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Congratulations to all Finalists in our February/ March 2009 Humor Writing Contest!

(Listed alphabetically by author.)

Brown Sticky Miracle?
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom

We Brits have a worldwide - no, make that a galaxy wide - reputation for thinking that the humble cup of tea, the “cuppa,” is derived from a leafy elixir that can ease and perhaps even cure all of life’s woes. Bad news from the Doctor – oh, we’ll pop the kettle on; he’s been philandering again – well let’s have a brew and discuss it; your three year old son has tumbled from the kitchen worktop and smashed his head open – phew, thank Christ he didn’t also smash the kettle.

Recently I had the chance to test the medicinal power of tea. Ambling out of my living room, I’d discovered my sozzled lodger, Rupert, sprawled at the bottom of the stairwell; and, naturally, I concluded he was probably doing a jellyfish impression. (He sometimes does one for fun but more commonly to startle Mrs Winthrop - our obese pet turtle.) Yet, after I’d guffawed for a minute or ten, it finally dawned on me: gosh, he doesn’t normally perform such spoofundery with his arms out of the sockets, nor, thinking about it, with that bone sticking out of his back – in fact he doesn’t do a jellyfish impression at all; I was confusing him with grand-mummy. And on reflection, she doesn’t either – she only looks that way since I cut her allowance, and she pawned her dentures to afford an electronic toothbrush.

Things were serious, and I needed to take action. Racing to the kitchen, I picked up the telecommunication device and dialled a surgeon. Then, after I’d concluded nattering, I thought, “Golly, was that really the right moment to book in Mrs Winthrop for liposuction?” So, remembering Rupert’s predicament and figuring that this is a life or death emergency, I called the professionals best trained to resolve such calamities. I pleaded with them to send their best man urgently, because Rupert was injured and we needed to help him fast, by drinking tea. (Ahhh… tea; it’s like liquid Jesus.) With alacrity, a gentleman arrived, and after an hour we’d both quaffed six cupfuls. But, and here’s the befuddling thing, when we went out to check on Rupert, this so called Great British cure-for-all hadn’t helped him a bit.

Panicked, we drank another two. But our “flabber” was well and truly “gasted” because I’d tentatively go as far to say that the next time we checked on him, Rupert looked worse. Significantly worse.

Decisive action was needed, so I reported the frightful news to Her Majesty’s Police Constabulary - that is, that I’d obviously been sold defective tea. They seemed so annoyed at me for wasting their “precious tea drinking time” that we had to drink another eight cupfuls ourselves, just to get over the shock. We did think that this time, on balance, the tea had helped Rupert. It was difficult to be sure, but it seemed that way. We noticed that he’d certainly stopped making the disturbing wheezing noises, and, optimistically, he even looked like he was having a little nap.

Then - the brainwave. Since we’d apparently helped him by downing thirty-two cupfuls between us, just imagine the amount of tea power we might unleash if we were to make him drink the same amount. Amazingly, he seemed disinterested when we presented him with a cup. Patently, all the special tea goodness that we’d earlier guzzled, on his behalf, had sent him into a deep curative slumber. Even when we poured fifteen litres of the hot sticky brown stuff over his head, he still wouldn’t awaken. In fact, it seemed to make him sleep even more soundly. So, I guess he was already better and simply resting. A miracle? By Jove no: just tea. You can now see why we Brits adore the stuff.

To celebrate its extraordinary power, I went away for a little sojourn. But, you know, the thing that warmed my heart the most was this: on my return, Rupert had enjoyed his sleep so much that he’d taken steps to reserve his new found, number one dreaming place. And it really cheers me to think that he went to so much trouble to do so, marking out his special sleeping spot with a fresh white outline.

CORRECTION: Sceptical boffins say my claim that the British love affair with tea is known galaxy wide is, in fact, irrational hyperbolic pseudoscience. For pointing this out, gratitude aplenty goes to both Oxford University and Mr Xyros Phallius III from the Zantos constellation.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Victoria's Real Secret
By Joan Haara, Michigan

I don't know if you experience the Oh-My-God-He-Bought-Me-Lingerie-for-Christmas-Again syndrome this time of year, but it hits this house about every second or third year.

Don't get me wrong. The sentiment is wonderful. (Not to mention that I am sure in giving you the expensive lingerie, most husbands think they might get a little sumpin-sumpin).

And, it isn't the giving of the lingerie that is the part that gets to me.

It is the fact that most husbands love the sluttish, uncomfortable kind. (That would make even hookers blush.)

