|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
October/
November 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
October/
November 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Telephone Survey
By
Claire Caudle,
Yukon Territory
I can't help but notice that too many
articles of the previous years summer clothing have me doing the ol'
"suck 'n zip." Now this is perfectly understandable given that just 2
months ago, one of these pairs of shorts would not have made it past my
pregnant ankles. That being said, I received a gentle reminder of the
effort involved in shedding this excess poundage through a telephone
survey I participated in the other day.
A very upbeat twenty-something explained to me that she was calling from
York University in Toronto and that my husband had, on a previous
occasion, indicated that I was the one they should call back and
question. Thanks Honey. Thanks a lot. She continued on and explained to
me that she would be asking me some questions about my personal concepts
and awareness of healthy living and exercise. I should have just told
her then and there that my personal concept of exercise these days is
breast feeding but she sounded like she was wearing lululemon and doing
crunches and I wanted her to think I was too.
I have participated in a number of surveys in my time and generally I
have found them to be non-threatening affairs. So I'm not sure if the
problem this time was the survey itself or my need for elasticized waist
bands. Here are a few snipets.
Surveyor: How many times in the past year did you participate in some
form of exercise you felt affected your overall health?
Me: You want an actual number?
Surveyor: Yes.
I frantically tried to do some kind of calculation and came up with 25
or 30.
Surveyor : So 25 or 30?
Me: Yes.
Surveyor: No. Pick one. 25 or 30.
Me: Oh. 30. Definitely 30. Probably more.
Surveyor: Did you want to change your answer?
Me: Am I allowed?
Surveyor: If you want to, you may change your answer.
Me: Ok. 50. We'll go with 50. (I couldn't tell if she was impressed by
50 or not but I decided to stick)
Surveyor: Name an activity you participated in for exercise in the past
year.
Me: Yoga.
Surveyor: How many times did you participate in this activity in the
past year?
Me. uuuhm...5 or 6?
Surveyor: 5 or 6?
Me: Well I've been really busy and pregnant.
Surveyor: No 5 or 6.
Me: Oh sorry. 6 times. Maybe 8. Say 8.
Surveyor: On a scale of one to seven, one being not at all aware, seven
being completely aware...
Me: two
Surveyor: I haven't finished the question.
Me: Oh.
Surveyor: Never mind. Let's move on. Have you ever heard of the program
ParticipAction?
Me: Yes.
Surveyor: Please describe to me the general principles of ParticipAction.
Me: Can I change my last answer?
I was totally defeated by the time she had finished with me. I'd like to
change my answer to the first question to 51.
http://mumologic.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 In
My Spare Time, I Am Actively Seeking Employment (And Other Reasons You
Should Date Me)
By
Sheila Freeman,
New Hampshire
I won’t waste your time with untruths of
how I love the beach and the outdoors. I hate the beach and the gritty
sand that inevitably ends up in secret places. Thanks to my
exercise-induced asthma, I’m not going to suggest a hike or a nature
walk. I do have tattoos and I’ll probably get more, but I am not into
slobs who rock NASCAR t-shirts. I do own a nice car/house that I
recently bought from a now-homeless man. In my spare time, I am actively
seeking employment.
The truth is, I have frequently been the object of desire to many men.
The next lucky man could be you. In fact, right at this moment I’ll bet
you are sitting in the pale blue flickering light of your computer
screen, browsing your options. You’ve exhausted all the ads with
photos—a smiley brunette, one with full-on cleavage, a bikini-clad
blond, a Goth girl with fangs and crimson lipstick. Now, in a wave of
plummeting self-esteem, you’ve moved on to the photo-less blurbs,
telling yourself we can't all be one of Shrek’s cousins. Well, I can
assure you, I’m not fat or ugly, as long as you are not judgmental or
picky. I won’t sit here and pretend I’m some runway model with legs like
Popsicle sticks. I might not know anything about fashion, but I see the
way the Mall people are always looking and pointing at me, adoring my
outfits. I’ve got it going on.
I dislike cooking, and since waiting has never been my thing, I prefer
my date to call ahead and reserve a spot for us in the buffet line.
