|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
December 2008/ January 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
December 2008/
January 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Higher Learning
By Kirt Boyd, Colorado
Porter Elementary wasn't a school for ambitious kids. At the end of
fourth grade, if you could tie your shoelaces in under eight minutes,
you received a poster-sized gold star to hang up on your bedroom wall.
And then it was on to fifth grade, which, if I remember correctly,
consisted of either eating paste or sharpening pencils, depending on
what teacher you got.
Learning wasn't
something any of us knew how to go about doing. The teachers apparently
thought it was less stressful to spend the day reading at their desks
while their students sang songs, drew pictures, ate Juicy Fruit by
accident, and shot staples at each other with rubber bands.
Just as the classroom was not associated with learning, the playing
field was not associated with healthy physical activity. The
football/baseball/soccer/fighting field was infested with patches of
thorns--affectionately known as goat-heads--sharp and everywhere,
waiting to puncture soft flesh. A girl named Tiff in my third grade
class ended up in a goat-head patch after going back for a deep fly
ball. I can still hear her screaming sometimes, and I can still see the
goat-heads covering her like angry bees.
On special occasions the teacher would read to us from whatever book he
or she happened to be reading at the time. This was the source of our
education. A favorite among the female teachers was about Tom and Steph,
two wealthy tennis pros, who were secretly having affairs with the hired
help. This quickly became our favorite, too, until we were introduced to
the violent, alcohol-leaden stories of revenge and murder preferred by
the male teachers.
In the sixth grade, when the teachers decided they should prepare us for
Junior High, we had a spelling test every week, but it wasn't very
challenging. They were all three letter words, and they all rhymed: Bat,
Cat, Pat, Sat, Fat etc.. We had no idea that other fifth and sixth
graders were learning fractions and how to diagram sentences. For us, it
was seven years of kindergarten. I can still remember the first fifty
agonizing minutes of seventh grade English class. A Gerund? No thanks,
I've already eaten.
Oddly enough, none of our parents knew any of this. Not having done any
real work, the teachers never had reason to give us poor grades, so
everyone (even the kids who couldn't speak, only point and grunt)
received excellent marks.
Extraordinary. Outstanding. Exceptional. Ivy League. These were words
our parents used to described us to their friends. And us kids, having
gotten a twenty-five percent allowance increase because of our high
grades, kept our mouths smartly shut.
That is, until one day when we were bullied into reciting a poem before
Thanksgiving dinner, during which Mother began crying softly and had
Father racing to his medical journals, frantically searching for
something that would explain how a child destined for Harvard could
suddenly forget the alphabet and the various sounds associated with it.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 Soap
Opera -– The Reality Show
By Mary Brennan, Pennsylvania
I've never been much a fan of soap opera's, that is, until I had
children. I realized at that point, my life had become just that...one
big soap opera (Key music- Da Da Da!)
As I sat at the breakfast table with my two boys, I suddenly imagined
the camera crew and director laughing hysterically behind us as my
younger son began to feed his egg and cheese sandwich to his stuffed
dinosaur. "He doesn't like it either Mom," he let me know with complete
certainty.
After the kids were excused, I remained at the table contemplating a new
title for our soap opera. Here are some of my top choices:
1) All My Children (Are for Sale)
2) Bold Children and Beautiful Mothers
3) Passions for Hot Baths and Cold Drinks
4) As the World Turns (So do the wheels on the bus...Bye, Bye!)
5) Three Temper Tantrums, Two Lost Causes, One Life to Live
I come to just in time to hear the crash. The crew closes in on my stair
case. The sound guy looks confused. A close up shot of my younger son's
forehead reveals an egg which seems to be growing with the pace to his
heart beat. The sound guy finally looks satisfied and adds: "Ba Bump, Ba
Bump, Ba Bump!"
"No, No, No, this is all wrong," the director yells. "We're going to
have to reshoot the crash again. This time though, we're going to need a
little blood."
Screams as loud as sirens begin to resonate from my little one.
"It's too late," I think to myself. He said the B word. I take one look
at my son. His eyes are so puffy they're one step away from being shut
permanently. A lake of nose sauce has collected above his upper lip and
is now beginning to form its own streams.
I try to rush to his aid, but in my panic to find a tissue I
accidentally grab a dirty napkin covered in no other but barbecue sauce.
The screams get louder, the nose sauce runs faster, and now I too find
myself weeping.
"And that's a wrap," the director yells. He jumps from his chair. The
crew begin to pack their equipment.
