is in direct correlation with the amount
of perceived threat a human believes he or she is in. I, myself, did not
perceive a threat from this fine specimen of spider. I did, however,
perceive abundant threats from other members of my household, declaring
they would inflict bodily damage to my person if I didn’t “squash that
beast to pieces!”
Reverting to survival instincts, I took careful aim, begged forgiveness
for what I was about to do, and slammed my 10-inch steel-toed work boot
upon his cephalothorax (head) and opisthosoma (guts).
I must say, he splattered quite nicely.
www.stinkycreektexas.com
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 An
Expert's Solution to America's Problems
By Jesse Frederick, Illinois
According to many of America’s highly recognized and lowly intelligent
experts, the greatest threat to American security (besides global
warming) is America’s own military. This is true because, and I quote,
“Our army is broken.” So said Lawrence J. Korb, a senior fellow at the
Center for American Progress, an official-sounding club for Harvard
graduates who couldn’t find high paying occupations.
This is interesting because I guess I simply assumed that certain
threats such as global terrorism or WMDs or the economy or Conan
O’Brien’s hair were at the top of America’s Most Unwanted Threats list.
Silly me.
Obviously I am not a Harvard-bred expert. But since the overwhelming
majority of American experts have Thai noodles and curry for brains and
still somehow never fail to dazzle and awe us Americans watching Nightly
News when Brian Williams states, “And now hold onto your seats as we
intently listen to the sage and magical words of this evening’s Ivy
League graduated expert” (could just as well said “wizard”), I will
therefore proclaim myself one. You might want to sit down, if you are
not already, because words from self-proclaimed experts have a tendency
to make some people faint with wonderment, and I will not be held
responsible for you crashing face first into your computer screen.
As all greatly recognized experts do, I am compelled to begin with a
problem. This is not hard. Where do I start? Wow! Is this what experts
feel like every time they are about to state a problem?! This smart?!
Anyway, these are a few of the humongous issues looming over America
today, which I expertly came up with: oil, Iran and Asian carp.
Let’s begin with oil prices since it’s the easiest issue to pin a
culprit to. We all know who to blame for insanely over-priced oil:
caribou. This is because a little more than five years ago a bill barely
passed through the Senate which rejected any chance of drilling for oil
within the boundaries of the vast Alaskan wildlife refuges, which
collectively are about the size of all of Asia. How this actually was
possible has been a very well-hidden secret. The truth is, where the
Republicans had pro-oil lobbyists and billions of dollars, the Democrats
had herds of caribou and trillions of tons of snow. The polar bears also
offered their services—doing the dirty work, such as eating oil company
employees entering the no-drill zone. This was all performed at the
behest of the caribou, however. So they are to blame.
Next we have Iran, the molding leftover from the axis of evil meal that
no one wants to eat. They are a serious threat to America, obviously,
because they are next door neighbors to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan,
Turkmenistan, Nuclearwaristan, and the Arabian Sea—all who either are or
should be invaded by the U.S. So we can see that Iran is a threat to our
society, seeing that they also have so much oil that they use it as a
frequently served cafeteria meal in the grade schools, and that the
caribou stole ours in Alaska. Add uranium and Russian scientists to the
mix, and you have a baseball, apple pie and Hollywood threatening
salmagundi.
Which brings me to my third threat: Asian carp. I read an article about
how they are at this very moment invading North America more effectively
than the French did in the 17th century—which isn’t saying much—and
breaking fishermen’s noses along the way. This is no joke. According to
the same article, these Asian sea monsters can get up to over 100 pounds
in weight and jump out of the water as high as 15 feet, injuring anglers
in the process, which I can’t exactly hold against them, being that it
was obviously in self-defense. According to the same article and
Wikipedia, they eat so much plankton that within a decade the entire
United States will be an oversized desert. But don’t let their name fool
you—Asia is not to blame (although I am sure China encouraged them). We
can blame our own homegrown Arkansas fish farmers, whose crude manner of
ranching was no match for the Asians’ technologically advanced methods
of escape.
Now, unlike most experts, I am going to give you solutions. I propose we
sign a peace pact with the caribou—which would also include their polar
bear hitmen—and Asian carp. Then naturalize them so we can draft them
into our armed forces and replace our “broken army” and navy with the
well rested Alaskan Wildlife Battalion and Leaping Leviathans Task
Force. The caribou can take command and administrative positions in
Iraq, and the polar bears can again do the dirty work, like eating
would-be suicide bombers and invading Iran. The carp would focus on
blockading Iran from the sea and confiscating all oil transports. This
would pay for our entire Middle East invasion and also lower gas prices
at home, so we can spend more money on Harvard expert degrees.
http://www.thejessterslab.blogspot.com
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Airport
Security? I'll Drink To That -- If They'd Let Me!
By Christopher Schmidt, California
I travel a lot. I fly often. In my experience, I have witnessed the
degeneration of pre-911 airport malaise, where it was difficult to find,
much less catch the attention of, a transit official (see Security
Guard), into what is now a virtual colonoscopy at the security
checkpoint.
