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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/November 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
October/
November 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Passion And The Art Of Fish Gutting
By Amy Rhinehart Bailey, Georgia
A good many of the problems during the first year of marriage are caused
by unrealistic expectations on the part of you and your spouse. She, for
example, might expect you to remember her birthday and anniversary every
year when best-two-out-of-three is the most anyone should count on from
any red-blooded male.
You, on the other hand, might become irritated when it takes her twice
as long as your 10-year-old sister to clean and oil your guns. Perhaps
you find yourself stifling a laugh at the angle she holds her fish
gutting knife.
Well, before you end up accusing her of not being raised right and your
mobile home is suddenly covered in broken bowling trophies and beer
bottles – take a deep breath and resign yourself to the fact that you
are not just her lover, her friend, and her protector, but you are also
her sometimes marital skills instructor. I’m going to help you begin by
showing you how to lovingly instruct your bride in the very basic, yet
essential knack of proper fish gutting.
Passion and the Art of Fish Gutting
Step one: While she is washing the fish under cold running water, bite
the back of her neck being careful not to leave any marks that the
preacher might see on Sunday.
Step Two: As you show her how to hold the fish in her left hand just
under the gills with its belly pointing toward her, whisper in her ear
that you’re not sure who smells better – her or the fish.
Step Three: With your hand warmly caressing hers, show her how to hold
the fish gutting knife in her right hand while you gingerly help her
insert the blade into its lower digestive hole.
Step Four: While she pulls the blade upwards through the belly of the
fish, nibble on the back of her ears, taking care not to get any of her
multiple piercings caught between your teeth.
Step Five: Positive reinforcement is very crucial in any teacher/student
relationship so as she pushes the blade of the knife in through the
lower throat on the right hand side, over the top of the tongue, and
through the left hand side of the fish, a lustful look of admiration
might be in order.
Step Six: As she finishes cutting out the lower throat and starts on the
pectoral fins, take one of her overnight curlers out and tell her how
much you like the feel of Dippity-Do in her hair.
Step Seven: Whilst she pulls out the tongue, guts, and innards tell her
how she stirs up your stomach every time you look at her.
Step Eight: Self denial is the key to any marriage, so offer her your
Richard Petty Limited Edition toothbrush to scrape out the blood between
the ribs and the back bone.
Step Nine: Even as she is vigorously finishing up her task, tell her
that her lips are as red as the blood she removed from the kidney with
the point of her gutting knife.
Step Ten: After she washes the fish again and allows it to drain,
squeeze fresh lemon on her fingers and wipe her trembling hands with the
dish towel you won at last year’s truck pull.
As you can see from the helpful hints above, if you take this on and
show fish gutting to her as a romantic adventure, instead of an everyday
wifely chore, it could lead to amorous thoughts and goose pimples every
time she tenderly cleans yours and your buddies’ fish over the many
years to come.
www.beyondcasual.com
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 My
Fat Is My Sweetie’s Fault
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Are you, like me, married? Then take heart – and another helping of
dessert. Your fat isn’t your fault. It’s your spouse’s.
In one of those “duh” kind of moments, a study conducted at the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill concludes that married
people and other cohabitating couples are twice as likely to abound
chubbily ever after than those who are just dating.
See, the love handles aren’t your fault. Science says love really did
make the handles.
The researchers found that over the first five years of wedded bliss,
ladies run a 63 percent increased risk of unpleasant plumpness.
Guys don’t gain as much (after all, I had a head start before
nuptialation), but weight gain spikes between years one and two. That
means in another month, I better start shopping for a bigger belt. And
elastic-waisted trousers.
Hey, don’t blame me. It’s my newlywed sweetie’s fault. Science says so.
The study was conducted by two nutrition epidemiologists. Nah, I don’t
know what that word means, either. I’ve heard of “nutrition” but never
had much interest in looking it up.
Epidemiology, of course, is the study of the branch of medical science
dealing with the incidence, distribution and control of disease in a
population.
You see, for years, we’ve been told that obesity is a disease. Now we
know what causes it – marriage.
