|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
December 2008/ January 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
December
2008/
January 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Dogs: Friend or Fiend?
By
Kevin Craner,
United Kingdom
Pet behavioural expert, Professor Dick
Flipstick, wrote his treatise on canine behaviour while in a mental
asylum. His most notable theory was inspired by his observation, “Water
runs down the drain in a different direction south of the equator.”
Convinced that the phenomenon would affect dogs too, he once sat his
Jack Russell directly on the equatorial line and told it to chase its
tail. It started somersaulting. Here are some choice extracts.
Bad habits:
Frequently the owners are to blame. For example, do not let your dog
lick ping-pong balls and later moan that the plastic stinks. Even worse,
they might swallow it. Two days later when you recover the ball, it will
still have the same ping - but now twice the pong.
Digging the garden is a common annoyance. But again, it is the owner’s
fault if they taught their Alsatian to use a shovel. Why not stick to
teaching them simple tricks such as shaking hands or jumping through
hoops? Although, admittedly, the latter can really ruin a game of
basketball.
Some dogs spend so much time digging that they do not have the energy to
chase cats (they have exhausted themselves chasing moles.) And one
clueless owner who I interviewed returned his guard dog to the pet shop
claiming that it was ruining his garden. I admonished the fella,
explaining: “What did you expect? It was probably constructing a
trench.” If your guard dog frequently buries things in the garden then
try to be understanding. Remember: their training taught them that
burglars will never look for antiques in a vegetable patch.
And what about when your dog has been in a muddy garden - should you
then become vexed if he gets his dirty paws all over a guest’s shirt?
Well not really. Surely it is the guest’s fault for letting a Schnauzer
do his ironing. To be frank, the middle classes are those most
embarrassed by the things their dogs do - such as latching onto the leg
of the dustman in the garden. I mean, how do they then explain to a
watching neighbour that their dog enjoys the company of a manual worker?
TIP: Always treat your dog like a family member. For example, if it
keeps wetting the couch send it to a nursing home.
Size:
Is it better to own a large dog? Definitely. I once bought such a large
Great Dane that when it died I used his kennel as a workshop. Generally,
you know that your dog has become too greedy when it takes three people
to carry its poop-a-scoop. And do not forget that large dogs tend to
require more exercise. My St Bernard often used to walk 30 miles a day
(sometimes more if I forgot to take him off the treadmill.)
How do you know if your large dog is safe? Generally, you can tell
because dangerous dogs do not hide your slippers but use them to give
you a good spank. I also recommend muzzling them during car journeys.
This is not through fear of their teeth but of their breath.
TIP: Buy your large dog a chewable toy…such as a new couch.
Working dogs:
I posit that it is only natural that dogs are labeled man’s best friend:
they work for free. I am convinced that not only do they dream of a
slave revolt, but that they also fantasise about developing hands to
hold the protest banners.
A paramount concern is that guide dogs often suffer from jealousy and
low self esteem. Although, I note that this is greatly reduced if their
owner remembers not to stroke their white stick. Incidentally, Labradors
make lousy guard dogs. Before they attack a burglar, they first give
them a guided tour.
Teaching canines is not easy. For example, training police dogs to chase
burglars entails shouting ‘fetch’ while pointing to an actor dressed up
as a stick. This is 99% effective – the one exception being the time
that Great Britain’s notorious Kray twins escaped justice after an
Alsatian mistakenly arrested an oak tree. (Police eventually realized
the mistake because the tree was too agreeable during questioning.)
Later, embarrassed, they claimed they had not initially been suspicious
of the felon’s ‘hard barky feel’ because an underworld snitch had spread
a rumour that Reggie Kray was addicted to spraying starch.
FACT: Police know when a sniffer dog has found a stash of cocaine
because out pops its septum.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 The
Hills Are Alive
By
Sean Ellis,
New York
The first week of school arrived at last.
By the end of the week I had gotten most of the contact paper off my
arms, legs and face.
