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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/
November 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
October/
November 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
A Birthday
Present Only A Dog Could Love
By Juliet Aucreman, California
I struggle to remember my husband’s birthday. It’s in November. I’m from
the East Coast, so I know I’m safe til the trees turn orange. But we
live in Southern California, trees stay green, and I never think it’s
fall.
Late one summer (I thought it was summer - the leaves were green),
Drew’s sister sent him a cutesy “Happy Belated Birthday” card.
Boy, she was late, I thought. His birthday’s in the fall and this is
summer! Then I did a double take. Even though the leaves were green,
this was November. We’d been married for only five months, and I was
seventeen days late remembering his birthday.
I rushed to find Drew, grabbed him in a bear hug, and apologized for
five endless minutes. He was sweet, but didn’t forgive me. He intended
to work this one for brownie points. I knew what he was cooking up. I
resolved to outdo all expectations and to even the score, pronto. I
didn’t want him to use the situation to his advantage forever.
That night I worked til ten o’clock, teaching piano lessons in other
people’s homes. As I drilled my students on their counting, I felt like
a fake. Clearly, my counting was nothing to brag about.
Before starting my twenty-mile drive home, I called Drew on my cell
phone to make sure he’d be awake when I returned.
“Can’t guarantee it,” he said. “I’ve had a pretty long day, and I’m
wiped out.”
“But I want to do something for your birthday!”
“I’ve survived this long without a celebration, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
I gunned it to the nearest grocery store, skittered to the bakery
section, snatched up a raspberry mousse cake, picked out some neon
birthday candles and a pack of matches. On impulse, I grabbed a can of
pressurized whipped cream.
Back on the road, I urged my Ford Escort station wagon to pick up the
pace. It tried its best to rush home, but the world worked against us --
traffic lights, merges, cars stalled on the freeway. A lifetime later,
we pulled into our driveway.
The house was dark.
I gathered my groceries, maneuvered out of the car, kicked the door
closed, hurried to our back entrance, placed my purchases on the tile
step, jammed a few candles on the cake, and fired them up with a match.
I stripped to my birthday suit, grabbed the spray can of whipped cream,
and lathered myself with fluffy goo. I opened the door with my right
hand, balanced the cake on my left, and stepped inside.
“Drew! Happy Birthday!”
No answer. The guy had actually hit the sack.
My way illuminated by candles, my footsteps punctuated by dripping
cream, I sashayed to the bedroom.
“Happy bi-rth-day tooo yooooo . . .” I yodeled.
“Mmmm, m’slpnnnng,” the lump in the bed lisped.
“Honey, look what I brought you!”
“Mmmm, too tired . . .”
My efforts to attract attention were not lost on our puppy. As I stood
there, Minnow, our silly Portuguese Water Dog, launched into her evening
snack. Whipped cream, delivered to the bedroom door . . . who would have
thought?
As Minnow applied herself to my creamy costume, I wavered by the bed,
disappointed I was losing the birthday war. Surely my husband would perk
up and shoo Minnow away. Finally, I couldn’t take the canine clean-up
any longer. I turned on my heel and high-tailed it toward the shower.
Licking and slurping, the puppy plunged after me as my husband started
to snore.
www.julietaucreman.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Secret Spot
By Juliet Aucreman, California
The Secret Spot by Juliet Aucreman
Two months before I met my future husband, my cat vomited on the living
room carpet. Back then, I was an irresponsible tenant. I wasn’t sure how
to clean up cat puke. So I left it.
Then I met Mr. Wonderful. His hair was combed, his face was shaved. I
couldn’t relax. I rushed about tidying my apartment, washing dishes,
throwing clothes into the closet, dusting surfaces, and vacuuming
corners.
But the cat mess festered. With a strategically placed magazine, I
covered it up. Alas, the cat had regurgitated about eighteen inches away
from the wall. A considerate kitty would have barfed closer to the edge
of the room so the magazine covering it would stay put, pressed against
the wall.
In glided Mr. Wonderful.
I toured him around my one-bedroom apartment, hopping over the magazine
whenever I passed it, which happened frequently, since it lay near the
kitchenette and the bedroom door. The tabby cat wove between our legs,
making it hard to sidestep the magazine.
