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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/September 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
August/
September 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Criminal
Compassion With Kenny MacAskill
By
Kevin
Craner,
United Kingdom
“Compassion and mercy are about upholding the beliefs that we seek to
live by, remaining true to our values as a people. No matter the
severity of the provocation or the atrocity perpetrated.”
—Kenny MacAskill, Scottish Justice Minister, on the release of
Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi, August 2009
STATEMENT BY KENNY MACASKILL ON BEHALF OF THE SCOTTISH TOURIST BOARD
If you’ve just been diagnosed with three months to live, you’re probably
thinking, Great, that’s my dream of becoming an international
criminal-overlord well and truly down the crapper. And as if you need a
second reason to be “all huffy.” Life! Look, I know how you’re feeling,
and I sympathise. Really I do. That’s why it’s my privilege to offer
what I’ve coined the “Mafioso Vacation.” Frankly, it’s pretty much like
a regular vacation, except for the bits when you get to hit people with
a heavy baseball bat and use cool bad-ass words such as “wallop” and
“noggin-thwacked.”
I can hear you now, “Hang on kilt boy. Sure, I’d love to be known as Mr.
Thwack-tastic. But get real. I’ve got enough on my plate without the
worry of prison.” Well, here’s the cool thing. My Scottish humanity
recognises that your plate is more than a little full at the moment.
That’s why I’m giving you the chance to live out your maniacal dreams,
and, in return, you’ll receive plenty of compassion without the threat
of something those draconian right-wing extremists call “punishment.”
You might be cold and heartless, but I’m not going to sink to your
no-compassion-showing criminal ways by dishing out something as outmoded
as justice. If you enjoy tickling neurotic Mormons with bags of nutmeg
shavings, go for it! Who needs a bunch of dictators spewing out emotive
buzzwords such as “harassment” and “weirdo”? Scotland is nothing like
that lowlife Uncle Sam, or indeed any of my lowlife relatives—including
Angus, who’s banned from stepping within three-foot of an unwashed
haggis following what can only be described as “an incident.”
Of course, there are limits to Scottish tolerance, but provided you
don’t take the mick we can live with it. Stick to minor crimes such as
petty theft, slightly breaking the speed limit, or killing a few hundred
people and you’ll be fine. Go crazy. Really, go super crazy; you deserve
to; you’re ill, and that’s the Big Guy’s way of telling me that you’ve
been punished enough. I’m not sticking my nose into a Higher Power’s
business. In fact, you can probably get away with knocking-off up to
four hundred people before I’ll even look a bit miffed and raise my
eyebrows in a Roger Moore sort of way. Hey, make it five hundred—I want
to keep my forehead looking oh so silky-smooth.
Besides, if someone is conceited enough to get a job and pay his taxes
then, heck, that arrogant “I’ve got a job bragger” deserves a little
love-tap from “The Thwack-meister.” Once you’re terminally ill you’ve
earned the right to loosen up a bit. Why the hell should you have your
life ruined by obeying stuffy laws and worrying about a proper
punishment should you break them? If you want to hurl a heavy frozen
marrow from the top of a high building, be my guest. You never know,
people may just think they’re being mugged by a psychotic green alien
from the planet Vegetable. Cool! Who cares about the consequences. This
is YOUR time. And anyway, what grieving relative hasn’t dreamt of
saying, “Who’d have thought it. A free-falling fifty-pound frozen
marrow.” Everyone benefits.
Scottish values are similar to when you read about a shark that’s eaten
a bunch of people and then someone nicknames it Bambi. And you’re like,
“Well, I know the whole eating people thing was kind of a bummer, but,
hey-ho, such a cutesy name. Go on, away with ya—you adorable little
man-eating scamp.” In fact, it’s probably nothing like that at all
unless the shark has a prostate problem. Hey, Uncle Angus, do sharks
have prostates? And Angus, get your damn marrow out of my freezer.
Of course, Scotland isn’t a total scumbags’ free-for-all. We’re not,
like, all-out twisted sickos. I mean, the government doesn’t want every
jailbird in the world writing to it with a sob story and begging for a
transfer. Don’t write once, let alone three hundred times. Yes, I’m
talking to YOU Mr. B. Madoff of the U.S.A. Consider this your reply and
photocopy it, oh, let’s say, three hundred times. Eyebrows raised.