"Wait just a darn minute," I demand. "What happened to reshooting the
accident scene? You wanted to see more BL---!" I stopped my Freudian
Slip just in time to see the swollen eyes of my son bulge from their
sockets. I'm smarter this time. I reach for a dish towel to help plug
the flood of snot which is racing faster than a Kentucky Derby
Thoroughbred.
I try turning my attention back to the director, but it's too late, he's
already gone.
I swipe the last bit of snot from my sons cheeks. Suddenly, another
crash is heard from the dining room. Mom and son hold stare (cue music
and role credits).
Unidentified voice over guy begins: "Tune in tomorrow to find out: Will
Mary's son's nose ever stop running? Can Play-Doh really be removed from
carpet? And finally, When Silly Putty is found on your dog's butt; is it
really silly?
http://marykbrennan.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Economics
Forecast By State Of Bathrooms
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Times are tough. You can tell by peeking in the bathroom.
The plight of a person’s checkbook can be told by the ply of his toilet
paper, according to economists.
I’m not sure when economics schools began teaching toilet paper as a
financial barometer, but there it is.
As the economy continues to shrivel like it’s sucking on lemons, we are
left to squeeze pennies any way possible until Mr. Lincoln cries. Or at
least wriggles a lot.
According to some of the latest news stories, toilet paper is joining
the list of luxuries.
This scares me. Think of the implications as we empty the bathroom of
products we no longer can afford.
I realize that in some parts of the world, the familiar-to-us rolls are
not rolled out. I visited one of those nations once. I carried a pack of
tissues in my shirt pocket.
It didn’t smell like they’d heard of deodorant, either. This was one of
those arid countries with lots of sand and sweat, and when about 100 of
us crowded onto an old, boxy airplane, my nostrils wilted and my eyes
watered.
But if the economy continues to flush, will deodorant once again be
considered a luxury like it was when invented in 1888?
What about soap? Instead of buying the brand our olfactories fancy, will
our fresh scents soon change to sale of the week?
Or will the economy create a whole new category of theft rings as
desperate people fill sandwich bags from the dispensers at work?
“What’s in the Baggie?” the narcotics agent will ask.
“Dial, sir.”
“Oh, OK, then. You know, the place across the street stocks their
restrooms with Ivory if you prefer.”
Perhaps as a cost-cutting measure we might have to eliminate shampoo. If
so, some people -- and by “people,” I mean some women I have known --
might be forced to finish the bottles they already have.
I have at various times in my life lived in households that included the
cleaner-smelling sex, and I have compared notes with other guys who have
done the same. Many of these ladies change their shampoo flavors every
two weeks for reasons we do not understand.
Then somehow it becomes our job to turn bottoms up on the discards.
So one week, I might reek of strawberry parfait, vanilla misted coconuts
the next and lilacs and gardenias after that. It’s embarrassing.
Thanks to the economy, no more. We’ll probably shampoo in dish soap
instead.
That is, of course, if we can get to the shower. To save money, we’ll be
rinsing our clothes in the sink and hanging them over the shower rod to
dry.
Of course, showers may tap too heavily into the water bill. I hope we
don’t have to go back to a situation I faced as a kid: Mom drew one tub
of hot water and we kids took turns at quick baths. You did not want to
be last in line. Not only was your water cold, but you could surface
dirtier than when you dove in.
So I fear that the toilet paper economics people are right. We CAN tell
the state of our finances by the state of our bathrooms.
Please, Mr. Obama, stop draining the bailout money into banks that are
hoarding it. For all that’s good and decent, send the cash to our
bathrooms! The nostrils of our neighbors and co-workers depend on it!
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.
.Return
to Top
Fast
Forward
By Joel Habush,
Wisconsin
YOUR INBOX
FROM: Me
TO: Long list of names that you don’t know, much less care about.
SUBJECT: IMPORTANT. THESE ARE REAL TIPS THAT WILL SAVE YOU FROM LOSING
ALL YOUR MONEY. SOME MAY SAVE LIVES! YOU WILL THANK ME. PROBABLY
PROFUSELY.
These are really important. Pass them on to everyone you know however
slightly. I did.
Tip 1. If someone calls you and says they’re an old friend of the family
and need you to take all your money out of your savings account and give
it to them, DON’T DO IT. There is a possibility that this just might be
a scam. You can check it out with your local police department. They’re
actually looking forward to your call. There’s nothing like a good laugh
to get the station house through a long shift.