As I led Mr. Wonderful into the kitchenette, I heard a rustle. Had the
magazine been kicked aside?
“Check out this refrigerator!” I said, thrusting him toward the
appliance, maneuvering back to the mess, the Secret Spot.
“Yes, very nice!” He nodded.
I beamed and laughed as I feigned a stumbling motion that propelled the
magazine back into place.
“Why don’t you have something to drink?” I slid past him again to open
the refrigerator. I reached in for a glass of milk left over from the
morning.
“Don’t you like milk?” I thrust it into his hand.
“Ah . . . well, it’s not bad . . .”
“Good! Drink up!” I encouraged.
Soon Drew disappeared into the bathroom. I scampered outside the
apartment, grabbed a stray brick I found in the gutter, bolted back
indoors, closed the door quietly, and zipped over to the Secret Spot. I
repositioned the magazine parallel to the wall and slid the brick over
the cat puke.
Mr. Wonderful emerged from the bathroom.
“Hey Sweetie! What’s with the brick?”
“Oh, that’s to keep the magazine in place.”
“I see.” He looked confused.
“Didn’t you say you like to go for walks?” I suggested.
“Ah, yes.”
“Excellent! Let’s go!” I hustled him outdoors.
After my date with Mr. Wonderful, I resolved to fix the problem forever.
I replaced the periodical with a bookshelf. By positioning it six inches
out from the wall, it covered the Secret Spot.
There it remained for two months until my lease was up. Minutes before
Drew arrived to help me move, I pushed the bookshelf the six inches back
to the wall and started scrubbing the Secret Spot with a damp rag.
Within a minute, it vanished.
www.julietaucreman.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Beware
Of The Prius
By Jean Follmer, California
I’ve noticed that about every 5th car in the Bay Area is a Prius and
that number appears to be growing rapidly. Although their appearance is
quite small and plain, I notice them a lot because their similarities
extend well beyond their common looks and lingering Obama bumper
sticker. For fear of sounding crazy, I’ve been hesitant to voice my
suspicion that all Priuses are being simultaneously piloted by the same
person (or omnipotent being). I know what you’re thinking because I’ve
been there myself…this woman is nuts…that’s impossible…people in
California really ARE weird.
I’ll do my best to substantiate my suspicions. I cannot remember the
last time I was driving in the Bay Area and was not cut off by a Prius.
The only thing that varies is the cut-off technique. Each technique is
performed perfectly and I’ll offer you a couple of examples.
One of the most
common is the “Pull Out and Slow Down”. In this maneuver the Prius
driver waits in a driveway for a vehicle to approach from the left on a
50 mph road. Once an approaching vehicle is within 20 feet of the
driveway, the Prius quickly pulls out and completes a right-hand turn in
front of the approaching vehicle. After the turn, the Prius immediately
slows down to about 5 mph. This (obviously) forces the approaching
vehicle to come to a screeching halt. The approaching driver is then met
with a steely gaze in the Prius driver’s rearview mirror. At this point,
the Prius speeds up to about 25 mph and continues at that rate of speed
for the next mile or so. The “Pull Out and Slow Down” generally occurs
in a no-passing zone. No logic can be found in this maneuver.
Another common piloting technique is the “Right Lane Refusal”. One of
the basic rules I learned in Driver’s Education is that slow traffic is
supposed to move to the right. The “Right Lane Refusal” technique is
aptly named because it would appear that Prius pilots blatantly
challenge this rule since they are often found in the left lanes driving
at least 20 mph below the posted speed limit. I generally find these
Priuses when a giant SUV suddenly hits the breaks in front of me and
moves to another lane. I then find myself in the SUV’s prior situation
which involves a near impact of my front bumper with the miniature rear
bumper of the Prius. I am then forced to follow suit by slamming my
breaks, moving to another lane and putting the unsuspecting driver
behind me in the same precarious situation. Surely these cannot be
deliberate acts on the part of the Prius pilot.
Since these maneuvers appear to be so calculated and are executed in
such a route manner, I am forced to accept the possibility that
something beyond the human world is involved. After all, Prius drivers
purchase their vehicles in response to a calling to preserve the Earth.
