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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/May 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our April/
May 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Bike For Sale, Cheap!
By Chris Adkins, Idaho
There are three nice things about my home town of Boise: #1) A beautiful
river runs through it to the delight of fishermen in the spring, rafters
in the summer, and gangsters needing to dump bodies in the dark of
night. I'm kidding, of course, since the closest thing our town has to
gangsters is my nine-year-old paperboy (If you're reading this Leon,
I'll have your money on Tuesday. Please stop putting my Sunday edition
on the roof.)
#2) A tree-lined greenbelt follows the river for miles and provides an
ideal location for bicyclists to practice yelling “Left!” and for dogs
to walk their humans in between poops.
#3) The local Chinese restaurant just expanded their delivery zone to
include my neighborhood. This has nothing to do with the river, but I’m
still giddy.
Recently, I found myself sitting in my hot car on the slow commute to
work, gazing longingly at the bicyclists cruising gracefully beside the
river and dodging piles of dog poop. As my air conditioner recycled the
exhaust from the car in front of me, and as the sun tanned my left arm
twelve shades darker than my right, I thought to myself, “How can I
still be hot when I'm not wearing pants?!” By closing my eyes and
listening carefully I could almost hear the river calling to me: “Come
to me. Ride beside me. Put on pants.”
I recently had the opportunity to move into a home that is so close to
the river I could hit it with a cat if I were in a cat-throwing mood
(which is usually only always). As I unloaded the moving van, I
fantasized about the summer afternoons that I would spend floating down
the river in my inner tube, a cooler of iced beer drifting next to me. I
rationalized that such laziness would be compensated by the aerobic
workouts I would get riding my bike along the river to work every day,
and by throwing cats.
On the first Saturday morning after moving in, I cleaned years of dust
off my ancient Schwinn, inflated the tires, and set out on the greenbelt
for a reunion with joys I had not known since my bike-riding youth. I
immediately learned that two things had changed in the twenty years
since I raced down country roads like a two-wheeled gazelle. #1) The
bike seat had morphed from a supportive cushion into a prostate-piercing
railroad spike. #2) The tiny bugs that used to drift with me on warm
summer evenings had since evolved into tonsil-seeking kamikazes the size
of barn owls. Although I knew the bugs were high in protein and low in
fat, they tasted a little too West Nile-ish for me so I decided to vomit
them back up immediately. My performance of this feat while flailing
atop a moving bike is something that I doubt many Tour de France riders
could match in distance or volume, and dozens of nearby pedestrians
showed their admiration by frantically dialing 911 on their cell phones.
As I crossed over a bridge, a woman rode past with a baby strapped into
her bike’s rear seat, the bridge's wooden planks chattering him like a
gallon of Tuscan Sunrise in a paint shaker. I hoped for the little guy’s
sake that, like me, he too had lost all feeling in his body from the
navel down.
The end finally came after I ran into a pile of droppings that had been
left by either a Great Dane who had eaten a bag of cement, or by Jaba
the Hutt. Either way I went over the handlebars at high speed, fortunate
that a park bench was available to break my fall. Being a strong
believer in omens --and in physics-- I decided that it was time to move
on to hobbies like painting, meditating, or any other endeavor that
doesn’t require surgeons to remove a bike seat from my colon.
If anyone is interested in a slightly-used ten-speed, all I ask in
return is a big ol' inner tube and a cooler full of beer (and one
aerodynamic cat).
© Copyright
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 Little-Known
Hints For Central America Travel
By Becky Cardwell, Alberta
I recently returned from a two month trip to Central America, where I
was fortunate enough to study Spanish and experience the customs in
Guatemala, Belize, Honduras and Nicaragua. It was an amazing experience,
and even though I ran into a few situations that my trusted Lonely
Planet had not prepared me for, I am already looking forward to my next
visit.
In an effort to help other solo travelers planning to visit this
culturally-diverse region for the first time, I have composed a list of
useful, yet little-known guidelines. Feel free to print this sheet off
and circulate to family and friends.
1. Bring anti-nausea medication with you at all times. Accept the fact
you will get violently ill anyway.
2. Don’t assume that your new Nicaraguan boyfriend is serious when he
says he has never felt this way about a financially independent foreign
girl before.
3. Valium, Ritalin, Xanax and other medications your Doctor won’t
prescribe you (due to your addictive personality), can be purchased at
the local Farmacia, no questions asked.
4. Don’t be surprised if the medications referred to in #3 expired two
years earlier.
5. False advertising is not a crime, but rather a clever marketing
tactic.
6. The kid in the park that needed money for school books is not really
in school.
7. Cockroaches are immune to Raid. And death.
8. Refrain from telling jokes that begin with “How many Nicaraguans does
it take to screw in a light bulb?”
9. If you are from Canada, you are considered friendly. You are also
considered to be the naïve, dim-witted, politically-challenged sibling
of the United States.
10. If you see a fellow traveler sporting a Canadian flag iron-on on the
back of his knapsack, odds are he is American.
11. If you don’t enjoy being molested from behind by random local men in
heat, do not sign up for punta dance lessons.
12. If you enjoy being molested from behind by random local men in heat,
go to Belize.
13. When in doubt, try adding ‘ada’ or ‘o’ to the end of an English word
to translate it to Spanish.
14. Don’t assume that adding ‘ada’ or ‘o’ to the end of an English word
will make it Spanish.
15. American tourists, (even the geriatrics who only see the Country
through the window of an air-conditioned luxury coach bus), will always
have more exciting travel stories than you. Accept it and move on.
16. Don’t believe old men who say it is customary for them to place
their hand on your leg and rub it intermittently throughout the two-hour
bus ride.
17. Don’t polish off a pound of generic cheese and a bottle of cheap
wine the night before a rocky 6-hour bus trip driven by a
visually-impaired 80 year-old man.
18. Understand that no matter what, if you are a single female over 25
with no children, you are a lesbian.
19. Being hissed, growled or snarled at by random local men on the
sidewalk is the Latin equivalent of getting cat-calls from construction
workers in NYC. Take it as a compliment.
20. Don’t expect boyfriend in #2 to be thrilled about you quitting your
job back home and moving to Nicaragua to live off of love and water.
http://bschooled.wordpress.com
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Grandpa
Gurgles Like Baby Over, Well, The Baby
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Biology -- the mere fact that I am related to my daughter -- made me a
grandfather.