You know....the cut-off-your-circulation thongs, the bras with the cut-outs in the worst places, and the garter belt dealies. (What IS IT about men and garter belts?) (It is my theory that they all must only have been able to afford the old films when they were adolescents...you know...the Mrs. Robinson kind, where ladies wore garters and nylons and slowly, seductively rolled them down, one-at-a-time.....whilst the young, pimply boys drool while they watched).

But the real kicker is that when you unwrap this lingerie (that they have lovingly picked out for you)....you realize (in horror) that they have bought you (every single time): Size 2's.

Bless their heart that they think you would EVER fit into that size.( I may have.......back when I was in first grade.)

But, more than likely, husbands don't even look at the size. Once they see the lingerie on the rack, they probably glaze over and grab it and buy it, with visions of Sugar Plums in their heads.

So, there you are...Christmas Eve....the only lights on are the Christmas tree lights and the fireplace glow....and he pulls out your gift, grinning that Cheshire cat grin you know so well. You immediately recognize "the look" and you immediately know what is in that he-no-way-in-Hell-wrapped-this-himself poofy package.

And, of course.....as you spot the Size 2 label...here......
it........
comes............................
....he says:

"Honey, why don't you try it on to see how you like it?
(Translation: "Why don't you try it on, cause I KNOW I'M GOING to like it". Can ya, huh? Can ya'??? Can ya? Puh-leeeeeeeeze?")

So, first...you don on the encased-in-steel under-wire push-up bra with the indecent cut outs.

You pray to God for a miracle that the sliver-thin back hooks have the holding-power of those info-mercial wall hooks that hold up a cement block and 40-wheelers. You tuck in your arms to your side so the under-arm fat doesn't hang over like large saddle bags.

Then you strap on the garter belt (which means sucking in your breath as much as possible and tucking in flesh like putting bread dough into a sausage-casing).

Never mind that you can't breathe (and that your intestines are squished so tight that there will be absolutely no digestion going on for the next two weeks and that as soon as you do this, it backed up and caused a little unpleasant taste in the back of your throat).

Next, you roll excruciatingly-painful nylons up your thunder thighs and try to walk cute (but careful, so they don't roll down into tootsie-rolls as you do this).

Actually, it is quite a talent to be able to do this, so give yourself a high-five for being able to do this feat. (What was I thinking?....you CAN'T do a high-five due to the bra that you have on!)

Besides, it is quite amazing that you could even bend over to put on these nylons with the grip-of-death garter belt you have on. Fashion hint: lay on the bed (like when you were a teenager trying to zip-up those too-tight blue jeans) and lift one leg in the air at a time....throwing each nylon in the air like a butterfly net catching a Monarch..

(After a few tries you will lasso that baby in a nylon stocking and be able to slip it down the air-hung leg).

But be careful of the second health risk: attaching the garter belt nylon straps onto each nylon. I have been known to put a few eyes out with that little gymnastic act...and the circus has no contortionists better than what I have endured to attach the back garters..... I have the permanent leg welts to prove it.

But..........you do it for him.

Because, in the end.....you know that this is going to be HIS best Christmas present.

EVER.

http://www.myretirementchronicles.blogspot.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Children Of The Cornflakes
By Ann I., Wisconsin

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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How I Became Jealous Of A Club Sandwich
By Tripp Maxwell, Georgia

I’ve been dating Jennifer for five months. She has this one small idiosyncrasy. Every meal she eats, about five bites in she starts making these noises, “Hmmm….Ohh..” This continues every few bites until the meal is finished. It doesn’t seem to matter what she’s eating, it’s always the same. I believe she could have a plate of cow brains sitting there, like that guy from the Food Network, and the reaction would be the same. Initially I thought it was kind of cute. About two months ago, it started to become a problem.

We had just returned to my apartment after enjoying a fine meal at one of the local eateries. At this point, we hadn’t slept together yet, but everything was pointing in that direction. Well, one thing led to another and the next thing you know there we are in bed. Everything was going fine until the thought entered my head; "I think she enjoyed that meal more than this." Granted, she had a filet, but still. Luckily, I was able to finish what I started. I rolled over onto my back. Jennifer placed her arm across my chest and said:

“That was nice.”

Meanwhile, I’m lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking, "Yep, she definitely enjoyed that filet more." I didn’t get much sleep.

