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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/July 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
the Winners of our
June/ July
2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
Madoff WILL Be Free Again
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom
“Impossible,” you’ll say. “It can’t be done.” Well that’s why I’m Bernie
Madoff and you’re not. You probably think that my being aged 71 with a
sentence of 150 years equals ol’ Bernie never getting out of the hole.
I, on the other hand, simply see it as swindling death. I pulled off 65
billion swindles, so one more will be easy. How smart can a cape-wearing
scythe-waving anorexic be?
Clawing back 150 years isn’t so tough. I have a 5-step plan:
1. SWINDLING IS STRESSFUL
I’ll add years to my life with some laid back prison living. Look at my
former to-do list:
6 a.m. - Wake up; start swindling.
7.40 a.m. - Get out of bed.
10 a.m. - Swindling.
11 a.m. - Write list of people to swindle.
12 noon - Pangs of guilt or indigestion? Ask doctor.
1 p.m. - Recommend to doctor a “nice little investment”?
It went on like that pretty much all day, everyday, and it was very very
stressful: I really can’t emphasise that enough - hence the double
“very.” Sometimes, instead of swindling, I’d opt for light grifting,
which was kind of like swindling but had more of an “all dressed down”
feel. If you knew how stressful it was you’d probably be saying, “Jeez,
poor Bernie kinda deserved that $65 billion to compensate for all that
crippling swindling stress.”
* Years added to life by no longer swindling: I reckon 2 for each of the
20 years it went on = 40 (110 to go).
2. SUPERHUMAN
Do you know how many Egyptians it took to build a pyramid? Me neither,
but I’m guessing 23. And I’m talking strapping Egyptians too, not puny
ones - like when you see an unwrapped mummy and think, Heck, were all
those guys skinny midgets? I built my Ponzi pyramid alone.
* Years added to life by my being equivalent to 23 strapping Egyptians =
20 (90 to go).
3. STOP FEELING GUILTY; IT WAS A MISTAKE
Come on you bunch of goody-goodies; you must have made errors of
judgement. Have you ever taken a left turn when you really meant to take
a right? You’ve done that, haven’t you? Well what I did was similar,
except I kept taking that wrong turn for 20 years. It’s pretty much the
same thing. Now imagine that whenever you take your wrong turn you
accidentally end up robbing a bunch of people. Lots and lots of “error
of judgement” robbing. Heck, if you think about it, I should be
applauded for only taking 20 years to spot such a “tragic mistake.”
Look, some jerk crayoned over my copy of the Ten Commandments, and I
couldn’t read the bit about not stealing. I thought it said, “Thou shall
not steam.” And I promise you, I’ve only ever eaten boiled vegetables.
* Years added to life by recognising it was just a mistake, therefore
fewer pangs of guilt = 20 (70 to go).
4. COUNTING ERRORS
Ever noticed how when an investor is trying to work out some figures and
you distract him by going “la, folly di, la, folly di, la” that he loses
count and gets all flustered? Add a peacock impression and you’ve got a
combo that ensures no investor will ever get his figures right. Whenever
I ask the prison guards how long I have left inside - “Am I nearly there
yet?” Am I? I must be; it seems like my sentence has been going on for
ages and ages” – I’ll start squawking and flapping until they mess up
their count.
* Years added to life by peacock related miscounts = 20 (50 to go).
5. TIME OFF FOR BEING “GOOD BOY BERNIE”
A few goods deeds, a makeover, and they’re bound to knock some years
off:
a) Educate nation on both nutrition and morality in a book called “Uncle
Bernie’s Hip and Lie Diet.”
b) Point out how many rainforests I’m saving by no longer receiving a
bank statement.
c) Give myself that Winkler “Happy Days” vibe by wearing a leather
jacket and calling myself “the Ponz.”
* Years off for good deeds = 10 (zero to go!!!).
And there you have it - 150 to freedom in 5 easy steps.