It was when my 13-day-old grandson baptized me down the front of my
shirt and I wore it like a badge of honor that I knew I had become a
grandpa.
Grandpa Cole. Wow.
It is a concept a young guy like me finds perplexing. How could this be
when I am barely more than a lad myself?
Then again, I’ve cultivated aches and pains in my left ankle and right
hip. It takes a large sigh to heave myself from the easy chair. I groan
with those first few steps, hardly able to clear the lap afghan that
cascaded to the floor.
This all started about nine months ago. I should have known then that
something had altered my universe. I had become a
grandfather-in-training, aches, whiter beard and all.
A few months ago came the first call: "Daddy, are you old enough to be a
grandpa?"
"No," I said. "No, I'm not."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, you are."
When the next call I was expecting finally came on March 25, I danced
with joy until my trick knee gave out and my back kinked. Sebastian
Nicholas Cole, all 7 pounds and 12 ounces of him, checked into this
world with the lusty cry of someone who had changed his mind about his
destination. The group in the delivery room 530 miles away dialed my
number at his birth so I could hear.
I hooted and hollered, then rubbed on some BioFreeze and went back to
bed. It had been an exhausting minute and a half of celebration.
I tactfully waited until March 26 before begging my daughter to pack him
into a shipping box and overnight him to me, just for six or seven or 17
years or so. She declined.
"But there's so much I need to teach him -- how to throw a football, the
smell of Play-Doh, in which dresser drawer to place that frog so I
finally can get revenge on you for that pancakes, Fruit Loops and VCR
incident in 1988..."
"No!" she shouted into the telephone. "You're not touching my baby!"
I had expected Sebastian to be late. He is my grandson, after all. Plus,
Melissa was born eight days past her due date. So I scheduled my
vacation for the week after the due date. Sebastian was born the week
before.
It was a long, frustrating 12 days, but finally I was able to make a
break for it and skedaddle to Virginia where the kidling awaited the
wisdom of my gray hairs and knowledge of things that bugged his mother.
My suspicions were confirmed. Why yes, he IS the most perfect grandson
ever.
Soft, sandy hair graces a beautifully rounded head. Honest-to-goodness
baby blue eyes peer out from above cheeks made to be kissed. An
expression of curiosity yet of refined sagacity plays across his face as
he surveys the roomful of cooing idiots all reaching for him.
My precocious prodigy, naturally, does not need to be talked to with
silly sentences such as, "You are just the cutest cute-ums ever. Yes,
you is. What a snuggly little snuggiekins." Nope. Melissa told me he is
way beyond that, so I stopped cooing.
Sebastian has Poppa Josh's and Momma Melissa's ear dimples.
He stayed up all night the other night watching movies with his father.
During the day, he just eats and sleeps. This means that while he has
his father's face, his mother's ears, he definitely picked up his
grandfather's personality.
Yep, he's my grandbaby. And soon, I had my hands on him. We bonded
immediately. I sat down on the couch, held him against my chest and we
both zonked out.
We're going to get along just fine.
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Picnics
Are Best Served Without Live Chickens
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
In retrospect, adding the chickens
sounded better in the planning than in the execution – which very nearly
was ours. Certainly, we wouldn’t have had to hide in the hayloft for
three days, fighting the cats for their dish of kibbles.
It was somewhere around my eighth year of surviving in a world before
seat belts and I was visiting Ollie, a third cousin twice removed.
In retrospect, life would have been less risky had cousin Ollie been
further removed.
Anyway, Ollie and I had commandeered the chicken coop, pretending it was
a rocket ship and that the chickens were survivors we rescued from the
planet Cluckoria, which cracked like an egg when evil cows tripped while
jumping over the moon.
The coop abutted the pasture and we found that we could lure the
Holsteins to the windows by waving fistfuls of chicken feed. Once they
poked their muzzles inside, we set about protecting Cluckorians by
cracking stray eggs over the Moovarians’ noses.
It was about the time that Ollie figured it would be more exciting if we
shoved several of the cows into the chicken coop that Aunt Tillie
stepped out the back door.
“Boys, we’re going on a ... EEEK! Where are you going with them? What is
that yellow stuff dripping from those cows?”
“What cows?”
We did our best to conceal them behind us, but black and white are not
the best colors for camouflage.
Aunt Tille began spluttering, which she did a lot when I visited.
Figuring that the old chicken coop probably couldn’t hold the weight of
a half dozen, 1,500-pound cows anyway, we hustled them back to the
pasture, promising them more eggs the next chance we got.
Aunt Tillie was running dry of words when we rounded the barn again, but
that nervous tick in her eye was giving her fits.
“Look, you hooligans, we’re going up to the lake for a picnic. Load the
baskets, chairs and blankets into the trunk while I finish getting your
sister dressed.”
She staggered back inside the house and we started lugging the picnic
fixings to the car.
Then Ollie hit on The Big Idea: “I know how we can sneak all the
Cluckorians right past the Moovarians!”
It took some doing to squeeze all 32 chickens into the trunk without any
of them leaking out.
“We better turn on the radio so Mom doesn’t hear the Cluckorians’ clacks
of gratitude,” Ollie said.
Between the radio, which we insisted on, the noisy muffler and us
practicing animal imitations in the back seat, Aunt Tillie didn’t seem
to notice anything amiss. Besides, she was too busy yelling over her
shoulder for us boys to “Stop bouncing around back there! You’re rocking
the whole car!” but that was pretty normal stuff for rides with Aunt
Tillie.
Finally, we pulled into the parking lot. It was a beautiful day and the
beach was crowded with people eating sandwiches, playing catch, swimming
and building sandcastles.
Until Aunt Tillie popped the trunk.
Afterward ... well, my memory’s still a little jumbled from the flurry
and feathers of all the sudden excitement. I knew city folk were kinda
skittish, but Aunt Tillie’s screeching embarrassed me.
Three hours later, with the help of Uncle Elmer, who had been called
from work, we headed home with most of the chickens we came with. The
rest -- well, let’s just say those stories about bands of feral chickens
roosting in city allies isn’t just an urban myth.