Once the door had opened on the intimacy, well there was no going back. As our intimate encounters became more frequent, it developed a major problem. At least for me -- she knew nothing about it, of course. There was no way in the world I was having that conversation. The mere thought of it sent chills down my spine. I began comparing the reaction I got with the reactions she had to various foods. It got to the point where I could rate my own performance. I could imagine a reporter coming up to me, sticking a microphone in my face and asking:

“How do you think you did last night?”

“Somewhere between a stack of pancakes and a club sandwich.”

“That’s too bad.”

One night we went out, she told me she was thinking of the lobster. Lobster? Even in top form, I didn’t think I could compete with Lobster. I tried to talk her into a nice plate of tuna salad. Didn’t work. There was no passion that night. Too much pressure. So now, I’m steering us to the worst possible restaurants, or better yet, cooking myself. It hasn’t helped.

I’ve been analyzing this from every conceivable angle. I thought about introducing a tape recorder into the mix. At least this way I could tell if it was just my imagination. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of an adequate explanation for having to record activities at the dining table and the bedroom. I think I could have explained using it in one place or the other, but definitely not both. I ran into the same problem with earplugs:

“Are those earplugs you’re wearing?” Again, there’s no acceptable response to this question. I wasn’t working at a sawmill.

If I didn’t like Jennifer so much I’m sure I could come up with a reasonable exit strategy. But, I do like her, maybe even love her. I’m in a tough spot. I’ve become jealous of a club sandwich.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Book Ideas Scrapped in 2009
By Joel Schwartzberg, New Jersey

Around this time last year, a proposed parenting memoir by Britney Spears' mother was "delayed indefinitely" after her 16 year-old daughter Jamie Lynn announced she was pregnant. Of course, Britney Spears' mom putting out a book about successful parenting is kinda like...like...like...well, it's like Britney Spears' mom putting out a book about successful parenting: It speaks for itself. Nonetheless, the book was eventually published last September.

While reports of the Spears book's postponement got plenty of media coverage, other scrapped book ideas went unnoticed. Luckily for you, I managed to acquire that list from my secret publishing source in exchange for a bootleg copy of 2009's scrapped album "Barry Manilow Sings the Gregorian Chants."

Here it is:

"Help Yourself!: A Guide to Discovering Your True Natural Ability"
By Alex Rodriguez, Roger Clemens, and Andy Pettitte

"Put Your Best Foot Forward: A Guide to Giving Telegenic Performances"
By Bobby Jindal

"Free to Be U.N. Me: New York City on Twenty Rial a Day"
By Mahmoud Ahmadinejad ("I'm in Mahmoud for Love")

"Hiding the Idiot Within"
By Paula Abdul

"Making the Most of Your Moment: How Not To Squander Fame and Talent"
By Amy Winehouse

"All White By Me: A Sensitivity Handbook"
By Don Imus, with an introduction by the cartoon editors of The New York Post

"Me: The Owner's Guide"
By Joaquin Phoenix

"Unstoppable: The Hillary Clinton Story"
Published by Mainstream Media Press ("Unstoppable: The Howard Dean Story")

"A Treasury of Bathroom Humor"
Edited By Senator Larry Craig

"How to Win Friends and Influence People"
Re-Edited By Bernard Madoff

"Great Careers in the Newspaper Business"
By the editors of The Rocky Mountain News

"Family Planning for Dummies"
By Nadya Suleman

"Choosing the Right Job for You"
By Tom Daschle, Bill Richardson, and Judd Gregg

"Sharpening Your People Skills"
By Christian Bale and Patrick Bateman

"'Poppin,' and Other Tips on Treating Your Lady Right"
By Chris Brown

www.40yearoldversion.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Let's Eat!
By Lynette Sheffield, Oregon

The remnants of Western civilization smolder in ruins as the forces of the National Guard, American Red Cross and Anderson Cooper try to calm the survivors of today’s disaster and restore order.

Earlier this morning, Taco Bell food sprang to life with the abilities to become mobile, talk and crash rock concerts after a hideous industrial accident involving hallucinogenic drugs, recombinant DNA and beans. Scientists at the facility who were involved in the experiments were quoted as saying, “Wow.”

Burritos, tacos and nachos ran amok begging complete strangers to eat them whether they were hungry or not. Panic naturally followed resulting in riots, looting and random nudeness.

There were an unfortunate few who took refuge in a neighborhood Safeway. They unwisely gathered in the cereal aisle where they were accosted by a Frosted Mini-Wheat who encouraged them to eat his legless brethren.

