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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/ July 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our June/ July 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Pits
By Dan Bain, North Carolina
One recent weekend morning, our day started with a rare in-room visit
from our two sons. Usually, they’ll just clamor from the hallway that
they’re ready for breakfast, but occasionally they drop in for family
snuggle time first, climbing into our big bed to give us a prolonged
hug, a peck on the cheek, and/or a good morning grin.
That’s about as good as it gets for the parents of small children – just
chilling out for one blissful moment as time seems to stop moving
outside our little world and we enjoy the unconditional love of our two
favorite people. Then one of them has to open his mouth and completely
drench the moment with whatever dreadful words spill out.
On this particular morning, they were actually saying nice things –
neither one was demanding anything from us or accusing the other of some
horrible crime, like sitting too close or blocking his view of the TV.
They didn’t even ask to turn the TV on. Instead, they found a couple of
Hot Wheels somewhere in the vicinity, then climbed back into our bed and
began to play nicely together, pretending to drive on the various
imagined geological features of our comforter.
As they played, I lapsed into reflecting on the good things in life. I
put my hands under my head while lying there on my back, and put one
foot on the opposite knee, something I do when I’m reflecting. To
adequately hold a foot in place in that position, it’s necessary to bend
the knee, keeping one foot flat on the bed. Picture Huck Finn lying in
the grass and staring at the clouds, and you’ll probably see the pose I
was striking.
Regardless, it meant one of my legs was propped up above the rest of me,
which inspired the boys to divert their Hot Wheels for a little off-roading
on Daddy. As they did so, one of them was narrating the trip. First they
drove up my foot, which I’m told was lying at the base of a steep
mountain. Once they got past the foothill and hit the angle of my shin,
my son said, “This mountain is tall; I hope we can get to the top!”
When they rounded the summit, I had to suppress the urge to giggle as
the wheels tickled my knee. Then came the near disaster, as gravity did
its job. “Oh no! We’re heading down the mountain too fast! We might
wreck!”
But they narrowly avoided a spin-out on my hipbone, pausing to regain
control of the cars before heading across my stomach. That’s when it
happened. The cars had almost reached my navel when the narration took
on a decidedly unfriendly tone: “Uh-oh! Looks like we’re stuck in
quicksand!”
Quicksand. Some guys my age still have abs that resemble a nice, flat,
six-lane superhighway. Apparently, mine resemble quicksand.
The dictionary defines it as “a deep bed of loose, smoothly rounded sand
grains, saturated with water and forming a soft, shifting mass that
yields easily to pressure and tends to engulf objects resting on its
surface.”
So, my stomach is a deep bed of loose grains? A soft, shifting mass that
yields easily?
Whatever the case, thinking about my personal topography now gives me a
sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. And all toy vehicles have been
banned from my room.
http://groups.google.com/group/bainwaves
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Registry
By Dewey Cassell, North Carolina
Anyone who has been married, or who has known someone who got married,
is familiar with the bridal registry. It's what engaged couples do to
help the people that they invited to the wedding, but don't really know,
find a thirty dollar wine glass.
You know the people I'm talking about. It's the people that the mothers
of the bride and groom insisted be invited, because the mothers of the
bride and groom had to suffer through their children's weddings.
You know the glass I'm talking about, too. Or the place setting. Or the
grape dish (which has got to be one of the more useless crystal do-dads
ever invented.) It's no wonder you only use the stuff on holidays.
You've got to minimize the risk of breakage. That friend of your
mother's may have bought it the first time, but the odds are long that
she'll be willing to replace it when some schmuck knocks it off the end
table.
Anyone who has been married as long as I have probably drinks out of
jelly jars or something with a Disney character on it, anyway.
Did you know that you can be registered at Target? Target calls it
"Club-Wedd". What a cute name. If you could register at a funeral
parlor, do you suppose they would call it "Club-Dead"? If they did it at
K-Mart, would they have blue-light specials on those thirty dollar wine
glasses?
A groom-to-be once gave me this advice: Pick one thing having to do with
your wedding and insist on getting your way. It will create the illusion
for your bride-to-be that you have an opinion (although you probably
don't) about something that was clearly designed for her benefit. Face
it: if they designed weddings for the benefit of the groom, couples
would be registered at Black and Decker.
In point of fact, my wife's twin sister gave me a circular saw for a
wedding present. She remains my favorite in-law to this day. I use the
saw at least once a month.
That grape dish that my mother's friend gave us is still in the box.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Whodunit?
Dryers, Fiancee Suspected In Hide-and-Seek Things
By Burton Cole, Ohio
After years apart, my winter boot socks finally found each other.
This would have been fantastic news for my toes if it wasn’t July. Who
knows where those thick woolies will wander off to by the time the snow
flies again?
I wasn’t even sure I still had two boot socks. A few winters ago, I
laundered them. I never saw them together again. Every time I thought
I’d located the second sock, the first wasn’t where I thought I left it.
I began to suspect that there was no second sock, just the first, which
roamed freely about the house.
I shall be getting married soon, which will help. As soon as she said
she does, I can say I do to having someone else to blame for lost lots
in life. Living solo narrows the field of suspects to a percentage not
in my general favor.
But I know it’s NOT me. And thanks to the lesson of the laundered socks,
I have figured it out:
The dryer did it.