Researchers deduce that there are many possible reasons: You caught the
guy, so why diet anymore; if you do try, he sabotages your efforts
either to make you less attractive to his rivals or to assuage his guilt
over sitting in the easy chair instead of the rowing machine; or parents
feel obligated to clean up the kids’ leftovers.
And of course, there’s the, “What? Don’t you like my cooking? I fixed
this for you, buster, so you better eat and ask for seconds if you know
what’s good for you!” So I’ve heard, anyway. I’ve never had to be
threatened into snatching seconds.
Two years ago, a study published in the New England Journal of Medicine
suggested that if your friends and family put on weight, odds are, so
will you.
“We were stunned to find that friends who are hundreds of miles away
have just as much impact on a person’s weight status as friends who are
right next door,” study co-author James Fowler of the University of
California, San Diego, told The Associated Press.
This proves that fat germs are more powerful than common cold germs. You
can’t catch a cold over the phone. But apparently, I can catch your fat
from miles away.
Fowler tossed in the caveat that “there is a ton of research that
suggest that having more friends makes you healthier.”
I told you back that not to take chances – dump the buddy with the fries
fetish and get skinny.
Now I’m shifting my policy for the sake of marriage. I love my wife
enough to risk an extra hunk of chocolate cake. Especially if she
slathers on the fudge frosting a couple inches thick. One makes certain
sacrifices for soul mates.
So if I’m reading this new study right – the parts I read, anyway -- the
message is clear: If you want more pizza, be like me and get married.
Your conscience will thank you. It’s science.
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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Clearing
The Air
By David Crawford, Canada
One of the many dilemmas facing parents these days pertains to meal
choices, and their consequences.
For example, I avoid granola and bark mulch-based breakfast cereals
because they produce in me enormous volumes of gas, which I’m sure
you’re delighted to know.
My children, however, who are easily entertained, encourage me to eat
massive bowlfuls of the stuff, for the exact same reason I avoid them.
As for consequences, I recently ate a large bowl of this material for
breakfast, thinking I had the day off from any meetings, and thus didn’t
have to worry about any powerful (public) emissions.
Turns out it was Parent-Teacher Interview day at our children’s school.
My wife had scheduled our interview for 4:30 pm - about the time the
full effect of the breakfast cereal would be erupting within me.
Visualize, if you will, the steaming mud pots of Yellowstone Park.
Remember porridge burbling in a pot on the stove as a kid? Such were my
innards.
The day progressed normally, although city residents did notice a
certain increase in wind gusts around noon. Picking the kids up at 2:30,
I was truly thankful for power windows, and the absorptive quality of
automobile seat cushions.
By 4:30 I was feeling considerable discomfort as my wife and I walked
down the deserted hallway to the classroom. Slowing my gait, I
surreptitiously scanned both ways, then let fly with a reasonably quiet
if long blast which warmed my immediate vicinity several degrees.
Noting how I kept pausing and hiking up my leg, and knowing exactly why,
my wife, eyes watering, loudly whispered “Stop that!”
I wish I could have.
We entered the classroom and sat down on the very small, hard plastic
chairs that are normal size for 8 year-olds. The bent over posture,
combined with my considerable girth, made for a certain pressure being
created in my abdominal area – in addition to what was being naturally
produced within my digestive system.
My wife and the teacher were chatting amiably as I looked around the
classroom. I noticed some pictures and winced. Facing me was a large
poster of a swollen hot air balloon. On another wall was a picture of a
space shuttle launching.
I pressed my knees together.
Sweat appeared on my brow as I focused on what the teacher was saying,
for once in my life.
“Your child is positively bursting with new ideas,” she said.
I crossed my legs.
“She expresses these ideas with some volume in class, and she expands on
them very well. She works well under pressure…” she said.
I was getting woozy.
As nonchalantly as possible I rose from my chair, an effort requiring
fierce concentration, and slowly wandered to the activity area of the
class. I thought if nature took its course I had best protect innocent
bystanders from any danger.
It was then the choirs sang and a benevolent light shone upon me. There
on a counter were several beakers filled with cloudy fluids and floating
layers of scum.