Surely acts of aggression would be against their nature, so they really
can’t be in control. I think I’m witnessing what could be The Invasion
of the Prius Driver Snatchers. As a result of my life-threatening
research, I offer my findings:
An environmentally-friendly person decides to trade in his large,
gas-guzzling SUV for a Prius – a noble act. After the purchase, the new
Prius pilot begins to experience an intensely manic euphoria and it
overwhelms him. The pilot no longer realizes he is continually staring
at his fuel-efficiency screen and making the necessary adjustments to
attain true fuel efficiency. At this point, the pilot becomes unaware of
the traffic around him.
It is in this
dream-like state that the invasion occurs and the Prius pilot is
temporarily snatched for reprogramming. The pilot is somehow transported
in his Prius to a building in an unknown location. The pilots do not
remember anything beyond the feeling of flight, a blinding light and a
sign above a beautiful bamboo garage door that reads Pilots Riding In
Unison Society (PRIUS).
The pilot then
finds himself back on course, unaware of his piloting technique
acquisition. All Prius drivers report this experience. By all
appearances, this PRIUS experience is on track to become an epidemic in
the near future. I urge you to do your part to intervene and write your
congressman. Our citizens should not suffer in the pursuit of
environmental friendliness.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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My
Imaginary Life
By Janice Hastert, Illinois
I like my imaginary life so much better
than my real one. I even have a real wardrobe for my fantasies. After
all, doesn't Barbie? I buy clothes for my date with George Clooney, for
the Academy Awards, and for my television appearance on the Tonight
show. I like to be ready when opportunity knocks. Besides, silk gowns,
velvet jackets, and real diamonds are so much more fun to buy than
t-shirts and sweats. And imaginary clothes always fit!
In my imaginary life, I have real dates and receive real awards and
travel beyond Plano, IL. Family members wait on me like I'm a queen, and
friends never let me down. Available men are adorable and adore me, and
the kisses are always sweeter than wine. I’m so popular that I need a
secretary to keep my social calendar straight. And in this dream life, I
have one. A secretary that is. And a life.
In this Utopia, my bosses throw promotions, pay raises and perks at me
every time I write a memo. They ask for my opinion and mean it. Fellow
employees praise me to management and offer to dust my computer, file my
paperwork, and buy me lunch. Clients just pull out their checkbooks and
ask “how much”.
And in Fantasia, I always have cash in my purse, my checking account and
my 401K. Store clerks rush to my side and tell me when an item I want is
going on sale. And it’s always now.
Of course, my car and appliances never break down.My computer never
crashes. And my plumbing never leaks.
Those normally elusive warranties, insurance policies, and tax receipts
are right where they belong. My keys are always where I think I left
them. My shoes always match.
Every meal in my home is gourmet, wholesome, and comes with a chef and
clean-up crew. Every party I throw is fabulous. Every guest comes
bearing gifts.
I have the strength of a Sumo wrestler, the endurance of an Olympic
runner, and the grace of a ballerina. I eat large candy bars, pies, and
ice cream, and never gain weight. I always get enough sleep, fun and
chocolate.
I know all the answers to Sudoku, Mensa, and the IRS. I always choose
the best stocks, cars, and men. I make headlines, hearts break, and lots
and lots of money.
I sing like an angel, pontificate like Socrates, and sweet talk like a
car salesman. I can do the fox trot, the tango, and the hokey pokey. I
can act innocent for traffic police, talk tough with wayward teenagers,
and fake loyalty around my boss and in-laws.
My novel is published, optioned by Hollywood, and I'm offered the lead
in the movie. I dance with the Stars and I'm featured on Saturday Night
Live. I'm big on Broadway.
I receive an honorary degree from Harvard and Yale. I'm the TIME
Magazine “Person of the Year”. I'm on the Best Seller list, the Best
Dressed list, and the Top Ten.
I'm on a first name basis with the President, the Pope and Oprah. I'm a
princess with a diary to die for. I climb the highest mountain, swim the
English channel, canoe to Antarctica – for charity.