While I dread the end of summer Laura and
I were running out of creative ways to entertain the little people. We
frown on letting the kids watch too much television, but by late August
we succumbed to their barbaric torture tactics and allowed them to watch
their current favorite movie “The Sound of Music” twenty four hours a
day.
We even purchased a second DVD and put it
in the truck so they would never be without Frauline Maria. This kept
the kids quiet; however, I was susceptible to occasional outbursts of
“Climb Every Mountain” and “The Lonely Goatherd” at the office. This
disturbed everyone in the vicinity.
This school year is reminiscent of my days in grade school, in that, to
date I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office twice. I was a
frequent flier to that office and all those feelings of worry and doom
raced back and stifled me the same way they did when I was twelve, which
is why I was relived when I learned that the meeting was not about me
but my children, the fifth grader and the dynamic duo in second grade.
The first incident was uncomfortable but
easy to explain. It seems that one morning in my haste and before my
coffee I intended to put a can of Pepsi in my daughter’s lunch box but
instead inserted a can of Miller Lite. Luckily my daughter realized that
she had “Daddy’s soda” instead of her own and promptly turned herself
in. It was an innocent mistake but to be on the safe side I’m switching
to Samuel Adams.
The second incident was more troubling and involved the twins in second
grade. We were called in because our sweet, loving six year olds were
demonstrating “obscene, discriminating and hateful behavior”. We were
shocked and had no idea where this was coming from. Obviously this was a
misunderstanding. They don’t bring lunch boxes to school so this was not
another underage drinking incident.
We arrived at the school and the principal showed us into his office and
asked if we belonged to the Nazi Party. According to him our little
angels have been goose stepping around class exclaiming “Heil Hilter”.
Apparently, the only thing our twins have taken from this award winning,
family film is the reference to the evil regime.
Laura was appalled. I was afraid.
Earlier I mentioned that “we” allowed our children to watch “The Sound
of Music” twenty four hours a day. This implies that Laura was aware of
it. She wasn’t. Now I have a dilemma. Not speaking up will lead the
principal of this fine school to question our family values. Speaking up
will let Laura know that we really weren’t “out on nature walks” all
those times I took the kids for a ride. I felt a sudden urge for a Sam
Adams.
I decided to tell the truth. Mainly because it is a Catholic school and
excommunication would kill my mother and put a damper on the first
communion party we had planned for the second graders.
I hadn’t fooled Laura anyway. It seems that I had awoken her on several
occasions with my deep sleep version of “I am sixteen going on
seventeen”.
Needless to say, we look forward to the second week of school. I am
de-programming the children with season one and two of The Soprano’s.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Fish
I Have Known
By Dan McGinley,
Connecticut
"You ask me if I fish, but rather, you should ask if I
know of fish.”
-- Diatacleses, 22 A.D.
Woo-woooo! I totally made that up. Serious writers like to drop quotes
like groupies drop band names, but I’m not a serious writer. Most people
say I’m not any kind of writer at all, and I tend to jump around a lot,
but I will say this: Brian Williams has perfect eyebrows for the evening
news. No . . . wait. I know a lot of fish, and I shall start with the
greatest fish of all, “Old Ned”.
“He is huge,” my dad would say. “His massive head is like the lure
section of a sporting goods store, with every size and shape dangling
from his lips. It would pull a smaller fish to the bottom. Maybe they
should try casting a magnet out there.”
Minor detail: Dad used to drink tons of beer.
Every summer my family rented a cabin on Lake Alexandria in Minnesota,
and our grandparents would join us. Every summer -- without fail --
gramps would go to the same fishing spot and hook a massive dog fish
that blew its bowels all over the boat. After being thoroughly
entertained yet grossed-out, gramps would unknowingly teach us several
choice adult words and throw the monster back.
Minor detail: Gramps used to drink tons of beer.
One summer, a new visitor launched a boat slightly bigger than the Queen
Mary and -- lo and behold -- he parked right over gramps’ favorite spot
and hooked the notorious dog fish. He called some local press and posed
with the scaly apparition, smiling mightily as cameras clicked and
flashed.
“Could that thing be Old Ned?” I asked dad.