“Mr. Crawford please don’t touch that experim…” the teacher cried, as I
deliberately removed one of the corks.
A blessedly dreadful odor, evocative of swamp gas and rotting
vegetation, erupted into the room.
Salvation was at hand as I noisily coughed, cleared my throat,
re-arranged furniture, and frantically searched for the cork which I had
somehow accidentally dropped somewhere.
Teacher Interview Notes: “Mr. Crawford appeared dour at first; perhaps
‘focused’ would be a better term, although as the interview progressed
he became almost giddy. By the end he was positively dancing around the
class, delighting in everything his children have done. Quite a
remarkable father.”
“Note: Talk to the janitor about watering the plants more frequently. I
noticed them wilting after today’s interviews.”
”
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
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Just
Sign It And Move On
By Jean Follmer, California
I think that, maybe, I should feel badly about what I did. After all,
he’s just a kid –- and a 6-year-old at that. I rationalized it by
telling myself that “he’s got to learn sometime” and “this is just the
way the world is.” What makes the situation more questionable is that he
has no clue -– yet, that is.
You see, I had
my little son sign a contract. In exchange for $1 a week, he agreed to
keep his room clean, take out the garbage, set the table, get the mail,
get the paper, clean up the dog poop in the backyard and my favorite –
the catchall – “anything else that Mommy asks you to do!” The reason he
hasn’t a clue about what he signed up for is because he didn’t even
bother to read the contract before he signed it. What a knucklehead! I
figure it will be a good lesson for him. I hope it will help him to not
only avoid getting taken advantage of in the future, but will also show
him just how easy it is to unburden oneself by taking advantage of
others. As I said, this is just the way the world is.
It’s kind of like taking your car in for the 60,000-mile check-up. After
you enter the “service” department, the enlightened service
“professional” will quickly review the relaxing experiences your car is
about to enjoy, jot a few things down in his “doctor-like” handwriting
and have you sign an agreement while asking for your key at the same
time. You sign off as you’re fumbling for the key and head to the
waiting room clueless about the joy ride your wallet is about to take.
Why? Because you didn’t bother to read the agreement, bless your heart.
Meanwhile, Mr. Service Professional is donning his Member’s Only jacket
and heading to Sears for his Employee of the Month portrait followed by
a memorable lunch at Arby’s.
Another great way to use this strategy is in the teaching field. Think
of those poor college professors taking the time to tirelessly read
through a huge stack of overly intriguing term papers. Why bother when
they could take a load off by reading less? After all, they’re part of a
pretty select group that may be invited to nominate someone for the
Nobel Peace Prize and such future decisions should not be clouded by
stress or exhaustion. All kidding aside, those professors could get to
the weekend a lot faster by only reading every fifth paper and randomly
assigning a grade to the others. After all, they’re probably familiar
enough with the students’ work products by the end of term.
In the case of law students, this would be great training for a future
career in politics. They could enter their first term in office already
knowing how not to read a bill, thus helping to keep our country running
as smoothly as it is today. It’s possible that this transition of
technique is already taking place… I whisper to you: Did you ever wonder
if law students really read all of those big law books? I mean, gosh,
there are SO MANY of them. I’m not suggesting that they have an
agreement with the professor along the lines of: If you don’t read it I
won’t tell if you won’t tell that I don’t read it. That is just
silliness.
In the case of politicians, does it really matter if they read bills
before they vote on them? Maybe we should cut them some slack since
they’re working so hard for our country, bless their hearts. Americans
have no long-term memories anyway, so we’re fortunate that nothing is a
lasting cause of concern for us. The stimulus bill managed to pass
unread and we’re all reaping the benefits of that. I’m sure our new
healthcare system will be just as worthy of accolades.
There are just oodles of opportunities for me to teach my young son that
he doesn’t have to mean what he says, he doesn’t have to know anything
to form an opinion and it’s really easy and fun to take advantage of
others. At the end of the day, though, what do I care? I’ve got the poop
under control in my backyard for only a dollar a week.