Chocolate is comforting on my dark days when I cannot get out of bed.
Thanks to my new medication, the dark days come less frequently and with
less intensity. As far as making love is concerned, I believe it should
be special, and therefore saved for meaningful events like vacations,
leap year, or a solar eclipse.
In the past, I have dated religious people and drunks, a few of whom
were not the same person. I don’t mind if you drink, because I do, but I
hear sobriety is good, too, if that’s something you’d like to try and I
won’t judge you for it. Or, if you must drink, try not to stagger when
you meet my parents, which by the way will be the same night we meet and
fall in love. Do not be put off by my father’s lazy eye or how often my
mother uses quote, “air quotations”, unquote. They are good folk and
have made peace with their victims. But, that story doesn’t belong here.
I am not looking for stepchildren, so if you have them, it would be best
if their mother had full custody. Concerning pets, I am allergic to cats
and dogs, so reptiles are better as long as you’re willing to clean the
cages and feed them. I prefer men who are handy around the house and can
fix things and open jars.
I don’t do well in social settings, family gatherings, or crowds. That
includes movie theatres, amusement parks, and Church. You should own a
boat or be willing to buy a boat. I will send photos but once you have
my photos, do not use them elsewhere as they are copyrighted by me. I
don’t dance and music is not something I care about, unless you’re into
music in which case I might be into some of it. I prefer to watch movies
that feature women characters defeating men at various tasks.
My friends would describe as someone they can’t really describe. I do
want to get married someday, but not in a Church with creepy organ music
and stained glass pictures of Jesus and other hippies. I am not a smoker
or an ex-smoker, I am a never-smoker, and I don’t mind if you smoke, so
long as you don’t respond to this ad or come anywhere near me. In fact,
if you would be so kind, please exhale on another planet.
Drop me a line and let’s see where this goes. Hope to hear from you.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
May
I Help You
By June Hubatsek, Pennsylvania
We were sixteen and could finally get our working
papers. My best friend and I had made it to that magical age, and we
were thrilled. This meant that we could have the extra money for clothes
and yes, records, that were then every teen-agers dream.
You must remember these were the days before television had hit every
town, and so we were not inundated with commercials explaining the
necessity for items needed for every bodily function. By today’s
standards we would probably be considered naïve. However, on that first
day of work at Edward’s Department Store in upstate New York, my
girlfriend Edie and I felt very sophisticated and worldly and ready to
set the world on fire.
After our two week training course, we were given our departments. Edie
was sent to the fourth floor toy department and me to the main floor
stationary department. Even way back then the lure of pen and paper
excited me and my department head was happy to let me decorate the cases
with the beautiful paper, matching ink and fountain pens. At times I
even added a flower or a silk scarf to add a touch of nostalgia.
The only setback to my otherwise perfect job was the hour every Saturday
when I relieved the woman at the drug counter, for her lunch hour. Her
name was Gert. She was a rather plump Irish lady who ruled the drug
department with an iron hand and tolerated the “young crew” if we were
there at the exact moment specified.
One Saturday I went cheerfully over to the drug counter and was left
alone to help the customers. Every thing was proceeding in the usual
manner when a woman appeared at the counter.
“May I help you?” I asked in my most sophisticated ‘women-to-women’
voice.
“Yes,” she said, “I would like a traveling douche bag.”
My mind raced frantically, and using the little gray cells, in a
somewhat Hercule Poiret mentality, tried to figure out what she wanted.
Poor woman, I thought, why is she here?”
I immediately had picked up on the word traveling and bag together,
dismissing douche as a certain brand? Well, naturally, if I linked
traveling and bag the answer was simple. Of course, bags were in the
luggage department. So I smiled at the woman, perhaps a bit smugly and
kindly offered this advice.
“The traveling douche bags will be found on the seventh floor in the
luggage department.”
“Are you sure?” she ventured, meekly.
“Yes madam,” I am sure”. I smiled this time, certain she was a bit
dimwitted.
She walked away from the counter looking back over her shoulder but
headed toward the up elevators. When Gert returned I told her about the
strange woman and after a few questions from Gert and a few answers from
me, her face turned slightly red to a brighter fiery red and then even a
mauve tinge crossed her brow. She literally shook like the proverbial
bowl full of jelly.