I know blaming the clothes dryer for footwear vaporization sounds like
profiling. But let’s be honest, dryers do have a long history of being
the last place the other sock was seen.
What I didn’t know until now was if the vanishing trick was a permanent
act of malice or merely a temporary tryst.
I suppose I can understand why so many socks disappear. They’re stepped
on all day. And feet stink.
While we tend to think of socks as an identical pair -- or 12 identicals
when you buy bulk as I do -- life teaches us that we’re all individuals
with our own needs and thought patterns. That is why so often only one
of what seems to be a clone feels the need to get away to a dark corner
for quiet contemplation.
Or maybe the sock just got tired of its partner and developed a crush on
a large, soft towel it met in the fluff cycle. A static electric
attraction, perhaps?
The sock not taken is banished to a sad life: unused, unaired, jumbled
together in the back of the drawer with all the other misfits and
mismatches until the day the dryer finally coughs up its tardy twin.
But how do I explain the rest of the odd happenings around my house? My
car keys sneak away only to reappear in the pocket of a shirt I don’t
remember wearing. The book I was reading slithers beneath the couch
cushions even though I was perusing it in bed two rooms away. And what
about the time I found my power drill in the breakfast cereal cupboard?
Weird.
It has to be the clothes dryer. That malevolent transporter of
discontented socks also operates wormholes for everything from tools to
telephones.
I’m not sure how something as bulky as my clothes dryer clunks its way
around the house undetected so that it can move all my things. I only
know that it does. There is no other explanation. At least not one that
fits my satisfaction.
My greatest fear is that one day the dryer itself will be misplaced. It
will end all hope that I’ll ever see my purple tuxedo again.
Actually, that one may not be the dryer. The fiancee acted rather
suspiciously when I mentioned to her that my favorite crushed velvet
suit had disappeared.
The dryer and I may not have to wait until the wedding to start shifting
some of the blame elsewhere for the black hole in my home.
www.tribtoday.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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WANTED:
Expert Cat Bather
By Linda Marie Dugger, Colorado
I once had a cat named Murphy. Murphy explored everything. As a kitten,
he proved to be a natural predator of mice and squirrels. He climbed
inside every piece of pottery in the house, and when he matured enough
to explore the great outdoors, I did not always know what mischief he
found.
One day he returned home with a thick strip of black grease down his
back, and it was very apparent where he had been. He had scent marked
the bottom of the old car outside. This thick, one-inch-wide, oily
stripe went from the top of his head to the top of his rump. The
contrast on his white coat made him look like a reverse skunk. He came
into the living room that day sashaying around – proudly sporting his
new body art. Knowing how he would try to rub grease all over the house,
the dogs, and me, I made a hasty decision! Murph needed a bath, PRONTO!
The idea of bathing the cat reminded me of an obviously fictional email
that went around in the early days of the internet called, "How to Bathe
the Cat" by The Dog. This little satire describes how you open the
toilet, add soap, put the cat in the toilet, close the lid, and flush
ten times. Then you open the bathroom door, open the toilet lid, and
clean kitty will emerge like a bat out of hell.
Oh no! Not only would I never think of doing something like that, but my
kitty would never need to be bathed that way. “He will not struggle,” I
thought, "My kitty trusts me." I believed he would sit in the tub like a
little angel – just like my dogs did. I bathed many dogs - many times,
and I thought I could adjust the techniques for a cat. After all, Murphy
is just a medium-size cat. What could go wrong while bathing my gentle
no scratch kitty? First, I would put about four inches of water in the
tub, then collect the necessary items and place them in convenient
locations around the tub:
Very Gentle Shampoo
Two towels (one for Murphy, one for me)
A pitcher full of soapy water to pour on him.
Next, I would take off any clothing that might get wet. (Yes, that means
commando!) Last, I would sweet-talk the beast into the bathroom. Murphy
had no idea what I had planned. He entered into the bathroom on his own
while I prepared the water. Jumping on the side of the tub, he stretched
his neck down so he could lap up the liquid. "Wow this could be easier
than I imagined!” I thought. I would have stroked his little head if it
were not for his grimy fur.
So, I scooped him up and attempted to place my dear feline in the water.
To my surprise he instantly transitioned into the kitty from "The
Exorcist" (if there had been a cat.) I had no idea he had such
aspirations! Impressively double-jointed limbs extended outward at
impossible angles. His head rotated around, and his face stretched into
the most hideous likeness to a Notre-Dame-Gargoyle-Kitty. Cute little
paws transformed into sharp vicious claws, and in series of quick
digging motions, his back legs ripped flesh from my arms in thin painful
strips. That cute little whiskered mouth produced fangs and reached for
my hands. There was thrashing, spinning, and soap bubbles going
everywhere, but once committed, I had to complete the task. From my
mouth came squeals and curses. From my arms came blood where he
scratched the heck out of me.
I was relieved briefly when he latched onto the shower curtain. For a
moment, I heard tearing noises as he fought to climb the nylon material.
But soon the curtain rod came free from the wall above, crashed down on
the back of my head, and left a huge gash in the wall. Then he cleverly
used my body to execute his escape plan. As if I were a springboard,
Murphy pounced on my shoulder, launched onto the floor, and with a note
"ha ha!" in his step, he bounced out of the bathroom and out of sight.