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
Wave Rider
By
David Crawford,
Canada
I finally tried the Pretend
Surfing/Sinus-Cleaner-Outer/Ballistic Enema machine at the new pool on
the weekend. It’s an artificial wave thing that has jets of water
shooting up a curved incline, directly into your nasal passages.
What we beginners are supposed to do is lay belly down on a tiny surf
board at the top of the wave, and schuss gracefully down the watery
hill, smashing into the lifeguard's ankles at the bottom.
This I did unexpectedly well.
So there I was, stuck on the lower platform. In my mind’s eye I looked
like a buff surfer dude, but in reality I looked more like an overweight
killer whale who has just earned a fish by sliding up onto the deck at
the aquarium and now has to lurch awkwardly backwards to return to the
water.
Like a killer whale, I too thought of taking a chomp out of the
lifeguard’s leg.
Instead, I gracefully walrus-flopped back to the edge of the platform
and began sliding onto the jets of water shooting underneath me.
In order to slow the pace of my rearward hurtle, I also began swallowing
most of the squirting water at the thirst-quenching rate of 900 gallons
per second.
Not only did this fluid irrigate my innards, the jetting water also
caught the waistband of my swim trunks and removed them with such speed
and finesse that I did not notice their rapid departure.
I was later told they went sailing up and almost over the attending
lifeguard positioned at the top of the wave. She did not see them coming
and was splatted in the head, tangled in what appeared to be a two
person canvas tent.
Because of the rushing water I didn’t feel a thing, other than an
interesting sensation in the region of my hangdowns. Nor could I hear
much because of the noise of the ‘rapids.’ I thought the cheering and
pointing from onlookers was a result of my surprising skill and grace at
negotiating these hazardous, frothy waters.
I smiled proudly as my bare behind flashed its blinding, hairy whiteness
to the crowd.
Mothers hid their children’s faces. Dads pointed and laughed.
Grandparents on the viewing balcony squinted and clutched their chests
at the sight.
Inexplicably, someone yelled a movie title at me. I think.
“Something something ‘Free Willy’!” he yelled, pointing, to which I
replied “Yes they should!” or something like that.
I was busy and couldn’t quite comprehend why I was having this bizarre
conversation with someone I hadn’t even been introduced to.
It was about this time I achieved a perfect state of equilibrium between
the downward force of gravity and the upward force of rushing water.
I got stuck.
Perched somehow at the very top of the incline, my lower parts being
forcefully yet gently massaged by the sweetly caressing water, I could
neither move up, down nor sideways. I thought this was fine and dandy so
there I lay for some minutes, hovering at the peak of the wave, smiling
rapturously at the slightly alarmed-looking crowd, until I caught an
edge somehow and joined the tumbling mirth, skidding into the splashdown
area.
Seeing my swim trunks lying on the grate, I finally understood why all
the lifeguards were now surrounding me with towels and disturbed looks
on their youthful faces.
I understand the movie “Free Willy” is about a large, good-natured whale
that experiences freedom and joy by flying through the water and air
using its blubbery yet sleek, naked body.
I think I’ve seen it.
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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It's
A Wonderful Meat
By
Amber F.,
Texas
(Last name withheld by request)
Not many myths about him are true. Sure,
he wears the red suit, has that white beard, and he is plump.
Disgustingly so.
And, yeah, I’ve heard him, “Ho, ho,” a couple of times–after he’s had
too much eggnog. But he’s not jolly and his eyes don’t twinkle. They
glow with an evil light.
That’s why I’m here, starving in this Tijuana prison. I tried to
extinguish that glow. Permanently. The Man is a menace–cruel–he must be
stopped! His fame lies in the bowels of the earth: his toy-making slaves
in the gloomy dungeons beneath the North Pole.
Even this jail is better than those dungeons. At least it’s warm here.
Did you know how sensitive pointy ears are to frostbite? Tiny lungs are
susceptible to pneumonia? The Man knows. And doesn’t care. My mother
died right after the big Christmas push of ‘71. The Man sent her on
reindeer poop-scoop detail, though he knew she was sick. I lost Dad
shortly afterward. One day he filed a grievance and the next day he was
crushed beneath an avalanche of Easy Bake Ovens, deep within Warehouse
#8. “Freak accident,” The Man called it.