I just wish we had thought to snatch a picnic basket as we shot out of
the car as soon as the car almost stopped after pulling back into
Ollie’s driveway. But we figured it best to take our chances with the
evil Moovarians rather than hang around to see what else Uncle Elmer and
Aunt Tillie had to say.
In retrospect, I think we were right.
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Swiss
Army
By Steve Frain,
Pennsylvania
My girlfriend
usually comes through when it comes to birthday gifts. This year however
I was slightly disappointed. She knows that I have a Swiss army knife
and while I don't ever use it or talk about it, she knows it's a very
important part of the bottom of the junk drawer in my desk.
So, knowing
the depth of my preoccupation with the Swiss army, she marched right out
to the store to purchase not only a Swiss army belt but also a Swiss
army watch for my birthday. If a Swiss army scarf existed I'm sure I
would have found it tucked neatly into the box with the other gear.
When
I opened my gift and found a belt and a watch bearing the Swiss flag I
immediately and unconsciously barked out my appreciation like a private
responding to his drill sargent. "Doooo yoouuuu like it
maggot?"...."Yes, Yes I Do!" This was standard procedure that had been
drilled into me many many presents ago. Without this routine many wars
may have broken out within my family.
As I was thanking her I began to wonder why she would get me this gift
set. I figured all a person needed was one gift from the Swiss army
collection knowing that any other item one could possibly want would be
included in this one gift. Happy birthday it's a belt! Oh you don't like
it? Ok, it's a money clip.
I then began examining my belt and watch expecting James Bond-like
gadgetry or at least the type of innovation one expects when you see the
Swiss army label. Nothing. Just a regular belt and watch. It was at this
moment that I hoped for an honorable discharge from this Swiss Army. The
army I was proud to be a part of...the army of McGyver wannabees and
cool Uncles everywhere was now outfitting....CIVILIANS! People who used
belts to...."hold up their pants," used watches to "tell time," and
knives to "cut things." I guess the Swiss army is now taking its cues
from the United States where military issued pieces such as Jeeps and
Hummers have become style accessories.
After I calmed down a bit I took a closer look at the watch and belt
using the magnifying glass on my knife. I discovered that the belt and
watch do have multiple uses -- you just have to apply them differently.
For example the Swiss army belt. Of course it could be used to hold up
your pants, but it could also be used as a disciplinary tool for
alcoholic parents or an IV drug user's best friend. Sure the watch tells
time, and by looking at it repeatedly it also tells people you are in a
hurry. So the watch doubles as an impatience indicator.
Maybe it wasn't that bad of a gift after all.
© Copyright
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My
Attempt At A Romance Novel
By Chad Hatfield, Washington
(I have been busy attempting to write a romance novel. It has turned out
to be pretty hard. After three long months, here’s what I have.)
They kissed. A really good kiss. A soap opera kiss.
He broke away. He needed to go to work. Before he left, he turned
swiftly and put his breakfast bowl in the sink, his comb-over dancing in
the breeze of his movement. He grabbed his lunch and as he went out the
door declared triumphantly “love ya dear.”
He was gone. But she knew it was not the last time she would hear from
him. He would call at lunch. He called and asked how things were
“going.” She replied “fine.” And he said, “you’re the one that’s fine.”
“Oh, honey. What if someone overheard you?” she gasped. But secretly she
didn’t care. In fact she inwardly hoped that somehow their call was
being picked up faintly by the neighbors.
He had a similar thought. He blushed. But she did not know that. He kept
his blushings to himself. He knew that he was the “Meatloaf King” in her
eyes. “When I get home, I’m going to give you a kiss. Right on the
mouth.” With that he hung up.
She held the phone and blushed.
When he arrived home, she was there. “Hi ya,” he said as he came through
the door.
“Hi ya,” she replied.
He jumped. “I’m sorry. I thought you said ‘hi-ya,’ like a ninja says
when it is striking.”
“Oh, you get spooked by that every day,” she replied coyly.
Then he kissed her. And this was no normal kiss. It was a kiss right on
the mouth. She passed out in his arms.
He carried her to the couch and propped her up with the laundry resting
on her lap so that when she awoke she could get right back into the
swing of things.
That night he read the paper in bed, as she said something sweet, like
“good night sweetie.”
“Good night dear,” he replied from behind the paper.
His nice reply was too much for her fragile body and she again passed
out. This time until breakfast. She awoke to find herself propped up by
the toaster with two pieces of bread balanced on her forearm.
“If this isn’t love,” she said, “then I don’t want to know what romance
is.”
And so she never found out.
http://chadhatfield.blogspot.com
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Safety
Tips From My Mother-in-Law
By Ann I., Wisconsin
My Mother-in-law likes to forward e-cautionary tips, and all manner of
advice for hysteria-loving folk. Below review some safety tips I pray
none of us ever need to utilize.
Stay the hell away from conversion vans period (serial killers).
Don’t sit alone in your car in a dark parking lot balancing your
checkbook (or counting huge stacks of cash, or appraising diamonds).
If someone locks you in a trunk kick out the taillights, poke your arms
through the holes, and wave them around madly to attract attention.
Hopefully you attract the attention of people other than kids on a
school bus laughing hysterically and waving back, or toddlers in car
seats quietly murmuring “hi…hi” to themselves in response to your
desperate flails.
If someone has a gun to your head and demands you to drive, smash your
car as hard as you can so your airbags go off. If the gunman is in the
back seat, supposedly he gets auto-ejected. If he’s in the front seat
its literally a crapshoot. If he’s in the car seat just threaten to take
away some of his screen time.
If someone shoots at you RUN. Preferably in a zigzag pattern. Most
people are perfectly capable of running in a zigzag pattern while
they’re in shock. It will make you a harder target, as the assailant
will laugh uncontrollably. Unfortunately he will proceed to hold you
hostage and make you continue zigzagging over and over for him and all
his thug-buddies.
If you hear a crying baby outside your house, it’s probably a serial
killer standing outside with a boom box playing a tape-recorded cassette
tape of a crying baby. Whatever you do, don’t open your door. However,
if you have a mail slot in your door you could consider tossing him some
Manheim Steamroller Classical Gas to calm both he and the baby while you
wait for the police to arrive.
If someone mugs you, throw your wallet and run the other way (but if you
hit him with it he’s going to be PISSED).