© Copyright
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101
Ways To Hurt Yourself: A Children’s Guide To Recess
By Weston Locher, Florida
Schoolyard playgrounds used to be
dangerous places. The key words there are “used,” “to,” and “be.” I’m a
believer that the higher the danger levels on a playground, the higher
the coolness factor.
Over the Christmas holidays I visited my parents in Ohio where I grew
up. During one of my trips out into the frozen tundra, I stopped by my
old elementary school. I hadn’t been on the premises in over fourteen
years and truth be told, had no desire to go; however, I had my
girlfriend with me and she has mastered the art of getting me to do
things that I really don’t want to do. As I got out of the car and
braved the snow, I noticed something truly horrific. All of the old
playground equipment that I had spent six years of my life climbing up,
falling off, climbing up a second time, falling off again, and
subsequently hurting myself on, had been torn down and replaced by
brightly colored, child-proof plastic eyesores.
I had not prepared myself for a change of this magnitude. I stood in
shock while I gazed out over an alien land of snow-covered plastic. At
some point in the last fourteen years, everything that I once knew had
disappeared. I felt as though I had lost a part of my childhood. After
all, this was the place where I’d had my first meaningful conversation
with a female, it was the site of a football’s first encounter with my
groin, and above all, it was the location where I was first punched in
the face by a bully. Somewhere out there, a tooth of mine lay deep
within the soil.
Looking back, I remember recess as a time of freedom and
unpredictability, though more often than not, it was also a time of
unbridled violence. You never knew exactly what was going to happen but
undoubtedly, someone would do something stupid and get hurt. As kids we
spent our time trying to burn off our excess energy by running,
climbing, and falling, all while trying to avoid the playground
attendant who, if I remember correctly, looked eerily similar to the
Bride of Frankenstein. During my time as a student there, I saw many of
my peers succumb to the evils of the equipment. It was commonplace for
someone to bust their head open on a merry-go-round or nose-dive off the
side of a slide and end up unconscious. I suppose it’s kind of like
being in a war and you just get used to the carnage after a while. As
the old memories flooded over me, I couldn’t help but feel bad for
anyone who was currently a student there. With a playground like the
fluorescent one I saw, I had no doubts that their recess time was boring
and uneventful. The experiences I’d had on that playground helped shape
me into who I am today… and caused most of the scars found on my body.
I felt sorry for the current student body as by no fault of their own,
they were doomed to grow up in a time where children are coddled and
live inside a constant bubble of safety. I felt remorseful that they
would never know what it was like to take a ride on a tire swing hanging
from rusted chains that would snap if you piled on too many buddies and
gained too much velocity. I was saddened that they were never going to
experience the joy of an aluminum slide that would heat up in the
summer, causing your skin to fuse itself to the metal, and leaving a
trail of blood and sizzling meat behind as you slid down. I was
regretful that they would never swing from the monkey bars that stood
ten feet off the ground, giving concussions to all those who attempted
to cross and failed. I was disappointed at the fact that they would
never find themselves on a rotted seesaw that without warning would
break into two pieces, causing them and a friend to simultaneously break
their tail bones in three places. I was mournful that they would never
feel the freedom of jumping off a swing and having their shirt get stuck
in the chain, ripping it clean off their bodies in mid flight. Above
all, I was heavyhearted that they would never know the feeling of having
a shirtless friend land on them after jumping off that same swing.
www.therandomgambit.com
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Andrea's
Hotel Review Blog
By Andrea Robinson, Georgia
November 15 at 7:42pm
Alrighty then! Arrived in Fort Lauderdale, first night, full service
hotel, bar, restaurant, beautiful and clean hotel!! Yeehaw!
November 16 at 8:24pm
2nd hotel. Not quite as groovy as the first. Clock is making ticking and
stuttering sound. Very soon, clock will be unplugged. It goes like this
tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic badadaddadadadadaadadada tic tic tic tic
tic tic badbdbdbdbdbdbbdba. It isn't even a tic tock clock. Just a
digital one... What the heck?
November 16 at 8:31pm
Clock problem solved. I have now located a few short "hairs" on my
sheets and one on my pillow.