I tried to get her to explain the situation, but she was so busy trying
to control herself, her only advice was that I had better get back to my
own department.
Naturally my girlfriends and I discussed the situation and using a
dictionary we found a definition. That rather confused us too, so we
decided to let it go. No one actually mentioned the situation to me
again, except for the fact that from then on I was left to reign in my
own department and an older woman was sent to aid Gert. Also, when Mr.
Walrath, our kind floor-walker, passed my counter, he always said good
morning with a twinkle in his eye and a slight chuckle as he rounded the
corner.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
The
Amazing Poetry Converter
By
Stephen Joseph,
India
Everybody loves poetry, but 98.5% of us
have great difficulty deciphering the meaning of poems. Sure poetry is
fun to read, but most of us cannot understand a word of what the poet is
trying to say. I have solved this persistent problem by inventing a
computer program that converts the meaning of poems into everyday
English. My program scans any poem and uses my patented (I/O) algorithm
– that’s input output for the computer illiterate – and translates the
poem into everyday plain language that anyone can understand.
Take for example, Stephen Hough’s prize-winning poem Early Rose:
INPUT:
So when the day dries
Dreams, wakes dew, and
Sunplay in dazzling green
Or hue, the perfume from
That secret rose will
Breathe our poem to every
Nose: sign language of love;
Encrypted script of ecstasy.
USING MY AMAZING POETRY CONVERTER, THIS DIFFICULT-TO-UNDERSTAND POEM
EASILY TRANSLATES INTO:
A budding rose smells real nice.
Here’s another one, a poem by Kate Potter:
INPUT:
As you sleep to the stability of Monday,
you grasp the sanctity of sheets around you
like a winter landscape to hide beneath.
THIS POEM MEANS:
Get your lazy ass out of bed, weekend’s over.
Enigmas, by Pablo Neruda
INPUT:
I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
OUTPUT:
I didn’t catch any fish while fishing.
Here’s another example, Jack Maness, In Bed With My Wife
INPUT:
My cat is anxious now.
My wife’s pores are in her face,
and her teeth have width.
When I put my finger along my nose
to the corner of my eye,
I can see through it like a ghost,
Though I know it to be real.
MY AMAZING POETRY CONVERTER EXPLAINS THIS TO MEAN:
The man’s ‘cat’ is ready, willing and able, but he is resigned to the
fact that he will not be getting any bed candy for the next seven to ten
days.
Here’s everyone’s favorite, Maya Angelou, The Rock Cries Out to Us
Today:
INPUT:
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
MY POETRY CONVERTER TRANSLATES THIS INTO:
God help you if you are any one of these, ‘cause if you are, you’re
screwed.
Sylvia Plath, Balloons
INPUT:
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
MEANING:
The fat slob is hogging the damn remote control!
Dreams by Langston Hughes
INPUT:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
TRANSLATION:
“You my babydaddy, now go out and get a job!”
from Venus and Adonis, by William Shakespeare
INPUT:
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind;
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
MEANS:
That beautiful girl he picked up at the bar… that’s a he, not a she, and
he just slapped him.
Many people know Tupac Shakur as a rapper and a musician, but what many
don’t know is that he was an amazing poet as well.
IF I INPUT, AMBITION OVER ADVERSITY, INTO MY AMAZING POETRY CONVERTER:
Take one’s adversity
Learn from their misfortune
Learn from their pain
Believe in something
Believe in yourself
Turn adversity into ambition
Now blossom into wealth
I GET:
If you want to be somebody and make a lot of money at the same time, go
out and rob some banks.
As you can see, my Amazing Poetry Converter is an ingenious tool to
decipher even the most difficult of poems. It’s only $29.95 and you can
order it using your credit card on my website,
www.amazingpoetryconverter.com. Order yours today and let poems start
making sense to you.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
A
Mapless Male Worth Saving
By Sue Anna Langenberg, Illinois
It is often noted that males who get lost refuse to ask
directions.