Be especially wary of a limping man with a cane, who asks you for help.
He’s probably preying on your feminine tendency toward sympathy. You
might want to throw your wallet. If he takes off running, why you’d
better run, too. Preferably in a zig-zag pattern.
http://annsrants.blogspot.com
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Not
A Chip Off The Ol' Block
By Sue Langenberg, Illinois
<A computer chip, that is. Somewhere along the line the dog and
cat chips caught on in humans. And I was just beginning to grasp this
marvelous chip thing so that our dogs don’t run away or cats stray from
their domestic mice.
Now I understand that whatever chips these pets have are inbred in
humans. No insertion necessary. Hospital nurseries are noticing that
newborn computer chips are already functioning underneath the umbilical
cord.
The newborns now come out with a tiny remote in their little hands to
guide the ceiling monitors to cartoons where monsters snicker at
non-chipped parents and non-chipped parents snicker at science fiction
where newborns have chips. By the time they learn to walk, they have
already bypassed regular English and promoted themselves straight to
text language. “H, Gma, how r u?”
I realized this after a visit from my five-year-old grandson. I picked
up a few toys and noticed that my computer mouse was lying there dead,
belly up. Rigor mortise had already set in on the four legs pointing to
the ceiling.
Yes, I remember this enterprising kindergartener at the computer for a
length of time. But I left the room after I carefully spelled
“teletubbies” for him. By the time I poured another cup of coffee and
returned, the room was spinning with upgrades, program downloads and a
big red dog lounging on the couch. I think there was also some green
monster peeking from behind the monitor.
The printer had been overloaded with about six inches of the most
expensive photo paper to run off scanned graphics of a five-year-old
hand, one tiny tic-tac-toe game in all colors of the rainbow and one set
of ABC’s in the smallest font on 25 sheets. He was very proud of his
accomplishment. “C Gma?”
There was an inch of leftover photo paper, however, so he took online
instructions to fashion an instant confetti gismo to celebrate along
with the balloons that he conned me into buying at the store. The one
balloon that didn’t pop still hovers over my computer. It says “Class of
’09.” That means that five-year-olds now graduate from Outchipping
Grandmothers with Chins 101.”
The mouse innocently clicked into shock several times while I tried to
recover my computer from a newfound virus. My beloved Solitaire game had
turned into something with colors that made no sense and the homepage
was suddenly a pinball game where I couldn’t log on until I got the
bouncing ball safely into the letter “U” in my Word program.
And here I was impressed with how my computer did things like write,
save and send. I knew how to turn it on with gentle patience and off
with stages of sleep. Sending digital photos in between were for the
advanced, but I finally got it. Next time, I’ll just ask a pre-loaded
grandchild whose inborn chip can order cookies instantly via E-Dough.
I’m not sure what this newfangled Mother Goose chip looks like, nor the
one that goes into dogs and cats. I imagine, however, based on my
grandson that human heads are now born larger to accommodate the chip
size, probably in the texture of a sponge. There are zapping arrows that
operate between bulging eyes, bright screens and very nervous mouse.
Part of that inborn chip is see-through, I notice. It is located where
an unruly cowlick is somewhere on top of the head. If you look closely,
you can see wheels turn, especially when a chipless grandmother asks a
stupid computer question.
www.thewritehag.com
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Short
Doses
By Pete Lopez, New York
Here is an example of a fast joke. Pete (me) is not sure if he is
ready for a child yet, but he wants to practice trying to have one more.
Entire joke is right there and I can move on. I then thought well maybe
I stretch it out and take the reader on a journey. I could slowly drag
them up a mountain of suspense and then go for a bigger punch line.
Maybe this?
Last weekend I visited a college friend that recently bought a house.
Good for him, he has a beautiful wife and even one of those kid things.
I just don’t have much in common with kids yet. We can get along great
for an hour or two. They are an easy audience if happy and in daylight.
I could try new material or do bad juggling. I have the ability to keep
the balls circling for at least 11 seconds before dropping them. Kids
love watching the balls circle and then find it hysterical when they hit
the ground and scatter everywhere.
Later, though, after the common laughs
are over, we usually have a difference of opinion and go separate ways.
They get cranky and want to watch cartoons while screaming about having
to brush their teeth. Perhaps I attempt the never-ending dream of
finding multiple hot girls at a bar and taking them all home. Well,
that’s when the problem arises because the kid’s need trumps your own. I
could go out and be perfectly fine but yet the child, not so much.
I
even recall my friend had to plan my visit in advance by scheduling
babysitters. My scheduling began the night before when I threw various
floor dwelling clothes into a bag. My responsibility level is much
lower. It’s good enough for low maintenance plants that I remember to
water approx once a week. Sometimes it’s twice a week or sometimes once
a month we are talking average here. I have this bad habit of
remembering to water it at times when I am unable to. Say I’m working or
donating time at a soup kitchen, I’ll think to myself, damn, I haven’t
watered my plant in ages. Don’t worry though, when I finally remember
I’ll spoil it with bottled water.
I have tampered with idea of giving it
something to enhance its taste buds like soda or a mimosa but have yet
to follow through. In theory that sounds great but I am nervous that the
plants share the same desire for complex liquids. Perhaps I’ll let
nature take the first step and wait until it rains other fluids besides
water.
Anyway, with a kid you can’t be negligent for a week or two but
try making it up by taking it to the amusement park for a roller
coasters and a stuffed animal. Sure the kid would love the tradeoff
because they are only able to process the fun part of the deal but they
don’t understand the consequence. I’d have to be the adult and be
skeptical they would not have the adaptability of a cactus.
That is not
even considering the risk factor of social services arresting me for
child abandonment. You can use discarded plants for compost or flush a
dead fish and never have to fear criminal charges. A child though,
society has a problem with disposing of ones you failed with regardless
how much you promise to be better next time. I learn from mistakes and
would never do the same error twice, but something about children and
second chances doesn’t flow that well with the public.
After putting
this in perspective I place myself on the level of owning a plant, small
fish, a camel or a highly independent cat. A puppy would be able to live
in my care but not thrive. I think as an overall, (drum roll please) I
am not sure I am ready for a child, but I sure as hell want to go out and
practice trying to have one.
