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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/May 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
April/ May 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Golden Years...Indeed!
By
Maryann Bertoli,
California
Doesn’t “golden years” seem like a
stretch of the imagination? The “rusty years” might be more appropriate.
Like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz, I feel like every joint in my body
needs a lube job.
As I age, various parts of my body are taking a turn visiting the
doctor. With each ache and pain, it feels like there’s a carnival barker
in my head calling out, “Next? Who’s next? Step up Mr. Liver. Get in
line, right knee. You have to wait your turn, Ms. Bladder.”
With every passing year, my body seems to morph into an alien being, a
stranger. When did my skin become as dry as a desert and as wrinkled as
a Shar-pei? My double chin hangs like a turkey’s wattle. My breasts are
not only heading south for the winter, but for the summer, too.
Ever since the three year-old daughter of my pregnant niece asked me if
I also had a baby in my tummy, I realized that could be the reason I can
no longer see my feet.
My eyelids droop like I haven’t slept in a year. Though insomnia is an
ongoing problem at night, I can sleep for hours in my recliner while
pretending to watch TV.
I have been trying to grow old gracefully. If being graceful means
moving slower, then I am a ballerina. But, there is nothing graceful
about getting down on the floor and nothing worse than having to call in
reinforcements when it is time to get me up.
Even the cabinets in my house look different than they were forty years
ago. No longer do they contain tanning lotion and birth control pills. I
now have moisturizer with Spf 50 sunscreen, antacids, hemorrhoid
shrinkers, denture cream, laxatives, and enough prescriptions to open my
own pharmacy.
Instead of chili dogs, pizza, hot wings, and beer of yore, my
refrigerator contains egg substitute, skim milk, prunes, and anything
else that is either mild, bland or easy to chew. The pantry has five
different kinds of mush, each with its own low-fat, low sugar, low
sodium, low cholesterol, fiber enhanced claims. My two old favorite
cookbooks which called for lard or shortening exclusively, have been
replaced with Staying Young with Tofu and The Anti-aging Cookbook.
My closet is crammed with clothes from the last three decades of the
twentieth century that are too good to throw away. But, it’s frustrating
the way they have shrunk from year to year. My underwear drawer has the
practical cotton panties that last forever, and bras that I bought with
a two-way stretch that are finally broken in and have a comfortable
five-way stretch.
Sex life? My sex life is about as exciting as a hot flash on a summer
day. It has been replaced with the exhilaration of yelling “Bingo” on
Wednesday Nights at the Senior Center, the excitement of the mature
discount on my automobile insurance policy, and a passion for the early
bird specials at Denny’s.
The age appropriate books in my library are How to Live to be 100 and
Chair Exercises for the Elderly. However, I don’t read much anymore
since the print got so small and the lighting got so bad.
The majority of my mail is from companies reminding me of my declining
health and that it is time to plan for my impending demise. Much of it
is from hearing-aid companies, long-term care facilities, living trust
attorneys, and mortuaries urging funeral planning. The mail has never
been so depressing.
Speaking of memory--were we?--what ever happened to mine? All those
so-called senior moments leave me feeling like a nomad. I wander around
trying to remember where I put my keys, the T.V. remote, or my glasses.
It seems strange that I can remember my first kiss or how many stitches
they put in my head when I was six, but I can’t remember what I walked
into a room to get or the name of the person I just met.
But, I’m not alone. There are many of us at the “metallic” age – silver
in our hair, gold in our teeth, titanium in our hips, copper in our
pockets, and lead in our pants.
In spite of the pitfalls of aging, I still celebrate each morning when I
wake up. The golden years are the ones when you are still breathing.
These are the golden years indeed!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Bughumbah?
By
Tripp Champion,
Florida
If you've been out shopping for holiday
decorations to maybe hang a small wreath on your door or decorate a few
shrubs in front of your house with multi-colored lights, yet found the
shelves empty, it is because my neighbor, Tony, has them all.
