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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/ September 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
the Winners of our
August/
September 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
Navigating Commercial Landmines
By Lisa Barker, California
I’m waiting for one of the kids to ask me what reptile dysfunction is.
There’s no escaping the ads on television. I imagine how the talk will
go so that I’m prepared.
“What's er-reptile dysfunction, Momma?”
“It’s what happens when your frog can’t catch flies anymore. Or when
your chameleon can’t change colors. Or when your lizard can’t grow a
tail. Or when your iguana can’t....”
“Woman, what are you telling them?”
“We’re talking about reptile dysfunction.”
“You're getting your reptiles and amphibians confused.”
“Momma, what happens to Geckos?”
“They get upstaged by whiney cavemen.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about them. They’re upstanding amphibians, I think, very
charming and polite. And they can save you a lot of money.”
This is when I get ‘the look’ from one of my kids. The very same look I
expect to get when I am a great-grandmother and they park me in the
corner and send the great-grandbabies over to entertain me and I scare
them by popping my dentures out at them.
“Oh, look! Our show is back on.” We settle back only to have our
entertainment interrupted by more sponsors of products for adults.
“Momma, what’s a tampon?”
“It’s a magic wand that makes women wear white and dance around barefoot
once a month.”
I don’t know what’s worse. Advertising these products for the general
public to view—including children—or the brainless writers that actually
think women dance around in white clothes when they’re having Auntie Flo
over for tea. There’s no amount of anti-depressants,
anti-water-retention, anti-crabbiness, anti-bloating, anti-aching that’s
going to make a woman wear white for such occasions.
It’s like those commercials for women’s underwear where they have about
twenty women dancing around in their skivvies because they are so happy
with the fit. You’ll never see a commercial for men’s underwear done
like that. Men have standards.
I teach my kids to respect another’s privacy and we’re all embarrassed
to be caught in our underwear...but it’s okay to dance around in them on
television because you get money for that.
“Momma, what’s herpes?”
“Uhhhhhhhh.” I can’t think of a good segue. What do I tell a five-year
old? It’s a sickness that the man has and the woman really, really hopes
she doesn’t have? Think, think, think...herpes, burpies...Slurpees!
“Hey, that reminds me! When’s the last time we had a Slurpee?”
Phew! We don’t dwell on STDs too much. But soon a commercial for Cialis
runs.
“What’s ED?”
That again. “Er-reptile dysfunction.”
“I don’t see any frogs or lizards. I just see two naked old people in
bathtubs.”
“The frogs are in the tubs.” Or are they toads? At that age you get a
little bumpy like a toad.
“Ewwwwww.”
“Yeah. Ewwwwww.”
http://www.jellymom.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 How
To Land The Job Of Your Dreams
By Chad Hatfield,
Washington
How to Land the Job of Your Dreams: The ultimate and fail-safe job
interview helps that are guaranteed to land you the job of your choice.
Rule number one: Always start by stating that you went to Harvard. That
is impressive and will be your “in.”
Once you have your “in,” tell the interviewer something interesting
about yourself, but avoid any funny stories of things you have done that
may be considered “criminal activity.” If you cannot think of something
interesting about yourself, think about something interesting that
someone you know has done. (After all, we influence the people we know,
so it is really more of a team effort.) For example, you may say “I was
the first man to walk on the moon.” We all know who Neil Armstrong is,
so no harm done. Plus, this is also impressive. Now you have two “ins.”
With two “ins”, it is pretty hard not to get the job. At this point, you
are just trying not to blow it. Stay away from explosive topics like
war, politics, religion, and especially political religious wars or
snake pits. Instead, try asking a few questions about the interviewer’s
love life. You want to make things personal. The interviewer may act
hesitant at first, but keep prodding. This is all part of the test.
Keep the payoff in sight. If you develop a connection with the
person, you will have sealed the deal. If you do not feel that immediate
connection, try throwing in a few statements like “My favorite color is
the same as yours.” Or “If you had your own business, I would definitely
want to work there . . . forever . . . and ever . . . and ever . . . and
ever. Continue the “and evers” until the interviewer breaks away from
your piercing eye contact, even if this takes several minutes. He needs
to know that you are sincere—to the grave and beyond sincere.
At this stage, the interviewer will probably go through a series of
questions as a formality. Be prepared to answer questions about why all
the phone numbers for your references are disconnected or no longer in
use.
When asked about your prior work experience, be descriptive and use bold
action verbs. Do not say “I babysat during the summer.” Instead, say “I
engineered and developed state-of-the-art technology as regional
director of the research and development department." Such language will
pique the interviewer’s interest. Employers want people with
transferable skills. They are not looking for someone to babysit (unless
it is a child care center—that is the only exception), they want someone
to engineer and develop. I cannot tell you how many times I have heard
employers say that.
