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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
February/ March 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Answer The Phone
By Cindy Argiento, North Carolina
In this day and age it’s hard to believe a person doesn’t own an
answering machine; my mother is the person. She has never really grasped
the concept of the answering machine. When she calls and leaves a
message it goes as follows – “Hello, anybody there? (This is followed by
a short pause.) Hello! It’s me (which is followed by a second short
pause.) Anybody? Alright! Don’t pick up the phone! Well, if you’re
really not there, give me a call when you get in. Remember, I can always
change my will.”
To my mother
leaving a message is equivalent to a game of hide-n-go-seek when the kid
looking chants, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” She’s under the
impression we’re all hiding from her and she’s got to smoke us out.
Sometimes her messages are longer than our conversations. The following
is an example of a typical conversation with my mother.
Mother – “Hi. How are you?”
Me – “I’m fine.”
Mother – “Still breathing?”
Me – “Yes, still breathing.”
Mother “Good, then you have nothing to complain about.”
Me – “No. I can’t complain.”
Mother – “How’s the family?”
Me –“Everybody’s fine.”
Mother – “Good. So, nobody can complain, can they? Good talking to you.
Talk to you soon. Oh, one thing before I go. You may want to get that
damn answering machine of yours fixed. The last time I called and
started talking nobody picked up. Find out what the problem is.”
Me – “I’ll look into it.”
Should my mother have company our two minute conversation will be cut
down to one as I’ll be resigned to chat with whomever’s visiting at the
time.
Mother – “Your aunt’s here, want to talk to her? Of course you do, hold
on. She answers her phone when I call, unlike some people.”
Just as I’m about to say, “Had I really wanted to talk to so and so I
would call them,” my aunt gets on the line.
Aunt Ann – “Hello, Cindy, how are you?”
Me – “I’m fine.”
Aunt Ann – “Still breathing?” (She’s my mothers’ sister.)
Me – “Yes, I’m still breathing.”
Aunt Ann – “Good, then you can’t com…. hold on a second, Cindy, your
mother’s yelling at me. Oh, your mother says I have to hang up now as
this is the second time she’s called today. The first time she got the
machine and nobody picked up. Oh, Cindy, that’s not good. You really
should find out what the problem is and get it fixed.”
Me – “I’ll look into it. Bye.”
As I bang my head against the wall I think – one phone call – double the
aggravation.
www.cindyargiento.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Cake
Anyone?
By Debbie Fox, Illinois
In 1972, young and newly married, I adopted a mongrel beagle puppy from
the local animal shelter. The caramel-colored pup, no bigger than my
hand, licked my fingers and melted my heart. I paid my eight dollars and
took my “baby” home.
Bubbles, named for her exuberance, was adorable but mischievous. She
needed just an hour while I was out shopping to chew through an aluminum
faucet handle in the bathtub and then peel the linoleum from the
bathroom floor as if it were a Post-it note. When she devoured two
twenty-dollar bills one evening, except for half a serial number and one
of Jackson’s bushy eyebrows, I had to write to the U.S. Treasury and
swear that the bills were eaten by my dog. Several weeks later, I
received a check for forty dollars from the government, luckily without
an admonition to guard my money more carefully.
The dog’s chewing fixation continued throughout her first year of life.
Her sweet tooth was as bad as mine, and a sack of rock candy proved no
challenge for jaws. She not only gobbled all the candy but also the
strings that connected the irregular-shaped confections. After her
snack, I was surprised she had any teeth left.
Bubbles was an indiscriminate chewer. One day, she gnawed the top off a
specimen bottle that contained my husband’s prize gallstone. I found the
stone, once the size of a small plum, crunched into tiny pieces, lying
next to the tooth-marked bottle. Obviously, gallstones weren’t as tasty
as the candy.
As Bubbles got older, she grew even more daring. One evening, I prepared
to host a jewelry party—an opportunity for me to dazzle my friends and
relatives with my homemaking skills. The house gleamed, the crystal and
china sparkled on the table, and my culinary creation—an iced chocolate
cake—sat on the counter next to the coffee maker. I scanned the rooms
and then, satisfied that everything was in order, went to change
clothes.