I never tell a lie, hold a grudge or insult bad drivers. I am
soft-hearted but tough, smart and innocent, talented yet modest. I serve
nobly, age gracefully, and play until the fat lady sings.
I'm never late. I'm never bored. I'm never ignored.
In short, I'm amazing. And when I grow up, I am going to be a Superhero.
Excuse me, my real life is screaming again. Something about a bounced
check?
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Booger In My Shorts
By D.L. Heartz, California
I think that I
shall never see
a booger that was so dangle-ly
It all happened this one time
right before I turned nine
While walking home from school one day
It was too hot to stop and play
My nose it had the strangest twitch
So I put my finger in
Just to itch
Well, a booger stuck on my finger when I pulled it out
and when I saw it, I wanted to shout!
It must have hung clear down to my knees
(I never would have caught this one if I had sneezed)
I stood awhile and just stared
I think I'll keep him
Or do I dare?
"I think I'll name you" is what I said,
"You're long and skinny,
Like my Uncle Fred"
So Fred and I bounced through my back gate,
We heard Mom yell, "Son, why are you so late?"
If I wanted Fred to live
I had to hide him
So I did
I pulled my shorts way out wide
And there I placed him
Right inside
It was dinner,then it was bed
I took my shorts off slowly, and whispered "goodnight"
to Fred.
In the morning when I reached to find
Fred was gone!
I lost my mind
There's only one place that he could be
Mom took my shorts
To the washing machine!
I ran and found them washed and dried
I was almost nine but I wanted to cry
I got the courage
And I peeked inside
It was what I had dread
I took one look
There was no Fred
I think that I shall never see
A booger that was so dangle-ly
I'm just saying though
If you do
I wouldn't hide it in my shorts
If I were you.
© Copyright
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 Lori's
'Chocolate Cake'
By Lori Heberle, Colorado
1. Bake a two-layer round cake, chocolate, reduced sugar, made with
Splenda.
2. Let cool.
3. Mix up the sugar-free fat-free instant chocolate pudding to go in
between the layers. Estimate how much milk has to be added, since you
used some of the pudding powder to ruin a fat-free sugar-free milkshake
earlier in the week.
4. Carefully remove the first layer and place on a nice dish.
5. Go to the cupboard to get the Splenda sweetened chocolate icing.
After frantically searching, realize that you only thought about buying
it, and that in fact, it is not there.
6. Go back to the counter and stare at the layers of cake.
7. Eat a piece of high calorie banana bread that a sweet old neighbor
gave your husband, that happens to be next to the cake. Think and chew.
8. Light bulb! Reach for the peanut butter in your lazy Susan. Think
about melting it and drizzling it in between the layers and using the
pudding for the icing instead…
9. The peanut butter is easy enough to spread without
melting….initially. Get it mostly spread on before the bottom layer
completely disintegrates and is still something like a cake. Think about
how nice it is that you will be covering it up with another, fresh,
virgin layer.
10. Eat another piece of banana bread.
11. Mix more milk into the pudding. The amount you guessed at made a
very lumpy, non-frosting and non-pudding-like texture… (Note to self:
Ix-nay on the eyeballing udding-pay….)
12. While the new and improved pudding is setting up, go to a different
cupboard to get the mini chocolate bars your sister sent you, with the
plan of crumbling them up on top of the pudding/icing concoction,
thereby saving the dessert and making it look appetizing in the eyes of
your sweet darling children. Reach in and pull out an empty plastic bag
with many shiny silver wrappers laying around it. Think to yourself..”
@*#&@$% Children…..” as the wrappers float softly down to the counter.
13. Spread “pudding” on the cake. This will give your cake a slightly
chocolately-small pox look. Don’t panic. There is still another cupboard
you haven’t tried.
14. Go to the last cupboard and pull out a very old bag of confectioners
sugar. Pour some into your hand and break apart the hard lumps that have
formed over the years. Sprinkle on top of the cake. This will serve as a
very effective camouflage.
15. Laugh silently to yourself as your children enter the room and
“Ohhh” and “Ahhh” at the lumpy, rude enigma on the counter.
16. Be glad that you left enough banana bread for yourself to have for
dessert.
