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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/May 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
April/ May 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
If Today You Hear Mom's Voice, Listen Up!
By Sherry Antonetti, Maryland
Moms have this gift. It isn’t a power, it’s a Darwinian evolutionary
trait designed to ensure the long term viability of the species as a
whole.
The inner ear wakes Mom at 3 am because there was an odd cough and knows
the six year old just threw up in her bed. In the shower, a Mom senses
while in mid lather-rinse-repeat that the refrigerator has been opened
and an overly helpful toddler is distributing grape juice and
slice-and-bake uncooked cookies to everyone. Mom’s inner eye can look at
a television that is turned off and know which child stayed up late
watching a video. There's a voice that tells Mom these things.
Veteran moms have learned to trust the voice’s recommendations through
the series of hard knocks that came when the voice was ignored. For the
rookies out there, here are examples of the sound not heard, the sign
not seen and the voice unheeded.
The mom voice specializes in preemptive alarmist thinking. When a
teenager asks, “Whose purse is this?” and volunteers to take it to his
sister’s room, veteran Moms know to stop the generosity in its tracks.
She follows her son into his sister's room. He doesn't notice until she
coughs. “What?” the teen asks? His hands are in the wallet. “She owes me
money.”
The mom voice prompts the accidental emergency discovery. We’ve all had
that moment. We’re going about our business, ordering the house,
planning the day, straightening things and suddenly, our heart freezes.
Things are quiet. It’s that Miss Clarvel turned on the light kind of
something is not right sort of feeling. We run to check off the kids
knowing, we’ll find one doing something unthinkable. Maybe it’s
unraveling an entire paper towel roll down the stairs. Maybe it’s
putting stuffed animals in the sink for a bath. Maybe it’s trying to
will the unsweetened chocolate found in the pantry to taste good. It
doesn’t matter. All you know when that silence settles on the house is
“Run!” Locate and secure all non sentient beings. You have maybe ten
seconds.
Sometimes, Moms get jaded and slack off for a moment. We get tired. We
put the Mom voice on "Mute" and we punt. Over the years, Veteran moms
learn, all punts by Mom are returned for 90+ yard touchdowns. If we punt
on dinner and order food, the scale yells at us the next day. If we push
a kid to go to school, around 11 o’clock am, the phone will ring. The
nurse will lecture us. The child is very sick and we will feel like the
winner of negligent mother of the year award. We yell up the stairs,
“JUST GO TO BED!” just before we get the “But I just wanted to say
prayers with you.”
Aaaaugh! The Mom voice always says do, do and do. It’s usually right but
does it have to be so smug?
Today, while getting the baby dressed, I noticed my almost five and 3 ½
year old had put on their coats and gone outside. They had socks and
shoes and coats and gloves and hats. The Mom voice said, “Check.” But I
said they were fine. The kids stood on the back stoop. The Mom voice
said “Check.” But I told it, I wasn’t worried, let the kids play. After
feeding the baby and putting him in his crib for a morning nap, the Mom
voice jumped up and down and said “Check!” such that I gave a cursory
glance out the window. They had brought up the smallest sled and were
mulling the possibility of sliding down the stairs.
“Scrub the launch!” I banged on the window. They reconsidered and went
out into the yard to make snow angels.
And the Mom voice crowed, “Told you so.”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Twenty
Five / Twenty Five
By Cynthia Burton, California
When I saw the return address I cringed. It was my reminder to make my
appointment for my annual well woman exam, only this year was going to
be different. I am now 25 years old with 25 years of experience.
When did I go from worrying about four letter words to five letter
words? Raising my children, I was always conscious about their
fascination with their body parts and the functions those parts were
able to produce; now I am faced with the responsibility of making sure
my body functions continue to work. We all know the childish laughter
produced by a bout of flatulence or its 4 letter equivalent, now at 25
years old with 25 years of experience I need to worry about new five
letter words; fiber and colon.
Fifty is a new five letter word for me. Aging, teeth (keeping them), and
flash (as in hot flash) relatively new five letters words for me. Heart,
not the proverbial broken heart but now heart health and the blood
supply pumping to it. Cream - moisturizing, eye, wrinkle, anti-aging,
dry skin, foot, SPF and, should I dare to mention, hemorrhoid.