That’s when I decided to make a break for it; go someplace warm and
dance in the sun. But how? Though magical creatures, elves are raised
from infants as slaves. At the age of five, we’re forced to memorize The
Book of Rules: 231 Rules, designed so we never understand our powers.
But I watched for a chance to escape. By luck, I overslept one morning
when my rooster didn’t crow. I was furious with the bird – braiding
Barbie hair was the standard punishment for being tardy. No one was
looking as I ran by him, so I stuck out my tongue at him–a direct
violation of Rule #142. The rooster exploded. As the feathers rained
down upon me, I suddenly realized why that was a forbidden practice.
A hundred of us escaped together. The locked dungeon door locks exploded
before our outstretched tongues like dynamite. The guards, those foolish
enough to get in our way, did the same.
The Man sent his Royal Guard after us. Before we even set foot on the
beach, they had thirty of us. Those who escaped leased a beach condo and
laid low. We posted guards but were edgy; the mere tinkling of a wind
chime sent us scrambling for cover. One day I looked up from a two-day
binge of Internet gambling and realized I was the only one left. The
rest disappeared after receiving postcards announcing they’d won a free
cruise. They went to a remote dock to claim their prizes and I never saw
them again. The Man was that cunning.
I had to get rid of The Man for good. I only had one weapon to use
against him, but it was a sneaky one. I knew his dirty little secret.
Santa has a fetish for Spam.
I planned to use his addiction to my advantage. A true connoisseur, he
is not satisfied with a simple snack of fried Spam on white bread. No,
The Man lusts for variety: Spam on toasted wheat with anchovies and a
pinch of thyme; Spam on gingerbread with a hint of mint; Spam on a
bagel, dripping in melted Roquefort cheese, a carafe of Cognac on the
side. … Fortunately, these abominable binges make him sick. I could work
that to my advantage–he could not watch his back while keeping his head
positioned correctly over the toilet.
It would be risky, luring him directly to me, but I laid my trap. I
fastened a small satellite-tracking device to a Spam can’s bottom, and
set it on my chimney with a recipe I’d created to be particularly brutal
to his gut: roasted Spam with shallots and cayenne pepper, swimming in a
jalapeno chili-cheese sauce. It would be new to him, a recipe I hoped
he’d find irresistible.
I held my breath and listened . . . soon, I detected a soft thud upon my
roof. Though the sound of each little hoof’s prancing and pawing grew
quite loud, I distinguished a heavy tread lumbering toward my chimney,
then . . . a pause . . . and silence. He’d left. He’d taken the bait.
I tossed and turned through the night, waiting for morning–the best time
to attack someone suffering from a Spam hangover. When the sea shone
pink in the dawning sunlight, I made my move. Following the can’s
satellite-tracking data, I crept toward a beachfront condo. Closer,
closer. ...When I heard him inside, retching, I made my move. …
I flung myself on his back and held on tight. It wasn’t easy; The Man
bucked like a Brahma bull. Shoving his head in the toilet, I flushed
with all my strength. He sputtered–victory was within my grasp–when he
managed to reach around and do a horrible thing. He tickled me. I
giggled, a direct violation of Rule #107. I suddenly learned why that
rule existed. In a poof of red smoke, Santa transformed into an
exquisite butterfly and fluttered away.
So did the sink, the toilet, and everything else within ten
feet–including the wall. Was it cruel luck the man on the toilet next
door was a Tijuana cop?
I think not.
Editor’s disclaimer: This was a fictional account only. Toys are really
produced by well-paid, college-educated citizens of China.
http://www.Amber-Kay.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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“Today’s
Humor—Whither?” or “What’s so Funny, Buster?”
By Joel Habush, Wisconsin
My speech today is about the challenges facing today’s budding humor
writers. It’s also only about 750 words long, so there will be no need
for any impatient coughing from the audience. What else is it? Actually
it could be used as a tutorial to help you win a prize for some kind of
humor writing contest.
Today’s humorist labors under onerous conditions and restrictions not
experienced by the cutups of yesteryear. (Actually, it was just
yesteryear when I thought of this.)
“And what are those conditions and restrictions?” you may well ask. Go
ahead.
There are too many land mines out there which humorists have to avoid
nowadays. Too many sacred cows you can’t tip over anymore.
