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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
the Winners of our
February/ March 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
Forgetting Valentine's Day
By Richard Pierce, Nevada
(Note: The “Boyfriend” mentioned in the
following essay may or may not be myself. In addition, the “Girlfriend”
mentioned may or may not be my actual girlfriend who wishes to remain
anonymous. There! Happy, honey?)
Valentine’s Day is next week and I need to think of a gift for my
girlfriend.
But not just any gift, something special. Something that says “I love
you.” Something that could make up for any screw-up I could possibly
make as a boyfriend - like forgetting an anniversary, not noticing a new
haircut, or accidentally setting fire to her house while making myself a
bowl of Easy Mac.
This gift needs to cover all those bases (especially the last one!).
I wracked my brain and have narrowed it down to the following romantic
items...
...A John Deere riding mower
...A grill (not the kind you cook with, but the kind you wear on your
teeth)
...A grill (not the kind you wear on your teeth, but the kind you cook
with)
...A copy of the book 'A Knight and His Weapons' by Ewart Oakeshotte (a
great book on Medieval warfare)
...Aloe-vera (she sustained minor burns from the Easy Mac/fire incident)
...Socks
So out of those things, I need to decide which one screams 'I love you!'
the most. Ooh! Just thought of one more...
...A parrot trained to scream 'I love you!' on command.
Hmm. Tough decision. Oh well, I have a whole week to think about it so
there’s no rush.
FEBRUARY 14th - 2:15 a.m.
Oh my God, oh my God, I'm dead, I'm dead, she’s gonna kill me.
I can’t believe I forgot to get a present. This is bad. I’m so dead.
Well, hold on. Maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion. Maybe she
forgot about Valentine’s Day too.
(Calls Girlfriend.)
GIRLFRIEND: (tired) Hello?
BOYFRIEND: Darling! My love! How are you, my schnookie-wookie-pie?
GIRLFRIEND: It's two-fifteen in the morning...
BOYFRIEND: Oh, sorry. I was just calling to tell you how much I love
you!
GIRLFRIEND: What did you do?
BOYFRIEND: (defensive) Nothing! Can't I call just to say I love you?
GIRLFRIEND: At two-fifteen in the morning?
BOYFRIEND: Yes. I've been up all night thinking about how special you
are.
GIRLFRIEND: Okay, I'm going back to sleep.
BOYFRIEND: Wait! I need to ask you something.
GIRLFRIEND: What?
BOYFRIEND: Um...is there something going on tomorrow? Like an event
or...maybe a holiday of some kind?
GIRLFRIEND: Well, it’s Valentine's Day tomorrow.
BOYFRIEND: DAMMIT!
(Hangs up.)
Okay, she remembers, think quick. Gotta get a present. Think!
Can I buy something? No, I'm broke. Spent all my money yesterday on that
Steven Seagal DVD box set.
Maybe I can make her something! I think I have some paper mache. Or
better yet, a poem! Girls love poems!
(Grabs pen and paper.)
"Darling, you are like a..."
Uh, what rhymes with "Darling"?
(Grabs another piece of paper.)
"Honey, you’ve put on weight."
Wait, that's rude.
(Grabs another sheet of paper...)
(...Can't think of anything...)
(...Gets bored...)
(...Draws a picture of a kitty.)
Aw, forget the poem!
Maybe I can give her something I already have. Yeah, re-gift!
(Scans room.)
I could give her the Steven Seagal box set. Nah, that’s mine. Plus it
has “Hard to Kill” in it, my favorite Seagal movie. God, I love the part
where he says, “I’m gonna take you to the bank, Senator Trent...to the
blood bank.” Then the music goes Duh-DUH-Duh-Duh! That was so aweso-...
FOCUS! Find something, wrap it up and give it to her in the morning!
(Looks under bed.)
Shoes...Box of old toys...Hey, my high school year book! And look,
here's my good pal Andy’s comment...
"Wassup dude! Senior year has been fun...even though you're gay."
That jerk! I forgot he wrote that.
(Calls Andy.)
ANDY: (groggy) Hello?
BOYFRIEND: You're gay!
(Hangs up.)
There. That's settled. Man, I hate that guy.
Okay, maybe I can find something in my closet.
(Opens closet, rummages through the shelves, accidentally knocks a box
on head and is knocked unconscious.)
FEBRUARY 14th - 10:15 a.m.
(Boyfriend stands on Girlfriend's doorstep, mildly concussed, holding
many gifts.)
GIRLFRIEND: A Ninja Turtle action figure, a bottle of water, a day
planner from 2002 and an old VCR...what is all of this?