And there you have it, Lori’s Reduced Sugar Low Calorie With Added
Peanut Butter And Sugar For Extra Calories And Sugar Cake…
© Copyright
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When
Opposites Attack
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
My wife and I have adopted greyhounds for nearly seventeen years. We’ve
always been enamored with their graceful athleticism, alert disposition,
expressive eyes, and uncanny ability to run down and consume a bicycle
messenger in heavy traffic.
During a momentary lapse of reason (and pleading from our daughter), we
recently threw a cute little Jack Russell into the mix, and it got
pretty interesting. When one of our beloved hounds passed away this
summer, we were suddenly down to one terrier and a greyhound, which
presented challenges to all concerned.
The surviving greyhound comes from a shelter in Limerick, Ireland,
rescued from a caravan of gypsies (true story). He was in dire physical
shape after being struck by a car, but recovered nicely after losing a
toe to injury and infection. His name is Feidhlim (pronounced Fay-lem)
-- which means “lucky” in Irish -- and he is quite the charmer. I
believe he barks with an Irish accent, but am terribly sad when he raids
my beer stash.
Bridgy the Jack Russell was adopted from a breeder who sold her as a
show dog. She was returned after showing nothing more than a stubborn
disposition. Like many terriers, Bridgy is a hundred-pound dog in a
ten-pound body. She loves to play with Feidhlim, and he loves to treat
her like an appetizer.
For instance, the other day a very intense tug-of-war was taking place,
until Feidhlim decided to pick Bridgy up by her ropey chew toy and race
around the yard.
“Where’s Bridgy?” my wife asked, stepping outside.
“Hanging from Feidhlim’s mouth,” I replied. “So cute, so . . . Adam’s
Family.”
Feidhlim streaked by, graceful as a deer except for the determined
terrier swinging wildly below his chin, little feet pawing the air,
muffled growls barely audible as she swore in doggy language.
After several laps around the fenced yard, Feidhlim finally stopped and
lowered Bridgy to the ground, whereas she promptly gained purchase and
yanked the toy from Fiedhlim’s panting mouth.
“This is where he eats her,” I said, watching with renewed interest.
Feidhlim had been a bad boy after-all, running down hares and other game
for gypsies back in Ireland. Luckily he put a temporary lid on the
killer instinct, content to wickedly snap long, toothy dragon jaws in
the air as if to say, “Go ahead Shark Bait . . . make a run for it.”
“Grrrrrrr,” Bridgy answered. Grrr*%#!”
In 1992 we were living at the University of Rhode Island, where an
epidemic of woodchucks damaged athletic fields near the football
stadium.
I remember the head groundskeeper describing years of frustration and
countless burrows threatening to cripple members of the track team.
“We’ve tried poisons and various traps,” he said, watching half a dozen
woodchucks grazing like cattle. “We tried to hire a marksmen with a .22,
but the campus and local police said no way.”
“I’ll walk the
greyhounds through this evening,” I said, “and keep you posted.”
He looked doubtful, asking how two skinny dogs could stop a runaway
infestation of groundhogs, and I flashed back to Colonel Trautman in the
movie “Rambo”, when the local sheriff expressed doubts that one Green
Beret could destroy an entire National Guard unit:
“All I can say is, you better bring a lot of body bags.”
After what groundskeepers still refer to in hushed, nervous tones as
“The Summer of Terror”, two greyhounds eliminated thirty-six woodchucks,
a snake, two raccoons, a skunk, and one crow who was slow during
takeoff. Local athletes and students were traumatized by the carnage,
and I believe a curfew is still in effect.
Greyhounds are hunters. What appears to be racing is really a rush to
tear Briar Rabbit into several unrecognizable pieces (been there, not
pretty). The difference between a small white terrier and a big white
rabbit is more dental than anything else, and I can hear Feidhlim with a
charming Irish accent: “Sorry folks, thought Bridgy was a rabbit there,
just for a fateful second.”
Poor Feidhlim has been racing by himself lately, the little terrier
swearing as he races past, around, and over her. I placed a call to
Rhode Island yesterday, asking about available hounds. It looks like
we’ll be taking a road trip Saturday, with little Bridgy cursing the
whole way.