“No, son. Old Ned is a musky, and his teeth are legion.”
Another time, dad took me out on Bay Lake, and dark clouds appeared as
we prepared to leave. After I stowed my fishing rig, dad handed his over
so he could start our tiny 0.31 horsepower outboard. This usually
required violent rope pulling and several choice adult words.
He said there were weeds tangled on his hook, but when the line seemed
to wander, I reeled with all my might, exposing a huge musky-like fish
hooked just beneath the weeds. Was it Old Ned?
“Maybe a cousin,” dad said, weighing the fish at seventeen pounds “This
is a Northern Pike.”
Another time, I was out on Bay Lake with my brother Joe, and some guy
fishing nearby had a terrific battle that went on for several minutes.
His line suddenly went slack, and –yes! -- those choice adult words
drifted over the water (note an emerging pattern between fishing and
choice adult words).
Things were quiet for a while, until my brother noticed a churning,
bubbly wake heading slowly but steadily toward our boat.
We were stunned into silence by the sight of a monstrous musky cruising
the surface like that shark in “Jaws”, a large silver lure dangling from
his crocodile-like lip. He proceeded to pass just in front of the bow,
and I frantically reeled my lure in so he wouldn’t notice me on the
planet.
“Do you think?” my brother asked.
“Could it be?” I replied.
“#%&@!” yelled the nearby fisherman.
That musky was definitely a prime candidate for proving the existence of
Old Ned. Over the years, other encounters would provide a possible brush
with the legendary equivalent of Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, or a
short wait at the DMV.
“You ask if the legend is true, but rather, you should ask for tuna with
a little mayo.”
-- Bond. James Bond.
And so it continues. I believe my daughter was only three when she held
her first fishing rod on a dock up in Maine (similar to Minnesota,
except for an overabundance of potatoes). “There is a fish out there
that nobody can catch,” I told her, scanning the water. “He is a
monster. His massive head is like the lure section of a sporting goods
store, with every size and shape dangling from his lips. It would pull a
smaller fish to the bottom. Maybe they should try casting a magnet out
there.”
It was a benchmark moment. She looked at me with those big hazel eyes; a
child’s pink fishing rod clasped tightly in her tiny hands, and said the
words that still haunt me to this day:
“You drink tons of beer.”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Is
It Hot Enough For You?
By
Danielle Schaaf,
Texas
There comes a time when mothers of
teenage boys must deal with the inevitable: raging hormones, shifting
moods, aching joints and weight gain. But facial hair?
“Ewwww, Mom, there’s a hair – on top of your lip,” Pinot cried out in
horror, just like the time he found a job application with his name on
it.
I grabbed a glass off the table, took a swig and smiled through what I
hoped were lips outlined in white.
“Nope, only milk.”
“Well, don’t bother calling those ‘Got Milk’ people any time soon. You
just slammed back a glass of wine.” No wonder I felt like sniffing and
swirling.
Dealing with mid-life changes can be challenging but if you’ve got
observant kids, and Tweeze, the amazing electronic system that doesn’t
leave ugly stubble, most are manageable. At least you lose the urge to
kick your dog for no good reason. Most of the time. Hot flashes, though,
are a different story.
Hot flashes – or flushes, the sweats, vapors, internal sauna, hot zone,
spontaneous combustion, Dante’s inferno, nuclear incinerator – turn a
mild, calm woman into a sledgehammer-wielding maniac right out of
Stephen King’s novel, “Misery.” Throw in a sweltering Houston summer and
suddenly the expression “misery loves company” takes on new meaning. The
Big Guy works later, the kids hunker down with iPods and the dog is one
paw away from speed-dialing the SPCA. However, Contessa has learned a
few cooling tricks:
1. Set the air-conditioning thermostat at 55 degrees. Yeah, there’s that
issue with global warming but you know what they say: “Global warming
begins at home.” Besides, after a few blasts from her internal furnace,
even Tipper Gore will beg for a melting glacier chunk.