Also, don’t wait too long to ask if the employer believes in some of the
illnesses you think you may have. This would also be the time to ask
detailed questions about the number of security cameras and guards they
keep around the office. It is important to show interest in their
business.
And most important, be prepared for anything. Bring a can of mace, a
magic deck of cards, a jump rope, monopoly money, anything that might
get you out of a tough question.
And finally, for a nice finishing touch to the interview, hand the
interviewer a thank you card and ask him to write his name and his
company’s name in the blanks. (You do not want to risk misspelling the
names. It may give the impression that you are not thoughtful.) When he
is done, ask to borrow a stamp, and then leave the thank you card on his
desk. (This way, even if you do not get the job—hey, free stamp!)
Remember proper etiquette is to wait at least five minutes before
calling to see if you got the job and to ask if you can get that first
pay check advanced.
Enjoy many happy years in the job of your dreams.
http://chadhatfield.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Acting
Your Age At 100
By
Ed Tasca,
Ontario
Medical science is at it again, this time filling baby boomer heads
with the crazy idea that many of us living today are going to live to be
100 years old or more (without even giving us a chance to get a second
opinion).
I have always thought 72 a fair and sociable timeframe for winding
down the party (76 for women -- the only time we gentlemen may go
first).
It wasn’t that long ago when our stooped, asthmatic Victorian
forbearers seldom lived past age 40. (And who could blame them?)
And what about Australopithecus? If he made it to 23, the pandemonium
on the savannah would go on for weeks. But try telling him he still has
another 80 years of chasing mammoths around, and he’ll get a heart
arrhythmia just thinking about it.
My problem is that I don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing over all
this extra lifetime, except for staying out of everyone’s way. Younger
generations will all be pushing and shoving everybody and making a
ruckus. After all, these will be their peak pushing and shoving and
making-a-ruckus years, and I’ll be taking cover.
According to my understanding of Mr. Charles Darwin, turtles
represent a fine standard on just how to stay out of harm’s way into
your 100s (please don’t quote me on this - in fact, I wouldn’t mention
it at all). Our crafty reptilian friends taught me three important
survival rules: keep a slow, steady course, never make a sudden move,
and most importantly, duck inside at the first sign of danger. To say
nothing of their theory of never leaving your house at all.
But there’s another problem. I don’t believe I can afford to live to be
100. Taking into account every penny I have so far for my retirement, I
estimate that if I retired today I could afford to live until the end of
this calendar year. Anything longer would require that I forage for food
and ferret out a little secret home in someone’s tool shed.
So, I’ll need a financial plan to help me stretch my dollars (although
the stretching I need may be against the Geneva Conventions):
First, to hedge against inflation, I’ll have to buy several decades
worth of canned food at today’s lower prices. These would be brands
packed with scrumptious, unidentifiable gristle with just enough flavor
to vaguely suggest the taste and aroma of the original food source.
Next, for my health care, I will be closing my eyes and taking placebos,
seeing as they do only slightly worse than most of our regular
medications, and they are much cheaper. A box of Tic Tacs, for example,
costs less than a dollar, and is for many of us a treatment guaranteed
effective for any ailment.
Finally, to help fill up all that extra life span, I could join the
underground bunker where others my age will be hiding out and engaging
in traditional retirement hobbies -- bricklaying, glass-cutting,
sculpting, and learning to play the organ.
Over 40 years of this, we could wind up with a fair-sized cathedral
and attract small, charitable donations to cover the cost of our Tic
Tacs.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Not
So Heavenly
By Tom Harris, Ohio
It
isn’t always easy being smug and self-righteous in the here and now, and
it might be even more difficult in the hereafter. According Dr. Johnny
Joe Dennis, Saved Person, writing in the latest issue of Oh Joy: The
Journal of the Really Special People God Truly Loves, the self-righteous
might find their eternal rest less than restful.
Dr. Dennis assures those certain of their salvation that their salvation
is certain. After all, God’s love is the greatest love of all, and the
love of the self-righteous man for himself is a close second. Therefore,
Dr. Dennis says, the self-righteous are the most god-like of God’s
creatures, which, of course, they already knew.
But there is one lingering question: Who, besides the smug and
self-righteous, will be granted entrance to the kingdom? A noted
Stringentarian, who frequently assures his congregation that Heaven will
not be overcrowded, Dr. Dennis has always believed the answer to be “no
one.”
He has always pictured Heaven as a gated community where the objects of
God’s affection can be safely and comfortably segregated from all the
riff-raff and other less-than-special persons. At first glance, it is an
enticing picture, but the longer Dr. Dennis looks at it the more he
wonders.