The whole event took about five minutes. I intended to dry off his
squirrelly body, but I knew he was not about to let me near him any time
soon.
A puddle of water surrounded me. Soggy drapes hung from the window. The
bathroom, now wrecked, had a torn shower curtain and broken rod. I do
not know if I got all the shampoo out of his coat, and I know I did not
get all the grease out, but my arms were now like hamburger – swollen
and bleeding. I also found random scratches on my front, my back, and
the back of my head.
(Begin: Harp Music) Soon after, I was blessed with absolute clarity in
housekeeping matters that involve bathing a cat. Next time I am
outsourcing the job. (End: Harp Music)
WANTED: Expert Cat Bather: If you don’t mind seeing the sight of blood
(your own,) love water, and love animals, I have the job for you. Must
have outstanding animal communication skills and thick forearm skin.
Dress Code: clothing optional, helmet recommended.
http://www.lindamariepresents.com
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In
Loving Memory
By
Eric Kester, Massachusetts
I had to say goodbye to an old friend
today. Even though she died a couple of weeks ago, she wasn’t put to
rest until now. So as she was towed away to Volvo heaven, where she will
always be filled with Premium and every light is green, I thought back
on her fulfilling life. I affectionately called her “White Lightning”
because of her color and blinding speed. I suppose her name wasn’t
totally representative of her attributes, but I found that if I referred
to her as “Slightly Off-White Slug” I had a difficult time picking up
girls.
White Lightning and I have many fond memories, but our greatest moment
occurred last summer. It was a sweltering day in Boston, and she and I
were caught in a nasty traffic jam. The air conditioning didn’t work
because, as the repair shop so courteously informed me, the AC Fluid
that White Lightening required contained a chemical so toxic that it had
been banned in the United States since the Nixon Administration. So I
sat in the traffic jam angrily, desperate to get home so I could get out
of the oven that was my car and instead sweat in the comfort of my own
bedroom.
Then a miracle happened. I heard the siren of a police car or ambulance
coming from behind me, so I inched White Lightning to the side of the
road to let it pass. About a minute passed, and even though I could
still hear the siren loud and clear, I could not see any emergency
vehicle in my mirrors. I stuck my head out the window to get a better
look, and was shocked to discover that the siren was actually coming
from White Lightning. Some will say that in her old age she experienced
a massive internal malfunction, causing the car alarm to go off while I
was driving. But I know what really happened that day. My car and I
shared one soul, and as I sat agonizingly stationary in the never-ending
traffic line, White Lightning decided to take matters into her own
hands.
I looked up and saw dozens of cars that, in the name of good
citizenship, pulled over to the side of the road to let my “emergency
vehicle” proceed on its mission. White Lightning and I took advantage of
the sudden turn of events and sped forward, the mass of traffic parting
like the Red Sea as I triumphantly maneuvered through town on my Ivory
Chariot of Twisted Steel.
Thanks to White Lightning miraculously transforming into an “unmarked
police car”, what would have otherwise been a 20-minute horror show of a
commute turned into a 5-minute joy ride. I snickered as I saw the look
on everyone’s face when they realized that I was not, in fact, a police
officer, but a 21-year-old guy who desperately needed a shower.
After our glorious triumph, White Lightning’s health began to decline
rapidly. First she sprouted a leak in her power steering fluid, forcing
me to use all my strength just to turn the wheel. If I took a drive of
twenty minutes or more, I couldn’t lift my arms for a week.
Then the radio antenna, feeling left out for being the only normally
operating mechanism remaining in White Lightning, decided to stop
getting reception of the regular radio stations and instead start
picking up signals in languages that I’m pretty sure are not spoken in
this hemisphere.
Mechanical issues really started to take its toll on White Lightning,
and two weeks ago she finally succumbed and died smack in the middle of
one of the busiest intersections in all of Boston. A police officer
pushed us out of danger and into the parking lot of a nearby hotel, and
as I gracefully deposited her into the bushes (her brakes had apparently
stopped working as well) I knew that it was over.
While I was driven back to my house in a tow truck, White Lightning’s
corpse hooked up to the back, the 6 o’clock traffic report came on the
radio: “A breakdown at the intersection of I-90 and Storrow Drive has
caused a major backup, avoid this area if you are able.”
I smiled. At least White Lightning’s death got the recognition that it
deserved.
http://www.erickester.com
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Fall
From Grace
By
Erika Koff,
Illinois
For as long as I can remember, activities
involving any level of eye-hand-stick-ball coordination have eluded me.
And while I’ve often heard flirty women at cocktail parties gush, “Oh,
I’m such a klutz!” I wonder how many of them have broken their noses
falling off a pair of platform sandals or have tripped on their own
gowns and fallen off the stage after winning the Tippecanoe County
Junior Miss pageant. (Some people like to combine these stories into one
incident of me falling off the stage and breaking my nose, but these are
two distinct episodes, one of which ended in a tetanus shot and the
other in publicly televised humiliation.)
I say “I am clumsy” not with the phony self-deprecation of those women
at cocktail parties but rather with the solemn acceptance of anyone with
a condition that can be easily aggravated--like a peanut allergy or
diabetes. And it doesn’t take much to set me off: a subtle rise in the
sidewalk, a chair moved two inches to the left, the rubber of my shoe
catching the linoleum. I even dislocated my knee once while standing
completely still.