Sorry, no Christmas for you this year -
Tony took it all and put it in his front yard and then lit it up like
the Houston Astrodome so as to ensure that our friends on Pluto could
also enjoy his holiday festoons.
He's the worst offender so far, but his
maniacal compulsion to decorate and light every square inch of his house
has touched off a frenzy of one-upsmanship in the last few years along
our street.
One of my neighbors, in keeping with the
reality TV craze, has set up a mock Santa Claus boardroom on his front
lawn where a live Santa, with a bad comb-over, pits elves against one
another and attacks them for their meager toy output and anemic profit
margins only to shout "You're Fired!" at one of the little helpers then
sends them packing. This goes on from 7pm to 8pm each night with limited
commercial interruptions.
But this is what it's all about, right?
Showing your Christmas Spirit! A time to get into serious hock with your
creditors and ruin your credit score. Mortgage, Shmortgage....pay it
next month, instead take that paycheck and spend it on flocking the
queen palm tree in your front yard with fake snow.
The inflatable Over-sized Christmas Character Yard Display Industry sent
their VIPs to our neighborhood to personally thank us for "Resuscitating
a deflating industry." Nearly every Disney Christmas character that is
capable of being inflated to 14 times its intended size to create a
menacing blob of plastic and hot air is displayed on our front lawns.
There is just too much stuff available to
the average homeowner for use in "decorating" their home for the
holidays. When I was a young lad, we did one thing to the outside of our
house and one thing only. And that was putting up our Santa Ass display.
My parents created our Santa Ass out of chicken wire, newspaper and
sheets for stuffing, and found a Salvation Army Santa suit to wrap
around the Santa Ass and legs.
Next, we watched Dad install the Santa
Ass into the second floor window of our house and proceed to wire up the
contraption so as to give the appearance that Santa was climbing into
our house - bag full of toys and all.
Experiencing these Norman Rockwell
moments with my family in our front yard was actually where I first
learned profanity, courtesy of my father teetering on a ladder 30 feet
in the air. But, the Santa Ass display was a huge hit in our town and
enough attention was given to our house during Christmas that the local
newspaper would cover our story every year.
As an adult, I have rebelled and now have the only unlit house in the
neighborhood and am catching sled-fulls of reindeer do-do for it. Unlike
Tony, I have decided to earn a living during the month of December
rather than spend my days and nights tempting electrocution by
constantly re-tooling the light show. I've been called Ebeneezer, Grinch,
and Anti Claus because I have not yet stuck one bulb or inflatable thing
in my yard.
I'm really more of an Easter person - the
holiday where people all over the world celebrate "brunch." I've got a
giant Eggs Benedict inflatable that I'll be setting up on the front lawn
and I'll be flocking my queen palm tree with Hollandaise Sauce all in an
effort to capture the true meaning of Easter.
We'll see if Tony catches Easter Fever
and can somehow miraculously find Easter lights at Target, because if
it's a holiday you've gotta be lit.
www.napleschampion.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Joy
Of Shirt Shopping Lost On Audio Guy
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
The joy of shopping is lost on old shirts guys.
Through no fault of my own, I possess two new dress shirts. And a nice
pair of slacks.
Like most self-improvement plans, responsibility fell to lovely new
bride.
It started pleasantly enough. One of the gift cards we received for our
wedding six months ago was to a major department store.
“You know what we could put this toward, don’t you,” my wife said.
“I sure do,” I said.
“I’m glad we agree,” she said. “What colors were you thinking?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Black would be fine. It would match
anything.”
“Odd choice, but I suppose that will do for the first one,” she said.
“Long-sleeved or short?”
“Wait,” I said, sensing a failure to communicate. “First one? Long or
short? We are talking about a 7.1 Surround Sound home theater system,
right? With a 54-inch flat screen?”
“You and your wisecracks,” she said with an indulgent chuckle. “No,
silly! Your new shirts, of course. A home theater system! What a
jokester.”
I wasn’t joking. Nor am I enjoying Dolby Surround Sound. But now I do
have two new shirts and a nice pair of dress slacks.
