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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/ September 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
August/
September 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Tag Along
By Cindy Argiento, North Carolina
It was driving me crazy. It was making me itch. The tag inside my blouse
kept rubbing against my skin. I should have removed it before I got
dressed. Tags are one of life’s minor annoyances that come attached to
the mattresses we sleep on to the clothes we wear.
A tag can be
embarrassing for the lady who claims to be wearing a size 6 blouse, yet
the tag sticking out screams XL in bold letters.
Sometimes the
tag is positioned to cause discomfort and a challenge. I’d like to know
why the security tag on a bra is right next to the hooks. Isn’t it hard
enough to fasten hooks without the added obstacle of a security tag? Are
manufacturers just trying to make it more of a challenge for us?
Security tags are major annoyances as they can not be simply ripped off.
The cashier who rang me up neglected to remove the security tag from my
jeans. When I got home and saw the tag I tried removing it. Plan A –
first I tried pulling, hard. I broke a nail and got annoyed. Plan B – I
tried using scissors and cut my finger. My annoyance level started to
simmer. Plan C – I tried pliers which got bloodstained thanks to my
bleeding finger.
My annoyance
level started to rapidly perk. Plan D – I tried crushing it by running
it over with my car. It didn’t work. My blood pressure and annoyance
level reached the boiling point. Plan E – I tried blowing it up with
dynamite. The police (who were downright annoyed) held me on suspicion
of illegal activity.
Plan F – for
failure to succeed at plans A-E – I returned to the store and had the
clerk remove it. The clerk was silent upon noticing the blood, tire
tracks and soot from the dynamite. She retained her silence and yet
conveyed her suspicions by constantly arching her eyebrows.
When she handed
my jeans to me and arched her brow one last time I prayed her underwear
tag was annoying the hell out of her.
www.cindyargiento.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 An
Old, Fat Guy Trains For A Bike Ride
By Scott Beck, Missouri
Sometimes, I get ideas that stick in my brain and make me wonder if I
have a defective model. Usually, the wife tries to talk sense to me and
tells me if my idea is truly stupid. However, I’m wondering why she
hasn’t said anything about my recent decision to ride my bike 150 miles
for charity this fall.
Oh, I’ve had these delusions before. Every year, the Multiple Sclerosis
Society holds a charity bike ride, and I always think to myself that
this is the year that I am going to train and ride the astronomical
number of miles required. Usually, in years past, common sense would
kick in and a little voice would say, “Go look in a mirror, chubby.
Lance Armstrong, you ain’t. Now, does that look like someone who can
ride a bike 150 miles? You couldn’t ride ½ mile downhill with a
tailwind! Forget about the Tour de France. You’ve done too many Tour de
Fridges! Hey, what does the talking scale say when you step on it? One
at a time, please! Hey, where you going? I got a million of ‘em!”
This year, however, I ignored the rude little voice and proceeded to
start training for the bike ride. I wiped the inch of dust off of the
old bike, aired up the tires, and made a list of things I needed to
properly train for the ride. First of all, I needed a helmet. While this
may sound simple enough, when you have a head the size of an Amazon
watermelon, you have to special order your bike helmet. Workers at a
factory in Guatemala have to weld two giant satellite dishes together in
order to fit my noggin. However, lo and behold, I actually found a
helmet that fit my dome at a local bike shop, albeit at a hefty price. I
checked it off of the list, ignored the other items for the time being,
and prepared for my first training run on the trail.
When training to ride 150 miles, I thought I should probably start at
about a third of the total…maybe ride 50 miles to start, then work my
way up to 150 over the next few weeks. I sat out one bright Saturday
morning with a goal of 50 miles. I rode six.
“Come get me!” I told my wife on the cell phone, which was at that point
a much more valuable piece of equipment than my helmet. “I think I’m
dying! This may be the end for me!”
“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” she asked. “We’re on our way! Where are you?
How far down the trail did you get?”
“I’m at Dairy Queen,” I said. There was a long silence. “Hello? Honey?”
“Dairy Queen?” she asked. “And when exactly did they build a Dairy Queen
on the trail?”
I explained that I had somehow got off course and was lost in the
wilderness for a while and then, like a mirage in a dessert…err…desert,
the Dairy Queen appeared and saved me from almost certain peril.
As you can see, I still have a ways to go in my training. See you on the
trail!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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How
The Cookie Crumbles: Love Is Blind; Taste Buds See The Truth
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I have not had a cookie in three days. I'm not happy about that.
There's not even
a patch for this sort of thing.