When I returned ten minutes later, I spied Bubbles with her hind legs on
the backrest of a chair, front paws on the counter, balanced like a
circus performer. He head was bent over my dessert, and her little pink
tongue darted in and out faster than a hummingbird’s wings as she licked
frosting from the cake.
“Bubbles! Get down from there!” I yelled.
The dog scrambled off the chair and ducked under the table. She curled
up a lip and seemed to smile at me.
“What have you done?” I growled at the dog. Knowing the type of damage
jaws could wreak, I groaned and braved a look at the cake. Not one bite
was missing, but the sweet topping was gone!
I glanced at the clock. My guests would be arriving soon. What would I
serve? Nearly in tears and desperate to make a good impression as a
hostess, I snatched a wad of paper towels and blotted the top of the
cake. I grabbed another can of frosting (yes, a can of ready-made) and
slathered it on just before the first guests arrived. When the ladies
complimented me on my baking, I just smiled.
Thirty years and four dogs later, I still love my dogs, despite their
shenanigans. I am temporarily between dogs now, so it’s safe to come
over for cake.
www.debbiefox.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Alone
Time
By Kim M., Kentucky
(Author's last name withheld by request.)
If you can't get
your kids to give you the attention you desire, and you are permanently
hoarse from screaming, "come here, NOW!", then here is THE way to get
their undivided attention; go to the bathroom!
Every time I go to the bathroom and shut the door, seconds later I hear
endless knocking and, "mooooom! What are you doing?? Let us in!" And
they do not leave, or stop knocking, until I open that door.
No matter what I am doing, like plucking my eyebrows, relieving my
bladder, squeezing a zit, crying about something, or trying to stuff
cookies down my throat, they are there.
They shake the door and yell in panicky voices, like I found a window
and jumped out, or dived into the toilet and flushed. It's even worse
when I CAN'T open the door in a timely manner because I am in agonizing
pain and stuck on the toilet.
For instance, if I ate something loaded with cheese and oil for lunch,
and my stomach, 10 minutes later, says, "OH NO YOU DIDN'T!" I can
understand their distress, as one second I am at the table hearing their
latest "knock knock" joke, and the next I am up the stairs and out of
site with no explanation.
The scene:
I have flown upstairs. I am clutching my gurgling stomach, as gaseous,
digested globs of waste push on every intestinal curve, threatening to
blast out before I can get my pants down.
Now on the toilet, writhing in pain because my body has decided to add
constipation to this cheese-induced Irritable Bowel Encounter, I hear
this:
Kids: "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! OPEN THE DOOR!"
Me: [sweating and panting like I am about to birth a category 5 twister]
"I...can't...now..."
Kids: "We can't get the..."
Me: "FIGURE IT OUT YOURRRRRRRRRR [about to faint] SELF!"
More knocking.
Me: "LEAVE ME ALONE!" [groaning now, pretty sure I am about to die.]
Kids: "We're hungry!"
Me: [uncontrollably shaking, not sure which hole the toxins will shoot
out first] "YOU CAN WWW...WWW...WAIT A MINUTE!"
Kids: "MOOOOOOM! Open the door now!"
Me: [ready to leave the planet at this point] "Would you both just go DO
SOMETHING??"
Kids: "We can't get the movie to start!"
Me: "FOR THE LOVE! LEAVE ME ALONE!" [now promising God I will be a
better mom should I survive this.]
Kids: "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
Suddenly my body cooperates, and sounds resembling a terrible and fatal
car wreck ring out. I am relieved (and horrified) literally and
figuratively.
Knocking has not stopped.
All this time, my kids could have been tearing apart the kitchen, eating
Styrofoam, sliding head-first down the stairs in their sleeping bags,
writing on each other with permanent markers, playing with fire, doing
anything they wanted. But, instead, they are glued to the bathroom door,
waiting to enter.
I flush the toilet, praying it doesn't stop-up from the carnage that
just took place. I wash my hands and finally, to stop the pounding, open
the door.
The kids fly in, and, you guessed it, they fly right back out.
Kids: "MOM! [retching ensues] WHAT IS THAT SMELL??"
Me: "Kids, that is the smell of what mommy likes to call, 'alone time'."