If fifty is the new forty, so be it. I will grow my red locks long to
please my husband while my hairdresser informs me she is monitoring my
hair loss each visit. I will stand erect, another five letter word, and
I am not referring to my husband, during my annual mammogram. If I
experience a flash and happen to wipe my face with a napkin that leaves
particles of its recycled paper in the wrinkles of my face, I will
handle that with grace.
It is good to be Queen, but when did I go from princess status to Queen?
Princess implies no other worries than my tiara staying in position.
Queen connotes age, sleep depravation, corsets or Spanx and not the kind
given as a punishment, but the kind woman use as undergarments to
reposition all the cellulite in one place, so we can wear the dress we
wore last summer.
I will think of my goals while I undergo that dreaded colonoscopy and
hope I remember to not use the glitter soap that morning while
showering. On the bright side, being empty may aid in the dreaded weight
loss battle. Thank God Marilyn Monroe was a size fourteen.
The day after, I plan on picking up my 4 year old granddaughter, whose
innocence and wonderful whimsical talent is to make bubbles in the
bathtub without the aid of Mr. Bubble, and we will do my favorite 5
letter word, laugh.
© Copyright
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My
Eject Button!
By Debbie Dillon, California
Few things in life plunge me head-first into stress-induced madness
quicker than my squawking parrot and my fighting teenagers. Because of
this, I’m in the market for a couple of “Eject” buttons; you know, the
kind pilots use in military aircraft when they’ve exhausted all other
possibilities and they are forced to abort their mission?
To solve all my problems, I would need two of these convenient little
gadgets; one for the family van and one for the bird cage.
Since my teens seem to go for blood mostly while I’m driving, an eject
button would prove most valuable. When tempers flare and the
name-calling begins, I could call out “Abort! Abort!” launching the kid
of my choice up and out of the trouble zone where he or she will await
pick up at a (much) later time.
The other element of annoyance that can instantly turn my home into a
pressure cooker is, as mentioned, my parrot, Salvador.
I’ve spent 17 painful years with this creature, and without an eject
button, one of us has got to go – tail feathers first! As I see it, he
owes me big time for all the peace and quiet and active brain cells he’s
stolen over the years.
Don’t get me wrong – he’s a beautiful animal sporting a tropical look in
vibrant shades of green, yellow, red and blue. However, I’ve always
considered him most majestic with wings outstretched in flight against
an azure blue sky, effortlessly soaring …away!
He’s a Double Yellow-Headed Amazon parrot, and that’s exactly where he
belongs – the Amazon! Just my luck, I would probably still hear him
screaming from the tree tops if he ever ventured that far from home.
So, it’s no wonder I’ve sunk to this desperation. With the chaos of
quarreling kids coupled with the bird who sings like Ethel Merman on
steroids, who could blame me for wanting my very own eject button? How
else could I possibly escape the intense noise pollution when they all
cut loose in tandem, yet still remain within moral Christian boundaries?
By simply pressing a button that would safely jettison them all out of
my radar - just for a little while, they could return to a composed,
loving and patient mother ready to take on all they have to dish out.
Now, I just have to find a composed, loving and patient mother.
© Copyright
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The
Real Secret Of Success
By Jay Feldman, California
It’s really simple. It has been in front of us all the time, and, yet,
we haunt bookstores and libraries and watch Oprah trying to find it.
Just imagine all the time we will save once we know the real secret.
That, in itself, will open the door to everything we want. We will now
have the necessary time to find success.
But that’s not the secret. The proven secret of success is this: be born
with high cheekbones. All you have to do then is simply show up. And if
you are tall, to boot, you may not even have to show up. I once knew the
director of a very large company. He had the face, the height, and he
had one thing more: he had a phrase. My friend, if you have a phrase,
the world and all its riches are yours. His phrase was, “Keep me
advised.” Or maybe it was, “Get back to me on that.” His desk was always
clear, he was always accessible, and when he retired after twenty years,
the company begged him to continue on for, at least, another five years.
I can hear you thinking, But I have no cheekbones, I’m short, I don’t
even have a phrase. What can I do? Well, for one thing, stop striving.
Stop being all you can be. Just settle, will you? Wear a paper hat if
you need to. Stop making yourself crazy, stop the depression, stop the
drinking, stop kicking the dog and, even, your significant other. Stop
hounding the bookstores. Just live your life.