My junior year of college, I was fired from a job at Joan’s Sweet Shoppe
for being too clumsy--though in my defense, I had two factors working
against me. First, it was the late-90s, and I was a big fan of the
grunge era clunky-shoes trend. My shoes of choice were majestic: black,
thick-soled, men’s size 8 shoes, which required me to shuffle along
without picking up my feet because (a) they were quite heavy, and (b)
they didn’t fit.
And then there were the boxes...so many boxes. See, Joan, cramped for
storage space, had taken to stacking boxes of supplies behind the
counter, which left her employees only a foot and a half of space to
“scootch” through--and scootch quickly, as Joan advised us to, “Move
fast and swing your arms so customers think you’re busy!” The tip of my
shoe would catch the corner of a box, and down I’d go in a mighty
explosion--from all the momentum I’d built up quickly scootching--leaving
expensive truffles crushed in my wake and snooty customers appalled.
Eventually someone complained.
After my dismissal from Joan’s Sweet Shoppe, I took a job selling
jewelry at the mall. All you had to do was stand behind a counter in a
carpeted showroom and model jewelry--a cushy job for some, a high-risk
assignment for me: High heels are woefully unstable on carpet; the sharp
edges of wooden display cases jut out right at hip-level. I bumped my
way from one end of the store to the other like a pinball in an arcade
game. I guess I hit the “jackpot” the day I fell down a ladder in the
supply room and hit every rung on the way down: Ca-ching! Ca-ching! Ca-ching!
Ca-ching!
“A fortune in ballet lessons, down the drain!” My father joked. And we
laughed; of course we laughed. We had never wasted a fortune in ballet
lessons--the teacher had asked me not to come back.
Yet behind our laughter was the mounting concern I would never grow out
of being “accident prone.” That’s what they call it when you’re a kid.
“Accident prone” is what my parents said when I got a corneal abrasion
from pencil shavings (don’t ask) and broke my collar bone tripping over
a tree root. My father nicknamed me “Grace,” and we all knew that one
day I’d grow out of my clumsiness. I turn 32 this year, and we’re still
waiting.
But the last thing I want is sympathy. To borrow the phrase from my
arthritic grandmother, “I’m learning to live with it.” And it doesn’t
keep me down--well it does, but never for too long, as I bounce right
back up.
So what if even when I decided to take a job sitting all day, I was
still “outed” as a klutz the day I fell down a flight of stairs and
landed with my skirt over my head. So what if I can’t account for all of
the bruises on my hips and shoulders from knocking into walls in my own
home. So what if the reason I no longer ride a bicycle is that I have
further to fall now than I did as a kid. I have a good family, good
friends...and most importantly, good insurance.
© Copyright
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The
Big Brownout
By Dan Montville, Illinois
The Fourth of July weekend of
1999 is one summer holiday I can clearly remember, although I’d rather
not. My son, Jake, promised to house sit during this particular holiday
weekend to watch his friend’s three Rottweilers. Only afterward did he
remember that we had an annual tradition of driving up to Kenosha,
Wisconsin to pick up a load of homemade bratwursts (and a bottle rocket,
or two). Some of the brats would be destined for the grill later that
evening, while the rest would reside in our freezer on top of last
year’s stash. But he felt the dogs would be fine since the 160 mile
round trip usually took only about four hours. So, our annual father-son
quest for red meat wrapped in natural casing was on.
On Saturday morning, Jake put the dogs out in the yard to do their thing
while he drove over to pick me up. He then swung back and herded them
inside while I stuffed a Willy Nelson tape into the deck. Jake is a
professional driver, and I couldn’t wait to see him cringe when I played
“On the Road Again.”
By the time we got to Kenosha, the car was overheating a little. It
didn’t seem too serious, so we bought our customary eight dozen brats
and pointed the hissing Honda toward Chicago. To maximize our chances of
making it, we turned the AC off, cranked up the heater to full blast and
rolled down the windows. We lumbered along at about 35 MPH on the older
two lane roads, making numerous stops to cool the motor down. Once the
radiator was cool enough to touch, we added melted water from the ice
chest. If we ran out, we could have wrung out our soaked shirts too.
And speaking of fluid levels, Jake became concerned about the Rotts.
After poking along for a seeming eternity we finally made it home three
hours behind schedule. We headed straight to his friend’s house, hoping
to arrive in time. We didn’t.
All three dogs had embarked on a joint effort to set a new world record
for doggy poo on the kitchen floor. And, in an instinctive effort to
bury the evidence, they executed a few lazy chip shots through the
hallway into the living room. The splattered walls and carpeting looked
and smelled almost as bad as my old dorm room.
And the mutts? They had a completely tranquil look about them when we
walked in. They would have asked us for a smoke if they could.
We spent the next few hours scrubbing and deodorizing the kitchen,
hallway, and living room. It was a natural appetite suppressant that
quashed any aspirations of a lavish cookout that evening. Afterward,
while washing up, Jake accidentally dropped his ring down the bathroom
sink drain. It was late, we were tired, and we didn’t have any tools to
take the drain apart. So we called it a day.