Yeah. I need some better alone time.
www.kimnfam.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Point
And Shoot
By Debbie Patrick, Pennsylvania
I was standing at my doorway talking to one of the other kindergarten
teachers about the Halloween parade we would have with the classes on
Friday. The children had their coats and backpacks on, and were milling
around the room chatting and basically SHAKING with the anticipation of
Halloween. I was facing the class and my teacher friend was standing in
the doorway. Then, BAM! –in front of us stood Anthony. His pants were
around his ankles, his underwear was ALMOST pulled up far enough to
cover his private parts and he was SCREAMING at me, “MRS. PATRICK, I
FORGOT TO POINT MY PENIS TO THE TOILET AND NOW MY PANTS ARE SOAKED!!”
Now, normally this wouldn’t get too much of a rise out of me. I have
been teaching for 20 years, and have been in kindergarten for 7 - not
much scares me anymore. However, they were going to be dismissing the
kids in 60 SECONDS- and I had a half-naked boy who was not only
screaming, his penis was bouncing up and down as he was jumping and
begging me to get him some dry clothes. So, I FLEW to my closet, grabbed
the clothes, dragged him to bathroom that is actually attached to our
room, and threw him AND the clean clothes into the bathroom. “GET
CHANGED- QUICKLY!!!!”
I waited for a minute, opened the door and was greeted by a WET pair of
underwear in the face. (And it wasn’t water, that’s for sure!) Then, I
saw Anthony lying on the floor, naked from the waist down, crying that
he couldn’t wear the sweat pants because they “felt funny.” I BEGGED him
for about 2 minutes to PLEASE put the pants on. He kept chanting, “No!
No! No! No!” Then, as if GOD were speaking to me, I knew just what to
do. I uttered these words to Anthony. “I’ll give you a prize from the
prize box if you put those pants on!!!!”
And with that he jumped up and with a huge smile on his face said,
“Okay!!!!”
I ran back to my closet while he put on the rest of the clothing, and
just as he chose his prize the children were dismissed over the loud
speaker. Did the other children notice the CHAOS? No. Did they care that
a naked Anthony had been a screaming lunatic for the past four minutes?
No. Did the teacher across the hall looked shocked by this whole
exchange? No. Am I glad I have parents send in an extra set of clothes?
You bet I am.
And, might I add, whoever said bribery doesn’t work, has NEVER, EVER
worked with children.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Musings
Of A Reluctant Ski Mom
By Eva Potter,
New York
Certain facts would lead you to believe
that I’m an avid skier. I was born in Austria, was raised in a skiing
family, married a fantastic skier, and produced two ski-crazed children.
You can hear it coming, can’t you?
I do not like to ski!
Just because I was born in a country that idolizes its medal-winning ski
team more than the U.S. idolizes George Clooney does not mean that I am
a willing participant. Don’t get me wrong, I was the loudest screaming
teenager in the house when Austrian, Franz Klammer, won the most
exciting downhill in the history of ski racing in the 1976 Innsbruck
Olympics. Watching this sport is exhilarating, but so is watching
Deadliest Catch. Frankly, I’m not interested in participating in either
one. Ever.
Even though it wasn’t my cup of tea, over the years I had put in my time
as the dutiful daughter, wife and mother. Most Sundays, my husband and I
prepared for an evening of night skiing by stuffing the children into
their ski clothes until they waddled like Michelin men, boosted them
into the back seat of the truck, and drove 20 bumpy minutes to one of
the greatest ski areas in the Northeast.
I really should have appreciated our proximity to this wonderful place,
but the closer we got the more my anxiety would rise. Soon we’d unload
the children and start hauling all the equipment. We were just too tired
of hearing the complaints. “It’s too heavy.” “I don’t wanna do it.” “I’m
tired.” Their enthusiasm was underwhelming. It also didn’t help that we
always managed to park a mile and a half away. (Parking is always at a
premium in ski areas—well, close parking, that is.) I guess it was a
little too far to ask a 4-year-old and an 8-year-old child to carry skis
and poles, all while hiking in eight-pound ski boots like Big Foot
across the all-terrain parking lot.
The kids both picked up skiing as easily as breathing. They had no fear.