BOYFRIEND: Happy Valentines Day, honey!
(Boyfriend becomes single.)
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Express
Lane
By Chad Hatfield, Washington
I just do not understand grocery stores. When I read the sign
“Express Lane: ten items or less,” I was under the impression that this
was a lane for people in a hurry. I was clearly mistaken. This is a lane
for people who cannot count.
It seemed simple enough—ten items or less. This should mean you can have
ten items or any number of items that is less than ten, like four, or
seven, or nine items for example. It is not ten items plus less than ten
other items. I was confused. These seemed like nice educated people in
line with me. Maybe they thought hand lotion, milk, orange juice,
yogurt—these are all non-solids—one item.
I quickly discovered that express lanes are not fast lanes. This was not
just baseless complaining. I had proof. As always, I tested my ability
to pick a good line. I noted that I could have been behind that man in
the red jacket, but I took the express lane, because I had only nine
items (plus one item of fruits/vegetables/cans of soup). The man in the
red jacket checked out. Then the two people behind him checked out. I
was still reading the same magazine cover that I was when I got in my
lane. I considered switching lanes. But I reminded myself that choosing
a lane is like the stock market. I couldn’t worry about the ups and
downs. I was in this for the long haul. No need to panic. Stay the
course and all will even out. Two more people in the other lane check
out. I could not read this magazine cover any longer.
I looked to the front of my line and discovered the problem. The lady at
the front tells the cashier “I’m sorry I could not find the tomato soup.
Can you please send someone?” Maybe that is why it an express lane. You
can go straight to the line without even having to find all of your
items. It is express in, but slow out.
The lady then uses a coupon. She is mystified that the cashier will not
accept it, even though it is from 1994 and the store manager explains
that the store offering the coupon went out of business and this is now
a different store.
Finally the lady decides to write a check. She hands it to the teenage
check-out girl. This girl has never seen a check before. She has no idea
what it is. She holds it up to the light. “I’m sorry Ma’am, but this is
not a real $98.41 bill.”
The lady does not hear this, though. She is still frantically rummaging
through her purse for her rewards card. Rewards cards are another thing
tough to figure out. Special discount rates for reward card holders. All
of my experiences with rewards cards go like this:
“Do you have a rewards card?”
“No.”
“Do you want to sign up for a free one now?”
“Sure.”
Then the next time I come to the store.
“Do you have a rewards card?”
“Yes, but I forgot it at home.”
“That’s okay. Just tell me your telephone number.”
I give my home number.
“I’m sorry that number is not in our system.”
I give my cell number.
“I’m sorry. That’s not in the system.”
“It’s probably my wife’s cell number. Hmmm. I have it on speed dial on
my phone, but I forgot it in the car. I think it has a lot of fours and
sevens.”
“Don’t worry. It’s okay. I’ll just scan my little card here.”
It’s like the world’s easiest test. All answers are accepted. It seems
to qualify for the special rewards card rate all you have to do is be in
the store and manage to find a checkout lane. Let’s save everyone some
time and just do away with the test.
At least in the express lane, they should limit each customer to only
two guesses at the phone number on their account. That would help a
little.
www.chadhatfield.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Health
Care, My A*Sterisk
By
William
Schmitt,
New York
I recently went to my dermatologist to have a suspicious red spot on
my stomach checked out. Of course, to see my dermatologist I had to have
called for an appointment about twenty-five years ago, so I ended up
seeing the Physician Assistant. Whenever I see a Physician Assistant
it's always a young woman, which you would think would be alright,
except I'm the one that ends up standing there dressed in my socks and a
nightgown. They call it a nightgown, but only in the sense that a paper
towel is a nightgown.
I could see it in my P.A.'s eyes as she walked in the door; Oh great,
another old, fat, hairy guy! She gave me the obligatory once over, with
all the care and concern you see from people at the livestock exhibit at
the State Fair. Undaunted, I showed her the spot on my side. “Doesn't
look like cancer to me” she quickly huffed. Apparently she hadn't seen
the pictures I'd seen on on Dr. Dave's Diagnose Your Own Disease
website. “How can you tell?” I somewhat cynically asked, wondering if
she got a decoder ring in the same box of Cracker Jacks that she got her
medical degree from. “We'll take a biopsy, just in case, she said, and
proceeded to pull out a knife that that was bigger than what they used
to amputate legs during the Civil War. Another cute assistant came in
and gave me Novocaine to dull the pain. After seeing me in my socks and
paper towel nightgown she gave herself a shot too.