And who would be the person responsible for this deprivation? The very
same woman who in six weeks will promise to love me for the rest of our
lives. I'm beginning to have my doubts.
My bride-to-be
vows that I will be subjected to a healthier diet because she wants to
keep me around for a good, long time.
Her opinion of good and long could waver with time. I will suspect that
day has arrived when she serves me three dozen steaming chocolate chip
cookies for supper. Of course, she might do that for my birthday. But if
there's also a side of cookie dough, I'll know for sure.
She's got all sorts of silly notions as to why I should stay away from
those chocolatey goodies that previously made up the bulk of my diet --
and of my bulk. They're all bunk.
Plus, it hardly seems fair. They day we met, she wooed me with
chocolate-laden cookie bars. The supply of tasty treats continued as she
reeled me in.
I was the fish, and chips were the bait.
But since happily ever after was scheduled, have any of those
scrumptious morsels appeared? Not on your life -- or mine.
I've taken to watching “Sesame Street” just to drool with envy over my
hero, Cookie Monster.
The Woman Who Claims to Love Me took me grocery shopping last week.
Given the glimpse into my future, I'm not sure she likes me all that
much.
“We forgot the chocolate chip cookies,” I whined.
Let me tell you, a nearly 50-year-old man whining is not pretty, but
rarely have the stakes been so high.
“No, we didn't 'forget,”' she said. “That's what the apples are for --
to replace your cookies!”
I've heard this ridiculous theory before. A diet wacko got on the
airwaves once and nattered on about how replacing texture for texture
would satisfy the not-so-easily converted.
The crunch of carrot sticks, she claimed, would be an excellent
replacement for the crunch of potato chips.
Balderdash! It's not the texture we miss, it's the taste!
An oak tree stick may have a similar texture to a pretzel stick. But
you're gnawing oaks on your own, brother. I'm not a beaver.
Still, I can see from the bursting belt that changes need to be made. So
I'm trying.
I've been eating apples. I've been eating pears. I make no promises to
touch her celery sticks, but I'm working my way up to the baby carrots.
I'm positive they would be better steamed in butter and sugar glaze. And
served with a side of ice cream with hot fudge topping. But I'll get
there.
After three whole days of raw foods and bread littered with multiple
grains (of sand, near as I can figure), I swear I must have lost at
least 50 pounds.
Oh, that reminds me, I need new bathroom scales. The things seem to be
stuck on a rather high number that doesn't reflect my svelter lifestyle.
Anyway, for the sake of love, I vow to stick with these bizarre food
choices. For at least two more days, anyway. Maybe three. After that,
I'm sneaking some cookies into the house.
Love may be blind, but taste buds see the truth.
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Trick
or Treat Defeat
By Christine Gauvreau,
New York
Halloween is near. I can always tell how
close it is by the amount of miniature chocolate bars I’ve consumed. And
since the empty wrapper to unopened candy ratio is about a bazillion to
one, I’m certain the day is upon us.
I should stop buying the treats ahead of time, but that would be a waste
of the incredible talent I have for extracting the bars through a tiny,
inconspicuous slit in the seam of the bag.
Now as I sit and survey the paltry remainders of this once hefty stash,
it seems my house is destined to be toilet papered. Note to self: Don’t
try to stomp out any flaming bags that land on the porch.
In a last ditch effort to save my front door from the egg barrage, I
head for the store. Considering there is still a day or so before the
actual trick-or-treating begins, I remain optimistic. Surely a bag of
Milky Ways awaits me on the shelf.
Alas, the candy aisle is bare. As are the toilet paper and shaving cream
aisles. I’m sensing defeat here, but I’m not ready to surrender. I
search for alternatives.
Among the scattered remnants on the seasonal shelves there lies a
crushed box of Halloween string lights, a box of marshmallow “pumpkin”
peeps and a few rogue pieces of candy corn. I toss the peeps into my
basket. No, they won’t satisfy the dozens of Hannah Montanas and Harry
Potters who excitedly ring my bell and request a cavity enhancing
delight. But they will serve as a sweet snack for me on the drive home
from the store.
I know what you’re thinking, “Haven’t you had enough candy?”
Define enough, I retort. I’ve never been able to. Perhaps I’d be better
off putting my own plastic pumpkin on the porch along with a sign that
reads: I ate all the candy. I have no self control. Please be so kind as
to leave a donation towards my Weight Watchers registration fee.