Not to weigh in on any feminist food fight or anything, I imagine that
it’s because that pesky Y-chromosome doesn’t want to be caught
red-handed not knowing where he’s going. Any male who has lost his way
in life, even for a moment, might appear less a macho man. You can’t
flex your muscles, after all, while asking directions from perfect
strangers.
When we women get lost, we just look for the nearest shoe store and
figure that it was meant to be.
So when a male hummingbird recently refused to leave after a hard freeze
took the flowers, I was immediately alarmed. It was certainly lost and
didn’t realize that it should be heading to the Southern Hemisphere for
the winter.
As I chipped the ice in the feeder, the hummer waited patiently nearby.
I could easily tell that it was a male because he had an identifying
brilliant ruby coat, common to the Midwest. He was also belching and
scratching himself. While he read Girly Bird Magazine, I quickly cooked
his nectar to the requested medium rare.
I couldn’t help but develop a liking for the poor lost thing and gave
daily email reports that, yes, it was still here. When snow flakes
swirled around, however, I knew that it was in dire straits. I tried to
furnish maps and calendars to the feeder each day, but to no avail.
So I finally announced to the work boss that I would be gone for a few
days because I had to drive a vagrant hummingbird to Central America. He
rolled his eyes, but was used to my hag-shenanigans. It seems that I had
no vacation time left since the last stint when I needed the day to
repair my knitting that one of my cats ruined.
My next ploy to save the map-less male hummer was to run out and buy a
cage to hang in the kitchen with feeder inside. It would have a winter’s
supply of Girly Bird Magazine and its own remote control for the Gaggle
Network. Not only that, but this hummer’s winter digs would feature an
easy-street life when it would send out the kitchen hag to make a living
with an Audubon Society-approved home and veterinarian medical benefits.
But a friend
reminded me that hummingbirds are such a protected bird in the
environment that I would be in violation. The AS would promptly arrest
me for depriving a bird from its natural environment.
I envisioned explaining to the AS that this hummer was a vagrant male
and that it refused to ask directions. That would save me from being
arrested, especially as they would ask me if it scratched, belched and
watched Super Gaggle Sunday. The AS would then do a home search of my
house to make sure that it was appropriate for a winter’s environment.
That should be no problem, since the hummingbirds during the summer
season staked out my house as THE place to gather with an endless supply
of sugar nectar. They elbowed each other and talked slick hummer slang
about the hag’s house on the block with an occasional wine vintage and
bar stools on the feeder reservoir.
“What’s on tap today?” one hummer flitted past another, “Sugar
Chardonnay with a twist of ants. She doesn’t close at sundown and I hear
that she serves during the winter, also. I’ll meet you there.”
And one imbiber still feeds. He’s the one who refuses to ask directions
because he has it too good here.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Family
Night Fiasco
By Mary Beth Weisenburger,
Ohio
A long time ago, probably when I was
pregnant with my first child and the resulting hormonal imbalance skewed
my sense of reality, I read a parenting book that highly recommended
that a family unit gather on a regular basis for “Family Nights.”
According to the expert author, these scheduled Family Nights would
accomplish several things:
1. Family members would be able to “have a proactive dialogue” to air
and resolve any “festering issues”; and/or
2. Members could participate in various “bonding” activities that would
serve to bring the family closer together emotionally.
This sounds good on paper. And probably, most normal households would be
able to pull it off. It just doesn’t work at my house.
Here’s a rendition of our most recent attempt at Family Night:
Mom: (played by me, the long-suffering mother who merely wants to bring
her family closer together emotionally): Hey family members! How about
we get together this evening for a Proactive Dialogue so we can air and
resolve our Festering Issues?? I’ll make some popcorn!
Dad: (played by my husband of twenty years who should know by now that
these kinds of suggestions are NOT really suggestions, rather they are
COMMANDS thinly disguised as suggestions) Uhhhhhh…..I’m not sure I’ll be
around…….and besides, the replay of the 1986 Masters Tournament comes on
The Golf Channel at 9…..
Teenage son: (played by my teenage son, who only took the music player
earbuds out of his ears long enough to catch the word “popcorn” come out
of my mouth)Food?? Where???