Even if you were born with the aforementioned attributes, success is not
a given. Those attributes are just the minimum requirements. Let me
share a memory with you. Actor Chuck Connors was tall (6’5”) and had the
face. He played basketball with the Celtics and baseball with the
Dodgers and Cubs, and had only limited success. One day I asked him if
he had a phrase. He didn’t. I told him he would have to get one or carry
a gun. He got a rifle and the rest is history.
So Kate Hepburn and Johnny Depp got the cheekbones, and John Wayne got
the height you missed out on, so what? Live the life you were given.
There is no competition for that gig. Be a success at that, or get a gun
(quick cash, long prison term).
It hardly sounds fair, eh? I’m glad you stopped by: life is not fair. It
is direct, efficient, quick (“Wait, what just happened here?”), and,
well, successful. What gums up the works are people who are lost. They
come to a dead stop at the top of the escalator, walk in the middle of
any aisle, dawdle in the fast lane, hide in too many service jobs (Let
us chant in unison—“She is away from her desk or on another line”). I
could go on, but you get the point.
You’ve read this far in the hope of learning something you can use. Let
me take my tongue out of my cheek and return to something I noted
earlier: a phrase. Start thinking in term of phrases, and you will see
an immediate change in your life. Mae West’s “Come up and see me”;
Donald Trump’s “You’re fired”; General Douglas MacArthur’s “I shall
return”; that’s the idea. Forget weasel words like maybe, perhaps,
basically, unhelpful, and problematic. Please note that John Wayne was
able to get it down to two words “Well, Pilgrim.” If you start using
strong words with absolutely no substance (in the beginning), the worse
that can happen is that you will be tapped for a political post.
Spouses, bosses, employees, customers, friends want people around them
that are strong and positive. No longer will you be referred to as, “You
know that guy, what’s his name.” As you become more and more skillful at
this, you will realize that presentation is the great equalizer. In
time, people may no longer notice your strong resemblance to Elmer Fudd.
www.thegreatestdietsecret.com
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Handymen
For Hire
By Steve Frain, Pennsylvania
Need some work done around your house?
Well, we can do anything you need done.
This is how a typical day might go if you decide to use our services....
8:00am- We havent shown up yet...probably still sleeping off a hangover.
9:00am- Still not there...We are likely at the store picking up
cigarettes that we will litter your property with.
10:00am- We show up in our truck with the windows down playing some
typical crappy homogenous hard rock music very loudly.
10:23am- We get out of our truck and exclaim loudly enough for you to
hear inside "OH HELL WE FORGOT OUR TOOLS"
When you come out to see what all the racket is about one of us will
launch into a long shpeel about how we could have possibly forgotten our
tools while the other one...(usually me) quickly and quietly begins
fashioning tools from stuff in either your yard or your neighbors yard.
You know those lighthouses people sometimes decorate their front yard
with...well turns out that the light usually works and can be used as a
work light in some rare cases. And those big decorative orbs that people
have on pedestals in their garden are great for Demolition...we will
just chuck em into your wall if that's ok...I hope it will be for your
sake.
Some of you might have a statue of an
animal in your garden... maybe a dog or whatnot...if it's ok we would
put it near us while we work to keep people who are scared of dogs, like
children, away from our work site so they dont get injured... sometimes
I yell at the dog when I hit my thumb with a hammer.
Oh and if you have any of those cutouts
of ladies bending over in the garden we like to put at least one of them
near us while we work so we can hoot and holler at it... it saves you
from being the subject of our hootin and or hollerin'.
Get in touch if you need any work done.
© Copyright
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The
Eight-Year-Old Pill Pusher
By
Laurie Lichtenstein,
New York
My daughter is a pill pusher. I have
friends who describe horrific tales about their kids having to be held
down by two parents and perhaps a grandparent or two to get the medicine
down. Not my girl. She actually seemed a bit melancholy today when she
downed her last dosage of antibiotic for an ear infection. It might be
the appealing hot pink shade of the liquid in a bottle. Or, maybe her
palette is so sophisticated that she actually enjoys her twice daily
cocktail.