Sonny, the Cuckoo Bird, went cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs and took Toucan Sam hostage. The ransom note, spelled out with Alpha-Bits, demanded Cap’n Crunch be promoted to Grand Poobah.

All-Bran and Total fought Life for supremacy. Froot Loops sued Fruity Cheerios for copyright infringement.

Not accustomed to the undue stress, Snap snapped, Crackle became incoherent and Pop, dismayed at always being the third to do anything, attempted to drown himself in a bowl of milk but was unsuccessful even at that since Rice Krispies float.

Raisin Bran tried to get away with only 1 ½ scoops and The Quaker Oatmeal Guy, who was not used to his nap being disrupted, demanded the crowd to “Pipe down, consarn it!” while the Rabbit, sensing his opportunity, finally snagged some Trix. Lucky let loose with a stream of comic-strip profanity, consisting of moons, stars, rainbows and four-leaf clovers, although the consensus was that while his tirade was crass, it was also, indeed, magically delicious.

Chester Cheetah left a blazing trail of orange destruction. Little Debbie swooned and Mr. Twinkie rushed to catch her but was waylaid by frantically pecking Peeps.

The Chips Ahoy cookie rolled over to try to help but one of the customers bit off half of his face. Miss Green M & M screamed and fainted while Yellow, the peanut M & M, was recalled.

Uncle Ben demanded equal time with Minute Rice but Rice-a-Roni jumped in to fight for rights for…um...those who enjoy “San Francisco treats.”

The Green Giant burst from the freezer section declaring even he couldn’t eat brussels sprouts and taters totted.

Ernie, the Keebler Elf, burst from the enchanted tree bakery to try and calm the populace but Tony, deciding Frosted Flakes weren’t all that great, ate him.

Diet Dr. Pepper started to dance and the crowd, fearful of hearing that stupid Cheers television theme song years after the sit-com’s overdue death, stormed out of the Safeway only to be confronted by the Burger King.

The frozen face of the creepy apparition in tights made children cry and grown men wet themselves and then the ruckus kicked into the next gear.

The country’s failure to finally name the next California Happy Cow caused a cattle stampede that crushed Mr. Peanut. Aunt Jemima tried to calm the populace but things got sticky when the Pillsbury Dough-Boy giggled and blurted out, “Try my biscuits.”

Charmin Bears ran in the streets demanding directions to the woods. Distraught women shaved their heads, dogs mooed and several caped persons were shot for sport.

The riots ran out of steam shortly after the Taco Bell food, realizing no sober person would ever want to eat something that chatted on its way through the digestive tract, announced in the future, all menu items would remain mute.

The plastic-wrapped sporks and hot-sauce packets declined to comment.

www.lynetteisfunny.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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You Can't Fire Me, I'm Dead
By Barry Udoff, New York

SECRETS OF THE AFTERLIFE

Dying is the most humiliating form of outsourcing. It's not easy to accept that our life can be lived better and cheaper by someone else.

Some people believe this mortifying termination comes with a generous severance package. On our last day, we'll box up our personal items, a pilfered company stapler and a potted plant that's as close to death as we are. We'll step into the express elevator and ride up to the executive suite. When the door opens, a beautiful white light will flood the car. Those family and friends who have taken earlier elevators will be awaiting our arrival. Even our departed pets will be there. We will feel an overwhelming sense of security--as if, at last, both our left and right shoe is tied equally tight.

It sounds like a paradise if your idea of bliss is a family Thanksgiving dinner that never ends. Imagine sitting at the table with Windy Uncle Bob, the Tic Twins, Cousin White Power and all the others, passing around dry turkey and marshmallow turnips in a continuous loop. And by the way, the dogs will still need to be walked and you'll still be allergic to the cats.

Might there be an alternate afterlife scenario?

Maybe when the elevator doors open, instead of our entourage, a stern looking woman with steel rimmed glasses and a bun of grey hair will meet us. She is our life archivist. Her sole purpose is to grant us access to those classified documents that were known in life as our permanent records.

I don't know about you, but the first record I'll open will be my grammar school dossier. Here's where I'll learn that my IQ is ten points lower than my mother told me it was. At least it will explain why I could never remember the Pythagorean theorem. I believe my third grade teacher made an entry expressing her concern that I drew black suns and houses without windows.

I'll locate my confidential medical files where the doctor made a note to "keep and eye" on that brown thing on the back of my neck. I'll come across my first girlfriend's diary where she describes me as the "Kind of guy she'd like for a big brother."