In addition, I've noted that directly above my bed is a poorly disguised
repair from where the ceiling evidently fell in on a previous occasion.
This is disconcerting.
November 16 at 8:33pm
No food in hotel. I am told there is a Denny's next door. Perhaps I will
look for a vending machine.
November 16 at 8:34pm
I'm in luck, I found a couple Saltines. Yeah me.
November 16 at 8:47pm
OK, my hotel room toilet just threw up on it's own. I haven't set foot
in there since I walked in the room at 6pm.
I am on the bed on the laptop and I just heard, "Blooo-up blup blup"
emitting from the toilet. ???????????
I guess I could turn on the TV. But there is so much activity with the
clock and the toilet and all.
November 16 at 8:50pm
OK, I went in and looked at the toilet. I flushed it just for the heck
of it.
Then I turned on the TV. It says, "If I can't give the hotel a perfect
10 to please let them know..."
"...Uh... Are we talking 10 out of 100?"
November 16 at 8:55pm ·
HA! There is also a frightening stain on the beige curtain with blue
trim... not to mention that there are two heat/AC unit deals. One of
those old-timey ones under the window; one thermostat. I figured the
thermostat was a good place to start... so far... in three hours nothing
has happened. Then I observed the old timey freaker. It reminded me of
Elf when he called his dad and said it was "Evil."
November 16 at 9:00pm
The lamps are sky blue and aqua swirled color. Almost looks like a lava
lamp with no lava. I think when you check in, you are supposed to be
smokin' weed.
November 16 at 9:02pm
Oh good.. It's all OK now... because I can order an "adult" movie here.
NICE!
"Hey Baby, let's me n u watch us a porn flick n 'nen' I'll take u for a
real niiiiiice dinner at the Denny's. Whutcha thank, baby?"
November 16 at 9:14pm
I am now itching. Bed bugs. I am now going to change my reservation for
Wednesday-Friday to somewhere else. I went to find a vending machine and
all three times in the elevator it reeks of smoke. Plus, this time I
checked out the elevator certificate. It expired in August of 2008!
Plus, all other guests in hotel are frightening.
The toilet (that has re- blurped again) I think is connected in some way
to the dude beside me. Every time my neighboring room takes a "restroom
break" I hear about it from my toilet that wishes to barf.
It turns out that the "Evil" furnace is the working one. The thermostat
is just for "looks." I am now keeping the TV on to drown out all the
groovy fun neighbors that frighten me. I very carefully looked under the
sheets to see what I could find when trying to find the source of the
stench in the corner. I didn't find anything under the sheets, but
decided not to continue looking for fear of what I might find.
November 16 at 11:07pm
FLEAS! FLEAS! THERE ARE FLEAS! I JUST HAD TWO HOP ON ME.
November 16 at 11:18pm
After confirming bites were from fleas, got annoyed, called desk to move
rooms. Went to 2nd room, called desk -- made dude come see pubes on
sheets. Got "fresh" set of sheets. I am putting on myself. Toilet seems
less evil. Good news, got coupon for free night stay at flea-ridden,
pubic-hair sheeted, evil-toilet hotel. That will come in handy.
November 17 at 8:20pm ·
Day 3, Naples; Hampton Inn. Sheets are pube and flea free! Toilet and
radiator are not demonized and ceiling is not falling in! Yeah Me! (Tiny
setback when, after dinner, went to wrong room. But they'll get over it
-- I didn't see anything anyway). ;)
November 18 at 10:06am ·
Night 4; Courtyard by Marriott. Not completely sucky. Threw an Alka
Seltzer in the toilet just in case. Radiator a little sucky but not
evil.
November 18 at 12:08pm
This part of report regards gas station just visited while traveling.
Went to use facilities. Sign read: Restrooms are guaranteed to meet your
satisfaction. Pee was on side of toilet, grungy frightening roundish
thing in corner. Toilet paper on floor. I didn't complain, however,
since the rat trap under the sink was unoccupied.