I have never been one to push vitamins on my kids, but after a recent
trip to the doctor I was told my youngest son really needed his daily
dose. Might as well make everyone take it, I figured. Knowing that the
little guy would not partake unless he saw his siblings do the same, I
started with the older two. I am sure it’s not the Scooby Doo shape that
entices my gal -- maybe my middle guy, but not Julia. However, she
grabbed the bottle with delight and has every day since, not only
administered the vitamin to herself, but to her siblings as well. And it
is no small feat. The chair has to be dragged across the kitchen- good
thing she takes her vitamins- to the cabinet far out of her reach. Next,
she needs to hoist herself up on the countertop where she risks life and
limb by ducking as she opens up the door. She is faithful in this quest.
Upon her safe return to the ground, she calls her brothers in and
administers the meds. What I find so fascinating about this whole
routine is that they listen to her. I am fairly certain that neither my
husband nor I would be met with the same enthusiasm.
So, all this brings questions to my mind. First, is it my daughter’s
destiny to deal drugs? If so, will this take the form of “Julia MD” or
“Julia DD?” (Drug dealer) Is her obvious determination to seek out all
things medicinal an indication that she is more likely to engage in
experimental drug use as a teen? I actually had no idea that she knew
how to open those child proof bottles until the other day, an obvious
sign of devious tendencies.
Maybe I should be happy that she is so cooperative in this arena, as it
is one less battle to contend with. I could feel proud of her
independent streak, and the effect it is having on her brothers (Jonah
now insists on administering his inhaler to himself.) I should feel good
that she is so responsible, and that on the many frantic mornings her
father and I forget to dole out the meds, she remembers. I could feel
relieved that her brothers will willingly listen to her, even when they
ignore our urgent calls. After all, this quality could be helpful in my
old age; she will undoubtedly take excellent care of her father and me.
But, should I continue to worry, I can console myself with this. If she
meanders off course during her adolescence (DD), I can always find her
stash, turn her in and it is one less college tuition to pay for. And,
if she stays on the straight and narrow, and does become “MD,” I will
always have someone to prescribe me something to take the edge off,
should I be busy fretting about her younger brothers.
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Waiting
To Explode
By
Tom Luddecke,
Connecticut
Last night, during a local town meeting,
John Tuscon, a member of the audience, mysteriously exploded. Other than
shock, temporary loss of hearing, and multiple laundry bills, there were
fortunately no other apparent casualties or injuries.
“It was incredible,” noted one observer, “one second the guy’s sitting
there and the next he’s gone!”
Local authorities suspect no foul play and have identified this
lamentable incident as another case of spontaneous human detonation, a
more severe strain of spontaneous human combustion.
Dr. Martha Richards of the Combustible Animal Life Division at the
University of Michigan Medical Center, states that there are several
current theories on HD (human detonation) being batted around in medical
circles. One of these, she claims, is the belief that a biological
“mis-wiring” of the genes before birth causes a malfunction in the
metabolic processes creating, in effect, a pattern of drastic reversal.
“Normally,” Dr. Richards states, “the human metabolic rate just rolls on
and on in a forward direction, like a ball on a flat surface, until it
finally comes to rest. Bur for some reason, in some people, it’s like a
ball that is rolled uphill. At some point in time it reaches a point
where it stops rolling forward and then starts rolling back downhill at
an increasing rate of speed until the body can no longer absorb the
pressure and actually explodes from the overloaded body circuitry.
Dr. Peter Osgoff, head of a scientific group called The Body Atomic,
claims that his group lays the foundation of detonation on the theory
known as ionization transference. “In lay terms,” Dr. Osgoff explains,
“it’s sort of an atomic swap meet. A charged ion layer that envelopes
the body as a life force is constantly being ‘scrubbed’ by friction with
the body’s external environment and ions given off into the air around
us. The more we move about, the more these charged ions are ‘sloughed
off.’ While most of us are ion donors, one person in every several
million is unfortunately an ion receiver and actually attracts or picks
up these expended charged particles like a magnet. Their body absorbs
and uses this energy. If these people are exposed to highly charged or
very active individuals without a sufficient energy release valve, such
as exercise, that’s when the trouble occurs.”
“Exploding animals,” Dr. Richards states, “is not a new phenomenon and
is evidenced quite frequently. Many animals found on roads and thought
to be victims of automobile mishaps are actually the exploded remains of
spontaneous combustion. Clams come to mind as perhaps the most common
type of animal explosion. Clamshell shrapnel can be found on virtually
every beach area where clams can be found. Fortunately for us, we do not
hear the muffled explosions as the clams are usually buried under the
sand. However, when the tide washes away their cover, we bear witness to
the evidence of these mine-like salvos.”