Maybe I don’t have to give out candy at all. Perhaps some paper goods or
stationary products will do. That big box of Crayolas could divide up
nicely. I could tie a couple of crayons together with some lovely orange
and black ribbon....Oh who am I trying to kid? Some poor kid will wind
up with the crappy colors and we’re right back where we started, first
in line for the shaving cream paint job.
Ready to resign to the inevitable, I take comfort in the few pieces of
candy that still remain at home. Hey, as long as we’re doomed, I can go
ahead and eat those, too. I’m already imagining their chocolatey
goodness when I spot a glimmer of hope. Back at the seasonal aisle, a
stock boy is reloading the shelves. “I’m saved! “ I think (or shout out
loud, but who’s really listening anyway?).
I trot on over to get a glimpse of the goodies, visions of butterfingers
dancing through my head. I nearly crash into the cart of boxes. The
stock boy raises his eyebrows and sighs, shaking his head and returning
to his task of filling the space with wrapping paper, ribbons, cards and
gifts – a merry assortment of holiday items for a holiday that has
nothing to do with ghosts and goblins and everything to do with the fat
jolly guy in the red suit.
I beg the stock boy to check the boxes, perhaps a bag of mini crunch
bars remains.
On the drive home, I eat three rows of peeps. Rustling in the seat next
to me is my offering for the pending trick-or-treaters, a box of one
hundred individually wrapped candy canes.
I left the store without purchasing toilet paper. I figure we will just
scavenge what’s hanging from our trees when we wake on November 1st.
http://www.pajamamommy.net
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dressing
for PMS (Or Whatever Else is Cramping Your Style)
By Wendy Hand, Alabama
About two days out of every month I honestly want to twist my head off
and hurl it at anyone who chews too loud, walks too slow, drives a PT
Cruiser, or parts their hair too far to the side. I’m not proud of it,
and I assure you I am working on it. But my hormones get together and
waterboard me every month until I cave to the crazy bitterness. It’s not
pretty.
So, if I want to keep my job, my family, my friends and avoid possible
jail time, I have to at least dress the part of a sane person. And that
means pushing past my pre-menstrual desire to drape myself in a frock of
black currant, forgo shampoo, add a few extra passes of Black Magic to
my lower lids, and a slow contemplating smear of pallid concealer across
my lips.
My best bet is to go with a look that’s the exact opposite of how I
feel. But pulling off “sweet and sophisticated” during the days when “my
other car’s a broom” proves to be a huge challenge. First off, my body
is far from a wonderland (not that it is the other 26 days of the month,
but who’s counting?).
Secondly, my face
is usually doing its best impression of Gary Busey (only less attractive
and more bloated). And to top it all off, I am in a full-blown fight
with everything in my closet. “Oh, so the pretty pencil skirt doesn’t
feel like zipping all the way up this morning. Well, how about few deep
squats to loosen ‘er up? Huh? Yeah. How’s that workin’ for ya? Who’s got
the pooch and bubble butt now?” (Clothes totally get sarcasm.)
You see, no amount of deep breathing exercises, prayer and meditation,
daily Zen practices (or nightly Zin practices) can mask temporary
psychotic aggression like a crisp pair of wide-legged trousers, a white
chiffon blouse, boldly printed scarf headband and a sensible, but fun
and flirty, pair of wedges. It’s my default ensemble for mornings I wake
up wanting to reach in the flat screen and clap a hand over Ann Curry’s
mouth when she’s trying to be all journalist-like.
There’s also my go-to jersey wrap-dress with a pretty cami underneath
and some great boots below. I reserve this outfit for the days when I’m
a threat to spitefully cut someone off in traffic just for having Nancy
Grace hair.
I like to tie either of these “help-me” ensembles together with a simple
and understated piece of jewelry. My favorite feel-good bauble is a
dainty diamond cross in white gold. Because the cashier who carded me
for wine and then said, “Put that thing away, I was teasing you!” is now
wearing her nametag as a nose ring. And well, if she can’t forgive me,
hopefully God will.
http://wendytatum.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Guidance Goof
By Tom Hovland, Colorado
My day-old career as a substitute teacher ended shortly after Labor Day,
when a sophomore biology student fainted during the introductory
blood-typing demo, soiling her wardrobe in the process. Her
underachieving but clever classmates took wild advantage, feigning panic
and inciting a revolt that enveloped the campus in short order. The
ensuing lockdown lasted until dark, and the school district ceased
operations pending a week-long investigation of my role in the
disturbance.
Criminal charges surfaced the next day at an emergency board meeting. In
the presence of a pack of lawyers and concerned parents, a carefully
edited videotape from the classroom camera cast in a bad light my
riot-hampered efforts to treat the girl for shock. The district’s
volunteer paralegal recommended termination, and a feeble security guard
escorted me from the premises.