© Copyright
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Dust
Whisperer
By Charla Schafer, Iowa
Dust has held
generations of my family together. It is the mechanism that allows our
family to communicate. As one of the boys is rushing out the door, they
will stop and scrawl a quick pertinent note on the buffet, telling us
when they will be home or what their names are…
Dust creates solidarity. Scientific study doesn’t need to tell me the
dinner table is the cornerstone of the family. Its sheer size enables
complicated “instant messaging.”
Those outside our home do not understand. My Mother-in-Law came recently
and was horrified by the state of our commune. She announced that she
would “help us clean.”
I took action. I quietly convinced the boys that a game of
Grandma-tipping might be fun. “Go for the legs,” I scrawled on their
Game Boy screen.
On one particular harsh tip by Scott, the baby of the family, Grandma
wasn’t able to secure her hands around his neck quite quick enough. She
fell and broke her hip. Revelry. I knew this “accident” would slow her
ambition. She convalesced quietly. And, after a scheduled Medicare house
visit, the rep required she return home to cleaner air… “Preventative
medicine,” she muttered.
Relief set in. Our communication system remained in tact, for now.
However, the break healed quickly for a woman of her age. And, my
mother-in-law returned with renewed determination. The walker in one
hand and the dust chamois in the other, she began her quest. I pleaded
for her to stop. She plugged in the air purifier. I tripped the breaker.
She hand cranked the generator. I accepted defeat.
When she finished the house sparkled. I pulled the blinds… it hurt my
eyes. I wanted to complain but there was nowhere to write. My quaking
finger didn’t even leave a smudge on the TV.
My mother-in-law returned home, but the repercussions of her destruction
were great. Everyone wanted to share, but it was eerily quiet. All
avenues had been destroyed.
We were forced to attend family counseling to overcome this sudden lack
of communication. The therapist listened closely, considered
thoughtfully, and then announced that he believed time would heal this
fissure.
Roughly two weeks later, thanks to road construction and poor window
seals, we were back to our close knit relationship.
I wrote the therapist a note of thanks, pulled the top off the end table
and mailed it.
www.foxville.org
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I'm
Just Not Ready For -30-
By
Pat Snyder,
Ohio
I’ve never been the jealous type. So I
shocked myself the other day when I shrieked at the discovery that my
late husband is now residing just inches away from another woman. The
nearest other marker at this miles-long cemetery is yards away.
Somehow last spring, in the throes of fresh grief, I had missed this
inevitable development on the cemetery map, where each lot is the size
of half a Chiclet. Maybe I left my reading glasses at home. Maybe they
wouldn’t have helped.
In any event, his cozy placement next to a woman named Delorise was hard
to miss when my family and I caravanned to the final resting place the
other day to plant a happy little Japanese maple.
“Wow!” my daughter said. “It looks like they were married.”
“This is not happening!” I assured her, no offense to Delorise, whose
family I suspect would be similarly surprised.
“No, it is not,” muttered my son, aka Hair Trigger.
With that, we left the tree-planting crew behind and trudged to the
cemetery office to say, as calmly as possible, “Surely there is some
mistake.”
There, we became intimately acquainted with the cemetery map and the
fact that although we might be alarmed, we really need not be because
according to the map, everything was perfect. At this point, my son
whispered something about digging something up – I don’t think the maple
- and three men in business suits promised to come out and view the
newly formed union of Bob and Delorise.
They arrived just as HT was moving a little red flag a couple feet to
the right – away from Delorise and over toward the Chiclet that would
someday be mine.
“We’ll put the tree farther over,” he said. “And then it will look like
another stone is going in.”
“No!” shrieked Suit #3, in charge of trees, who quickly proved, poking
around with a spade, that the chosen spot was outside our territory.
“You could, of course, purchase a lot for the tree,” he said. I think I
saw him reach inside his jacket for a contract in triplicate.
“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “I’ll just order my own stone now so
there is no question.”
“Good,” he said. “Then your granite will age the same.”
It was a brilliant solution until it occurred to me that unlike the
granite, the two of us will not be aging the same. Bob’s stone – with a
typewriter carved on its face – announced that at his death, his
overriding passion was journalism. He would have loved that the
typewriter is holding a piece of paper with the symbol -30- for end of
story.