The riff-raff and less-than-special persons, he notes, are responsible
for the preternaturally prodigious self-image of the smug and
self-righteous, from whence cometh their happiness. A nose, Dr. Dennis
notes, will be of little use in Heaven if there is no one to look down
upon. In a place where everyone is as wonderful as everyone else, the
smug and self-righteous might start to feel average, no better than
anyone else, run of the mill, less than special, uninspired by their own
being. And with God and the angels just down the street, the smug and
self-righteous might even feel some inferiority.
To avoid that, Dr. Dennis urges the saved to occasionally go to the edge
of the abyss and watch the less fortunate doggy paddle on the lake of
flames. But, while the smug and self-righteous have that wonderful
ability to gain strength and comfort from the misfortune of others, he
wonders if the salubrious effects of the scene from the precipice will
last for more than a few thousand years.
There is also the possibility, Dr. Dennis writes, that the riff-raff
will be frolicking in the flames. Watching those inferior to them drink
and wench their way through eternity while they are cowed by the
perfection of God and the angels, will not be a gratifying experience.
Of course, God could be a Latitudarian and allow in some of the
riff-raff -– the homeless, with their soiled and smelly trousers; the
drunks and the druggies; the centrists; the leftists; maybe some
communists, even; some Muslims and Buddhists; some agnostics and
free-thinkers; some Darwinists, maybe old Charles himself; the
prostitutes; the Roman Catholics; and, perhaps even, the homosexuals.
Dr. Dennis does not think it’s likely –- God’s selections just couldn’t
be that slipshod –- but it might happen, although it would deeply
disappoint the self-righteous, and God certainly would not want to do
that.
Besides, the presence of riff-raff in Heaven would serve to make things
more tenuous for the smug. Having a less-than-special person next door
would give the prim-and-proper prig a neighbor to look down on, except
this is Heaven and all the residents were chosen by God and everyone is
special. As Dr. Dennis points out, the self-righteous have a special
need to feel special, but where everyone is special, no one is special.
Dr. Dennis urges his readers not to despair. They are, he says, the
greatest of all God’s creations, and God has a plan, a wonderful plan,
for them. But he ends with a cautionary note, “Eternity,” he writes,
“could be a hell of a long time.”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Naptime
Namaste
By
Ami Peltier,
Michigan
“Namaste,” intones the calm, spandex-clad
woman on the television screen. “I’m Sheila Carrington. Welcome… to
Beginner’s Yoga.”
“Namaste, Sheila,” I reply. Giggles erupt from behind the couch, and I
whip my head around to shriek, “Kids, get your butts upstairs!”
“Come on, Abbie. Mama’s talking to that weird lady again.”
My oldest son, Noah, drags my daughter out of the room, presumably to
call the loony bin. I ignore the malcontents and focus on Sheila.
“This program will enhance your mind, lift your spirits, and balance
your chakras. When we’re finished, you’ll feel calm, centered, and
peaceful. Let us begin.”
I sit up straight, kick a few toys out of the way, and feel the tension
flow from my body. Ah. The kids are finally quiet, and the baby is
napping. It really doesn’t get any better than…
“Whatcha doin’, Mama?”
“Yoga,” I snap. “Get back upstairs, Noah.”
"What's yoga?"
"It's kind of like exercise." I feel a pang of guilt. This particular
yoga routine wouldn't increase the heart rate of a morbidly obese
octogenarian.
"Oh. What's yoga?" At age six, he finds repeating questions intensely
funny. At age thirty-five, with my chakras seriously out of whack, I
find it intensely irritating.
"Noah, you’re supposed to be playing with your sister. Go back
upstairs."
"What's yoga? What's yoga? What's yoga? What's yoga?"
"Noah!" I yell. He slinks from the room. Sheila directs me to inhale
through my nostrils. Soothing, tinkling music fills the air. I close my
eyes and calmly reflect on how much I despise soothing, tinkling music.
“That’s it,” breathes Sheila. “Feel the chakras pulse throughout your
body. You are an ocean, lapping through the sands of a pristine white
beach…”
“Noah!” Abbie shrieks. “That’s… my… pony!”
My ocean laps to the foot of the stairs as fast as possible, and I hiss,
“Abbie, quiet down! The baby is sleeping!"
"Sorry, Mama!" she yells.
I make it back to the television in time to hear Sheila instruct me to
move into a new pose and focus on my feminine energy. The last time I
did that, I got pregnant, so I choose to focus on a small item mixed
among the Thomas trains littering the floor.
I squint. “Is that poop?”
I desperately try to refocus my psychic energy, but the source of the
Mystery Poop is now consuming my mind. Cat? Dog? Child? My left eyebrow
starts to twitch.
My chakras give up the fight, and I run for the cleaning supplies. When
I return, Sheila is wrapping up the routine with a deep stretch.
I sigh, click off the television and face my nemesis.
“Namaste, Mystery Poop.”
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