2. Use a fan at night. Not one of those sissy, over-the-bed contraptions
that moves air around with the energy of Contessa pushing a mop. Go with
the industrial strength wind-tunnel model that blows like an F5 tornado.
Not only does it cool, it ripples skin and sends unsecured thongs into a
neighbor’s tree. So I hear.
3. Get a refrigerator with an in-door ice-maker and water dispenser.
When a flash erupts, there’s no time to waste running to the sink for
water and fumbling in the freezer for cubes. For immediate relief, stick
your head under the dispenser and let ‘er rip. If cubes aren’t enough,
or someone has issues with slobber, open the freezer door and treat
yourself to an arctic body blast. Beats the heck out of a sauna.
4. Try Omega 3 fish oil, nature’s wonder cure. Omega 3 is to middle-aged
women what Viagra is to middle-aged men. Well, not exactly. It’s
available in supplements, green veggies, fish – even cat food. How’s
that for convenience? Walk by the cat’s bowl, scoop up a handful and pop
it into your mouth. A bit dry, but it washes down well with chardonnay.
So I hear. Watch out for side effects. Kroger banned Contessa after they
caught her knocking over a tank with live lobsters, screaming, “Freedom
rocks!”
5. Take a cool vacation. Heading north to visit family is probably the
best option but not without drawbacks. When you’re lucky to find a
relative who has air-conditioning, it’s usually the in-the-window box
unit. Be warned: in-laws get kinda testy when they find you standing in
front of the unit and hogging air-flow, especially if you’re stripped
naked to the waist. So I hear.
There’s only one thing worse than hot flashes in the middle of summer in
Houston. That’s someone asking you, while you’re having a hot flash in
the middle of summer in Houston, “Is it hot enough for you?” The
Contessa has no advice for handling that. At least, nothing that doesn’t
come with a restraining order.
www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Rag
Or No Rag?
By Danielle Schaaf, Texas
“Contessa, I need your help,” The Big Guy hollered from the den. Oh
great, he wants me to turn the channels on the television set. Again. I
can’t believe Cat traded her dad’s remote control for an iTunes gift
card. She should’ve held out for an iPod touch.
“Actually, I want your opinion.”
Since I hear those words less often than “you look like you’ve lost
weight,” I made a beeline straight to the den. That’s where I caught
sight of a first: The Big Guy sorting laundry. Well, not really sorting.
Maybe sifting. Okay, inspecting.
“Rag or no rag,” The Big Guy asked, flashing a pair of ratty, holey
Fruit of The Looms in the air and grinning as if he was holding a
suitcase full of money. “Should I toss it in the rag pile or not?”
Those BVDs had more holes than the Texans’ offense during the final
three minutes of a game. What the heck, Howie, I’ll play. I’ve been
missing my game shows since our remoteless television now carries only
ESPN and ESPN II. The Big Guy told me we can pick up ESPN Classic if I
stand beside the set and lean the vacuum cleaner against the screen. As
if. Good thing those shows are all reruns.
“Rag, of course.”
He held up another, this one as transparent as a spring breaker’s wet
T-shirt.
“Rag.”
The Big Guy pulled out a third, held together by threads from the same
spool Betsy Ross used.
“Rag, rag, rag. They’re all rags. Get rid of them.”
“Don’t judge undershorts by the number of holes in them. There’s still
life left in a few,” he explained, snapping an elastic band to prove his
point. Sure. Just don’t let Dr. Kevorkian get his hands on a pair.
“They’re structurally sound in all the important parts,” he said,
pulling a Sharpie out of his pocket and writing the letter “W” on a
pair. Not only was The Big Guy hoarding pairs of underwear older than
Cat but apparently, planning to keep enough for every letter in the
alphabet. I was beginning to wonder if The Big Guy was sound.
“Weekenders,” he explained. “I wear them when I’m in the garden or
puttering around the house.” So that’s why there’s more wear left in
them. The Big Guy’s idea of puttering is with a golf club.