Of central importance will be the record of a university admissions interview. Only one respectable university granted me one and I doubt if this record consists of anything more than my name.

I had chosen English as a major reckoning that its only prerequisite was the ability to read. Professor Fowler was the Dean Of Admissions and conducted my interview.

The first thing he asked me was to "Discuss the symbolic aspects of the character Ralph in the Lord of the Flies." It stumped me. I had no recollection of a Hobbit named Ralph. I remember Bilbo and Frodo and Samwise but who the hell was Ralph? After about ten seconds of silence, Professor Fowler began rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together as if trying to start a fire. I needed to come up with an answer. "I believe Ralph symbolized the Hobbit's desire to bring peace and tranquility to Middle-earth." His forehead wrinkles shot upwards in a delta formation. He stopped taking notes. I entered a Jr. College in the fall.

The next records I'll want to examine are those of the human resources administrator who conducted my first job interview. I'll find out if the reason I got the kiss-off was my misspelling of 'self-starter' on my resume or my mismatched socks. Later, I'll take a look at the scribbling of my psychiatrist. If there was any mercy in that world, those notes will be illegible.

My final stop will be the office of the 3-bedroom Co-op apartment I had coveted so deeply. I'll look up the notes taken during my board interview. It will confirm my suspicion that the president rejected me because I didn't know the name of his Alma Mater's football team. He had graduated from the same respectable university that I claimed to have attended.

Neither of these exit options appeals to me. So until something more tempting comes along--say a plan that offers free air travel or a TiVo feature, I intend to postpone my death for as long as possible. I'll take better care of myself, eat more fish and get more exercise. Starting tomorrow, I'm skipping the elevator and taking the stairs.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Alternate Endings
By Ed W., Oregon

(Author's last name withheld by request.)

Every so often a movie starts with its original ending but based on audience feedback sometimes ends up with a completely different ending. “Pretty Woman” is one such movie. I guess the original had Julia Robert’s character not ending up with her prince charming and instead went back to a life of drugs. Now why did they change that original happy ending? I just don’t get it.

That got me wondering whether there were other movies that had alternate endings that weren’t quite so upbeat. Movies that we know of but perhaps weren’t aware they too had alternate endings. I immediately sent out my investigative staff. Here’s what they came up with:

******* WARNING: SPOILERS OF MOVIES YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN BY NOW BUT WERE LIVING IN A CAVE OR WATCHING REALITY TV *******

“Shawshank Redemption” – The original ending didn’t have “Red” strolling up to a tanned happy Andy Dufresne working on his boat. Instead, Andy lost all his money on an outdoor flea market business selling trinkets to American tourists only to be later captured by “The Dog” and extradited back to the USA for bounty money. Red had to succumb to 17 straight hours of timeshare condominium presentations and went mad.

“Pulp Fiction” – It didn’t matter; nobody could figure out where this movie ended anyway since all of the pieces were out of time order. They simply swapped pieces in every single theatre just to have some fun with the audience.

“The Matrix” – Neo doesn’t place a call through the Matrix phone booth and then “Superman” away into the digital atmosphere. Instead, it turned out he didn’t have change for the phone call and Agent Smith hits him with a Microsoft Error Message which causes him to be in a perpetual “running” mode and unable to do anything ever again. Eventually Morpheus determines he couldn’t be the “one” (he was probably two or five or something) and unplugs him. The “one” is ultimately outsourced to a third party provider in India who isn’t as good, doesn’t have the cool leather clothing and ultimately causes the demise of human kind.

“It’s a Wonderful Life” – Interestingly, the original version doesn’t end with George smiling while Zuzu points out the ringing of the jingle bell. Instead, the original had subsequent footage of the IRS coming in and seizing 60% of George’s newly acquired income. This causes George to take out a no-money-down loan with a variable interest rate balloon payment at the end. Of course, at that time he is unable to make the balloon payment having squandered all his money in order to finally travel around the world. But this time his friends don’t bail him out again since he’s been selling them LP Siding all these years. Apparently they dropped all this subsequent footage due to movie length and the lack of Astronaut diaper technology at the time.

“American Beauty” – Instead of getting a bullet in his head by his neighbor, the original version had the neighbor tricking him by shooting him with a squirt gun acquired from the Third Reich (a rare collectible indeed). They became close after that and eventually he divorced her and married him during the legal Gay marriage window and went on to open his own chain of restaurants featuring real Nazi china.

http://vehow.blogspot.com

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