Luckily, it sounds like she’s a full-bird Colonel.
Note: The new greyhound (Isadora) is adapting nicely, and following
Bridgy’s orders. Unless the food runs out.
© Copyright
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Perceptions
-- Not Taught In Real Estate 101
By Faye Riccitelli, Pennsylvania
First impressions are everything they say, I recalled, weaving down the
walkway past a rusted rake that leaned precariously against an old dog
crate. An old chair covered with dog hair stood before me, as I made my
way up the shaky porch stairs.
Listing houses for
sale is never as simple as the public’s perception, but this particular
one would offer a completely new challenge. “HellllOOOO,” I bellowed
through the screen door. “Anybody home?”
Rounding the corner
with a tooth-missing grimace, Darlene appeared. “Sit, Sit,” she
commanded, her hands in a palms down accompanying gesture, to insure I’d
pick up the cue. I pulled my chair up to the dining room table, wedging
my paperwork between a hamster in full throttle on his wheel, and a few
rabbits energetically fornicating in a cage beside him. The smell of
soiled cedar chips wafted past my nostrils with the wind of the
hamster’s spinning wheel.
Trying to appear
politely undaunted by the unusual centerpiece, I inquired nonchalantly
as to Lou, Darlene’s husbands, whereabouts, so I could begin my
presentation. Darlene informed me that he was in the shower and would be
here shortly.
Being an animal lover (though not partial to housing them in my dining
room) I was able to make small talk with Darlene until the sales spiel
commenced. I heard a noise and glanced upward only to see Lou at the
balcony, beer belly protruding grossly beyond his towel wrapped waist,
he promised his attention in a matter of minutes. His hairy back slipped
behind the door, and I sighed deeply as the reality of this appointment
began to take hold. Warm up, break the ice, pose a problem, offer a
solution, ran the steps of sales training through my head. Oh, to get to
step one, I thought. “My Lou, that towel so becomes you, as thank God,
it covers some of your ape-like physique.” Sensing my impatience,
Darlene graciously offered up refreshment, but the cleanliness factor
had long since precluded my judgment.
Soon Lou stood
before me, belly first, his hands busy cracking open a can of beer. I
stared at the cold droplets of condensation on Lou’s beer can, and
wondered where this was going. “So what’s the place worth?” Lou burped.
Before or after we move the sexually active rabbits out of the dining
room? I thought sarcastically.
“Well Lou, I began,
let’s start by looking at your present competition, should you decide to
list.” I moved through the presentation with greater than usual speed.
Meanwhile, Darlene remained adoringly fixated on Lou. I noticed there
was music escalating from the next room and quietly assumed we were not
alone. “Now let’s look at the comparable sales,” I shouted, as the music
began to crescendo. It sounded like something from a “What Ever Happened
to Baby Jane” horror flick.
Finally, it was so
loud, I couldn’t comfortably pretend I was okay with this any longer.
“What is that?” I blurted out in blend of puzzled frustration.
“What, oh that,"
said Lou casually, "that’s The Night of the Living Dead; it’s my
mothers’ favorite movie.”
“YOUR MOTHER! YOUR
MOTHER IS WATCHING THAT?” I uttered in disbelief.
“Yeah, let me see
if she’ll turn it down a bit.”
Curiosity, moving
me forward, I followed Lou into the family room next door. There, her
back to us, arthritic fingers curled over the arms of the rocking chair,
just like the movies, was dear old Mom. A hot flush of fear ran through
me as my next question was “Is she alive?” but I reminded myself that
someone had turned up the volume. She never did turn around, but I
quickly did, and never looked back.
We resumed our
respectful positions at the table, me, next to the prolific rabbits, Lou
before his beer, and Darlene looking adoringly at Lou.
I decided to bypass a few steps of the normal sales presentation, as
there was not a whole lot of normal going on around here. Apparently,I
had long since lost Darlene’s attention to some subliminal influence
from the rabbits, coupled with Lou emerging fresh from the shower.
Therefore, I dove right into asking Lou what he would do with the money
from his proceeds, should the house sell.