Despite lamentations over the loss of personal liberties, I think I have
handled the increased scrutiny with dignity. I shan’t credit my inherent
patience, as I haven’t any, rather:
(A) I commonly travel for pleasure, so I am graced with a prevalent, if
fleeting, calmness
(B) I understand no one working the checkpoint has any control over the
severity—ridiculousness—of the security restrictions they are compelled
to enforce, and
(C) not dying in a flaming mass of exploding airplane is far worth the
slight irritation of removing my shoes and waiting while a stranger with
a badge examines my underwear, confiscates my contact solution and sends
my deodorant off to be lab-tested.
So, in the name of public safety, I don’t mind a little
governmentally-sponsored inconvenience. Today, however, I have been
thrust beyond even my own lofty tolerance-ceiling. Today, the TSA and
their heightened security measures have cut into my drinking.
There is a 3-ounce limit on carrying liquids onto an airplane. This is
not a tremendously new institution, and I have flown several times, and
lost several bottles of $6-airport Aquafina since (the fluid restriction
is not well posted in the gift shop). But this is the first time since
that I have flown to Las Vegas. The significance is multifaceted:
• Flying to Las Vegas often involves cutting it close. An interesting
phenomenon; no matter how many times you nearly miss a flight to Vegas,
you just can’t seem to cure yourself of it. Southwest Airlines may be to
blame for shaping a subculture of travelers who simply expect to get a
Class-C boarding pass (see Bad Seat), thus feel no sense of urgency to
either hurry, or start getting to the airport in a timely fashion. Any
delay in the airport, then, greatly jeopardizes one’s chances of getting
a drink before one’s flight.
• Being in Vegas invariably involves loads of sun, heat, and passing
out. Everyone in line, then, is packing water, sunscreen, and insulin,
and 3-ounces, as a measure, is hardly intuitive. Ensuring a noteworthy
bottleneck at the checkpoint is how we of the 3-ounces of brain also
endeavor to bootleg 12-ounce cans of fermented medication and bottles of
contraband vodka through the terminal.
• Flying to Vegas religiously involves drinking. Any delay whatsoever
means less time doing that, national security and the preservation of
human life be damned.
Enter the ethical dilemma – is protecting life more important than being
not-sober in Las Vegas? Clear thinking humanitarians will tell you there
is nothing more precious than human life. A moot point, as clear
thinking humanitarians are not, by definition, tremendous drinkers or
gamblers. The dedicated Vegas traveler, then, will tell you exactly what
you can do with humanitarianism, and will happily throw their carryon
luggage, shoes, 3.1-ounces of mouthwash and everyone in line to the
wolves if it means additional cocktails in the lounge.
Since its inception, the 3 fl. ounce restriction has shocked a great
number of people. Neither the threatening postings as you approach
security (past the point of being able to return your $6 Aquafina, as
you have already opened it), nor the disquieting murmur passing through
line seem to prepare the indignant for the tremendous injustice of
having their aloe vera confiscated. Perhaps we think the rules don't
apply to us, our shampoo, or our venti latte. We appear to have a
tremendous sense of denial.
The fabulous irony is how the experienced traveler, who is aware of the
rules, who has put all liquids into the approved government-issue
sandwich bag, must wait as everyone else is taken completely by
surprise, and thus inclined to yell at the hapless, though not
tremendously understanding or accommodating TSA-official while their
toiletries are filched.
What makes today such a tragedy, I am one of these experienced
individuals, and I am within sight of the bar, weeping, resolutely
bivouacked in an unmoving security line, close enough to smell cashews
and Bloody Mary mix, as the final boarding announcement for my flight is
made.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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I
Dream Of Johnnie With The Light Brown Hair
By William Schmitt, New York
People who say they love that good old country air have never been
outside when the farmers have been spreading manure.
Where I live, the first true sign of spring is the sight of the big
green (and brown) manure trucks, affectionately known as honey wagons,
barreling down the road at 15-20 breakneck miles an hour, backing up
traffic for miles, leaving a not-exactly-bread-crumb trail down the road
as far as the eye can see.
To be in one those parades is a rite of spring, to be the lead car is an
experience few can describe. After the parade has passed your house it
makes you less eager to go out and get your mail for a couple of days. A
normal sized field of freshly spread manure will take your breath away,
sometimes for good.
I've driven down the road and seen beautiful white houses, complete with
swing sets in the back yard, hemmed in on three sides by literally acres
of liquid cow manure. An island of suburban tranquility in a sea of
crap. Not exactly like a Currier & Ives painting (maybe a Rotor Rooter
painting).
I can envision the mothers telling the little ones; "Don't play in the
brown grass" or "No wading in the back yard without your shoes."
One beautiful spring night my wife and I saw one of the trucks in action
beautifying the scenery, the brown mess being sprayed in all directions
like it was being shot out of a water cannon, and the driver sitting
there, window down, arm resting comfortably, sipping on a can of Coke.
Made my mouth water. My eyes as well. I guess some things do go better
with Coke.
The worst part of this time of year is that every dog I've owned seems
to think this stuff is the equivalent of bubble bath. They just roll in
it in a fit of ecstasy. Then they stand downwind at the door so you
don't notice it right away, and when you open the door a crack they bolt
in and head for the couch.
As you scream at them they very penitently get down and go lie on your
bed instead. Soon the whole house, indoors and out, is filled with the
sweet aroma of Springtime in the country. It just makes you want to have
a party and invite all of your city friends.
Which is not a bad idea, because after doing that they won't bother you
for the rest of the summer.
http://thehermitcrabspeaks.blogspot.com
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