Looking back, that explaining didn’t work. Well. I was perfectly
satisfied with my one line joke. Instead, I now look like an
irresponsible loser cannot care for children because his top priorities
are getting drunk and womanizing. In my simple joke I was just witty and
nobody was aware of my faults. Adding more words is not in my best
interest and learned a lesson. Too many chefs, is that the relevant
analogy?
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Death
Wish
By Ron Mattocks, Texas
My wife, it seems, clings to the hope her eventual death will involve
some element of peculiarity about it. Traditional means such as car
crashes and old age fail to suffice, falling into a category deemed
“mundane to the point of bordering on vulgarity.”
For all we agree on,
this is one area where I am at a loss, being perfectly comfortable with
whatever fate may hold. This naturally makes me the polar opposite of my
wife, who employs a certain religious fervor in seeking out the holy
grail of her demise. Specifically, this would be a death that allows
adequate time to bask in the sympathy from others, but at the same time
is devoid of pain, complicated treatment and any potential for survival.
A beheading for example would be way too quick, while the plague,
although equally unusual, bears an excruciating agony that would
overshadow her ability to enjoy the adulation of grieving well-wishers,
not to mention it's easily curable.
Although her passing could occur in a variety of ways, medical
abnormalities are a favorite. Now, thanks to the bevy of television
medical dramas, combined with the efficiencies of the Google search
function, my wife holds a quasi-PhD in the field of medicine. These
resources allow her to speak with authority in convincing both skeptics
and actual doctors that she’s suffering from the early stages of
something or another.
Last week she swiveled around in her chair to greet me as I walked into
the room. "I have hypothyroidism," she announced with a restrained
enthusiasm that reminded me of water draining from a colander. Behind
her, on the monitor, beamed the results of an Internet query, which she
noticed I was studying. "Listen, it explains the tiredness, weight-gain,
and snoring, plus it runs in my family."
Even before we met, my wife regularly speculated over having contracted
a number of obscure diseases and disorders. Over time, however, she has
eliminated most of these, especially those with signs and symptoms that
have failed to keep her interest. Recent dismissals have included
Cotards syndrome, Trimethylaminura, and Creutzfeld-Jakob disease, while
Capgras’ Delusion and Stendhal syndrome still remain as the
frontrunners.
The doubt that seeped through in my reaction to her self-diagnosed
hypothyroidism apparently motivated my wife to probe deeper into the
finer details of this illness. "I was doing a bit more research," she
said as we were driving later that day, "And I have a brain tumor too."
Rolling my eyes only brought on an expansive dissertation on the
correlations between hypothyroidism and this newest development.
“Technically it’s a brain tumor,” she said with what sounded like glee,
a suspicion confirmed in her explanation of how this particular growth
is often benign and easy to remove. "It has all the associated drama,
but with better odds of survival." Her satisfaction over this was
palpable even though the tumor failed to meet her criterion of
incurability. Still, it seems to suffice for now. In the mean time my
wife has stumbled upon a discovery sure to finish the job.
Last evening while watching television we overheard a prominent
astronomer make mention of a considerably sized asteroid projected to
narrowly miss our planet in roughly 27 years. Interestingly, it appears
this initial fly by is a precursor indicating whether the same chuck of
rock will actually impact earth a year later.
Upon hearing of this potential catastrophe, my wife sat straight up.
"Wait, that means,” she started counting on her fingers, "we could still
be around!”
I already knew where this was headed. “Well, maybe,” I responded. Sure
enough, as if the great god Google was calling to her from a burning
laptop in the wilderness, my wife rose up from the couch to find more
details on the certain annihilation of humanity.
"There’s gotta be a countdown clock or something," she said fixated on
the 756,668 search results glowing in her face.
I raised an eyebrow, confused by her logic. "Honey, it’s not unique if
this kills everyone all at once, and it sure won’t take long to
obliterate us?” But she wasn’t listening. She was too preoccupied with
planning how to tell everyone goodbye.
http://clarkkentslunchbox.blogspot.com
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My
Informal Education
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
I was not a good student attending high school in Massachusetts, where
the full moon came out shortly after graduation, sprouting wooly fur up
and down my arms and legs until they resembled arbor vitae bushes. I was
always prowling and howling at the moon.
I kicked around Minnesota for a summer and partied hard, then played
hockey up in Maine for a winter and partied hard, then tried Canada, all
the time hearing people describe strange and exotic realms called warmer
climates.
“Yeah right,” I said, with the reasoning ability of someone chasing
rubber discs around frozen water surfaces. “Maybe if the sun got a
little closer.”
After Maine I was living at home and going to Mass Bay Community College
just outside of Boston, and it was a dismal continuation of high school,
where I had become the first student to ever get a grade “far below the
alphabet.”
“It’s not even in the dictionary,” our principal explained at a rushed
“graduation ceremony” in his office, caressing a large handgun. “A tribe
in the African Congo builds huge statues high up in the mountains
overlooking their village, depicting the kind of student you represent.
They’re made from piles of wild pig dung, and when the rainy season
arrives, it all slides downhill very slowly, toward their village. It
represents how you will eventually effect others in your life.”
“A real statue?” I asked, stupidly flattered.
The gun was in my face. “Get out,” he said. “Get the hell out and never
look back, or mention you ever went to this high school.”
“A big tall statue,” I said proudly, dazed by celebrity status in a warm
climate. “A real statue made of dung.”
This silly semi-fiction reminds me of a moment yesterday, when I was
trying to convince my wife how we should import dung beetles to clean up
after the dogs, out where thick grass keeps hiding little butt presents.
“You idiot,” she said, using her favorite description of me.
“Scarabaeoideas only goes after crap left by herbivores or omnivores,
and our dogs eat too much meat. The beetles don’t really clean up the
crap, either. They use it for affordable housing, nibbling here and
there . . .blah blah blah and blah blah but blah blah and also blah
blah, certain beetles for certain animals, like in Australia, they are
doing what you suggest, however, blah, blah, blah . . . prefer horse
dung, blah blah blah . . . ”
True Story: My wife is a former research scientist and fashion model
specializing in transgenic orchids, disease-resistant rice, and general
plant biology. Why marry me, you ask? My hair was perfect; my teeth . .
. victims of several hockey sticks. I had great abs before beer found a
home! Yep . . . you guessed it; window dressing trophy husband.