Tip 2. When walking your children to school, make sure you stop at the
curb and LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS. This is no joke. It has been
documented as a wonderful way to increase safety. Also, make sure you
tell the children to do this, even when you’re not around. And here is
another one that may surprise you, but it works—tell the kids to observe
the walk and don’t walk signs on a traffic light. They really help!
(Isn’t the internet a useful tool?)
Tip 3. EXTREME END OF THE WORLD VIRUS ALERT.
This one will destroy your computer and kill all your house plants. Do
not open any email for the next two weeks--you shouldn’t have even
opened this one. What’s wrong with you?
Tip 4. PROTECT YOUR IDENTITY. Apparently this scam is going around
again. You get a phone call and someone asks if you are so and so. If
you say you are, you’re toast. Now they have your identity and will do
unspeakable things with it. So long, it’s been good to know you. Or who
you claim to be.
(How do I know it's you, and what are you reading someone else’s email
for, anyway?)
Always give somebody else’s name, preferably somebody you don’t like.
Let them have their identity stolen. And according to what you think
about that person, it wasn’t much of one anyway.
TIP 5. PROTECT YOUR SANITY
Stop reading drivel like this. Just because it’s on the internet and
it’s being sent (rather, forwarded) to you by someone you know, doesn’t
mean it’s not a waste of your time. Don’t you have better ways to waste
your time? No? According to my friends and relatives, I have thousands
of ways. Or somebody else does. I’ll just hit “forward” whenever
anything crosses my screen, not even bothering to read what I’m sending
on to you. This is to save valuable time— mine, not yours. You see, like
so many of your other benighted friends, I find it infinitely easier to
hit the “forward” button rather than that big, bad, scary old “delete”
button.
Forwarding, otherwise known as “Doing unto others,” is the ultimate
revenge.
Pass it on.
www.joelhabush.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Desperate
Times Call For Desperate Measures
By Stephen Joseph,
India
There is a
world-wide economic recession, the Big Three automakers are on the brink
of bankruptcy and Bernard Madoff has stolen your entire life savings.
Everywhere you look, it’s the same old story: no one has any money
coming in. Somehow, you have to feed yourself and your children. What do
you do? Don’t wait for President Obama to save your soul, brother. You
have to take matters into your own hands, sooner rather than later. “Yes
we can,” by being entrepreneurial and taking some risks while avoiding
consequences. These are a few of the many ways to earn a little extra
money until the economy improves in five years’ time…
1. GETAWAY DRIVER: Any experienced robbin’ crew will tell you that an
efficient getaway driver is the key to pulling off a successful job.
Don’t do the actual robbery yourself – that will get you 20 Upstate in a
hurry. Instead, drive the getaway car. If you are caught, let the
entrepreneur trapped inside you come out. Tell the police that you will
testify against your brother who did the actual robbery in exchange for
full immunity. It’s always better that your own brother goes to prison
than you goes to prison. Remember, desperate times call for desperate
measures.
2. REFUND SCAM # 1: Phony refunds are one of the best ways to earn money
during these hard economic times. Go to Wal-Mart and look for two
similar items, one with a high price and the other with a low price.
Purchase the lower priced item for cash. Then go back to the same
Wal-Mart and remove the price sticker on the higher priced item. After
reaching home, take the higher priced sticker and stick it on the item
you purchased. Then take that item back to Wal-Mart for a refund. NOTE:
Check with your lawyer who normally bails you out of jail to see if
stealing a price sticker is illegal in your jurisdiction. Remember,
desperate times call for desperate measures.
3. REFUND SCAM # 2: Have your teenage daughter get a cashier’s job at
Target. Take a bunch of items from the store through her checkout line.
Have her scan a few of the low cost items and pay for those and let her
give you the other items for free. Then take those items you got for
free to another Target for a refund. If you get caught, let your
daughter take the entire rap. She is likely to be let off with a small
fine, whereas you’re looking at spending some of the most productive
years of your life with Bubba in The Big House. Don’t get bogged down in
emotional sentimentality or morality just because you allowed your
just-as-guilty daughter to take the rap for your deviousness. Remember,
desperate times call for desperate measures.
4. NON-HUMAN KIDNAPPINGS: Forget kidnapping human beings—your conscience
won’t allow it and the chance of getting caught are too high. Instead
kidnap some rich person’s adorable pets or inanimate objects from their
front lawn. Don’t be too greedy and ask for a hundred grand for the rich
lady’s prized Pomeranian—she’s not THAT attached to Poochie. Most of
these rich old ladies will pay up if you ask for a reasonable ransom.