My family doctor's PA is also a fairly young woman, and she always gives
me the FINGER test. Having a female intern go poking me with her finger
is not the highlight of my day, to say the least. I'm pretty sure it
isn't the highlight of hers either. She seems to poke around for quite a
while, until I begin to wonder if her finger is stuck, when she whispers
the words any man loves to hear from a younger woman;
“Well, there's no blood in your stool.”
I just don't think she has to add; “Now do us all a favor and get
dressed.” Of course, even though her examination didn't reveal much
except low self-esteem, I still had to go get a colonoscopy, the Roto-Rooter
of all medical procedures.
A colonoscopy is a root canal of the nether regions. I was told “Oh they
put you out, you won't feel a thing.” Actually, I felt a “thing.” I got
to watch the whole “thing” on TV. “Must See TV” if ever there was. The
doctor kept putting more and more of that hose up into me, I thought he
was just taking the scenic route to examine my nasal cavity. And it
hurt. Of course, there was another nice young girl there holding my hand
and giving me a little pat every time I winced. I tried to act the part
of the big stoic hero, but it's kind of hard to feel like a hero lying
there wrapped in paper towel with a cattle prod up your butt. My doctor
said it took so long because I had a really large colon. Figures, in a
society where size matters my trophies are internal.
Contrast all this with the eye exam I took. Now that was almost fun
compared with those other tortures. First of all, I got to keep my
clothes on. My head rested comfortably as my MALE doctor moved those big
funny-looking machines in front of my eyes. I had known that I needed
reading glasses, but long distance had never been a problem. He had me
cover my left eye and asked me to the read the bottom line of the chart.
No problem. He asked me to cover the right eye and read the same line of
the chart. My response was; “What chart?” Turns out my right eye is
great, my left eye sucks, and the only reason I never knew it before was
because the right eye has been carrying the left eye for fifty-some
years. Sort of like in politics.
Now, if only we could give Congress a colonoscopy.
http://hermitcrab56.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Check
Out
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom
It
happens to all guys, and it will happen to you. Heck, it HAS happened to
you. You’re strolling down the street hand in hand with your beloved,
when suddenly her grip stiffens, her speech becomes staccato, and then
five minutes later, when your mind is on something else, she growls,
“Back there, when we walked by the bank. You looked.”
Puzzled, you inquire, “Looked honey?”
“You know…” she bites.
“No, really I don’t!”
She barks, “That short skirted trollop. YOU looked.”
Flustered, because you know you’ve been caught, you explain, “Pumpkin…
honey… hey, I was just, er, admiring the profundity of the cash-point’s
graffiti. And how could one not be moved by the refined craftsmanship
that went into those expletives.” Her grip weakens, pace quadruples, and
you spend the next twelve hours trying to excuse yourself for being,
well, a man. Although, admittedly, the first hour is spent trying to
catch her up.
At first, amazement. I mean, you’ve just spent 4 hours watching her
squeeze into Macys’ entire winter wardrobe. And did she notice the
subtle glances at your watch? Or the sighs? Or that in a desperate
attempt to stay conscious you insanely replied “yes” when a sales
assistant queried, “Can I help?” Oh no – she was oblivious to all that.
But the nanosecond your eyes make contact with another woman’s pins:
bang! – you’re busted.
You see, the pioneers of the mini skirt didn’t like seeing women’s legs
- they liked watching men walk into lampposts. And the reason travelling
by plane is safer than the car has nothing to do with pilot training,
precision engineering, or the sky being less busy than the road. It’s
because clouds don’t come with adverts picturing women in their bras.
Research says that men adopt a range of glance behaviour:
1. The “Pretend you’re looking at something else” glance.
Even a boring object becomes tantalisingly stimulating when it’s
adjacent to an attractive woman. Such objects act as a cover if you’re
caught, and, thankfully, the most soulless inanimate junk will suffice -
even a city banker. Some dermatologists only joined the profession
because they were once caught checking out a “right little stunner” and
told their girlfriend that they were, in fact, dazzled by the sensual
aesthetics of a nearby accountant’s wart.
2. The “I’ve been caught and need a cover story” glance.
Upon being caught, the embarrassed male will desperately look around,
trying to create the impression that he was really just searching for
something else. Typical signs are loud remarks such as, “Damn it, where
the hell is Princess Alexandra, my pet toucan?” If quizzed, it helps to
have a rudimentary knowledge of exotic birds, although this is not
essential provided you divert attention by convincingly stating, “Oh, I
guess she must have been chomped by my pet crocodile, Martin. Thinking
about it, I haven’t seen him for a while either.”