For instance, just when did orphans and poor people become off limits?
I’m sure that many of them can afford to have at least a sense of humor,
but still, for reasons that elude me, it seems we now have to steer
clear of them.
“Well, what about making fun of rich people,” another question you again
may well ask—but don’t push it.
The pampered stars of the silver screen, the gridiron, the stump, the
pulpit, the boardroom, and the ipod would seem to be fitting targets for
japes, digs, bon mots, and knee slappers, but when you look closely at
the tragic lives many of these Appletini besotted; paparazzi teasing;
snorting, smoking, sniffing, sneezing, and popping rehabituates, holding
them up to ridicule would be like shooting fish in a barrel (now that is
a hoot). And we seem to be misguided as to how wealthy these folks are;
apparently from what the photos tell us, most of the women can’t even
afford underwear.
Of course, ethnicity is not funny; it’s also not pronounceable. Say it
ten times fatht. (Then try “toy boats.” Boy, that was fun.) That whole
area of making fun of any group perceived as different, is verboten.
(Using foreign words is extremely funny. Trust me.)
Also, gender bashing is now out. That is, unless you’re a woman—you can
demean men—we’re used to it.
Anyway, it seems like the only ones left to make fun of safely are you
and I. You? Don’t make me laugh. And, there’s certainly nothing funny
about me, a fact I will continue proving throughout this piece.
So what could you write about that would be a humorous topic that hasn’t
been done or done well, making it rare indeed? Something readers could
identify with, wrap their eyes around. Here are some of the things you
can write about: The internet; social media; going to the dentist; using
cell phones while driving—sure, some of these have been written about
over, and over, but the world is waiting for your particular take on
these subjects.
Well, my secret to having won this competition (here, I’m using the
future improbable tense) was to venture into virgin territory. You can
think up a unique topic for laughter, too. Just off the top of my head
(and a little off the sides, please), here’s a topic for you. Write
about how hilarious it is to be in a nursing home and about all the
laughable errors that occur.
Now as to style, who to emulate (rip off) without anybody catching on? I
remember showing one of my essays, chock full of belly laughs, to all of
my friends, and being profoundly embarrassed when all three scornfully,
joyfully, and correctly accused me of plagiarizing Laurence Sterne’s
Tristram Shandy. I had figured that none of them would have bothered
reading a book published in 1759. I thought I had picked my friends more
carefully, and had taken the appropriate steps to cull out anybody whose
reading ability was above the third grade level.
See what’s popular and jump right on the bandwagon. Come up with your
own spin on things like “Top Ten List,” “New Rules,” “What’s the deal
with…,” or “You know you’re a hypochondriac, when….” Wait, that last bit
could be pretty funny; step off, I’m claiming it. You’ll notice that
they’re all available to you on TV—you don’t even have to crack a book
to adapt (steal) these concepts.
In conclusion (sounds of coughing subsiding, replaced by the sounds of
chairs scraping hopefully), read any entry, especially mine, and bolster
your confidence by saying, “Heck I can write funnier than that. Way
funnier!”
Go for it. Make me proud.
www.joelhabush.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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How
To Be (Safely) NOT NICE In A Politically Correct World
By Debra Joy Hart,
Illinois
Being over 50 I have come to the
conclusion that "being nice" is waaaaaaay over-rated. Sometimes I dream
about giving a scorpion as a present. Why not? It's for an ex boss that
has everything. I know what your thinking. Yes, I would have it gift
wrapped with a matching bow. I'm not that callous.
There are people I no longer want to be around except for what is
absolutely necessary. I bet you have some in your family or "friend of a
friend" circle too. I have an internal "nice" meter and sometime I just
run out of "minutes." No "rollover minutes" either. When I'm done, I
politely make up a lie and go home. The fact that I lie and make up
stories might surprise you. One thing I learned in nursing: Therapeutic
Fabrication is not lying. It brings peace on earth and goodwill to all.
I used to journal when I didn't feel like being "nice." I don't have
time to do all that long hand writing about someone that causes me pain
and suffering. It contributes to my carpal tunnel syndrome. I have found
a convenient check list letter that helps me to channel my seriously not
nice feelings.