On Sunday morning, I came over with a pipe wrench, hammer, and crowbar
to disassemble the drain. Although we expected some resistance, the
wrench turned with remarkable ease as the ancient drainpipe
disintegrated. We found the ring, but were about to learn from Tony, our
local hardware guy, that replacement parts were unavailable. We would
have to retrofit the whole drain system.
After leaving the hardware store with a bulging sack of rattling pipes
and Tony’s assurances of an effortless assembly, we stopped at a bakery
to pick up a dozen chocolate donuts. Back at the house, I set the donuts
on the kitchen table, and then joined Jake under the sink. Before you
could memorize War and Peace, we were done.
After admiring our plumbing prowess, we cleaned up and repaired to the
kitchen. But in the meantime, the dogs had grabbed the donut bag and
galumphed into the living room to have breakfast. There, the lumbering
oafs gleefully gorged themselves while smooshing the uneaten chunks into
the freshly cleaned carpet.
Day Two of a once eagerly anticipated Independence Day weekend rapidly
vaporized into a cloud of complex carbohydrates. Fortunately, the
previous rub ‘n scrub job left a protective shield of Scotch Guard, and
the chocolate lovers delight only required some warm water and paper
towels.
When his friend returned, Jake fessed up about the doggy-do and the new
plumbing arrangement, but omitted the donut episode. In summary, he
recounted the first and second incidents over the Fourth, but took the
Fifth on the third.
www.disabledfables.com
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What's
In A Container?
By Ann Page, Minnesota
Who put your Pringles in a can? And why’d they do it? Because if you put
your hand in there, it’s not coming back out. Who thinks up container
designs and do they give out awards for the good ones?
I was out of toothpaste one day, so I gave the tube a Herculean squeeze
and out squirted one more glob (that’s the technical term) for a final
brushing. If the toothpaste had been in a different container—a glass
mayonnaise jar, for example—I would have been out of luck.
What a great idea, the tube. Maybe they should put other squishy things
in tubes too, like peanut butter, jelly, or marshmallow cream. Ketchup
is finally available in a squeezable tube-like container. Remember when
it only came in a skinny glass bottle? What were they thinking? Did you
ever have to put a knife in there to get the ketchup out? I wonder how
many other people did the same thing. Or used a dirty knife. Or a French
fry. Gross.
Someone obviously thought that ice cream in a cardboard carton was a
good idea, but I’d have to disagree. When the kids leave the carton out
on the countertop and the ice cream melts, you’ve got a soggy little
boat in a giant puddle of milk with sticky rivers of cream running down
the cupboard doors to the floor. I hope that guy didn’t get an award.
Those individual microwavable soup containers are brilliant. But have
you ever gotten the metal pop-top off without flicking soup bits all
over yourself? If it weren’t for that one flaw…
I love bags of things with resealable tops, like Ziplocs. They’re so
practical. The other day, while snacking, I was thinking it would be a
great idea to put resealable tops on potato chip bags. But then I ate
all the chips, so it didn’t matter any more.
One of my favorite containers is the cardboard cylinder for the orange
push-up. You just keep pushing the sherbet up towards your face with the
plunger as you eat more and more. It’s like a feed bag on a stick. What
a cool idea. And you don’t have to worry about it melting all over the
countertop because if you think about it, who would ever leave one lying
around? If you have a push-up, you’re going to eat it.
Those Cheese Whiz folks really knew what they were doing—putting their
product in a can with a nozzle and some propellant. You can cheese your
crackers from the other side of the room. Or eat the cheese without the
crackers. (Admit it, you’ve done it.) You don’t even have to dirty a
knife or a finger with such an efficient food-delivery system. Plus, you
can use it as weapon, firing artificial cheese at unsuspecting
passersby.
They could put peanut butter in a Cheese Whiz can too. By why stop
there? Why not use it for non-food products as well, like sunscreen and
liquid soap? Let’s face it, when they figured out how to get the string
in there, they opened the door to unlimited possibilities. Now the silly
string guy—that guy deserves an award.
© Copyright
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Mr.
Jello Pants
By Cindy Small, Alabama
It had been nine months since Hurricane Katrina; I finally sold my
crusty, mold-soaked home and car in the soup-bowl city of New Orleans.
With the population cut in half and businesses not open, a single,
middle-aged woman with gray hair and decorated arms displaying Goddess
tattoos can only equal spinsterhood forever. Exhilaration permeated my
senses at the thought of meeting numerous contractors owning no
immigration papers with many unidentified children in Mexico. I mean,
could it possibly get any worse? Of course it can and it did.
Bicycling around empty streets of post-Katrina New Orleans, I noticed a
paper sign stapled to a wooden post. “SINGLES MIXER FOR THE MATURE SET -
POST KATRINA. THE KINGSLEY BUILDING – SATURDAY. CANAL STREET.” I was
overjoyed at the thought of socializing with two-legged humans after
spending a year petting my cat while reading National Enquirer’s. The
only missing connection was a mate, possibly equipped with active brain
cells.
It was Saturday night and I parked my scrappy black VW Beetle while
praying for immediate cocktails. A small, glass interior store was on my
right. Two yellow neon signs above full-sized mannequins read “LADY” and
PARTNER.” There was an old handwritten cardboard sign pointed toward the
dance floor: “REMEMBER HOW CLOSE YOU’RE GOING TO BE TO PEOPLE ALL
EVENING. PLEASE SHOWER AND USE DEODORANT SOMETIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE.