[Note: Observant readers will have noticed that this does not, in fact,
add up to 150. When we questioned Mr. Madoff on his suspect figures, he
started flapping his arms wildly and repeatedly asked us to “check out”
his ample plumage.]
www.humourwhiffet.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Liddy Memos - A Kindle Excerpt - Part 1
By Sharon Riley, North Carolina
[Editor's Note: In addition to this entry, Sharon submitted a related
entry, Part 2, which was selected as a Finalist!]
As AIG sells its
buildings and divisions to pay back Uncle Sam, a recently laid-off
employee, who claims to have only received half of his million dollar
bonus, is raising funds by publishing the internal memos of
soon-to-be-former CEO Edward Liddy. The following is a Kindle excerpt,
hubris and mixed-metaphors free of charge; full download is available
for $29.99:
TO: AIG Major League A.S.S.E.S.
FR: Edward Liddy, CEO
DATE: January 5, 2009
RE: Spring Training Scheduled
Happy New Year and batter up! As CEO, I know business in the big leagues
takes constant conditioning, and I am committed to your professional
training. It's a new year and the yellow journalism press attacks are
behind us. For the record, they were contractors - NOT AIG employees –
who were waxed by underage aestheticians. Now we are flush with Federal
Reserve cash and financed to move forward with the Annual Spring Seminar
for Executive Success (A.S.S.E.S.) scheduled for the first week of
April. You're our superstar swap sellers and I'm calling you up for
Major League A.S.S. training. Pack your cleats and report to camp at the
first hole of the ocean front course at The Breakers, Palm Beach.
Please note, due to the entertainment portion of program, this is an
employee-only event. Leave the wife and kids at home, A.S.S.E.S. You've
earned it. Itinerary to follow.
TO: A.S.S.E.S.
FR: Edward Liddy
DATE: January 8, 2009
RE: Spring Training Sessions
Please review the list of financial education seminars to be held at The
Breakers Spring Training and enroll in your sessions by January 30th.
Celebrity lecturers require a head count and cash up front before
committing to the event:
* Betting on Green: Parlaying the taxpayer's investment at Monte Carlo
roulette.
* Creating the Illusion of Cash Reserves: The slight of hand of selling
insurance without the money to pay out the claim. David Copperfield
lectures and performs. Trade secrets will be shared.
* Inspiring Investor Trust via the Bow Tie: How to project avuncular
warmth and guileless charm while avoiding Ivy League snark. Viewing of
Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood followed by a lessons-learned
breakout session moderated by Tucker Carlson.
* Risky Debt Financing, Expanding the Client Base: Working with the
neighborhood loan shark. There's still plenty of money to be made by
insuring high-risk loans. Actor Joe Pesci leads wise guy panel.
Networking cocktail reception and strip club tour to follow.
* How to Feign Knowledge of Bailout Bonuses: Dust off your acting chops.
Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke will lead a Stanislavski method class,
demonstrating how to effectively fake shock and surprise regarding
bailout bonuses. He will teach you how to shake your head disapprovingly
and emote moral outrage and disappointment. Ben will help you create a
sympathetic working-class-roots backstory for your character. An
in-depth analysis of Ben's winning 60 Minutes performance will be
included.
* Philanthropy is the Best Defense: If your acting skills fail you and
you must admit to accepting a bailout bonus, charitable giving
consultant, television personality, and alternative-energy gadfly Ed
Begley, Jr. is here to help. Mr. Begley will give you the names of
charities with liberal street cred, most involving the emancipation of
factory-caged chickens, that you can list as bonus money recipient
fronts. Ed will also coach you in how to feign concern for the
environment and cruise uninhibited teenage girls in the macrobiotic
aisle of the food co-op.
* Hiding Your Wealth in Hard Commodities: Actor George Takei will step
you through the process of purchasing and gifting rare Star Trek action
figures and collectibles. Bidding on eBay, the buy-it-now option, and
exploring the Comic-Con and Trekker convention venues will be discussed.