Once you have gotten good at kidnapping pets, you can graduate to
kidnapping items from companies. For example, you could ‘nap the
Coca-Cola signboard and ask for a hefty ransom. Those executives at Coke
are paranoid about their trademarked items, and they will usually pay up
without calling the FBI. Remember, desperate times call for…
5. YET ANOTHER PONZI SCHEME: You can bank on people’s greed to make
Citibank from yet another pyramid scheme. Take $100 from Investor A and
promise him a 30% return on investment (ROI). Then take $100 from
Investor B and promise him the same ROI. At this point, you have to pay
Investors A and B $60 in interest and you have already spent $140 of the
$200 you received from them. So what you do is take $100 from Investor C
and use $60 of that money to pay interest to Investors A and B, and keep
another $40 for yourself. Look, if Bernie Madoff can pull off a 50
billion dollar Ponzi scheme, “yes you can” surely pull off a one million
dollar Ponzi scheme. Remember, desperate times … Amen brother!
NOTE: For all the jobs mentioned – AVOID CONTACT WITH LAW ENFORCEMENT AT
ANY COST. I cannot emphasize this enough!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Application
Anxiety
By Mary Kirchhoff, Pennsylvania
It’s tough being unemployed. But the lack of money, food and shelter
doesn’t compare with the misery of the job hunting process itself. The
applications employers want you to fill out for these low paying, loser
jobs are worse than working outside in sub zero temperatures while
someone pours ice water down your back.
Recently I got a call for a job as a vendor - something. A person who
fills vending machines. They actually called me twice. The first time I
kind of blew it off, as I still had some food in my refrigerator and the
cable and internet was still on.
So the lady tells me before the interview to download the application
and have it filled out before the interview, which would be the
following day. OK, fine. Shouldn’t really be a difficult application,
probably a page or two.
Apparently, having been employed for the last two-and-a-half years, I
have a lot to learn in the world of job hunting in a crappy economy. I
didn’t think there’d be much need there for a lengthy and detailed
employment history for a job like this. I printed out the application:
all 28 pages of it. It was downhill from there with this bold statement
in capital letters:
"A complete employment history is required. Begin with very first
employer during or after high school and list entire work history up to
the present. Complete all questions for each employer."
Wait, I graduated in 1981! It’s now 2009! That’s 28 years. Do you know
how many jobs I’ve had since then? Like 5,000! And you want me to
remember names, addresses, phone numbers and supervisor’s names as well
as the dates I was employed? How much could this job be paying to
require all this? Unless it’s in the $400 an hour range, I’m not doing
it! Alright, I have to, I’m desperate.
If your employment history couldn’t fit on their application, you were
to supply additional sheets of paper listing your information.
Unfortunately, I don’t have enough paper on hand to list all the jobs.
Additionally, I can’t afford to go out and buy the paper to supply this
numbskull company with nearly three decades of employment history. Well,
I had plenty of envelopes from unpaid bills I could use to write on.
Then, there was this baffling statement:
"Explain reason for period of unemployment longer than three months
between high school and your first employer.”
At age 45, my memory is not quite what it used to be. But some
pleasantries I can remember. I thought back to the summer of 1981, when
I graduated. My days were consumed with walking down to the lake and
sunning myself until I was golden brown. My nights were consumed with
partying, as the legal drinking age back then was 18. Should I tell them
that I took the whole summer off in 1981 to sunbathe and party? Nah,
might not look good.
“Explain reason for unemployment between first and second employers.”
And second and third, and forth, and so on. And in my case, between
employer 3,672 and 4,957. Oh, and explain all periods of non-employment.
In 1982 I was arrested for running naked through a park carrying a case
of beer. My parents refused to bail me out for a while. Then in 1983,
well, you get the idea. I would have to pull out my journals from 20+
years ago to fill out this application correctly. Painful events and
people I had forgotten about would come back to light. This was
psychologically abusive! What were they trying to do to me??
“Include contact phone numbers and references from previous employers.”
Let’s see, I drove a cab for a couple of years but I knew that company
was long out of business. Maybe I could still get a reference. I began
typing names into Google. I got some hits.
“Hello, George? This is Mary Kirchhoff nee Dugan. I used to work for you
a long time ago, like 25 years I think it was? For the cab company? Do
you remember me?”
“Speak up, honey, I can’t hear you. Did you say you needed a cab?”
“No, I want to talk to you about the cab company you used to own a while
back. I’m looking for a job and I need references from previous
employers.”
“Who is this?”