But how can I possibly know what my passion will be in another hoped-for
25 or 30 years? I don’t think I’ll become a pilot or go explore the
Amazon, but I want to leave a little room for the possibility.
As much as matching granite might be nice, I’m just not ready for -30-,
except in the case of this story, which ends as follows:
A happy little Japanese maple has a lot all its own, and a woman named
Delorise, whose loved ones called her “Momma,” is keeping an eye on
things till I arrive.
-30-
www.PatSnyderOnline.com
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Getting
The Job
By Richard Turck, Washington
The work environment is getting more and more competitive. When looking
for employment, you have to try extra hard to prove that you're the
person for the job, the whole person for the job, and nothing but the
person for the job, so help you God. So, I'm here to share some of the
things I would do to really set myself apart from my rivals.
Ok, let's take it from the top, getting an interview. I've found that
getting an interview is just like dating. The more businesses I "court,"
the more likely I am to find a real keeper. So, one helpful little trick
I've learned is to play the numbers game. This is where I send my resume
to every single job posting I find. Be it online, in the newspaper, or
on a bulletin board, if it's posted, they're getting my resume. Now I
can feel good knowing I'll get a call. There's no two ways about it. I
mean, I just sent my resume to people that didn't even know they posted
an ad, and the best part is, they didn't!
Now, I'll admit, sometimes I find myself saying, "But I'm not qualified
for every job." But that's when I realize that I'm going in with the
wrong attitude already! No wonder I'm unemployed! Do I see convicts out
there saying, "Oh, but I'm not qualified to rob banks"? No! That's why
they are where they are. They have a "can do" attitude, and I need to,
too!
So, to help with my self esteem, I go look at myself in the mirror and
say, "Wow, check me out, I have two eyes, two feet, opposable thumbs,
and a brain. "Why, that's all the necessary equipment to perform ANY job
there is!". "Gee, I'm the greatest thing that's ever happened to
anything...ever!". "Boy, I should start my own race of superior human
beings except the only person that could join is me!!" "I AM A GOLDEN
GOD!!!" "I LOVE ME FOR ALL I'M WORTH AND I CAN'T EVEN TAKE IT
ANYMORE!!!! "I NEED SOME SERIOUS HELP, AND IT'S GREAT!!!!" There, now
I'm ready.
As soon as the first interview comes along just remember one thing, it's
all about first impressions. I have to make absolutely certain that I
not only look the part, but also act the part, smell the part, become
friends with the part, and maybe take the part out to a nice seafood
dinner. This may sound like a tall order, but I just have to remember,
it isn't. All I have to do is think about the first thing an employer is
expecting as soon as I walk into their office: a good, firm handshake,
right? Well, I could do that if I want to make certain that I make no
impression at all. The employer is greeted by firm handshakes during
EVERY single interview, and quite frankly, he's sick of it. The name of
the game here is making sure he remembers me, and I can't do that by
simply doing what everyone else does.
So, what would I do to really "one up" this whole firm handshake
business? It's simple. When he sticks his hand out for a handshake, I'd
just slap it away and put him in a headlock. This will just scream, "I'm
serious about this position", right away. Then, once his neck is
securely fastened to my arm, I'd squeeze until I'm certain his breathing
is cut down to a minimum. If it's firm he wants, then it's firm he's
going to get. I have to make 110% sure he's going to remember me,
forever. If he happens to look like a forgetful kind of guy, I'd just
give him a good punch in the stomach. That ought to help his memory. In
the most extreme cases I may even finish him off with a good, clean
pile-driver. A good rule of thumb to remember is, if he's not bleeding,
he's not impressed. When I go home after an interview I don't want to be
thinking of all the things I could've, would've, should've done. I want
to be thinking of all the things I did've done.