Shortly thereafter, the State mandated on-line sensitivity counseling
for substitute teachers. As part of my community service, a judge
ordered me to spend time facilitating these sessions to explain my
misguided ways and recommend more appropriate behavior.
My probation officer applauded these efforts, not only because they were
easily monitored, but also because they demonstrated remorse while
preventing physical contact with the human race. Clients found my advice
useful and entertaining, and the web-based counseling service issued a
printer-friendly diploma certifying me as a virtual guidance counselor.
A few months after my conviction, another printer-friendly certificate
named me “Counselor of the Month. My e-employer began paying me a
performance-based commission. My e-supervisor suggested that I branch
out a bit, handle a few of their more complex cases, which is how I met
Glenn Gray.
Mr. Gray claimed to be a recent university graduate looking for
direction. In his search for meaning, he had consulted a variety of
non-standard resources: everything from psychics and séances to
brainstorming sessions and semi-religious revivals.
The psychic had suggested a career in horoscope reading or horse
breeding; Glenn hadn’t really understood her thick accent over the
phone. Around the Ouija Board, a dead relative had given him an idea for
a theme park idea called “Humidity Land,” which he thought might catch
on in Arizona. Worried though, that life in the desert might bore him,
Glenn spent several sessions discussing the merits of ranch-handing on a
wild jackal farm in Nebraska while breeding ears of blue corn large
enough to serve as nondenominational holiday trees.
To occupy his nights, Glenn had elaborate plans for a trendy downtown
nightclub. Nearby, in a seedier, lower-rent neighborhood, he planned to
renovate a condemned apartment building for use as a treatment center
for overindulgent night clubbers. He described this strategy as
“capturing both ends of the spectrum.” When any or all of these
enterprises proved successful, he intended to write an autobiography and
become a professional tax protester.
Throughout this bizarre exchange, I maintained the company line,
sticking to scripted recommendations. When Glenn complimented my patient
keyboard-side manner and requested to meet me in person, I politely
refused, citing corporate policy and professional ethics, even after he
offered me a lucrative position on his future team of rehab counselors,
including a plush satellite office over the night club, “for times of
crisis.”
Following my refusal, Glenn logged off abruptly and never signed in
again. A few weeks later, during an on-line performance review, I
learned that Glenn Gray did not exist. His persona was a plant—a
“Guidance Goof”—wedged into my workload as a test of loyalty and
obedience.
The trickery offended me, and though I loved the impersonal nature of my
job, my time with the company ended with the completion of my probation.
But before I left, I used their educational benefits to earn a
printer-friendly certificate as a substance abuse counselor. Then I
pitched one of Glenn’s ideas to a real on-line client, a successful
venture capitalist looking for creative opportunities.
After buying a nightclub downtown, we rented a big old house a few
blocks away to serve as the residential rehab center. With his money and
my hard work, we captured both ends of the spectrum in less than a year
and started selling franchises in other cities. A few years later, I
wrote an autobiography detailing my long climb from petty criminal to
successful businessman. Then I went on the road as a motivational
speaker. Each presentation began the same way as the book, with a
dedication to a clever sophomore biology class and Glenn Gray, the
Guidance Goof.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Raising
Cain With The Income Tax Agent
By Robert Robeson, Nebraska
A year after Adam and Eve's premature, Biblical departure from the
Garden of Eden, the chief income tax agent in Edenton province called
Adam to his cave to discuss their joint income tax return.
"I'm sorry to call you in like this," the agent began, "but we don't
have sufficient information on your Form 1040 to make a refund."
"What's the problem?" Adam asked.
"First of all, we don't have a last name for either you or your wife."
"We don't have a last name," Adam replied. "When God made me from the
dust of the earth and Eve from one of my ribs, He said 'it is good.' At
that time, there were only the three of us and we were on a first name
basis."
"You're trying to tell me that you weren't born--you were formed from
dirt by someone called 'God'?"
"Yeah. We didn't believe it at first ourselves," Adam admitted.
"I see that you've claimed one dependent child named Cain."
"That's right."
"Do you have valid birth and marriage certificates?" the agent asked.
"Well,...no. When God said 'it is good,' we just assumed we were
covered."
"Whaaaaaat?" the agent laughed loudly. "Read my lips. It's NOT GOOD as
far as the tax agency is concerned."
There was an embarrassing silence for a long moment.