Bonus breakout session offered on the debate over the terms "Trekkie"
vs. "Trekker."
* How the Wealthy Can Apply for Medicaid Health Insurance Benefits: A
Power Point tutorial led by the Wal-Mart Human Resources Department.
Instructional modules include: diverting assets offshore, forging
low-wage pay stubs, and securing a timely interview at Health and Human
Services. Social workers will be present to fill out forms.
Read the rest of this Kindle book within a minute of placing your order.
Only $29.99!
http://sharonmriley.blogspot.com/
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Getting
Cleaned
By David Crawford, Canada
I was working hard at home, in the middle of a difficult task in my
office, when I was distracted by the business line ringing.
I paused my game (ahem) and answered the phone…
“Mr. Crawford, this is Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS calling from the
dentist’s office, with a reminder that you are overdue for your teeth
cleaning. Again. Please report to the office immediately or we’ll burn
down your house.”
I’m just kidding – she didn’t really say ‘report to the office’.
So I prepare for my date with destiny two days hence. This means
brushing one’s teeth so violently that your spouse suspects you have
come down with a virulent new strain of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
“You’re not fooling anyone you know,” my wife said. “And don’t floss so
hard either – look at all the gunk on the mirror. It’s disgusting.”
I brush and floss sixteen times per day, unlike my usual two. Well, four
if the hygienist is asking.
This attempt at atonement is akin to hitting the gym nine times per day,
beginning two days before your Caribbean cruise departure. Or driving
conservatively when the gas gauge in the car is nearing empty.
The Day arrived.
I found myself deep in enemy territory, resisting their clever
interrogation techniques. I surrendered only what is allowed under the
Geneva Convention - name, address, dental plan number.
In the waiting room, I frantically ate an entire bag of Oreo cookies in
a show of defiance to my captors. As my cheeks bulged, The Torture Beast
herself, wearing a perky red jumpsuit, no doubt to hide the blood
stains, emerged from her lair.
She smiled charmingly, spittle dripping from her fangs as she grinned
her evil grin, and dragged me by the hand into the nearest chamber.
There, armed with the tiny, hideous metal implements of her trade, she
tirelessly poked, prodded and scraped my mouth back to a condition of
hygienic perfection unseen in years.
I nearly bled to death.
At some point in this process, punctuated by her cries of “Please stop
screaming Mr. Crawford!” and “Security, tighten the straps!” she ushered
in the great man himself.
The Dentist. (Dramatic music erupts in the background)
He was wearing a mask (as all professional torturers do), and proceeded
to open my clenched jaw by asking me an innocuous question about my golf
game, then plunging his fingers into my mouth when I attempted to
answer. Clever.
Using the little magnifier thingy’s on his glasses, he examined my teeth
and called out strange coded messages to his assistant, Igor.
“Number 28, Stan Musial on third, humidor molar.”
“7th at Belmont, 25 on Bicuspid to win…”
Something like that anyway.
After more poking and speaking in tongues, he said “Everything looks
good I’ll have to take some x-rays and everything you need done will be
ten thousand dollars rinse please!”
I may have passed out at that point.
After he had his way with me (so to speak), I didn’t think I could
endure any more, brave though I had been up to that point. Alas, I still
had to survive the Getting the Teeth Rubbed with Gritty Mud Technique,
and the Mouthful of Minty Foam Procedure. All the while they were plying
me for information – knowledge about the weather or my business or my
children.
I resisted as best I could.
I’m not clear on how I got away. I remember brief flashes of things -
running with the paper bib flapping around my neck, leaping over a
waiting room coffee table, writing a check – it’s all a blur.
I have recovered for the most part. I still get the odd flashback, but
I’m fine. Really. Thanks for asking.
Just remember to keep some floss in your Escape and Evasion kit. It is
useful stuff when you need tripwires or booby traps.