There you have it, the only real way I'd go about getting a job. Sure,
there's also plenty of fake ways to do it too, but why would I want to
waste my time with those? If nothing else, at least I can look myself in
the eyes at the end of the day and say, "I may not have gotten hired,
but that guy is going to remember me for the rest of his life." Being
memorable is important.
www.journalized2.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Change
By
Jo Worsham,
Texas
When I was younger, I would hide behind
the sofa and eavesdrop on the neighborhood women gathered for morning
coffee at my house. Eventually their conversation would center on “the
change.” So and so was suffering through “the change.” Over time it
seemed that the entire neighborhood was involved and concerned about the
unpleasant “change.” It was years before I realized they were talking
about Daylight Saving Time.
Raising our two grandchildren, we have learned to adapt, cope, close our
eyes and hope; but the one thing that adds more gray hair than even Miss
Clairol can cover is the dreaded DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME.
We have tried everything in preparing the children, black out drapes, no
naps, staying up all night but nothing is effective.
This year was no exception. We went with the no nap, hope springs
eternal, and by 7:30 real time, the three-year-old had fallen asleep on
the sofa wearing his Buzz Light Year costume. I eased him out of his
space gear and carried him off to bed with visions of sleeping-in
dancing in my head.
At 8:30 he was awake and ready to eat….again. Once fed, it was off to
bed…again. It was then 8:45 real time. By 9:30 it was throw up time. By
10:05 it was throw up time again. At 11:00 I moved him to our bed which
has a shorter run to the bathroom. My husband moved to the recliner. It
was either vacate the bed or switch to singing soprano.
With all the ups and downs of a stomach virus, I began thinking “ Ok,
this may work out after all.” It was the night to switch the clocks back
an hour so it was technically only 11:00, not midnight.
Nothing, I repeat nothing, can alter the three-year-old’s internal clock
more than thirty minutes. Right on his schedule, at 4:30
daylight-ugh-savings time he popped up wide awake. “Cartoons, please,”
he demanded. Well, he had said “please.”
Not one of the quadrillion satellite TV channels has cartoons on at 4:30
in the morning. An infomercial kept him occupied for ten minutes… just
long enough for me to doze off. As I was dreaming of receiving the Nobel
Peace and Quiet Prize, a voice in my ear said, “Time to eat. Feed me.”
He was playing the guilt card. I knew his tummy was empty and he knew
that I knew it.
I rolled out of bed and stumbled toward the kitchen at 4:40 in the pitch
darkness trying to avoid the 60 million toy cars scattered on the living
room floor. I managed to get one eye open, but a harmonica that had been
missing since April suddenly resurfaced on the bottom of my foot.
“Pampakes and sausage, please.” Thank you God for freezers and
microwaves. As I was nuking the pancakes, I attacked the
easy-to-open-if-you-are-built-like-Rambo plastic bag of sausage patties.
The guy who designed that package must have also designed every cracker,
potato chip, cereal package, and childproof medicine bottle on the
market. My theory is he was a former CIA agent in charge of protecting
nuclear warheads from accidental detonation.
While I was looking for scissors, flame thrower, chain saw, anything to
open the plastic bag of sausage patties, the three-year-old began his
game of hopscotch and alternately singing and accompanying himself on
the harmonica. This was followed by the sound of the plastic bag of
frozen pancakes exploding in the microwave. It was now 5:30 a.m.
Daylight Savings Time and my husband had not stirred from his chair,
which is not five yards from the hop-scotch
-harmonica-playing-and-singing-awake-since-4:30-three-year-old who is
still protesting that he is hungry.
They say that a mother seeing her child trapped beneath the wheels of an
automobile can summon Herculean strength and lift a three-ton vehicle
and move it aside to save her child. That ain’t nothing compared to a
post-menopausal-sleep-deprived-daylight-saving-time-hating-woman
determined to feed her three-year-old a sausage patty. With mounting
fury the plastic bag was torn asunder by my bare hands and sharp teeth.
Sausage patties became air borne flying saucers much to the delight of
the three-year-old.
Finally, he was fed. and happy. I ignored the wrecked kitchen, put his
beloved Buzz Light Year costume on him, turned on “Toy Story,” wrapped
us both in a warm fuzzy blanket, cuddled up on the sofa… and waited for
daylight. It had to come sometime!
Curse you Ben Franklin, for Daylight Saving Time!
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