Supposedly bird detonation is also quite widespread as witnessed by the
helter-skelter debris of feathers across the landscape. In fact one of
the most explosive creatures on Earth may be the Eastern Red Bahm.
Ironically the low body temperature of these winged grenades forces them
to seek out warm spots, which if too hot, will cause them to detonate.
“They’re sort of nature’s own heat-seeking missiles,” jokes historian
and birdwatcher Merton Cloy of the Audubon Society Aviary Club. “For
years I’ve tried to educate the FAA on the idea that certain air mishaps
are not the result of these birds accidentally sucked into jet engines,
but rather an intentional entry prompted by the instinctive need of
these birds for heat.”
According to Cloy, on the night of the attack on Fort McHenry in
Baltimore Harbor by the British during the War of 1812, a Captain
Benjamin Morris of the supply ship Porgy noted in his log that the air
was “blackened by the huge number of red birds seemingly drawn to the
heat of the burning fort.” All of which seems to give new meaning to F.
Scott Key’s words:
“And the rockets’ red glare,
the Bahms bursting in air,”
Although the causes of this affliction are arguable, authorities do
agree on the uncertainty of HD victims. “It is indeed a game of Russian
roulette,” Dr. Osgoff explains. “There is no way, as of yet, of
predicting just who may be a walking bomb.”
Despite the gravity of such an incident occurring, the everyman’s
philosophy tends to be one of acceptance of an event that is outside of
personal control. As one witness of last night’s tragedy noted, “Hey,
you could be crossing the street today and get nailed by some car. At
least if you explode you don’t have to worry about whether or not your
underwear has holes in it.”
© Copyright
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Lady
Boomer's Diary
By
Deidra Miles,
c/o Armed Forces Europe
Real life experiences every female boomer
can (or will) relate to.
DAY ONE: 5:30 AM and finally he’s out of bed and getting ready for work.
That leaves me the entire bed for sprawling! Now that I’ve spent the
night listening to him snore, maybe my nightly Tylenol PM & Nyquil
cocktail will kick in. Let’s see, which of my leg flinging positions
might minimize my restless leg syndrome?
Okay, that didn’t work, so maybe I should
concentrate on getting the comforter over just the right part of my
body. That’s an art in itself; allowing the fan to cool the top half so
I can avoid the night sweats while keeping my legs warm to camouflage
the RLS. Okay, that’s much better.
Without my little “neck pillow” this
position hurts my spine, so I need to reposition the bigger pillows so
that the arm underneath doesn’t fall asleep – I hate waking up and
having to bang my arm on the nightstand to wake it up! Oh gosh….there’s
something going on with my stomach; must have been too much garlic, and
that Pepto smoothie that accompanied my dinner should have been more
potent.
Okay, much better now. I’m definitely
glad I’m the only one under these covers!! I’m so comfortable, no noise,
the room is dark, the bed is all mine and I can finally get some sleep.
Damn it; now I have to pee!
DAY TWO: I was quite the dancer years ago. I still love music and have
the urge to dance, but my body and mind disagree on everything from
appropriate footwear and the type of music to the duration of my dance!
If I dance with my husband, our new body form keeps us from dancing as
close as we once did. I prefer to dance alone when no one is home so I
can fantasize that I still look as good as I ever did. These days we
have fewer mirrors in the house, so there’s no image to dispute my
fantasy.
I also enjoyed a few alcoholic beverages
before menopause. Now, if I have even a single glass of wine or a small
serving of Amaretto, my face turns red, the sweats start, I begin
disrobing and I lose even more of my graceful coordination. If there was
ever a justification for legalizing marijuana, it should be for Boomers.
Since alcohol has become less appealing for menopausal women, diabetic
men, and a whole host of other ailments we’re being introduced to,
wouldn’t an occasional doobie help us to enjoy “our golden years”? It
would sure help with that “good dancer” fantasy of mine.
Since legalization is not likely, I’ll
stick to a drink or two and pray my out-of-shape, uncoordinated,
partially dressed, “dancing queen” image never shows up on You-Tube or
anywhere else where my grandchildren might see it!
DAY THREE: I can’t remember the last time
I attended a really elegant affair. My concern used to be “What will I
wear?”. Now it’s whether or not there’s going to be a photographer who
is going to catch a profile shot, and even worse, publish it where all
can see. The altered body image is much easier for me to handle than
“the gravitating jowls and the disappearing lip act”.