Acceptance Letter:
This letter is not to be sent. If you do send this, your acceptance may
possibly be ( circle one)
• Irrevocable
• Irreplaceable
• A Broadway hit musical
• Irreversible
• Thrown back in your face at the speed of light
Dear (circle one)
• Thighs
• Daughter/son ( or any variation of)
• Ex( boyfriend,girlfriend,other_____)
• Mom/Dad
• Boss
• Engagement ring
• Religious leader
• Mother-law, Father in Law
• Expensive meal
• Expensive so- called- trip- of- a- lifetime
• Family pet
• Pet rock
1987 Mustang
• Other____________________
This letter is for me and is my declaration of acceptance.
I am done harboring ill feelings toward you as( circle as many as you
need)
• An inanimate object of my desire
• A Person that I gave birth to
• A Person that owes me money
• Car that broke down
• A person that I wed
• A family that I wed into
• Pet that I rescued and didn’t want in the first place
Body Part_______________
• Other____________________
The energy it takes to harbor these negative emotions has (circle all
that apply)
• Given me hemorrhoids
• Given me extreme flatulence
• Given me Heartache
• Depleted my bank account
• Over extended my karma warantee
• Ruined my diet
• Made my drug dealer thank me profusely
• Fed the proverbial “ elephant in the living room” more than peanuts
• Made my blood pressure go sky high
• Other_____________________
Accepting the fact that ( circle one: you or it,) didn’t meet my dreams
or expectations, I realize I can learn to ( circle one: love, wash,
feed, pray for,stalk, work for) you in an entirely different way.
Feeling out of control has a lot to do with acceptance. With that said,
I realize what I do have control over in our relationship is. (Circle
All that apply):
• Unconditional love
• My bank account
• My chocolate intake
• Spending time with you( or not)
• Taking you to the vet
• Taking you to the cleaners
• Watering you
• Listening to you whine( or not)
• Other_____________________
I am in the process of appreciating you in a new way. The rate at which
I am doing this may be compared to( circle one)
• A bat out of hell
• Slow as molasses in February
• Being shot out of a canon
• Taking 1 step forward and 2 steps backward
• a centipede putting on shoes
• Other________________
Please accept my apology for not realizing how my ‘ non acceptance “ has
affected you. I know I have been angry and it has manifested toward
you.. In the future I will;
• Listen to you. However, your anger needs to be discussed with a
trained: (circle one)
Professional wrestler, therapist, dog whisperer, pharmaceutical rep
• Take my medicine as prescribed
• Talk calmly with you
• Drink and meditate or drink and medicate before we see each other or
• Walk you before meals
• Say “Thank You” more often
• Not offer you money or things
Reconnect the spark plugs
• Clean up my needles and drug paraphernalia
• Share my chocolate
• Tell you up front how much I have for “ bail money”
• Other_____________________
I also accept that these conditions of acceptance and apology may not be
suitable for you ( circle one):
• For now
• Ever
• When pigs fly
• You have got to be kidding!
• Rot in jail you bastard!
With love and new beginnings,
Name___________________________
I hope this journal check list helps you. I'm sharing only because I
have a few minutes left on my nice meter.
www.debrajoyhart.com
© Copyright
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Why
I'm Crotchety
By William Schmitt,
New York
I turned 57 today, and I'm not too happy
about it. Everything about getting old is bad, at least physically. I
just got back from our annual family reunion (see my Pulitzer
Prize-losing article, Reunions Aren't for Sissies) and when my brothers
and I lined up for the family picture we looked like the snow-covered
Alps. Except for my older brother, who had shaved his gray hair off
completely. Being bald doesn't make him look younger, it just looks like
his head has fossilized, so he still fits in the Alps analogy. One of my
younger sisters turned 50 this year, however, she isn't gray in the
slightest, thanks to industrial strength hair color, lovingly applied
hourly. She's changed her hair color so many times she must be using
Crayola Hair Color. If our climate changes as much as her hair we're
going to have 52 seasons each year.
We used the occasion of the reunion to roast my sister for hitting the
big five-oh. However, roasting her for her age proved to be a problem
for me. It's hard to make fun of someone else's age when you're the one
exhibiting all the symptoms of dementia. I couldn't read my notes
without my glasses, I forgot half of what I was going to say, and I
think I combined the wrong punch line with the wrong joke (judging by
the reaction anyway). It made me remember when I didn't need glasses or
any other medical aids to perform the simplest of functions (and mocking
my sister has always been the simplest of functions).