“I am going to open
a biker bar, he said. You know, a place that only motorcyclists can
gather.”
“Wouldn’t that be
expensive to get a liquor license?” I asked.
“Liquor license? I
wouldn’t get a liquor license,” he stated firmly.
“You wouldn’t? Why
not?” I asked.
“Want to keep the
riff raff out,” said Lou.
Riff raff, I
pondered. Who might that be? Who might that be?
© Copyright
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What's
Not to Like About Those Post-Debate Focus Groups
By Joel Schwartzberg, New Jersey
Perhaps the most frustrating staple of post-debate network news coverage
is that all-too-familiar battleground state focus group, the 20 or so
"undecided" or "persuadable" voters sitting – perhaps locked -- in a
sterile room, their fingers fatigued from operating reaction dials for
90 minutes straight.
At some point in the post-debate glow, an anchor will throw to a
reporter in this room, who will then query the all-American guests on
their astute observations. But if ever a public forum needed follow-up
questions, THIS IS THE PLACE.
I now offer up this post-debate focus group scenario as it might more
tellingly go...
WOLF: We now send it to Soledad O'Brien with our focus group in the
Battleground State.
SOLEDAD O'BRIEN: Hey Wolf, Anderson, David, Suzanne, Alex, Paul, James,
Campbell, John, Jeffrey...
WOLF: Your red light is flashing, Soledad. Better get on with it so I
have time to promote tonight's Larry King.
Soledad turns to the collected citizens
SOLEDAD: Okay folks, there are 25 of you here. Raise your hand if you
thought Senator McCain won the debate...okay that's about 16. Now raise
your hand if you thought Senator Obama won the debate...okay, that's
about 18. So Wolf, it's about split down the middle, kinda, sorta...
WOLF: I'm no mathematician, Soledad, but how could 34 hands go up from
25 people?
SOLEDAD: I'm no mathematician, Wolf, so let's dig a little deeper...
Soledad forces a MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN to stand.
SOLEDAD: Ma'am, can you stand up and tell me your reaction to tonight's
debate?
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN: I just didn't get enough details from either
candidate.
SOLEDAD: What kind of details would help?
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN: Well, for starters, it'd be helpful for them to talk
about my job, or my name.
SOLEDAD: You want them to say your name?
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN: That would tell me they're really concerned about me,
in a detailed way. The only names I ever hear are Fannie and Freddie,
whoever they are.
SOLEDAD (to Wolf): Wolf, these people are telling me they need to hear
more details. And their names.
Soledad forces a YOUNG MAN to rise.
SOLEDAD: Sir, did you get enough details?
YOUNG MAN: No, certainly not. I needed to hear more about how they're
going to handle taxes and that bailout thingee.
SOLEDAD: Well, Obama plans to cut taxes for people making less than
$250,000, and McCain wants the treasury to buy Americans' bad mortgages.
That's not specific enough for you?
YOUNG MAN: Ummmm....I didn't really hear that. I think my dial wasn't
working, and I was banging it against my knee...
An ELDERLY WOMAN in the back suddenly raises her hand. Sitting next to
her is her ELDERLY HUSBAND wearing a hearing aide.
SOLEDAD: Yes, Ma'am. You in the back.
ELDERLY WOMAN: (holding up her dial): I thought this was a remote
control. No wonder I couldn't change the channel to CSI.
ELDERLY HUSBAND: I assumed it adjusted the volume. But when I turned it
up they never got louder, just more boring.
Soledad quickly leaves them and forces a BALD MAN with a cane to stand.
The man reaches out for his cane as he rises, but it falls to the floor
and now Soledad has to hold him up.
SOLEDAD: Sir, what did you make of the debate?
BALD MAN: I didn't like the way they were constantly attacking each
other, instead of explaining themselves. That negative stuff turns me
off.
SOLEDAD: And who will you be voting for?
BALD MAN: John McCain, because he says this is no time for on-the-job
training or someone who pals around with terrorists
SOLEDAD: But isn't that an attack on Obama?
BALD MAN: Yes, it sure is.
Soledad looks at the bald man in confusion, but she can't hold him up
anymore and he just sits down.