The advance preparation for the event
used to actually be more fun that the actual event. I used to love
pampering myself while enjoying some great music, and trying different
outfits and hairstyles in anticipation of feeling “pretty, oh so
pretty”. The advance preparation these days means carefully removing all
chin hair and finding any pair of shoes that don’t look like “nun-shoes”
but won’t need to be removed after one hour’s wear. Forget the strapless
gown and go for lots of fabric coverage so the body-shaper undergarments
won’t be apparent. A clutch purse? I think not. Just in case I have a
small accident, how will I fit an extra pair of skivvies in a CLUTCH
PURSE!?!?! The make-up definitely needs to include a cover-up for the
age spots. Some of that “permanent make-up” would certainly go a long
way to make me look like I still have lips.
Okay, as soon as I do a last minute check
of my husband’s nose and ear hair, attempt to cover up that increasingly
large bald spot and make sure the socks and shoes on both his feet
match, we’ll be out the door. Oh ya, it’s June and I don’t know if I’ll
be hot or cold, so help me find that gorgeous mink coat with the
detachable sleeves.
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The
Men Who Stated The Obvious
By
Jason Nedbalek,
Texas
Weathermen are the most self-important
bozos to ever gaze upon a teleprompter. They stand in front of a camera,
and spend an eternal four minutes telling us it’s dark, as though I
can’t see that it’s pitch black outside my window, or that it also
happens to be 10:20 p.m.! I’m surprised they don’t explain the magical
process that makes the sun disappear after druids slaughter a lamb at
Stonehenge every evening.
And when it is dark, why do they feel the need to tell me it’s cloudy?
It’s dark, what’s the point? Nighttime is the one time it’s not relevant
to know if it’s cloudy. Unless you have a telescope, or you have the
urge to howl at something, who gives a rat’s ass whether it’s cloudy at
night? It’s not like people need to go get a moontan. I can almost hear
the weatherman say, “And if you guys out there watching the tube are
planning on a nice, relaxing midnight barbeque, it’ll be clear and moony
for you all next week.” Cue: fake laughter from the anchors and the
sports guy in his late forties who’s still living his high school
football years in his head. Next.
What the hell is a geographical panhandle? They call one part of Texas
that sticks out to the west (on most modern maps) a panhandle. Out of
all the things they could have come up with, a panhandle is what some
wacko decided to call it years ago? Please. I call it “that part of
Texas where Buddy Holly’s from”. In case you’ve never been inside a Bed,
Bath and Beyond, or you’ve never been hit in the head by the round part
that it is attached to, a panhandle is long arm of metal protruding from
the pan, or skillet as they call it in low literacy states. It’s purpose
is to keep morons from touching the pan when it’s hot. Despite this,
millions of Americans are burned every year because they don’t use that
part of the pan I say that area of Texas doesn’t look like. On a side
note: it’s always hot in the Texas “panhandle”. Weird, huh? The Big
Dipper (aka Ursa Major) is easily identifiable by its long handle, but
then again, it’s also supposed to look like a bear. When you think about
it, none of the constellations look like what they’re supposed to. Go
figure.
Anyway, the Texas Panhandle looks nothing like a handle. I love it how
some geographer just decided to call any wide, straight strip of land a
panhandle. Okay, smart guys, if that’s the case, then why isn’t Florida
called what it's shaped like? Instead, it's called a peni...nsula. Yeah, right.
We know what you really meant to call it back when you coined that term.
You threw the first four letters in there to make people giggle when
they start to sound it out, and then you duped us with the
unpronounceable-by-itself “nsula”. Besides, it’s the only logical
explanation as to how the Gulf of Mexico was created, so why didn’t you
call it by what it looks like?