“My name was Mary Dugan back then, do you remember me?”
“Who did you want to talk to?”
In the background I heard, “It’s time to take your medicine, hang up the
phone!” The call was disconnected. What could I expect? He was an old
man when he owned the company, he couldn’t be in great shape now. Well,
no reference there. Too bad, it was one of the jobs I’d held the longest
in my life.
I’m in therapy now, trying to learn to cope with the job hunting
experience. As soon as I can afford paper for my printer, I should be in
good shape.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Ten
Years After
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
You work in a place ten years; you see things coming a mile away.
“I’m history, “ I told the survey crew chief. “The job board is blank
under my name, for all of next week.”
“But we have a great back log, and you work like a maniac. You have a
family, and they’re all about family, remember?”
I shrugged. “You know these people pretty good. Do you trust them to
look you in the eye and tell the truth?”
He laughed loudly. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “They eat their own.”
The next morning, I poked my head into the manager’s office and asked
him how things were going. He looked like something in his stomach just
imploded. “Come in,” he said. “Close the door.”
Oh boy. I’m thinking of my six-year-old daughter, and hold my temper.
She’s a sensitive kid, and scary-smart for her age. I’ll sugar coat
things, but it’s going to freak her out anyway. She watches the news and
knows what unemployment means for people. She can spell Barack Obama’s
name. The other night she asked me about Buddha, Jesus, and the number
of the beast. She follows the Dow. Did I mention scary-smart?
So here it comes:
“Dan,” he starts. “It’s not about you.”
So it’s about me. Something I did or said, or maybe it was the snapping
turtle. I bet it was the snapping turtle.
We had a long trip to upstate New York, and I had been up all night. My
daughter was just a baby then, and very sick. I asked Mike if he could
take the wheel, and he declined. I was kind of shocked, with Mike being
a much younger guy -- and new -- but anger woke me up, and thoughts of
revenge took seed.
One day a manager came in and said there was a monster snapping turtle
crossing the parking lot, so opportunity knocked loud and clear.
I went out and lifted the hissing beast by its tail, then re-entered the
office and crept up to Mike, who was now half-asleep at his desk.
I positioned the prehistoric head inches from his own, and asked, “Hey
Michael?”
You could hear his scream in the next office building. It put Fay Wray’s
King Kong wailing to shame, yet sounded more feminine. I never saw such
a non-athlete move so quickly, leaping onto his chair as people ran from
across the building.
He never learned the golden rule, often experienced in shopping malls
and Toy’s R Us: Never mess with a tired parent. Ironically, now he has a
baby of his own, and complains that she keeps him up all night.
Still, you don’t bring mad dinosaurs into the work place, so there I
was, getting released:
“Work is getting very light, ” the manager said. “So they made a
corporate decision.”
Ahhhh, he was booting the blame to their home office in Boston. Good
move, since Boston never answers the phone.
People were pulling overtime, so it was definitely personal. Maybe it
was the diet contest.
Contestants included Mike, an Uncle Fester clone who was a known
pervert, a manager who once told me to “just work late and use our van
to get your baby. She’s doesn’t need a damn car seat,” a survey crew
chief who once smashed over twenty of his neighbor’s mailboxes with a
bat, and of course – lest I forget! – a volatile ex-con who threatened
everyone, because – to be honest -- they deserved it.
So I looked at this motley competition, and won the six-week contest by
dropping twenty-four pounds while they taunted and teased and even
changed the rules. I countered by secretly wearing ankle weights to the
weekly weigh-ins, before winning six-hundred dollars. They’re all sore
losers, so maybe it was that.
“Just look over this severance package, and call if there’s any
questions.”
Ah, the severance package, complete with pay-off money and a gag order
(“non-disclosure”) agreement.
So maybe it was my little humor pieces describing work, which gives the
best stories of all, and they didn’t like it. Maybe it was that.
So now it’s my turn. A great lawyer showed me the all-important
loopholes in that “non-disclosure”, so it looks like another snapping
turtle is waddling by outside, and I’ve got a very special assignment
for him. This time, the snapping turtle has a lot to say.
Come in boys, and close the door. It’s personal, and it’s all about you.
http://sites.google.com/site/thefieldbook/
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Losing
At Candyland
By Kearsie Murphy, Alabama
After a long day’s work, my husband came home, dragging himself through
the door and plopping down in front of the TV. He looked so tired that I
willingly handed over the remote control. Predictably, the chatter of
sports announcers filled the air as I busied myself folding yet another
basket of laundry. Some team won some game (haven’t a clue and don’t
particularly care, something about Kobe Bryant and a thing called, what
is it- oh yes, a basketball?) and afterwards there was a press
conference.