"You people get your kicks by trying to keep all of us in a perpetual
state of siege and nervous tension," Adam said forcefully, inching up
close to the agent's face.
"Okay, since you apparently don't want to keep this on a professional
level," the agent said, his face suddenly flushed, "I've heard all of
those stories about the two of you, too. You certainly went to a lot of
trouble having your fun, huh? Eating the forbidden fruit, being evicted
from Eden because the woman you are living with was fooling around with
a slimy snake, ruining the neighborhood...going naked all day like
hippies. Now you're trying to cheat the government on your taxes," he
added. "What do you do on holidays...get high on dessert nettle? I can't
believe it! You two blew all the eternal bennies of Eden--the federal
Good Time Garden."
"My taxes pay your salary, right?"
"Uh,...yeah."
"From my perspective, it appears that my money is really being used to
harass me." Adam said.
"That's not how the tax agency likes to look at it."
"You people start out by believing you're only second to God. But, by
the time April 15th rolls around, you think you've moved up a notch."
Adam's contempt was so brazen the tax agent was momentarily startled.
"Let's get back to your return. You cite a ten mite deduction for a
rental oxcart for moving from Eden and another hundred mites for
miscellaneous expenses that are job-related. What precisely is your
occupation?"
"I'm a ship-in-a-bottle maker," Adam proudly admitted.
"What are your specific duties?"
"I take full bottles of wine and ready them for the insertion of ships.
My work is prompt and 100% guaranteed."
"Well, Adam, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to disallow all of your
deductions because you failed to attach a W-2 form to cover your income
during this tax year."
There was another long silence.
"Look, Mr. Tax Man, I'm about to pour a torrent of light into your dark
and dismal world," Adam began, his voice rising with his blood pressure.
"Nothing is more galling than the arrogant and patronizing attitude of
bush-league bureaucrats. God even told me the other evening that HE was
a little pushed by it all, too. And He knows it's not easy trying to
raise a little Cain on my salary, either."
The tax agent seemed to have had enough. He appeared so frustrated that
he groaned aloud an Old Testament lamentation. "Aaaaiiiieeeeoooo."
Adam stared at him for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. "Ain't
it the truth, though? Now you know how the rest of us feel this time of
year."
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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What
Reality Television Can Do For The Olympics
By Joel Schwartzberg, New Jersey
Reality television show producers, proudly noting they invented the
concept of obscure Americans competing in tight, skimpy outfits for
glory and lucrative contracts way before the Olympics came around to it,
are capitalizing on Olympics fever by throwing out their existing Fall
schedules and implementing the following Games-themed lineup:
"Who Will I Fall For?"
Hard-falling but easy-on-the-eyes gymnast Alicia Sacramone will put five
hunky athletes through major Olympic events -- and animal genitalia
eating obstacles, natch -- to win her affection. Each day, one lucky
contestant will have the opportunity to console her. Bella Karolyi will
be on hand to coach and occasionally berate the contestants.
"With a Little Phelps from My Friends"
With the 12,000 calories-a-day "Phelps Diet" surging across the country,
everyone's favorite ADHD-challenged swimmer will travel across the
country to visit now morbidly obese "Phelps Dieters" whose pals have
reached out, fearing for their friends' lives. Michael will life-coach
the contestants, order their breakfasts, build them new homes, give
interview tips, do their taxes, and let them hold his medals. Mark Spitz
will host.
"Within Your Beach"
USA Beach Volleyball stars Phil Dalhausser, Todd Rogers, Misty May-Treanor,
and Kerri Walsh will host an all-beach sports tournament featuring their
specialty event, as well as the following respected beach sports:
* Competitive Tanning
* Running in Water without Looking Like an Idiot
* Keeping Sand Out of Your Tuna Wrap
* Getting the Lifeguard's Attention
May-Treanor and Walsh will appear exclusively in their beach volleyball
uniforms. Dalhausser and Rogers can wear whatever they want, naturally.
"The Race for Obscure"
Athletes from the sports of flat water kayaking, badminton, handball,
and two-person dinghy are paired up to see who can get more of Bob
Costas' attention.
"Up Close and Worsenal"
Track-and-Field athletes compete for most emotional personal backstory.
Categories include:
* Biggest Personal Tragedy
* Scariest Personal Medical Experience
* Youngest Age at Which First Personally Dreamed of Olympic Glory
* Redemption of Past Personal Failure
* Oldest
"Can You Swing Higher Than a Fifth Grader?"
Still in development, this project would feature a majority of the
Chinese women's gymnastics team.
www.jesttokill.com
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