The last of my all time favorite harebrained things that meteorologists
do is when they stand outside in the pouring rain telling us viewers
that it’s (SURPRISE!!) raining. Some yellow rain slicker-wearing nut
will stand in the center of the devastating aquatic power that comes
with the likes of a hurricane, and hold a mic that’s hooked up to
something resembling an electrical power source. For all the weather
reporters out there, you don’t have to risk your life to tell me it’s
storming. I believe you. What, like we viewers can’t see that it’s
wetter than a glass of water outside? They always urge people to stay
inside while they’re out there wearing a raincoat and holding an
umbrella. It’s pouring like crazy (I’m not talking about that lame
monsoon crap they get over in Vietnam, I’m talking about sideways
shooting rain so dense that it forms a gray curtain no ounce of light
can penetrate) and some meteorologist is standing in the middle of it
holding an umbrella like it’s really gonna help. Sheer genius! That’s
like using a squirt gun to put out the Hindenburg! I’m always anxiously
waiting for one of these buffoons to take off like a kite with the hard
blast of a full force gale. Now, that’s news! Cue: fake laughter.
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Alien
People Or Alien Peebles?
By Martha Peebles,
Illinois
If any of you find a small town that
bears your last name, I highly encourage that you make plans to visit. A
family snapshot under the welcome sign makes a great photo Christmas
card.
Several years ago, we found out about Peebles, a small town in southern
Ohio. We had heard rumors that more alien UFO’s were spotted in Peebles
Ohio than any other place in the U.S. Cool! This gave us even more
reason to vacation there, except that I had nightmares about a town full
of alien clones that were carbon copies of my husband.
I think this UFO business got started in the 60’s and 70’s when someone
under the influence of hallucinogenics assumed that aliens created
Serpent Mound (a landmark near Peebles). According to actual history,
Native American mound builders of the 13th century should really get the
credit. This snake-like mound is a beautiful sight, especially from an
aerial view. I’m sure aliens from miles around gather there in fancy
little UFOs just to get good pictures. In fact, they may meet there
every year, sort of like the Harley-Davidson gathering at Sturgis, South
Dakota. Peebles Ohio may actually be a National UFO Convention site.
Speaking of aliens, we were the only people named Peebles in that whole
darn town! (Well, of the living that is!) We quickly realized that we
could get by with almost anything. In restaurants we were seated
immediately and treated like royalty. The local police let us disrupt
the residents on a quiet Sunday afternoon so that we could take family
pictures by each and every Peebles sign. ( Peebles Pool Hall, Peebles
Library, Peebles Car Wash, Peebles Laundromat, Peebles Residential Home,
Peebles Bank, and a freshly painted sign that said: “Peebles Go Home!”)
At the camping and lake resort where we stayed, they let us break all
the rules; namely staying up late at night making noise and swimming
during time-out. Actually, the swimming episode was innocent; we arrived
after the lifeguard blew her whistle to declare time out. We loved
having the mineral water swimming hole to ourselves, thinking those
people who were glaring at us from the shore were just too tired, too
hot, or too bored. I can just imagine a conversation between a couple
who was watching us make fools of ourselves splashing around in the
water. Husband: “Would you look at those people?” “First they keep us up
all night with their loud partying and now they think they can just
waltz out here and swim anytime they please!” Wife: “Honey, Shhh!” “I
heard their name was Peebles!”
As you might have guessed, we are planning another trip to Peebles just
as soon as Bill changes the oil in our spaceship, finishes building the
huge “P” shaped mound in our backyard and puts the final touches on the
geometric design in the cornfield.
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The
Grade That Everyone Should Be Allowed To Skip
By
Nicole Qualtieri,
Massachusetts
Trying to distinguish which was the worst
year in my twenty-five is a tough process. There was the year my father
died of cancer. The next year when my mom moved us across the country.
Or the year in college when my family went bankrupt. It all pretty much
sucked; however, in my deliberation over the worst year of my life, it
goes without a doubt to the year that I spent in seventh grade.
I was pretty cool in 1997. And by pretty cool, I mean a total loser.
All of my clothes consisted of what I wore to soccer practice. Which
meant I wore windpants or Umbro shorts to school every day. I usually
paired them with a t-shirt that was horse or cat related.
I refused to think of myself as a loser, and I would sit at the "cool
table" at lunch forcefully. Only to face mocking ridicule by every
person at the table. It was like a terrible scene out of Mean Girls.
Somehow, by God’s grace, I wore those kids down. I sat at the table so
many times they literally gave in to my awkward friendship. And some of
the girls who were most committed to my daily degradation ended up being
my close friends the following summer. Well, you can’t say I wasn’t
persistent.