Now, what grabbed my attention was the very solemn faces I saw, Kevin
Garnett sitting there answering a barrage of questions that were just
hilarious to my unsports-tainted mind. I, like so many other females out
there, think it is JUST A GAME. I mean, what would it be like if the
next time I played Candyland with my two girls and they whoop me yet
again I sat down at a press conference and hashed it out. I think it
might go something like this…
ME: (sitting look dejected) Next question, please.
RANDOM REPORTER: Uh, yeah, Kearsie, so how did you feel when you started
the game?
ME: Well, I went into the game like I always do, confident, sure I was
going to make it to the Candy Castle first. That’s what the goal was and
that’s what I was playing for.
REPORTER: Let’s talk about your earlier setbacks.
ME: (shaking my head) I thought I was doing really well until I hit that
first Licorice Space. I missed a turn and it allowed the girls to get
ahead of me. That sneaky Lord Licorice really slowed me down.
REPORTER: What were your thoughts when Addie got the Rainbow Trail and
skipped ahead of you?
ME: I was really hoping to get either the Rainbow Trail or Gumdrop Pass,
but it just wasn’t my game.
REPORTER: How did you feel about the cards you pulled out of the stack?
ME: I’m just like everyone else playing the game- I get the card on the
top of the stack.(I shrug) I play the hand I’m dealt, ya know? Right at
the end of the game, I might have pulled ahead if I got a purple
two-block card, but I got one orange block. So I just couldn’t pull
ahead.
REPORTER: What motivated you to play another round of the game when Emma
beat you?
ME: I guess I was just thinking about the odds, I mean, how many times
can a six year old beat you at Candyland? I thought I had a decent shot
of getting a win under my belt.
REPORTER: Do you have any thoughts about playing again?
ME: I won’t underestimate my opponent, that’s for sure. I went into the
game cocky. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll have to have a better strategy
next time.
Of course, I don’t get paid a bazillion dollars for playing a game of
Candyland.
http://soundsliketomatoes.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
An
Evening In Dorkville
By William Schmitt, New York
So this is what it feels like to be a geek.
My youngest son has been asking to get a particular on-line super hero
game for some time. Since it's cost is somewhat prohibitive (not only do
you have to buy the game, there's a monthly cost for the on-line
service) we have never given in to his wishes. Until now. That's because
I found out that you can get a free two week trial to play the game, and
since free is my favorite word I proceed to sign up.
All my sons acquired their love for super heroes from me. I read comics
like crazy when I was a kid. My brothers and I would have had a bonanza
of comics had we been collectors of such things. But I, apparently
sometime early in my youth, made some sort of religious vow to never
collect anything of value, including money. Even so, I still like the
hero vs villain conflict, so I set about to create my very own super
hero.
The game gets off to a promising start, because I can really create some
cool looking characters with this software. This is important, because I
have trouble drawing a conclusion, let alone something artistic. With
this game however, I can make a character that looks like it leaps right
off the pages of the latest Marvel or DC comic book. Until I have to
give him a name.
Turns out there is some stupid regulation asserting that you can't use
any name that has already been used before in the game. The trouble is,
after several years of who knows how many thousands of geeks having
played the game, all the good names appear to be taken. Even most of the
bad ones. I wrack my mind for hours, until, remembering this was a
temporary free trial, I finally come up with two names that nobody has
thought of yet; The Giant Bubble Gum Blower and Captain Banana Pants.
Both have somewhat vague sexual images (especially if you're a big giant
piece of bubble gum) but I think Captain Banana Pants might wow all
those super hero chicks in the tight costumes. I'm going with him.
It's now time to take my hero into action. I have to admit, as I first
take to the virtual streets as Captain Banana Pants I feel just like I
did when I was a kid, running around with a towel tucked into the back
of my shirt, pretending to be Batman, or Superman or Liberace. The
feeling doesn't last long however.
Apparently, my hero's super power is the ability to walk into walls. It
is VERY hard to control him. There are other super-powered characters
flying and running all over the place, I assume their creators are geeks
who have been born with a different kind of joystick in their hands. My
guy just runs straight into the nearest wall, his super-powered legs
churning with all their might, apparently trying to burrow his way to
the other side.