Yipee.
With Terry leading the charge and me shuffling a close 50 to 70 feet
behind, we sallied into the department store.
First we carefully examined the racks for tall and large guys (according
to height-weight charts, I am 9-foot-11), moved toward the normal guy
racks, considered all the specials racks, some of them twice, and
rummaged through end caps and other displays.
“You need new shirts,” she said.
“I like the ones I have. That’s why I wear them. It’s why I’ve been
wearing them for 15 years. They’re comfortable. Soft. Broken in.”
“More like broken down,” she said. “Barely there. And pretty much all
plain blue. We’re married now. If you don’t start dressing better,
people will think it’s my fault.”
So I have two new (not plain blue) shirts. And a nice pair of dress
slacks.
Never have I expended so much study on the selection of any item of
clothing not bearing a sports logo. It was exhausting.
“How about this ruby shirt,” she said. “You look good in jewel tones.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“You’d look great in this deep purple,” she said.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Oh, look at this emerald shirt!” she said.
“That’s nice,” I said. But I may have winced.
Terry sneezed and pulled a tissue from her pocket.
“That’s nice,” I said.
She glared at me. “You’re not having fun, are you?”
“It’s supposed to be fun?” I said. “Like a poke in the eye?”
She didn’t poke me. Instead, she snatched two new shirts and a nice pair
of dress slacks, slapped them in the cart and marched me out of the
store. Finally.
Someday I probably will take the new shirts out of their plastic.
Someday, I probably will pull the new pants from their display hanger.
Some day.
I figure the longer I can keep the shirts new, the longer it will be
before another trip is necessary.
Until then, I have two new shirts and a nice pair of dress pants.
http://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.
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Tool
Drool
By
David Crawford,
British Columbia
My 8 year-old son’s Cub Scout troop was
paying a visit to a cabinet makers shop the other day.
It was pretty amazing and I remember most of it even though I lost
consciousness after walking through the front door.
I’m not sure if it was the blinding white, halo-like glow emanating from
each blessed tool that gave me the vapors, or if it was the sound of
heavenly choirs blasting in my head that did it.
It was…spectacular.
It was the…Garage Mahal.
As I looked around I saw little animated stars go “Ting!” all over the
shiny, un-dusty surfaces.
It was a huge shop, well lit, equipped with an amazing variety of tools,
and it had radiant heat and dust extraction tubing built right into the
concrete floor! (Most tool-guys reading that sentence just fainted).
Now this may not sound like a big deal, but there was also a two-bladed
table saw with a computerized, robotic fence! (The fainted bodies laying
around just started twitching…).
Naturally, there were a lot of questions.
“Do you know how to actually work all these tools mister?” someone
asked.
“Yes – I use them every day,” said the carpenter.
“So, do you actually know what the really little lines are on a tape
measure?” another asked.
“Yes – and I know how to use them too,” he said.
“Wooooow!”
Then we let the kids ask some questions.
“I see you’re using a three-phase pre-framulation unit on your
dingle-arm reciprocator, does it work as well as the 4 phase
synchro-mizer?”
I made a mental note to smack that kid. When we got home.
“Do you ever use swear words when you’re building stuff like Dad does?”
another smart-aleck asked.
“My Dad marks his lumber with a crayon and he uses a housewife apron in
his shop” said another.
The men all pointed and laughed at that father.
“Heh heh that was pretty funny yes sir oh boy am I gonna get him when we
get home,” I said under my breath, smiling proudly.
OK so I’m not the handiest of guys when it comes to tools. Big deal.
That does not mean I can’t envy another man's table saw, or check out
the angles on his cordless 18 volt tool package.
I’ve analyzed the visceral appeal of tools to guys (not too deeply mind
you) and I figure men like tools because they enjoy flirting with
danger.
Knowing how quickly your money (or digits) can disappear while around
these babies gives them a certain appeal, like fast cars or breathing
women.