These budding friendships actually evolved as my wardrobe began to
substantially change. I started becoming a little more observant towards
the current trends, which in Worthington, Ohio, consisted of pastel
polos and jeans from the Gap. I remember my first pair, as well as my
first polo. And my mom's clear resistance to buying me anything that was
cool, because cool was expensive. Windpants were pretty cheap in the
mid-nineties, I guess.
My crush at the time was this kid, Josh. We'd gone to elementary school
together and were best buds in only the way that the class tomboy and
class clown can be in the early years of life. My locker neighbor had
caught wind of this crush, and she told Josh at recess that I liked him.
Note: Serious catastrophe for any unattached seventh grader.
After lunch, Josh pulls me aside, me in my windpants with my crazy curly
hair. He tells me that I am "one of his best friends" and that he
"really likes me" but that he only dates blue-eyed, blonde cheerleaders.
AHH! THE ULTIMATE DISASTER for this brunette, brown-eyed
non-cheerleader.
Consider this equation. What is the only part that I have any control
over? Yep. The cheerleader part. So what did I do? I tried out for
eighth grade cheerleading.
This was at the time that the cool girls still despised me for ruining
their lunch-time dynamic. So they refused to be my try-out partner. I
got paired with Carol. The only other girl without a partner. Carol was
a super nice girl, but she was also like 5'11 and at least three hundo
on a pound scale. I was screwed from the beginning. But I learned all
the jumps. I had the dance to Coolio’s “1, 2, 3, 4 (sumpin’ new)” down
pat. I screamed the cheers with such a creepily fierce intensity that I
was banned from practicing at home. My confused parents definitely had
no clue what was going on with their demented, previously tomboyish
daughter.
Tryouts came. And I KILLED it. I don't mean that in a positive way. Yet,
in my naïve young mind, I was totally convinced that my number would be
on at least one list. There were like four squads over the eighth grade
year. I checked those lists probably twenty times looking for my number.
It was nowhere to be found. I was back to being a brunette, brown-eyed
non-cheerleader. My life was ruined. And I would have to face the cool
lunch table the next day, knowing that nearly all of them would be
wearing the cute cheerleader uniforms as well as standing at least one
more qualification towards dating Josh than I ever would.
Ugh. The horror. The absolute misery. I secretly cried myself to sleep
the majority of that year.
With this in mind, I’m making a proposal for education reform: No more
seventh grade.
It might not solve the reading crisis. Or the math crisis. Or whatever
other educational crisis is affront this week. But perhaps it would give
our children an opportunity that I never had.
A respite from the hell that is seventh grade.
http://nicoleq23.blogspot.com
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Americans
Trade In Nagging Refrigerators
By
Scott Sleek,
Maryland
News from the Future...
May 5, 2029 – Sales of broadband-connected refrigerators fell 25% in the
first quarter, while purchases of standard refrigerator models increased
for the first time in a decade, a new report shows.
The findings are part of a study commissioned by the Consumer
Electronics Assocation. According to the report, released yesterday,
Americans are eschewing the so-called “smart refrigerators” because they
loathe being alerted to the low nutritional value of their food stocks.
Smart refrigerators can email or text-message you when you’re running
low on milk or eggs, but they also let you know when you’re food is
spoiling and when you’re stocking up on too much junk food. In a survey
that CEA conducted late last year, smart-frig owners said they were
tired of their ice boxes “nagging” them about their dietary habits.
CEA says many consumers are unaware that they can disconnect the
nutrition-alert systems on their refrigerators. Some people also
mistakingly believe that information about their eating habits will be
leaked to their health insurance carriers and result in premium
increases.
“Contrary to what many people believe, the modern refrigerators don’t
divulge information to health insurance companies,” said CEA President
Pat Westinghouse. “Rather, the appliances simply contact police if the
amount of beer or wine in your frig drops precipitously within two to
three hours. Police are then able to place patrols outside your home to
make sure you don’t get into your car while under the influence. So
these advanced refrigerators pose no threat to privacy, and actually
keep our roads safer.”
The Citizens Dumb-Appliance Alliance, a Washington, D.C.-based group
that lobbies against the proliferation of smart devices, said that many
advanced ice boxes lack adequate security to prevent hackers or
insurance companies from tapping into the appliance’s hard drives.
“What’s to prevent a hacker from stealing your food history from your
frig and sending it to your employer, your personal trainer, or your
mother,” said Mandy Weiner, the group’s head lobbyist.
http://futureupdate.wordpress.com
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