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Late
For The Mammogram
By
Julia DeGraf,
Illinois
I hate being late. I don’t know where
this hatred of lateness comes from. I’ve gone through the worst-case
scenario of what could possibly happen if I were late, and it usually
doesn’t involve death or dismemberment. Usually.
But I have nothing to worry about today, for I have scheduled plenty of
time to drive to mall, walk to the office, and check in for my mamm-appointment.
In the lobby of the Professional Building, tho, I experience the cold
panic of uncertainty. This doesn’t look right. Is this where I get my
mammogram? I can’t remember the name of the office, and the directory
doesn’t list anything obvious, like Boobs Squashed Here or Slammogram
Express. Shoot. I should’ve confirmed where the mammo-site was when I
made the appointment. How do they expect us to remember these things
after a whole year has passed and studies have shown that even
recreational drug use can impair memory?
I do see “Midwest Women’s Health”; that must be it, right? There’s
another woman waiting for the elevator, and because she has giant circus
boobs, I figure we’re headed for the same place. Looking only mildly
offended, she tells me she’s not, in fact, mammo-bound, but she agrees
that the Women’s Health suite might be the place.
It’s not. The receptionist directs me to Nordstrom’s. Gosh darn it!
Nordstrom’s is wa-a-a-ay at the other end of the mall. Like, 17 miles
away. I’m the fastest walker I know, but I’m no match for all the
monster-truck-sized strollers that have suddenly materialized. Why are
babies allowed at the mall? When I was a baby, I didn’t get to go
ANYwhere. And I certainly didn’t get to travel in a stroller the size of
a taxi.
It’s hot and humid. Let the sweating begin! But JD, I hear you say,
surely you applied deodorant before leaving the house? No, smart-ass, I
did not. You’re not supposed to use deodorant on mammo-day. Why? I don’t
know. It’s not my armpit they’re shoving into a vice and compressing
into the approximate thickness of a sheet of paper.
AND now it’s raining. I’m walking fast—really fast, and sweating. And
I’m going to be late. Oh, God. LATE!
Once in Nordstrom’s, I see the “Mammography Suite” sign right away. But
. . . the hell? The Mammography Suite is not only empty, it looks like
it’s been deserted since World War II. A sign helpfully tells me the
suite is moving upstairs on August 2, but it’s still July! Where are
they? I poke my head in all the rooms but find only a crumpled-up paper
gown.
Fighting back tears, I run to the perfume counter and ask breathlessly
where the mammograms are. Upstairs? Even tho it’s clearly NOT August 2?
Fine. Upstairs.
It’s a lie. There’s nothing resembling a mammography suite upstairs. I
ask the concierge, who tells me the mammography suite is
closed—CLOSED!—until August 2. I’m flummoxed. “But they told me Old
Orchard!” I whined, noticing that I’m already 6 minutes late.
“Well, there’s the place on Woods Drive.”
Dammnit! THAT’s where I go. They call it the Old Orchard facility
because it’s off Old Orchard road. Idiots.
I try not to speed, but that is my normal driving mode, so I simply try
not to kill anyone. I squeal into the parking lot and tear into the
building. By now I’m a sodden, sweaty, panicked mess.
“MAMMOGRAM???!!!” I scream.
Downstairs. The sign next to the elevator says “LL” but the elevator
button says “B.” WHICH IS IT? Are they the same? You need to be more
clear about this, building designers. Anxious, soaking-wet, sobbing
mammo-patients do not have time to pick over these semantic details.
OK. I’m there. I’m 20 minutes late. The receptionist is extremely
judgmental. She gets on the phone and says, “Your 3:00 is here, and your
2:40 JUST. NOW. SHOWED. UP. Should I have her wait?”
She tells me that I can wait and they will try to squeeze me in. I’m so
flustered I don’t even make a bad joke about being squeezed in.