Which brings me to why I'm crotchety. If I see one more Viagra
commercial somebody's gonna get hurt. When I was young all the ads
directed at people my age were for virile products, sold by hot women
promising even hotter times. Now the products directed towards me are
sold by old women with hot flashes. I don't need someone promising me
that my flag can be waving in the breeze rather than being at half-mast
all the time. I don't need to be like today's sports stars with my own
performance-enhancing drug. Especially when it comes with serious side
effects. They tell you that if “you experience an erection lasting
longer than four hours you should seek medical help.” For crying out
loud, when you're young you have a four-hour erection when you're not
even in the mood, now it's a medical emergency. Like I'm actually going
to go into a crowded hospital waiting room and inform them that my
elevator's stuck on the top floor. I'd rather tell them I'm having a
heart attack (which cuts your waiting time down to three hours) and say
“Oh, by the way, could you check below, I can't seem to get out of first
gear.”
Speaking of side effects, there are some pretty interesting ones for the
performance enhancer that deals with the “potty problem.” The medicine
that is supposed to make you “go” better has two side effects; It gives
you a runny nose and your sperm count goes down. Now any medicine that
affects my sperm count while it's fixing the plumbing is going to make
me wonder if the medicine really knows what it's doing down there. After
all, it's supposed to be unclogging the drain, not turning off the hot
water spigot. And I certainly hope the runny nose isn't a clue to where
the missing sperm are going. I don't want to have to worry about getting
some poor girl pregnant every time I sneeze.
Anyway, I figure being crotchety is the only reference left to that
region that will be working in the future. There's just nothing great
about getting old, and I'm not very happy about it.
I could go on, but the drugs are starting to take effect, I've got to go
wake the missus and then call the ambulance. After all, I'm not getting
any younger.
http://thehermitcrabspeaks.blogspot.com
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Increasing
Life Span Forcing Funeral Homes Out of Business
By Scott Sleek, Maryland
News from the Future
The funeral business has always been considered immune to economic
slowdowns. Death doesn’t take a vacation during a recession.
But now the industry faces a trend that could eat away at its armor for
decades to come; fewer and fewer people are dying.
These were suppose to be the boon years for the death industry, with
millions of baby boomers finally hitting their 80s. But with people now
typically living well past their 100th birthday — thanks to genetic
vaccines, intracellular disease scavengers, organ cloning and a host of
other medical breakthroughs occurring over the last 20 years — funeral
homes are finding it increasingly difficult to get bodies in the door.
Doug Graves, a funeral director in Naperville, Ill., is one of them. The
number of services at his funeral home has fallen by 45 percent over the
last five years.
“All the really old people are already dead, and the rest are living
longer than anyone ever expected,” Graves complained. “If this keeps up,
I’ll have to close down. Nobody ever thinks about us funeral directors
when they’re inventing a new cure for cancer.”
More than 500 funeral homes closed their doors during the first half of
this year, according to the American Funeral Directors’ Association. And
another 600 are expected to shut down by the end of the year, the group
says.
The decline in funerals is having rippling effects throughout other
segments of the economy. Casket manufacturers and distributors are
reporting sharp declines in orders, and crematoriums are also
struggling. Many car manufacturers have been forced to start marketing
hearses as luxury cars.
Funerals will eventually return to sustainable numbers, promises Dr.
Makhu Betah, acclaimed medical economist.
“We’re simply in a transition period,” Betah says. “People who 20 years
ago would be dead are now set to live for another 20 years, so by the
middle of this decade, those funeral homes that are still in business
should see business increase — unless we’re able to increase the average
life expectancy even more by then.”
And American funeral homes could have it a lot worse, Betah adds. The
U.S. life expectancy still trails 30 other countries, meaning funeral
directors in other parts of the world are hurting even more.
“Our continuing struggle with the obesity rate and overall sloth is
keeping the funeral industry from going completely under,” she says.
www.futureupdate.wordpress.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Were
Seven Days Enough?