In fact, I think it is perfectly normal for a man to sneak down to his
workshop at night and softly caress the gentle curves of his drill
press, to drink in the perfume of his off-cut lumber, or shudder in
anticipation of using his 10 inch sliding compound miter saw.
“Dad! Wake up! You were moaning and twitching again and the show’s
almost over.”
“I’m sorry son – I must have drifted off” I said.
“You do that all the time. I think I’m old enough to watch Bob Villa by
myself don’t you think?”
“We’ll talk about it son,” I said.
“Here’s a tissue for the drool on your chin too, Dad. Now just run along
to bed, OK?”
“OK son” I said, sleepily.
They grow up so fast don’t they?
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dream
Professor
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom
Dear Professor:
I have a recurring nightmare in which I’m a letter of the alphabet – a
“B” - but I struggle to walk and it’s leaving me morose and grouchy.
It’s nauseating watching that “O” having all the fun, rolling around
without a care in the world and boasting, ad nauseam, that of all the
letters he does the best parody of a shocked mouth. Why this is a good
thing I have no idea, but it certainly upsets my butcher - an “E” - who
feels that his send-up of a comb is far more avant-garde. (As a bonus,
it taunts bald men.)
Meanwhile, the “U” is filing a sexual harassment suit against the “Q.”
The “Y” is depressed because he keeps being mistaken for a dowsing rod.
And the “Z” is schizophrenic, believing that he’s really an “N” who’s
too drunk to stand upright.
Worse, the “O” constantly mocks me, boasting that he can also get work
as a zero, and that his newborn kids already have locum jobs covering
for suicidal full stops. I try to disguise myself as an “8,” but as a
“B” I lack the symmetry and opt for cosmetic surgery. The operation is
botched, and I spend the rest of my days working as a pair of novelty
boobs for Wingdings.
-- Bob Dunderhead
Dear Bob:
You’ve probably spotted that everything in this dream suggests a deep
hatred of cabbage. But on a deeper level – and this is a long shot - I
do wonder whether you have issues with the letter “O.”
Have you ever been verbally berated by a gentleman disguised as a ring
doughnut? If so, it may have caused you to unconsciously hate the letter
“O.” I really think you must have been because your name sounds familiar
- WAY too familiar. And for the record, “the incident” was your fault
for trying to doodle the Mona Lisa onto my schnitzel sandwich, you
immature jackass.
Warm regards,
-- Prof.
***
Dear Professor:
Do you think that naturists have nightmares in which, to their horror,
they find themselves in a crowded room fully clothed?
-- Kelly
Dear Kelly:
Never. Are you some sort of cretin? Although, a common one is that they
lose their reading glasses and end up butt naked at a symposium on
naturalism.
-- Prof.
***
Dear Professor:
I always dream that I’m three onions, which is a pain because it takes
forever to undress and I’ve just landed a gig as a stripper. Then,
mother threatens that if I misbehave she’ll put me in a lamb casserole.
This upsets me greatly because my sister is the lamb, and I’m pretty
sure she’ll look too wistful covered in sauce.
An argument ensues and mother cries. Not through upset, but because I
know the reaction she has to onions and have purposely self-harmed.
Father enters and suggests that I’m a mild onion and that mother’s
symptoms are psychosomatic. On the other hand, my Priest thinks I’m
mentally ill for even suggesting that I’m an onion; he figures I’m
clearly a dapper beetroot.
Sister simply bleats incessantly, and the only way to silence her is
with the threat of a large jug of mint sauce - which bears a remarkable
resemblance to grandma, only it doesn’t fall over as easily when kicked.
I then wake up in bed – for real this is - covered in soil, while being
harassed by sixteen undersized greengrocers.
-- Sarah
Dear Sarah:
According to plant psychologists, this is a common dream among both
adolescents and root vegetables. The main difference being that in the
vegetable version the turnip is flummoxed as to how he afforded a
mattress.