So anyway, one night we accidentally discovered how lady bugs love
marshmallows, which sounds kind of silly until aphids invade your
whatever, and you decide to call in their worst enemy in the entire
world (ladybugs, or what I lovingly refer to as “polka dotted mercenary
assassins”). You can keep a thousand ladybugs healthy and happy with a
few lousy marshmallows, before releasing holy hell fire upon any aphids
that come to munch your plants, or your favorite whatever. Try doing
that with the U.S. military.
So one day it occurred to me how science is all about poop and
marshmallows and that funny time in Jersey when I tried to brew my own
beer in a little plastic chamber, and it expanded too much and blew all
over the kitchen, because of yeast or something, and the dog lapped it
up before I could intervene, and started giggling, which is really
disturbing to witness, but you can really bond with dogs who giggle, and
there’s a whole lotta science happening right there!
What does this all mean?
Hell if I know. Wait! It all means that science isn’t science at all,
which is a word that is only surpassed by calculus in the scary
department. Science is real stuff happening all around us all the time,
like exploding beer and giggling dogs. It means I could simplify
profound theorems and elaborate cupcake recipes by simply relating it to
every day things! Once I was able to do that, I attended college and
achieved a rare kind of academic status -- having the University
President threaten me!
Woooo wooooo! Reach for the stars!
http://sites.google.com/site/thefieldbook
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Candy
Bar Imposters
By Patricia McNamee Rosenberg, Illinois
Candy bars are popping up everywhere these days. Their names have been
changed to fool the calorie challenged. They go by aliases such as
granola bar, breakfast bar, and so on. The only clues you have are the
words “bar” and “sugar.” Look closely at the ingredients in these little
gems and you will find tasty items like chocolate chips, nuts, and
caramel.
These new bars are actually candy bars. The imposters are disguised with
packaging that boasts “90 calories,” “fat free” or “meal bar.” Some
claim they offer “energy“ or “power.” I think that means you need
special abilities to eat them as they can be awfully hard to chew. They
certainly don’t make you want to exercise. After you eat one you want to
take a nap. Because they are candy bars.
They appear where you least expect them, at the natural food store and
in the breakfast aisle of your local grocer. Some have been spotted at
the gym. Many are covered in chocolate or strawberry yogurt coating
(frosting). Yes, the health food bar of the new millennium is really a
candy bar.
The neo-candy bar has some redeeming qualities, though, such as nuts,
sunflower seeds, honey, granola, and dried fruit. They contain just
enough “nutritious” ingredients to look like they are good for you and
not what they really are: Candy bars.
These confections should have a black-box warning on the side of the
package: “Warning: Contents may cause fatness and acne.” They can be
hazardous to your health if you eat a couple boxes. And they get stuck
in your teeth for forever. I know, because I have eaten a couple boxes
in one sitting, thinking they are good for you. They are not. They are
candy bars.
The snack bar can be hazardous to your wardrobe. Your clothes start
tearing and buttons pop when you eat too many because they are small and
you are told they are healthy and will help you lose weight. They won’t
help you, however, because you can’t eat just one or two… Because they
are candy bars.
These portable and irresistible meal substitutes were created by cereal
companies and diet gurus. They target us baby boomers who grew up on
Baby Ruths, Milky Ways, Snickers, and Three Musketeers – real candy
bars.
I theorize that they melted down these real candy bars, added a few
grains, and reshaped them into logs. Size matters when it comes to
calories. Anything can be 90 calories if you slice it small enough. They
designed a marketing campaign based on the fear of fat grams. Voila! A
middle-aged-friendly candy bar.
In the interest of science, I performed my own little study and compared
the real candy with the “healthy” imposter. All bars examined were 90 to
100 calories. They all contained the requisite sugar and were therefore
very tasty. However, the authentic candy bars were easier to chew. (The
things one does in the name of science.) Fat and sugar content was
slightly higher in the candy because it was covered in chocolate. Well,
okay, the sugar was almost twice that of the “health” bars. But…BIG BUT
HERE, (so to speak): The health food bars had 3 to 4 times the amount of
sodium. My hypothesis is: These are all frickin’ CANDY BARS!!!
There are positives in these new bars. They taste good. They are
considered “politically correct.” You can munch on them at a breakfast
meeting or put them in your child’s lunch without getting arrested.
Because they are not really candy bars.
I have had a love-hate relationship with these delicious imposters. At
first I hated them because they are junk food dressed up as
diet-friendly snacks. But I grew (and I did grow) to love them. They are
candy bars that I can eat guilt free because they are good for me. It
says so on the packaging. They are not candy bars. They are health food
bars. I do believe, I do believe...
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What
My Children Hear When I Talk
By Kearsie Murphy, Alabama
I said:
Pick up your clothes and put them in the hamper.
They heard:
Pick up your clothes but leave your underwear on the floor as well as
one sock. Take the rest of your clothes, wad them up and leave them on
the floor in front of the hamper and leave your sock all squished up.
******
I said:
Hurry up and brush your teeth.
They heard:
Go as slow as humanly possible, stopping to touch and maybe break some
things on the way to the bathroom. Once in front of the sink, stare at
yourself in the mirror making funny faces and/or sit down and fold your
arms and pout. When using the toothpaste, be sure to wipe some on the
counter and do not rinse your spit out of the sink at all. Also, throw
the towel on the floor.
******
I said:
You may have one snack but make sure you throw your trash away.
They heard:
Eat three snacks, make sure you scatter as many crumbs as possible and
leave out all your trash so it looks like a landfill. Then touch all
over the TV and computer screens so they are disgusting.
******
I said:
Make sure you throw away all the little scraps of paper when you are
done making crafts.
They heard:
Pick up about 10% of the trash so you can say you cleaned up. Leave out
the glue stick without a lid so I can step on it in the middle of the
night which will be cold and slimy and make all the little pieces of
paper stick to my pasty foot.
******
I said:
Read a book if you’re bored.
They heard:
I want to torture and punish you by making you read which is like doing
school at home. I don’t care if you have any fun whatsoever. I am out to
get you.
******
I said:
Turn off the TV, you’ve watched enough.
They heard:
I am the meanest mother in the entire world. I am awful and am depriving
you of all joy. I am not as cool as your friends’ mothers who let them
watch TV all they want. Also, I want you to pitch a huge fit because
I’ve not had enough stress in my day.