By Riva Stone, Vermont
Analysis and Critique
I’m good at some things and terrible at others. I can’t sing and I can’t
cook. I know enough to refrain from the first and to keep the second as
simple as possible. I’m good with my hands and I can do a lot of things
that other people cannot. I can upholster a sofa, I can hang wallpaper,
and I can refinish furniture. But I count on my fingers when I balance
my checkbook.
That said. I now consider God’s talents. He’s also better at some things
than others. Mountains, rivers, waterfalls, sunsets, tropical plants and
birds, puppies; these are clearly his unparalleled talents. Human
anatomy is a little closer to my singing. Consider that, according to
the Great Book, he practiced first with all the animals. He made little
animals and big animals before he branched out into the people kind.
He still didn’t get it right. There seems to be a little confusion with
mating. With animals he tried two different systems. Swans and geese
mate for life; lions, on the other hand, roam the savannah to seek as
many eligible ladies as they can. With humans, clearly both systems are
in use and socially or matrimonially, that doesn’t work.
Men were made bigger and stronger to protect and provide for the
child-bearers. Women are smaller but tend to be a bit wider at the
bottom to produce the child. It is a subtle oversight, but by my logic,
that job done, women should revert to the smaller, more delicate
proportions. Did God ever consider vanity?
There is also a statistical miscalculation. Eighty-seven percent of the
women he created love to dance. Nine percent of men have either the
ability or the desire. This far exceeds the standard deviation. Poor
God, he never had anyone to dance with and neither do I.
One devilish detail is the junction of the air pipe and the food pipe,
with just a tiny little flap to keep the food for one out of the other.
Poor design. Now we are dependent on Dr. Heimlich to save us from
choking.
Now we come to more serious physical considerations. If his concern was
to have us multiply to be “as numerous as the stars in the heavens,”
then why did he combine the parts that deal with this along with other
functions? An eye just works as an eye. Teeth just work as teeth. A knee
is a knee; an elbow an elbow. How is it good planning that the function
of liquid drainage is also tacked onto the production parts?
If you think this causes problems, just think of the commercials you
have to listen to as you are eating dinner. The problems are so frequent
that just the initials are enough to convey them. UTI is all that need
be said. The same with E.D. We all seem to have our share of difficulty
with our equipment. Frequently, if it works for one thing, it doesn’t
work for the other.
What could be more important than these two things? Would it have been
that much work to create one more part? Maybe simply one less finger or
one less toe and then a separate part for….. If I were a science
teacher, I’d give a D+ for this project. “Go back and get it right and
have the paper on my desk by Monday.” Perhaps the weekend was the
problem. It was almost the Sabbath and he had two jobs left, so he
quickly combined the two and was done.
And so in seven days he created heaven and earth and all in it, or on
it. He seems to have had a thing for sevens. Remember the seven lean
years and seven years of plenty and of course the seven deadly sins?
What was the hurry? I could have waited another day. Would rainbows be
any less impressive if he took eight days to do it? Would you be less
impressed at the wonders of the universe if it said, “In eight days, he
made heaven and earth”
I already told you that I count on my fingers, so another day of
creation would help me quite a bit. With an even number of days in the
week, I could figure out the half-way point if I wanted to wash my hair
or change the sheets twice a week.
He didn’t have to rush for me. I’d be happier if he had taken another
day and gotten it right.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Personal Message From DoomSayersDirect.com
By Amy Ward, Wisconsin
A Personal Message from
DoomSayersDirect.com
Dear Recipient:
We are sorry to inform you that your present situation has reached an
unsatisfying (for you) conclusion.
Although (because yours is a secured file), we are not privy to
information on the type of relationship in which you are engaged that
has garnered this announcement, we are instructed to inform you that at
this time, the personal or professional connection that you have come to
cherish has been, indeed irretrievably, severed.
While we apologize for what must certainly seem like an abrupt
announcement, we can only advise that if you are reading this email at
your business address, you may choose to peer over the top of your cube
to see if your supervisor is approaching with an empty cardboard box for
your things.
You may also wish to check the sidewalk in front of your home for
personal belongings, including that cat of many colors that he asked you
to please, please not bring with you when you moved in because of his
life-threatening allergies. But you had to have your fuzzy wuzzy buddy
and just because he (Alex, not the cat) ended up in the emergency
room—Wait, sorry, that was someone else’s file. It is a madhouse here
today.