Of course, they weren’t old enough to realize that all sorts of “little”
things could happen. Things like dropping a glove while on the
chairlift, accidentally losing a ski while riding the chairlift, or
falling off the chairlift. What if the chairlift stopped—for no
reason—and never started back up? They were too young to see these
obvious perils. However, dwarfing these was the stomach-lurching feeling
that I’d accidentally end up skiing down a black diamond slope with
them. Certainly, this would not happen without a lot of trickery, and I
assure you that would have produced a very unhappy ending.
Yes, you guessed it. Those were not my kids’ fears. They were mine—every
single one of them and then some. I could list all sorts of reasons not
to ski. Have I mentioned that my fingers get cold in 15 minutes flat,
even with those little “baggie” hand warmers in my gloves? Or that I
could buy a gorgeous sweater for the price of a lift ticket? And, if I
played my cards right, I could have an evening in the house—alone?
The final nail in the coffin came one fateful Sunday when the kids
excitedly shouted across the slope, “Watch this, Mom!” That was the last
I saw of them…for quite some time. I pushed off and sped down as fast as
I possibly dared—without risking an embarrassing yard sale or painful
thumb fracture—to watch them perform their stunts and tricks, but it was
hopeless. After the first bend, they were long gone. When I finally
reached the bottom, I was met with great impatience. “Where have you
been? We’ve been waiting f-o-r-e-v-e-r!”
That’s when I knew my job was done. The kids no longer need their
anxiety-prone mother lecturing them about frostbite, ski etiquette, and
line cutting. Now it was dad’s job. Secretly, I was relieved but
saddened, too. Another milestone had been achieved in their young lives.
When the season ended that year, I packed up all the ski gear, along
with my neuroses, knowing I would never come out of retirement again.
Not without a huge incentive package.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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What's
In A Nonsense Name?
By
Joel Schwartzberg,
New Jersey
The trend in giving your company a
nonsense name reached a new high when Sci Fi channel announced it was
changing its name to "Syfy."
Sci Fi Channel president Dave Howe explained the change to TV Week in
March:
"It made us feel much cooler, much more cutting-edge, much more hip,
which was kind of bang-on what we wanted to achieve communication-wise."
Considering "bang-on" and "communication-wise", it's clear Mr. Howe has
no bias against linguistic innovation.
"It's a call to action," Howe also said. "Look at the everyday and how
you can turn it to the extraordinary. It's an aspirational, optimistic
message about enhancing people's lives."
So, you see, "Syfy" is actually an aspirational, optimistic message
about enhancing lives. Just like "Gellin'," "Don't Worry Be Happy," and
other such nonsense. And since nonsense can also be interpreted to mean
anything, William Safire and Will Shortz can claim no reasonable beef
against it.
So let's welcome Syfy to the nonsense-named media family, including
Twitter (clever nonsense), Google (rich nonsense), Chumby (soft
nonsense), Verizon (network nonsense), Wiki-anything (wiki-nonsense),
and Accenture (still-smells-of-Enron nonsense).
Welcome also to the extended brotherhood, which includes Snuggie
(body-hugging nonsense), Zima (girly-drink-for-men nonsense) and just
about every pharmaceutical advertised in prime time. Say hi to Cialis,
Selexa, Symbalta, and Lexipro (fear-for-your-liver nonsense).
I'm excluding a slew of wacky dot-com names (Frengo, Ooma, Wakoopa)
because repeating them all aloud might accidentally cause rainfall or
someone to rise from the dead. But I will include Hulu, even though it's
actually an old Hawaiian term meaning "Do exactly what Alec Baldwin
says."
Before you start thinking about this as some kind of nonsense
revolution, know that we've actually been here before. As evidence, I
offer the following nonsensical confections: Ring Dings, Ding Dongs,
Twinkies, Ho-Hos, Haagen-Dazs, and Milli Vanilli.
What's in a name anyway? That which we call a Zooba by any other name
would smell as sweet.
So let's be proud of our nonsense, and just let our spell-checks sweat
it out.
As the new slogan for Syfy says, "Imagine greater."
(Though it should probably be "Just make it up.")
http://www.fortyyearoldversion.com
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