Teenage daughter: (played by my thirteen year-old, whose social calendar
rivals that of the entire British Royal Family) Mom! You CAN’T be
serious. I have Andrea at 6:00 for a phone consultation, then I’m
supposed to be at Whitney’s by 7:00 so we can walk over to Jacob’s
together at 7:30 for a movie that will last approximately 90 minutes.
Then I need to be back home on the computer by 9:30 so I can Instant
Message Andrea and Whitney about the movie. Then I need to shower and do
my nails while I watch the 3rd show from the 4th season DVD of Gilmore
Girls. I can’t skip a night or I’d have to start all over.
Me: (now threatening to break out the sackcloth and ashes) Oh come on,
family members! This is our chance to bond! Can’t we please carve out
some time to discuss our personal challenges, review our family mission
statement and set some goals for the next quarter??
Dad: (still oblivious of the spousal “evil eye” being cast in his
direction) Uhhhhhh…….does this involve talking? Because you really can’t
be having side conversations when you’re watching The Masters….
Teenage son: (putting the earbuds back in his ears and sauntering to the
kitchen with a frown) I thought someone said there would be food.
Teenage daughter: (heading toward the back door) Can someone pick me up
from Jacob’s at 9:00? Can I borrow your flip flops, mom? Has anyone seen
my cell phone? I gotta call Andrea and tell her to meet me at
Whitney’s…….
In an instant, I was left standing in the living room with no one but
Zoey, our Yellow Lab, who wagged her tail and promptly flopped onto her
back so I could scratch her tummy.
That qualifies as bonding, doesn’t it?
www.marybethw.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
What's
His Is Mine
By Mary Beth Weisenburger, Ohio
I believe that a successful marriage must include openness, honesty, and
mutual sharing of belongings. In order for a union to last, there should
be absolutely no secrets between the partners, and household possessions
should not be segregated. I think my husband of 20-plus years would
agree.
Then why won’t he tell me where his Sharpie marker is??
I know he has one somewhere, but he insists on hiding it like a national
treasure that should have multiple impenetrable layers of security
protecting it from a family of would-be thieves. To access it, you must
give three days advance notice, provide two forms of identification and
produce a written contract guaranteeing its safe return.
I don’t get it. We’ve only lost his marker a few times. Once the kids
took it to school to color in the former Soviet Union on their map of
the world and it understandably ended up dried out and useless after
that exhausting experience. And perhaps once last summer I took it
outside to mark labels on seedling pots and maybe it got left out in the
rain. Maybe even twice. But is that any reason to move the Sharpie from
hiding place to hiding place, like it’s a member of the government’s
witness protection program?
That’s not the only thing he hides from me. There’s the stash of sugar
cookies in the console of his truck. There’s my favorite cinnamon gum in
the linen closet. And he thinks I don’t know this, but that high end
silver grill lighter that he won as a door prize but is really better
suited to light my scented candles in the kitchen--resides in his bottom
desk drawer under some old golf score cards.
Why all the secrecy? I don’t understand it. We are in a committed
relationship that relies on integrity of character. His overwhelming
need to conceal these personal possessions is just mystifying.
What? Oh, sure, I hide a few things too. But my objects are critical to
the success of the household and must be protected at all costs.
Scissors, tape and working pens are habitually on the Missing Persons
list and therefore justifiably live a cloak and dagger life on top of
the utility cabinet. My fingernail clippers are restricted to a radius
of 3 feet from my vanity or a series of alarm bells will sound and the
local law enforcement will be automatically notified. Of course it’s a
necessity to keep emergency shopping cash in an envelope in with the
cleaning supplies (a VERY secure spot). And the bag of bite-size
Snickers bars in the coffee cup in the curio cabinet? Well, every woman
understands the fundamental value of chocolate in a crisis, real or
otherwise, and no smart man would ever question that theory.
Does this veil of secrecy between us point to marital distress? Are we
on shaky ground, headed for the marriage scrap heap?
Nah. I’ll just have a mini-Snickers, grab some shopping money and
everything will be OK. And maybe I’ll pick up a Sharpie while I’m out.
www.marybethw.com
.
|