SOLEDAD (to the audience): Okay, last show of hands: How many of you
were formerly undecided but now lean toward or away from a candidate
about whom you've decided that you're no longer undecided?
The audience looks confused. One MIDDLE-AGED MAN raises his hand.
MIDDLE-AGED MAN: I just need to go to the bathroom. It's been nearly two
hours and you told us we couldn't leave.
SOLEDAD: Well, it's not like we gave you anything to drink...
WOLF (interrupting): Soledad, VERY VERY interesting insight from out
there in the Swing State. Anderson, don't you think that was interesting
insight?
ANDERSON: I'm no mathematician. Back to you, David Gergen.
DAVID: Me neither. Over to you, John King.
JOHN: Let's see what Candy Crowley has to say. Over to you, Candy...
SOLEDAD'S VOICE: Can I leave? Can I finally leave now? These people
frighten me.
JOHN: Your mike is live, Soledad... We'll be right back with more
impulsive poll figures, more pundits punditing, more of David Gergen's
somber analysis, more of my strong two-handed gesturing and interactive
map skills, and more amazing insight from our swing state focus group.
www.jesttokill.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Linen Closet
By Sue Thompson, Minnesota
Lately I have felt as though my life has consisted of some seriously
disorganized chaos. Yes, this represents a change as my life generally
involves organized chaos. For those of you whose lives do not fall into
such categories, rest assure that organized chaos is manageable. But
unorganized chaos - not so much.
I have learned that organizing some part of my life or house usually
lessens anxiety that surfaces as a result of such calamity. This past
weekend I decided that our linen closet needed a bit of organization. My
family was less than impressed with my suggestion that we tackle this
project as a family – you know, in our effort to bond and spend quality
time together. “You call this quality time?” grumbled my son as he
slowly got up from the table.
After a few minutes I realized the bonding process had not quite kicked
in as I had hoped (go figure). I liked to believe that it was compassion
for my children that got the best of me when I suggested they go do
something else. However, I must be honest and admit that it was their
constant whining that found my last nerve. Right after my face and neck
tensed and my left eye began twitching, but before my head began
spinning around, my brain prompted my mouth to say, “Why don’t you guys
go and relax, after all, summer vacation is coming to an end and you’ve
been working soooo hard!”.
This project continued as my husband and I began taking inventory of our
flat and fitted sheets, pillow cases and blankets. “Good lord”, I
exclaimed “Look at all these pillow cases!” “They’re like rabbits. I
think they reproduce when the closet door closes! How else could we have
so many? And look, none of them match? Can we get rid of some of these?”
I asked knowing how my I-can’t-throw-anything-away husband would
respond. “Well, you just never know, we might find a use for them or
better yet, their match.”
I figured we would have a better chance at winning the lottery than
finding pillow cases that match (and we don’t even PLAY the lottery).
Yet, I realized this was a battle I could lose as my goal was, as
always, to win the war. So we folded pillow cases for what seemed like
several hours before moving onto the next section in our linen closet.
Fitted sheets. “How we collected fifteen fitted sheets but only had
three flat sheets remains a mystery to me” I said aloud. “Oh” commented
my husband. “It’s so much easier to use flat sheets for drop towels
instead of fitted sheets.” “But I thought we were supposed to use OLD
flat sheets for drop towels.” I argued. “Huh, I guess I must have just
grabbed whatever” my husband said innocently, flashing that cute impish
grin.
As I attempted organizing our 34 pillow cases and three flat sheets my
husband tackled the fitted sheets. It wasn’t long before I heard his
frustration.
“What the … how am I supposed to …for crying out loud…” he mumbled while
attempting to fold something that simply could not be folded. He added,
“Between the two of us we have a gazillion years of school yet for the
life of me I can’t figure out how I am supposed to fold these flippin
things”.
As I look back on the last five hours of attempting to organize the
smallest closet in the house I couldn’t help but wonder who I would
rather use my last round of buckshot on. My kids for their amazing three
minutes of cooperative help, my husband for his amazing effort toward
taking 2 hours to fold three fitted sheets, or myself for thinking this
would actually constitute as “quality time”.
www.suegthompson.com
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