******
I said:
You’ve already been to the bathroom and had a drink of water, so stay in
your beds. Good night.
They heard:
I want you to get up at least 4 more times, thereby causing me to lose
my mind and make sure when you get your 3rd drink of water you spill it
all over the bathroom floor. Stay up way too late giggling about poop so
you will be extra tired in the morning. Also, pee in your bed around
3:00 a.m. because I like to do laundry at that hour.
******
Husband said:
Don’t worry, they are in bed now. The day is over and you can rest.
I heard:
You will live the same day over and over again. You are stuck in your
own version of Groundhog Day. You need to find some happy pills, STAT.
http://soundsliketomatoes.com
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Flavored
Coffee Creamers and Other Abominations
By Sharon Riley, North Carolina
A friend of mine in corporate America told me that her company is
scaling back in this recessionary time by eliminating flavored creamers
for the coffee in the break room. I didn’t realize that the fiscal well
being of a company could be ruined by the reckless purchase of liquid
Café Mocha Amaretto Coffee-mate. My friend reports that the staff is
waving their Six Sigma training mugs in protest, with a moral outrage
matching the intensity of the French Revolution peasantry.
The banning of the flavored creamers got me thinking about other things
that should be illegal in America. By the criminalization of the
following, we will be transformed into a dignified and austere
citizenry, free from the humiliating shackles of silly flavorings and
other beverage-related faux pas:
1) Flavored coffees: It should be obvious from the text above that, in
addition to flavored creamers being banned, flavored coffees are also
verboten. If you are the sort of person who needs to add caramel to his
coffee, just be honest with yourself and drive to Dairy Queen for a
sundae instead. And to all you high-maintenance types ordering
“half-caf, half-
regular, with a shot of white-chocolate syrup,” report to your
reeducation camp immediately.
2) The Starbucks cup sizing system: You knew this one was coming. When I
go to Starbucks, I ask for my *unflavored* coffee in a “short” cup that
holds eight ounces. As eight ounces is the liquid measure of one cup,
the short is literally the one true cup of coffee that Starbucks offers.
But this size is classified information, not to be listed publicly on
the menu. If the barista is new, he has no idea what I am talking about
and tells me that the smallest is the tall size, a
through-the-looking-glass type of logic. Especially snarky and jaded
Starbucks employees loudly announce the short cup order as a “child’s
cup of coffee.” Now tell me, what child is drinking a cup of Columbia
Supremo coffee? Maybe one indoctrinated into a
rebel army who also smokes Cohibas, but it’s unlikely this child would
be in the vicinity of a Starbucks.
3) Seasonally-appropriate alcoholic beverages: Let’s move on from coffee
to booze. Coffee is a drink for all times and seasons, but not so with
spirits, which have their specific months and settings. Brandy is a
cold-weather libation to be consumed from a flask during a football game
played in sub-zero temperatures or from the barrel offered by the ski
rescue team’s St. Bernard after you have fallen off the chair lift. Gin
and tonics are to be enjoyed at a summer cocktail party in East Hampton
with people wearing linen, or in the late afternoon on the beach, while
you are reading your book and ignoring the cries of your children caught
in the ocean’s undertow.
4) Age-appropriate alcoholic beverages: If you are 21 or older, you
should not be drinking a wine cooler. This is a training beverage
specifically invented for underage alcohol consumption, designated for
distribution at popular kids’ house parties and senior prom limos. If
you are over 30, you should refrain from ordering any drink that mixes
multiple alcohols and juices and is named after a sex act or body part,
or smells like suntan lotion. Steer clear of umbrellas, whipped cream,
and skewered fruit in your drink, unless you are on a Caribbean beach or
consuming ironically at a Tiki-themed retro party.
**
An update on the corporate flavored-creamer ban situation: Turns out
that the CEO outlawed the expense of flavored creamers so that he could
add his
own personal chauffeur to the payroll. As this chauffeur is a gregarious
sort who hangs out in the office chatting up the employees, his identity
and
source-of-pay from the former flavored-creamer budget were soon
discovered. Angry workers duct taped together the driver and CEO in the
break room and
doused them with tepid, stale coffee - a contraband mocha-fudge blend.
The attackers were fired and their wages diverted to purchasing the
reinstated
flavored creamers.
http://sharonmriley.blogspot.com
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A
Study of Human Behavior on the Subway
By Jett Stone, New York
In a confined place such as a subway car, the conglomerate of
individuals standing, sitting and pressed against one another seem to
form a unique grassroots governing body that operates independently of
the Metropolitan Transit Authority’s prominently posted Rules of
Conduct. Over time the following unwritten rules of engagement between
passengers and panhandlers have emerged:
1.) Pocket Pat and Shrug: This simple maneuver requires a light palm tap
with both hands against each of your pockets, implying a clear desire or
intention to donate but an absence of money or wallet. This gesture is
typically followed by an empathetic shrug, but it seems most convincing
if followed by a barely audible “Sorry, man” or, better yet, “Sorry,
bro” if you want to flaunt your ability to talk to anyone.
2.) The Timid Turn-Away: This option seems perfect for the MTA rider who
is unaccustomed to New York City eccentricity or hasn’t quite shaken the
elementary-school mantra of “don’t talk to strangers.” If this is the
case, spin 90 degrees and quickly engage in conversation with a friend;
however, if you don’t have a friend available, don’t pretend to search
for something in your purse or bag, which might be mistaken as a search
for your wallet. These situations are nerve-racking and often initiate a
strange and unidentifiable loud silence in the subway car.
3.) The Long-Winded Larry: A suitable option for those who feel
extremely self-conscious about their inherent stinginess but still feel
it necessary to justify themselves by providing a thorough explanation
of why they don’t have change. Remember, no one is even remotely
concerned about your alibi; nonetheless, it helps to save some face if
you are carrying a suitcase and are wearing an expensive suit.
4.) The Absorbed Reader: If you freeze up completely, continue reading
your newspaper or book, but don’t expect to retain any information
because you’re really just staring at words.