He also seems to possess the secondary ability to get beat up by just
about everybody in sight. I'm beginning to wonder if the name Big Stupid
Namby Pamby Man has been taken. When your character gets defeated he or
she is sent to the local on-line hospital for repairs. Fortunately for
me they seem to operate with France's health insurance system, because
my character is spending a lot of time there.
The most embarrassing thing just happened. Another player's hero just
came up to me and talked to me via text messaging. I know I'm in the
Land of Lost Boys because it's all in text code. I'm having WAY too much
trouble staying away from the closest wall to try and figure out the
messaging system of this game, so I just ignore him. Apparently, tired
of waiting for my heroic response and thinking I must be Captain Mime,
he takes off, figuring that either this hero or his creator isn't
packing a full punch. Right on both counts.
I've finally decided this game isn't for me. Dejectedly, I click the
quit button and wait for my character to sign out. How demoralizing.
But wait. Hey, somebody has just asked me to be on their team! Somebody
actually wants me to play. This is great! Where's my cape? I gotta go,
up, up and awayyyyy ....OOF!
Damn wall.
http://thehermitcrabspeaks.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
The
Seven Deadly Sins
By Sheila Smigel, California
Suddenly I am envious. I know, ENVY is one of the seven deadly sins
(second in fact, right after PRIDE), but I can't help myself. I wanna go
topless!
Everywhere I looked today there were gorgeous guys and gals going
topless. Okay, so not everyone going topless is gorgeous, it just seems
that way. Maybe everywhere was a tad exaggerated too, but I take poetic
license. Ahhh, the freedom. I haven't known this freedom since the early
80's--really. I remember the vicarious thrill of doing it my first time.
It brings a smile to face to think about it.
Hubby did it first. Yep, our first date he was topless. It might seem a
little kinky to do, but he looked fabulous. The tan, his wide smile.
Everyone looked at him, women especially. The boys did too, as he lived
in the zip code 90069, AKA "The Swish Alps". Of course this was back
when it wasn't politically incorrect to refer to gays as "swishers".
When other women looked at him I felt PRIDE. Darn, another deadly sin.
Soon he convinced me to try it. I'll admit, I was very hesitant, yet
very eager to please him. If going topless would make him happy, who was
I to disagree? It didn't take long before I succumbed, becoming a SLOTH.
Yikes, this makes three.
Since I spent less and less time with my top on I soon began to feel
ANGER at him for ever talking me into doing it. Oops, yet another of the
seven. I didn't like always feeling a need, heck, even a GREED to do it.
Oh no, not number five! Sadly though, I let him sweet talk me into
continuing to do so, with no thoughts as to how it would ultimately
affect me.
I suppose it was after the third month of feeling the sun beating down
on me, I could no longer hold back. Try as I might to fight it, the
warmth of the sun caressing my body, the breeze blowing against my skin
and through my hair, I finally fell to number six, LUST.
Once it was cursing through my veins, it was undeniable, and so
demanding. I knew I had to have more and more. I craved the attention.
The fact is; I was no longer a stranger to GLUTTONY from then on. Yes,
by then I had committed all seven of the deadly sins.
At some point, I knew it had to stop and I begged Hubby to help me. It
was not an easy thing for him to do, but because he loved me, he agreed.
I was addicted to it. All of those anonymous eyes staring. I had done it
in Monaco, Italy, St. Tropez, Paris, Hollywood, and even Beverly Hills!
Not just to the adoring eyes of our neighbors. It had gone too far. I
was even developing sun-poisoning. Clearly something needed to be done.
And so it was he took me to the doctor. "Yes, you have been overdoing
it. From now on, no more going topless." He said to me in a firm voice.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, it will only get worse if you don't give it up. Surely you have
noticed how...burnt you have gotten?"
I nodded in agreement. It had been painful, but...now I knew for sure I
could not continue on with this decadent lifestyle.
On the way home I cried. "It's become a way of life for me now honey, it
is going to be so hard to give it up."
"Sweetheart, you must."
"Will you stop too?" I asked through my Kleenex, still dabbing away at
the tears and runny nose.
"Babe, I would, but I am a guy. I just can't without looking
ridiculous."
He had a point. I couldn't ask him to give it up just because I had to.
I needed to find a T.A. Group to help me through it. Imagine my surprise
not being able to find even one Topless Anonymous Meeting. I would just
have to go cold turkey, but not before one last time.
That was 25 plus years ago, it was very difficult. I guess it is why I'm
sharing here; I feel the temptation creeping over me, but I know you all
will give me moral support.