The three onions are symbolic and represent your mother; your mother
represents your father, and the lamb pie represents a lamb pie. But the
big question is this: who is the real you in this whole debacle? You
probably think the jug of mint sauce, but then that would make your
grandmother a pot roast, which is clearly poppycock. To be honest I’m
clueless, but I usually have an epiphany when I’m sent a cheque for
£5000.
Awakening covered in soil suggests you were either sleepwalking or your
shower is broken. Should you ring the police about the greengrocers?
Well, that depends on whether you own a phone - you probably don’t, and
clearly the priority is fixing your shower. (And also sending me £5000.
Definitely remember that bit.)
-- Prof.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Advice
For Pigs/Humans Suffering From Swine Flu
By Ryan Taylor,
Missouri
So what the fudge packets is up with all
this swine flu stuff these days? I mean, it’s pretty scary, I’ll admit.
Turning into a PIG!?!?!? That’s sure not something I want to put on my
job resume. I mean we’re in an economic recession and I hear all of this
hubbub on the TV (television) about turning into a stupid PIG!
So I says to myself, “How am I going to
get a job if I turn into a pig?” Well, I did some research and there
actually is some pretty neat stuff you can do in America if you do in
fact become a pig and I took the sweet precious time out of my day to
make a list of pig-related job opportunities if some of you are
unfortunate enough to turn into a swine (e.g. pig):
1. You could be a pig - I know it doesn’t sound like the bee’s knees,
but pigs actually do a lot of cool stuff these days. They have actually
trained pigs to pay people’s taxes, not even joking. Pigs also get the
wholesome opportunity to roll around in feces, eat feces, and do tons of
cool feces-related activities. They are also regarded as very social and
intelligent animals, so you could write a novel or go to a party or
something cool like that. Now, I know being a pig doesn’t pay too well,
but you get tasty meals consisting of sludge and corn products and a
nice dirty pen before you are brutally slaughtered to make bacon, and
bacon is important because it is delicious.
2. You could give birth to another Hogzilla - That’s right, you can make
history!! Remember that giant pig in 2004 that the little kid killed? It
weighed like 1,000 pounds!!! Well, they DNA tested that thing and found
out that it was a cross between a regular pig and wild boar. So, okay,
listen closely because you might not remember this if you become a pig
since your human brain will turn into a pig brain and you might forget
some stuff from the human-pig transformation. Okay, if you become a pig,
you have to find a BIG wild boar babe (or boar dude if you are a girl
pig) and you need to pork it (no pig pun intended). Then, you will
hopefully have a pretty big baby pig and you need to feed it TONS of
sluge, corn, tacos, burritos, other pigs, quesadillas, WHATEVER IT WILL
EAT. Then it will hopefully grow into a super pig and some dumb kid will
kill it and get on the news and everyone (well, not everyone, but maybe
some high-ranking members of the pig community) will know that you
helped create the new Hogzilla!!! Your parents will be so proud of you!
3. You could become a famous pig – For this, you will have to have some
pretty good contacts and maybe some recommendation letters from a few
farmers. But think of all the famous pigs in society: Babe from the
movie Babe, that pig from Charlottes web, that pig from Winnie the Pooh,
those evil pigs from Animal Farm…those pigs are all FAMOUS. I bet most
of you reading this right now can’t even get famous as a human. And
being famous is COOL! The wealth, the beautiful women, the fancy cars,
the big houses…you’ll be livin’ the good life, only as a pig.
Man, I bet you guys aren’t even scared of turning into pigs anymore.
You’re like, “Man, being a pig would be so cool, sign me up!” Well, I
can’t because there really is no pig sign-up sheet and, well, I don’t
really know how that would even work at all so all of you that asked
that are just morons.
But, yah, if you turn into a pig you’re
going to need to find this list and you may not be able to pick it up if
you’re a pig because you will not have opposable thumbs, so just print
it out and keep it in a safe place where most pigs would be able to get
to it (maybe in your local pig pen??)
So be safe, everyone, and be extra nice to pigs, because you never know
what pigs are actually humans suffering from swine flu.
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