If you are unable to access or, more likely, comprehend the reason
behind this termination announcement, you could call our help line and
get the runaround, but I like you and I am going to level with you.
Still at work? Check the view from your cube one more time.
If it’s not work, it’s love, right? One or the other situation is always
in your face, making you crazy. (Thanks, Freud, for pointing it out, but
not really helping us do all that much about it.)
As I said, I don’t have full access to your file, but nine times out of
ten in these situations, the problem is your hype cycle. Imagine a graph
showing an initially shallow, but then rapidly rising curve that goes
very high.
Just like the release of a new software or phone, you launched yourself
into this personal or work relationship by generating fantastical
expectations about yourself. Your boss, your lover, whomever, was happy
with you at the beginning—and even happier as you set out to prove just
how right they were to be enthusiastic.
Your hyperactivity pushed you to the top of the Crazy-About-Me curve!
And then?
You peaked.
Sadly, that effort to please was your deadly error. You simply could not
(who could?) live up to the inflated expectations you generated about
yourself. Now, someone has taken note that you are not, in fact, that
guy, or woman, or whatever, you were so busy promoting.
Interest in you has plummeted, condemning you to the worst part of your
graph: You are now rapidly accelerating in a downward fashion just like
on a black-diamond ski hill—the ones you don’t so much ski down as fall
off of.
And you will crash land in the trough of disillusionment (shown on the
graph in dull red).
My friend, you will be lucky to climb out of this disaster with the
resume on your back or vague memories of a few moments of psycho-sexual
bliss.
But don’t feel bad. The hype cycle issue can happen to anyone.
The good news is that your life has exploded either at work or at home.
Not both. We just have to figure out who sent you this message. So just
give me a minute; I’m working on it—I think I can hack into the sender
address on the work order.
Oh. . . shoot—there is another message waiting here for you.
----------------------------------------------------
This has been an announcement from the professionals at
DoomSayersDirect.com
----------------------------------------------------
www.DoomSayersDirect.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Throwing
In The Towel
By Mary Beth Weisenburger, Ohio
I found a cryptic note in the laundry
room the other day, pinned haphazardly to a well-worn bath towel on the
floor. It said: “Dear lady of the house—I am your towel. And I’m
throwing myself in.”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading! My towels and I have been
together for a long time; a few have actually been with me since the
beginning of my wedded bliss 21 years ago. What would cause my towel to
give up a life of luxury in our home, I wondered? Why would one of these
friends of the family, a dependable and loyal worker, ever consider
abandoning its pampered life with us?
The note continued: “I signed on to perform standard functional duties
as a bath towel in a normal household. I fully expected to be utilized
once a week, washed and dried appropriately and returned to my safe
haven in the linen closet.”
Uh oh. Something must have happened to push my towel over its frayed
edge. I recalled one incident where perhaps the towel was used to wipe
muddy dog paws. Could that be it?
I read on: “The terms of my contract with your household have been
violated egregiously.
My daily work load has increased exponentially, and the duties I now
perform are completely outside of my original agreed-upon job
parameters.”
OK, I did once find that towel in the flowerbed. And I’m thinking that
was the same towel that my son kept for several weeks in the trunk of
his car where it proceeded to grow Penicillin cultures. And there was
the time when the toilet in the guest bathroom overflowed and we used
the towel (along with several throw rugs and some nearby curtains) to
frantically stem the rising floodwaters…
There was more: “You are therefore notified that I am on strike and will
not be returning to my duties unless and until the following demands
have been met:
1) My transportation route will consist only of round trips from the
closet to the laundry room and back to the closet shelf. No detours to
the teenage daughter’s bedroom floor will be tolerated (although I do
enjoy the camaraderie with the other six towels there).
2) The teenage son may not use me as a napkin at the dinner table. I
still have spaghetti sauce stains from the last time.
3) Let’s agree: Bath towels do not make good bird cage liners, oven
mitts or campfire extinguishers. Need I say more?”
Then there was the final, devastating blow: “If these demands are not
met, I will be forced to retaliate by sneaking tissues into every washer
load with me.”
Clearly, I have been remiss and should negotiate a new contract with my
towel. I should pledge to make its life more predictable, to use it only
for the specified purposes and to never again abuse it under any
circumstances.
But I’ll probably just go hide the box of tissues instead.
www.marybethw.com
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