It's taking every bit of restraint for me not to go topless again. I
have the first stage, CONVERTIBLE ENVY. Sunroofs are ok, but I still
miss the convertible.
http://www.InkSpot.Com/authors/frasier
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Song
Of The Puce
By Jerrel Swingle, Missouri
Call me Puce.
I’m the Rodney Dangerfield of the color spectrum. I get no respect.
Take my name. Notice how awkwardly it rolls off the tongue. Say it
aloud: “Puce.” With the proper inflection it sounds like you are
smelling something out of a teenager’s gym bag. Phonetically, it is
related to other unpleasant connotations, as in, “I just puced all over
my shoes.”
I get no respect. How many times have you heard someone say, “What a
lovely puce purse you’re carrying,” or, “Puce is really your color. It’s
you.”
I’m not in “The Rainbow Song.” You don’t hear little children singing,
“Red and yellow and puce and green ….”
Binney and Smith have never named one of their crayon colors after me.
Translated literally, “ puce” in French means “flea”, which is something
short of inspirational.
I couldn’t have had a nice romantic name like “vermilion,” or a lushly
feminine one like “aquamarine.” I could have used a good strong
masculine name like “burnt umber,” or an earthy one like “ochre.” But
no, I had to be called “puce.”
Nonetheless, I have dignity. I hold my hue on high. Depending upon which
dictionary you consult, I am described variously as “dark red,
bluish-purplish-brownish-grayish.”
I am the color of a plum that has seen better days.
I am the color you see as a boxer’s eye swells shut.
I am the color on the mixing palette of a really bad art student.
If warthogs could paint, I would be their favorite color.
I should be the color of the academic hood for graduate degrees in
political science.
I get no respect, but I serve an important aesthetic function. If it
weren’t for me, people wouldn’t appreciate the colors of the rainbow. I
exist to help define what is beautiful.
Appreciate me.
I am Puce.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Sheet
Defeat
By Judi Veoukas, Illinois
I screamed at an inanimate object.
I didn’t start the day planning to verbally assault anything. It just
kind of happened when I struggled to put a fresh sheet onto our
queen-sized mattress. No matter which way I turned, tugged, yanked,
stretched and pulled it, the sheet defied me.
Instead of taking a deep breath and starting from scratch, I went at the
sheet in a frenzied tone heretofore reserved for computer freeze. “What
did I ever do to you, you blasted sheet?” I asked. Silence. I took it up
a notch. “Do you not hear me?” It didn’t. I increased the intensity of
my tirade. “No one hears me,” I told the sheet. I lifted my voice to a
crescendo. “No one ever calls.” Then I sobbed the finale, “I have no
friends!”
So there I stood, tears streaming down my face, holding a stupid sheet.
I had no idea what to do next. The sheet just hung. Unapologetic.
At last, a thought occurred: Call a friend. I was no doubt having a
mental health issue and a mental health professional would probably
declare me unhinged. But I had just told myself I had no friends. So I
called my husband—at work.
“It’s me,” I said. “I just went psycho over a bed sheet.”
He was unfazed. “Last week, you smacked a throw pillow.”
“I didn’t hit it. I fluffed it,” I said, furious that he would
misinterpret my intentions toward decorative accessories.
“Hit, fluff, whatever,” he said.
“Do you know how infuriating it is to try to get a fitted sheet on a
mattress and have the sheet disregard your authority?”
“Do you know how frustrating it is to live with someone who screams at
inanimate objects? It’s like living with a child,” he answered.
“I do not act like a child,” I blubbered.
“Can you repeat that whine?” he said. “I couldn’t quite hear it.”
“Well, you screamed at an inanimate object,” I reminded him.
“It was a nail gun, and I’d accidentally shot myself with it,” he
pointed out. “A trip to the ER, stitches and pain medication were
involved.”
“Sheet, nail gun, what’s the difference?” I asked. I’d expected more
understanding.
He hung up.
In a futile attempt to appear magnanimous, I apologized to the sheet. If
it had but one thought it would have been, “yeah, whatever.” It sure
wasn’t going to tell me I was forgiven. However, in a final effort to
show who was boss, I tried putting the sheet on the bed again. It slid
right in place, all its corners in their respective locations. To make
certain that miracle repeated itself in the future, I stuck a safety pin
in a corner of the sheet’s front edge.
That night at about 3 a.m., I awoke to a howl from my husband’s side of
the bed. “I have a freaking, #@%$ pin in my foot,” he said.
Oops.
“Honey,” I said, “you’re screaming at an inanimate object.”
.
|