It’s problematic for men if their eyes are constantly darting back and
forth, because it makes mixing with people awkward. One chap, concerned
that bystanders would notice, asked his GP if there was a remedy. Now,
he only socialises at the tennis.
3. The “Your wife wrongly accuses you of glancing” glance.
Infuriating because, damnations, it was a missed opportunity.
4. The “Nametag on the chest” glance.
Ladies, at conferences you often pin your nametag onto your chest. But
trust me, the reason guys keep glancing near the tag isn’t amnesia. Of
course, gents, if you do have amnesia then such women will now (at least
after reading this) consider you a letch. But on the plus side, at least
you’ll quickly forget why the left side of your face keeps stinging.
5. Mick’s case
Psychologists studied the case of Mick, who was about to undergo life
saving surgery. The chances of death were high, he’d just sobbed
farewell to his family, and his little girl kissed him tenderly,
possibly for the last time.
Question: What did they conclude Mick was most likely to have been
thinking when he was given the anaesthetic?
Answer: “Oh boy! I can see down that nurse’s top.”
WARNING: When a wife catches her husband “eyeing up” another woman, the
usual response is loud aggressive clearing of the throat. Apparently,
this led to one poor woman suffering rib injuries while strolling with
her husband. The facts are sketchy, but it appears they’d walked by a
beauty parade, and a concerned bystander raced to perform the Heimlich
manoeuvre.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Mything
Children
By
David Crawford,
British Columbia
I was walking down Orchard Street the
other day, thinking about all the myths my mother told me as a kid, when
I met a young man named Newton who had apple trees growing out of his
head.
To describe him is a bit of a challenge. He was tall and slender, clean
shaven, and his fruit was neat and recently sprayed. I couldn’t tell his
age, but based on his bark lesions I’d guess early twenties.
He said he had swallowed apple seeds as a kid, and these nicely-pruned,
fruit-laden trees were the result.
So it WAS true I thought! You shouldn’t swallow the seeds after all.
Huh.
He told me he had cherry trees growing out of his ears at one point, and
like most rebellious teens he had let his branches grow long and, well,
got into some trouble, hanging around places he shouldn’t have been.
Power lines mainly.
Before I could get around to asking him the pruning and fertilizing
questions that sprang to mind, I realized that he was a Myth Kid!!
Myth Kids are extremely rare – so rare in fact that they themselves are
considered mythical. They are people who got warned by their mothers of
all sorts of terrible things that could happen to them, and then the
terrible things actually happened!
He was living proof!
As we strolled in his shade, I asked about his crossed eyes.
“Froze that way – just like Mom said they would,” he explained. “I used
to sit really close to the TV all the time and I used to practice going
cross-eyed in school. I’ve only got myself to blame really.”
I asked about other visible scars, assuming they were old hockey
injuries perhaps.
“This one here is from when I was running around the house with sharp
scissors. And this little one here is from not holding onto my Popsicle
stick” he said.
A chill crept up my spine. I thought these were just old wives tales –
nothing more.
I worried about my own kids. Had I threatened them enough with
implausible accidental injury?
For that matter, had I washed my own ears that morning, or would
potatoes start growing back there? I couldn’t remember, so I feigned
scratching my head as I gently probed for sprouts.
As we walked I suggested to him that perhaps someone should write about
his tragic life. He was about to answer when he yelled “Watch out!” but
it was too late. I had stepped on a spider.
A sudden rainstorm began, the spider having been a Daddy Long Legs.
Another myth confirmed.
I remembered some other admonitions Mom used to say.
“Ever step on a crack in the sidewalk?” I asked.
“Mom will be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Broken back. My
fault.” His remorse was obvious.
“That’s terrible!” I said. “Weren’t medical staff able to do anything?”
“I had eaten an apple that day, which kept the Doctor away. I’ve never
forgiven myself.”
“Ever swim right after a meal?”
“I almost drown from cramps every time. Now I don’t even shower for at
least 30 minutes after each meal. Terrifying.” he said.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Not a lot. Mom says it’s all fun until someone puts an eye out. That
happened to my cousin Twiggy, so I have to be careful.”
I noticed his disfigured hands and asked “Arthritis?”
“Knuckle cracking” he said.
By this time it was dark out so I said I had best be going. It had been
an interesting conversation.
As we walked towards the corner he stumbled into a lamp post.
“Are you OK?” I asked, peering into the gloom.
“I guess. My night vision is no good. I didn’t eat carrots as a kid. And
could you stop picking my apples please? It tickles.”
This is Mything Children Awareness Month. When a Myth Kid scratches at
your door, please give generously.
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
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