5.) The Concerned Gaze: Fixate your eyes in the general direction of the
panhandler- perhaps towards a subway map or advertisement you’ve
probably already read twice- but nonetheless pick one object and make it
your focal point. Signal only slight acknowledgment and concern for
panhandlers as they approach, and maintain an expression of preoccupied
self-contemplation as to avoid the burden of eye contact or polite
denial as they pass.
6.) The Altruist: The altruist is swayed by the countenance of the
beggar and reaches into a pocket and actually gives. If you revel in the
sound of generosity that hard-earned coins make as they clang into a
calloused hand or change cup, you are a natural. The appropriate facial
expression after donating is a closed mouth but tight-faced half-smile
timed perfectly with a quick up-down head nod and a slight raise of the
eyebrows, also known as a silent It’s the Best I Can Do Right Now, I
Feel for Ya’. A true altruist has the unique ability to prompt a female
in categories of 1 through 5 to elbow-nudge a male partner, subsequently
prompting him to donate and make that same obnoxious charitable facial
expression.
Have you noticed a pattern with most of these rules?
A great many New Yorkers would probably agree with the sentiment I want
to give, but I’m not a heartless bastard. The reoccurring expressions of
restrained guilt and awkwardness are seemingly more prevalent than sheer
frugality or stinginess, but this is clearly a sensitive subject, made
more so by public-private conflicts.
In Manhattan, the distinction between the public and private sectors of
city life, is already thoroughly muddled by obnoxious cell phone users,
vociferous across-the-street catfights, homeless asleep on the
sidewalks, advertisements, and iPod walkers unaware of surroundings. As
a result, I find it particularly difficult to single out people using
public transportation for imposing themselves on me by begging as long
as there are no malicious intentions. With all these options for how to
respond, does the city really need to make it illegal?
www.itssotrue.com
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A
'Dear Mom' Letter for Computer Deficiencies
By Brian Thompson, Florida
Dear Mom,
It pains me to say this, but I felt something had to be done. I have to
get this off my chest. I just can’t go on anymore holding this inside —
bottling it up and trying to keep the cork from bursting out.
Remember, I think you’ve been an amazing parent and never did anything
to hurt me (although, giving me those hot toddies when I was a kid to
help my bronchitis was definitely questionable.)
So let me get this out: You cannot call me on the phone anymore to ask
for help working out issues with your computer. You just can’t. I know
it’s complicated stuff to grasp. But it’s killing me. It’s growing a
field of gray hair in uneven patches atop my head. It’s making tense
muscles in my neck snap under the strain. I blew a blood vessel in my
eye the other night. I might have to seek counseling.
In short: I just can’t do it anymore.
You see, when you call me while I’m cooking dinner to tell me in that
panicked voice that you’re having an emergency, I think it’s an
EMERGENCY. Like you’ve fallen down a well. Like the house is on fire and
you forgot how to turn on the hose faucet. Like there are armed bandits
making off with your cats. Those are all emergencies. Those are the
kinds of things you call your son in a panic about.
Not that you desperately need to e-mail a video of a frog to some
friends, but can’t remember how to do it. See, in no shape or form of
the word — not in the most liberal application — would “emergency” ever
cover that. And it certainly doesn’t warrant me burning potatoes.
Trying to figure out how to get something back on the computer that you
deleted does not constitute an emergency, either. Important? Yes.
Emergency? No.
And just because you forgot what the e-mail “attach” button does when
you’re trying to ATTACH a photo doesn’t mean you can call me at work, in
the middle of the day, when I’m in a meeting.
It’s not an emergency!
I know you’re not trying to make me crazy. No one wants their child to
go insane over their own computer deficiencies. And I apologize for
blowing my top and screaming things like “of course you have to turn the
computer on first” or “how do you manage to dress yourself in the
morning?”
That’s horribly rude, and I should be more patient and less frustrated.
I’m sorry, but — and it’s a big “but,” mom. Rhinoceros-sized “but” —
when I say things like “OK, now click on the ‘forward’ button,” you
don’t have to say to me: “So, do you want me to click on ‘forward’ now?”
Why else would I have said “forward” if I didn’t mean it? This isn’t
some kind of trick. It’s not code and I really want you to go outside
and run through a patch of daisies. I want you to hit “forward!”
(Breath, Brian, breath. I feel that blood vessel swelling again.)
When you complain about how computers are too confusing and they should
make them simpler to use, I agree. BUT, I have to tell you … I don’t
make computers. I don’t know anyone who makes computers. Getting upset
with how they work won’t help. Learning how to make them work right
will. I’m sorry it hurts your right brain, or whatever part of the brain
you mentioned. But that’s just the way it is.
Sure, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. But you are neither old,
nor a dog.
Either way, I’m afraid we have to discontinue this computer-advice
relationship. For my own good.
We must. Scott (my brother) would be more than happy to help you from
now on, and remember, when he says hit “send,” just hit send.
— Your son
http://www.nutshellcity.com
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Resumes
911
By Mary Walker, Colorado
Unemployed? Tired of writing the same old thing: “You will see by my
attached resume that I’m well-suited for yada, yada, yada”? Ever wonder
if anyone is really on the other end of those torturous applications?
It’s time to shake things up. Make people notice you.
11 ways to make the job applications process more interesting for you
AND them:
1.Write your resume backwards so the recruiter can only read it in a
mirror.
2.Attach pictures of your tattoos to your cover email.
3.Attach pictures of your pet alligator.
4.Attach pictures of your pet alligator’s tattoos
5.Start your email with: “I’m right behind you and you smell fantastic!”
6.Attach the crime scene photos about what happened to the last person
who didn’t hire you.
7.Use a different font for every word in your resume and cover letter
giving it the look of a ransom note.
8.Type everything in pig Latin. “Ou-yay ill-way ee-say y-bay y-may
attached-way esume-ray at-thay I-way am-way ell-way uited-say or-fay.”
9.For your contact address put: United States Penitentiary
Administrative Maximum Facility (ADX), aka: Supermax, Florence, CO,
Attention: Solitary Confinement
10.Type in Morse code: “.-.. / ... . . / -... -.-- / -- -.-- / .- - - .-
-.-. .... . -.. / .-. . ... ..- -- . .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.-“ and attach
the link for the translator:
http://morsecode.scphillips.com/jtranslator.html
11.Mention your multiple personalities… “It’s like getting four
employees for the price of one!”
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