“Be sure and shove ‘em in the back of my dresser drawer, I don’t want to
grab a pair by mistake when I’m dressing for work,” he said, trying to
hand his newly marked stack to Cat to put away. Just imagine the
disaster if The Big Guy wore yard shorts to the office. There he’d sit,
in his spacious cubicle surrounded by Dwight Schute bobble-headed dolls,
when the urge to replant his Bonsai overtakes him. He’s caught digging
up the carpet. Before long, word spreads: The Big Guy’s weekenders made
him do it.
“Eeeeewww. I’m not touching them,” Cat said, recoiling and slowly
inching her way into the game room just like Pinot and Grigio do when I
pull out their tennis shoes and suggest a jog. “I don’t do housework,
either. Besides, it’ll cut into my Project Runway time. You know what
Heidi Klum says, ‘Either you’re in or you’re out.”I’m sooo outta here,”
Cat says as she bolts out the door.
After putting away his weekenders, The Big Guy stuck the rest in the rag
pile. Maybe you can use them for dusting, he suggested. Yeah, and maybe
the Contessa might one day dust. That’ll be a warm day in the wine
cellar. She did put them to good use, though. This year’s Halloween
mummy on Contessa’s porch is wearing an elastic headband that reads
“Hanes.”
www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Clash
Of The Titans
By Carl Vine,
Ohio
Betty is a big girl - big and mean.
Nobody’s sure why she goes by Betty, her given name is Melissa - but
don’t call her Melissa… and don’t ever call her Missy.
Betty’s only display of femininity is the cropped ponytail that sticks
out of the back of the Mack Truck ball cap that she wears everywhere.
Betty used to be a diesel mechanic, but she’s been running deliveries
for Roy’s Auto Parts since the new boss at Mack called her Missy… and
lost three teeth for his indiscretion.
On Saturday morning you’ll find Betty working at the feed store, where
she loads customer’s feed orders to make up the lost income from the
diesel garage.
No matter where she might be the rest of the week, though, come Saturday
night you’ll always find Betty at Snapper’s Lounge. She’s a fixture
there, like the mermaid tap-handle, or the pickled quail eggs in the big
jar at the end of the bar.
At Snapper’s, the records for beer drinking, arm wrestling and various
others, are all held by Betty. None of the men are bothered by this –
they accept Betty as one of their own.
Last Saturday, a stranger sauntered into Snapper’s. It was really more
of a waddling-march than a saunter. You see, this newcomer was
significantly shorter than Betty, but what she lacked in stature she
made up in girth. The stranger called herself Big Sheila.
Big Sheila seated herself around the corner of the bar from Betty, and
every head in the place turned when Big Sheila ordered, “Pitcher of
beer... no glass.”
Betty immediately ordered the same. Game on!
Big Sheila pulled a pack of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco from her back
pocket and Betty huffed as she fished her own pack of Red Man out of her
bib overalls.
The corner of the bar cleared as the pair commenced to making the
decorative spittoon sing, between long draws on their frothy pitchers.
Almost an hour into the contest, Betty opened the conversation with,
“You arm wrestle?” Big Sheila’s eyes narrowed as she responded, “I
wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”
The pair met at the corner of the bar and locked hands. Snapper started
them off and narrowly dodged a left hook from Betty, who didn’t like the
cadence of his, “Ready…Go”. It was 10 p.m.
Around 2 am Snapper tried to declare Last Call. Big Sheila heaved a
barstool at him and Snapper wisely decided to back off.
The police had been sitting outside, waiting to pick-off bar patrons
when they got in their cars to drive home. When none of us exited at
closing time, they went in to cite Snapper for staying open late. When
they saw Betty and Big Sheila locked in mortal combat they backed out of
the bar and summoned backup from a nearby village.
Before it was all over, two other police departments had to be brought
in to break up the match and subdue the contestants. The cops came
through pretty much unscathed, though their tasers ran out of juice and
they had to call for Doc Stewart to bring his bull-taser.
The gals are in county lock-up until their hearing next Thursday. Word
is, that’s when the contest will resume - though I hear Snapper has
closed his place and gone fishing until after the battle’s been decided.
http://carlvine.blogspot.com
.
|