START OUT CLEAN… IT’S GOING TO GET SWEATY!” Oh, hell.
Please don’t tell me there are fiddles, accordions and bales of hay.
Better yet, dear God, please send in some gay men with black leather
yokes bejeweled in chains dancing to Patsy Cline songs. Those guys could
at least entertain me with some yee-haw. What could possibly be better
than a gay guy swinging into an unknown person’s arms?
“Howdy, welcome to singles night, madam. Tonight we have the “Aunties
and Uncles” performing! Two left feet? Don’t worry; we have a lot of
“Misters” to choose from. The single ones are wearing a yellow
neckerchief. To make it easy, you know.”
“Um, thanks…well, where’s the bar?”
“Well, we don’t serve alcohol, just coffee and Jell-O. Lots of Jell-O,
all colors of the rainbow, matter o’ fact. Now, come on, meet and greet
your squaremates.”
OK, this guy must mean Jell-O shots. Right? Alcohol and Jell-O in tiny
white paper cups like in New Orleans? On the dance floor, was a long
folding table with clear plastic cups of wiggling gelatin placed in neat
rows of six. Another printed sign…
”DON’T DRINK OR USE DRUGS WHILE DANCING.”
Some hoe-down dude approached me. He smelled like breath mints and sweat
and had low rent hair plugs.
“Howdy, the name’s Dan. You new here? Haven’t I seen you dance in
Tuscaloosa?”
“The name’s Roxanne and I have strep throat and dyslexia.”
“That’s no problem; I’m willing to bet some dancin’ practice will cure
that dyslexia.”
“I really need to go…my cell phone just rang and my child’s on fire. Oh,
and I’m unreliable, unpredictable and have STD’s.”
“Lordy, woman, it must be terrible being you.”
As I ran right through the square-dancing crowd, I realized I would
rather sleep in a coffin than attend another square dance.
Oh… it’s just about 3:00 AM. Maybe the SPCA is open; there must be a ton
of kitties calling my name!
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Learning
To Cartwheel
By Laura Snyder, North Carolina
When I was a girl, I was cursed with long, skinny arms and legs and no
middle. I was thin as a rail and would’ve blown away in a stiff wind.
With that body came a head filled with fearlessness and not a lick of
sense to temper it.
I was willing to try any stunt, race any race, in spite of my
uncoordinated limbs and the fact that I looked like a pixie stick doing
calisthenics.
Once, I leaped head-first off the fourth rung of a step ladder into a
pile of leaves. The only thing that saved me from breaking my silly neck
is that my head was full of something soft and squishy. Obviously, it
was not brains.
I walked away from that on my skinny little legs, shaking my empty
little head and wondering what possessed me to do such a thing.
I have grown a few neurons since then and have not recently been seen
leaping off high places and risking integral parts of my body; but I’m
not ruling out the possibility of doing something stupid occasionally.
My daughter, bless her heart, seems to have been cursed with the same
affliction as her mother. Built like a strand of fiber optics and a head
full of fluff, she is adventurous, but not quite as fearless; which
makes her a few marbles smarter than me.
She is ten years old and has somehow managed to reach the double digits
without learning how to do a cartwheel. At least, when she decided to
learn, she chose my living room with its nice soft carpet on which to
practice. I most likely would have chosen the middle of an asphalt
street during rush hour.
Watching her place her hands on the ground and throw her bent legs from
one side to the other reminded me of a bullfrog trying to release his
front legs from a wad of bubble gum.
I even tried spotting her once, telling her to “straighten out your
legs!”
Unfortunately, she chose the very last second to suddenly remember my
advice. Her legs screamed out of nowhere and my jawbone may never close
properly again. It’s a wonder I still have any teeth left.
Okay, so the girl may never get the whole cartwheel thing. Maybe we
could try a flip. Fortunately, my last neuron kicked in and I thought
about what one more poorly aimed heel might do to my remaining teeth and
decided to work up to a flip.
We’d start by doing a headstand and work our way up to a handstand and
then, after she’s mastered the concept of “straight legs,” we’ll try the
flip.
“Try a headstand,” I said.
She demonstrated, once again, that she is indeed my daughter by backing
up to get a running start. In my mind, I saw her little head popping
right off her shoulders. I knew I’d never get her married off without a
head, so, once again, I placed myself in the path of her oncoming,
gangly body and took a small head to my midsection before we landed,
bruised and battered, on our behinds.
“A handstand never needs a running start,” I instructed when my breath
came back. “You put your head and hands on the floor. That’s it. Then
put your knees on your elbows and balance for a few seconds.”
“Are you sure this is the way to do it?” she asked from her upside-down
perch.
“Sure, I’m sure. Now try to lift up your legs slowly until they are
straight.”
Staying clear of a possible rogue heel, I watched her struggle to
balance, and then, WHAM!...she hit the floor, flat on her skinny
backside.
I winced. That’s going to leave a mark.
“Mom, I think I’m going to take a break. My body hurts.”
“Yeah, me too. Maybe you should give piano lessons another try.”
www.LauraOnLife.com
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Fork
Is A Four-Letter Word
By Judith Walker, West Virginia
I've bought very few lottery tickets (being
necessarily thrifty), but each time I spent a dollar or two, praying
that I'd win "big", I had a specific fantasy for how I'd spend my
winnings... always in the millions, of course.