So I was late. Big deal. In the end, what was the worst that happened? I
lost 4 pounds from sweating, I screamed at a couple of people, I burst
into tears at Nordstrom’s, and I got a blister from speed-walking in
flip-flops.
Oh, and I may have knocked over a baby stroller or two.
http://idothings.info
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Paradise
Lost?
By
Charlie Taboada,
Washington
“I’ve never been good at icebreakers. It
really wasn’t until I moved out that I started, just talking to people.
It’s not hard; “How’s it going?”, “What’s your name?”, “Where you from?”
I learn a lot and likewise let people know about me. I guess that’s why
I’m not very social up here. I’m a little insecure about where I’m
from.”
“Oh and where’s that?”
“Hell, the Westside.”
“Oh, that’s funny you don’t look like you’re from Hell,” she said with a
face that failed to mask her repulsion.
“Well, truthfully I’m only half Hellion. My father was an innocent soul,
a pagan none the less, but an innocent soul. He crossed the Styx in,
well we’ll call it a mass spiritual exodus, and met my mother, a She
Demon. It was carnal infatuation at first sight and here I am. It’s the
no horns, right. Put me around hellfire and sulfur and in a week 5 inch
horns. Swear to Satan, my skin gets a lot more scaly too.”
I could tell she was having a hard time taking in all this information.
Be polite, excuse her and walk on. That’s what we do in Hell, we’re
polite. The world has enough problems as it is, we don’t need to be rude
to one another.
Some might think it’s wrong, but there is a lot of bigotry here in
Heaven. Ever since the Anti-Fallen & Sedition Act came on the books and
allowed the descendents of Fallen Angels to return to heaven, a few
celestial idiosyncrasies have been exposed and Heaven isn’t all it was
supposed to be. I mean there’s plenty to love, for starters IT IS
BEAUTIFUL HERE. The sunny skies, honey suckle in the air, awe-inspiring
views of infinity; it‘s just a vision.
But on the flip side, the people here are so pretentious and holier than
though, and the rent is unbelievable. Even with an inflated salary I’m
throwing away half my income for what, a closet with good lighting? Back
in Hell, I could have bought a floor, in the Circle for Virtuous Pagans,
a good neighborhood. I mean, when people talk about Hell you hear about
the air quality, and the heat, the cold, the grinding and wailing of
teeth. But the Circle of Virtuous Pagans, sure bad weather, but always a
party with no fear of damnation, great food from all over earth, and
easy women. Up here all the women are so content to be fulfilled in
infinite rapture that I can’t even get a phone number. I realize that
this afterlife and romance is a trivial deception of the flesh, but in
Hell everybody is so willing just to make a connection to soothe the
suffering. Picking up a girl back home, if you’re part demon it’s not
even a challenge.
When I get homesick I call my mom, at least once a week. She can’t visit
since she’s Fallen. Heaven preaches a policy of forgiveness my ass. I
call my mom and she asks if it’s how she remembers it, if everybody
still wears all white, and the choirs are still playing on the corner?
She never asks if I’m coming home because once I leave I can’t come
back, and mom only wants the best for her boy.
The decree of the Principalites went, “All born of the Fallen are
virtuous and divine by His decree. His forgiveness is yours, you may
return home.” We couldn’t believe it. All of us kids thought we were
going to have to work in the Fires like our folks. We had a chance to
get out. But once we got to Heaven it wasn’t what we expected. We
couldn’t go home and reject God, then we‘d be fallen too. Our family
couldn’t come since they had rejected Him. We could only find work we
were half qualified for, since nobody hires Hellspawn; and I’ve already
mentioned my women problems. It was hardly paradise.
Growing up I was always mad at mom for damning us to hell. When she
followed Lucifer down to the pit to fight in his armies, I always
questioned her sanity. I know it was a different time back then and
everybody was dropping out, but when the chance came to leave I took it.
Now here I am, in Heaven, and alone. Perspective is a wonderful thing --
just wish I didn’t have to come all the way up here to get it.
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