Remember Miss Ellie on the TV drama, Dallas? I wanted to be her, well,
not as old, but matriarch, of the family. I wished for all the trimmings
that Southfork afforded. My Southfork, however, would naturally be on a
prime piece of property on a WV mountaintop. I'd own the sprawling
native stone and timber house, while my family members would live in
their own smaller, yet lavish, homes on my property. (I'm always
generous in my fantasies.)
Each evening all members would assemble at the big house for dinner.
And, I, the grand and oh so respected head of the family would entertain
my amazingly articulate and successful family. We'd be such a classy
bunch, polite, intelligent, and very functional. In fact, anyone who
swayed in the direction of dysfunction would be swiftly guided back to
the straight and narrow by my softly genteel admonishment.
Well, isn't life funny? I got my wish, but way more than I bargained
for. (Excuse the use of a preposition to end a sentence.) The Master
Planner, Granter of His children's prayers, somehow failed to get all
the details right. How'd that happen?
I am now the matriach of the family. We do have dinners most evenings
around the table. The corner of Division and Latulle sure ain't
Southfork, though. I'm not in designer attire, no servants prepare the
meal, and the family... well... let's politely call them a sweet mess.
Yes, it's a rowdy bunch around the table in the kitchen, not the
separate elegant dining room with crystal chandelier I'd envisioned. The
group includes my sister who lives with me; her first born adult son,
gregarious, but disconcertedly obsessive-compulsive; her second born,
proud and loud producer of belches and flatulence, about to graduate
from college, magna cum laude, (and who will henceforth be referred to
as "Magna"); his girlfriend, former drum major, current diva; and my
newly out-of-the-closet adolescent daughter.
Other eccentrics arrive, such as my sister's ex-husband, a bejeweled,
card-carrying member of MENSA; teens moving in a cloud of angst, bodies
covered with odd tattoos and piercings; and, too, my organic vegetable
bearing ex-boyfriend who keeps hoping, after five years, for a yes when
the answer is a firm no. We just drag in additional mismatched chairs
and sit, shoulders touching, providing room, food, and acceptance for
all.
This picture is so askew. Pizza or a pot of soup on an improperly set
table. (I cannot get them to understand the simple concept of FORK, a
FOUR letter word placed on the LEFT, a FOUR letter word; and SPOON and
KNIFE, FIVE letter words, placed on the RIGHT, a FIVE letter word.) Not
linen napkins, but paper towels pulled straight from the roll for wiping
mouths, litter the table; and, I the Grand Dame, barefoot and braless,
in a faded, stained hand-me-down Curt Cobain t-shirt. Country, not NPR,
blares in the background while the diners with messy mouths, vulgar
topics, and sarcastic interjections, vie boisterously for attention.
This is not what I prayed for. (There's that preposition again!) Where's
the refined ambiance of my fantasy? Why am I so tired and my
refrigerator so empty? Hmmm...Wait a minute...I do recall my daughter's
ex-boyfriend, heartbroken and sobbing on my shoulder, telling me on his
last evening at our home (the night my daughter admitted to him that she
found... oh, my gosh... girls more appealing) that he would most miss
dinners with the family. He loved the energy that arose from our heated
discussions of uncensored and often bizarre topics. And, too, "Magna's"
girlfriend says dinners at her own home are strained exchanges of small
talk.
I guess I'll never be Miss Ellie. It was a lovely fantasy, but would I
really trade my life for hers? Nah. These are my peeps, my sweet mess.
And, maybe, the Master Planner is fulfilling "their" heart’s longing for
a real family dinner at a kitchen table, the head of which provides
simple fare and a safe, although raucous, venue for each voice.
I'd like to think that these curiously spawned gatherings may quell more
hungers than a feast at a perfectly set table under a crystal
chandelier.
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The
Great Chicken War
By Glanda Widger, North Carolina
My neighbors seem to be at odds lately. The
conversations that have been drifting over my back fence, do not seem as
congenial as they used to. I aim to stay out of it come what may. But,
the conversation I overheard today is a pretty good indication that
things are going to escalate quickly.
“Jacob, either you get rid of them danged roosters or we are gonna have
words.” Frank yelled.
“Peers to me you are already having words Frank. Least ways your mouth
seems to be flapping an awful lot. What you got against my roosters
anyhow?”
“They got big mouths, just like their owner does. That danged crowing
wakes me up before daylight every morning. Them roosters are plumb
stupid. They can’t even tell time. They are crowing at all hours of the
day and half the night. Now, you get rid of them critters or else. ”
“ I ain’t getting rid of them roosters. They are danged pretty and they
are gonna make me money after a while. Just go on back in your house. If
you close your windows you can’t hear 'em anyway.”
“ I don’t want to close my windows dang it. I like my fresh air!”
Frank’s voice was getting louder and his face redder with each word he
uttered. “ I said ... get rid of them roosters or we are gonna have a
set-to and that’s a promise.”
“This here is my danged property and I can do whatever I want to, so you
just take that you old grouch.”
Both men turned away and all remained fairly quiet for the rest of the
day. Jacob chatted with his beloved roosters and Frank stayed busy in
his barn all day.
Along about ten o’clock tonight, just as I was getting ready for bed, a
blast of noise had me sprinting into the yard. At the very least, I
thought a plane had crashed in my pasture. Unfortunately it was an even
worse disaster. The booming, throbbing beat emitting from the huge
speakers set in the loft of Frank’s barn, echoed across the valley.
Jacob came streaking out of his house, shotgun at the ready. I wisely
ducked behind a water tank to watch, listen, and dial 911 if need be.
Nobody, I mean nobody, gets between two irate farmers, especially if one
of them is armed with a twelve-gauge shotgun.
“What the hell do you think you are doing you crazy old fool?” Jacob
yelled.
“ I’m serenading your roosters, dad-gum-it. If them buzzards are gonna
get me up before I want to and disturb me all day with their infernal
racket, then I am gonna keep them up all night ”
“ You are keeping the whole neighborhood up you jackass. Now cut that
racket off ”
“Get rid of them roosters and I will.”
“This is my property, and my roosters, and they are staying.”
“ Then they are gonna get serenaded every night from my property cause I
can do what I want to on my side of the fence.”Frank bellowed.
“ I said cut off that noise before the county police get here and arrest
you, you old crackpot.”
“ I ain’t afraid of no police. This is my land and I ain’t botherin
nobody.”
“ You are botherin me you old fool. Now shut that danged racket off.”
“Nope.”
The next sound I heard from my hiding place, was the explosion of both
barrels of Jacob’s shotgun. Then there was an eerie quiet. I popped up
to make sure he hadn’t killed Frank and drew a breath of relief. Frank
was standing, arms flapping and mouth hanging open. Jacob was nodding in
satisfaction and walking back toward his house. He had successfully
blown, not only a large hole in Frank’s barn, but the new, expensive
speakers, into a million pieces.
I headed back to my bed. At least tonight would remain peaceful. Except
for all of those darned roosters who were crowing their heads off.
Between the music and the shotgun blast, they were wide awake and very
excited. I have a bad feeling it is going to be a long summer.
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Tales
Of An Office Picnic
By Aaron Wigington, Missouri
Violent storms rolled through the area
during work hours last Friday bringing rain, wind, hail, and tornados.
Not an unusual occurrence for a typical Midwestern spring day, except
that on this particular day the annual office picnic festivities were in
full swing, with food, games, and gossip galore.
The primary event of the day would be a game of washers, similar to
horseshoes where contestants attempt to toss metal washers into a pit or
box to score points. Unfortunately, the organizers could never have
predicted the danger that such a seemingly harmless game of washers
would later present.
However, not to be intimidated by the meager flailings of Mother Nature,
the courageous employees continued with their joyful activities. When
questioned as to why no one took cover when the winds began to wail and
sirens sounded, replies ranged from the ultra competitive (“And forfeit
my game of washer toss?!?! Are you nuts?!?!”), to the rather pathetic
(“Who cares? There’s free food!”), to the simply lost (“I rode here with
you because I didn’t know how to get here, so where the heck would I
go?! Tell me that, you idiot!!!”).
Undeterred by flying bratwurst and potato salad, the perpetually
optimistic office staff played on, boldly declaring “As long as the
burgers don’t take flight, we’ll be fine.” It was only later on when the
wind really picked up, though, that things began to get dangerous. Metal
washers that had been the source of hours of endless fun became
unidentified flying objects of death, more dangerous than any alien
probe from the X-Files.
Just then the rain and lightning started in force. Fortunately, someone
noticed a large metal structure nearby that the entire group could use
for shelter. However, it was not big enough to hold the group of
employees and the seven-year old girls soccer team practicing nearby,
also on their way to the shelter.
It quickly became clear that there was going to be a winner and a loser
in this race, and the seven-year old girls were much closer to the
shelter. Ever the ultimate team players, the office staff hatched an
impromptu plan of sabotage. The younger and fastest employees caught up
to the girls and distracted them all with Hannah Montana CDs and what
appeared to be Jonas Brothers tickets (actually nothing more than
baseball cards, but once the words “Jonas Brothers tickets” reached
their ears the girls seemed to lose all semblance of rational thought).
Meanwhile, the other employees took the nets from the girls’ soccer
goals and somehow managed to pen them in without the girls noticing.
Though that took care of the menace of the little girls soccer team, the
employees still had to dodge the flying metal discs of death,
projectiles of pork sausage, and plastic forks zipping by at tremendous
speed. Eventually, with only minor cuts and bruises they all made it
safely to the shelter where they waited out the flying debris and the
lightning, which for some reason seemed eerily close there in the
security of that metal building.
There the office staff finished their games. After the physically
grueling washer toss event, they were glad to turn their attention to
the trivia contest, thus giving the nerds in the office an opportunity
to shine. After all, it is not often that one can take pride in
possessing vast amounts of useless knowledge, such as exactly what speed
the De Lorean in the Back To The Future must reach to time travel (88
mph, for those of you not nerds).
As the trivia game ended the skies began to clear and the heroic office
workers raced to their vehicles as fast as they could to join the rest
of the city’s lemmings on the rain soaked roads and highways only to
creep home at 10 mph in rush hour traffic. So concluded this year’s
annual office picnic, the second consecutive picnic without a fatality.
On the long ride home each of the employees was already looking forward
to next year’s picnic.
Rumor has it that the main event may involve lawn darts!
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