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Congratulations to all Finalists in our December 2009/ January 2010 Humor Writing Contest!

(Listed alphabetically by author.)

EBBS Market Implodes: Investors Close to Panic
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia

Investors were close to a state of “stampeding Titantic” panic as the EBBS market was thrown into “turmoil” as a result of the recent hard line the U.S. government has taken against Outsize Executive Bonuses. Investors, pension funds, and individuals had viewed the EBBS market, or the Executive Bonus Backed Securities market, as one of safest places to put their money. But this past year, as the taxpayers’ outcry over the size of executive bonuses reached a crescendo, the EBBS market suddenly lurched into a downward slide and plunged. Executives and traders are said to be “both shocked and aghast” over the “breakdown in the entire American value system.”

Said one New York Money-fund manager,

“EBBS based funds were guaranteed to maintain their value no matter what happened to the economy at large. They were considered to be both the life vests and anchors on everybody’s money-fund ship.”

Mutual and money-managers claim that even in their worst case projections, their analysis did not predict a fall in executive bonuses and thus the securities which whose value such bonuses support. EBBS instruments were viewed as the “hedge of hedges” and could keep any sinking mutual fund afloat until a market improved.

One surprised New York money-fund manager summed up the Wall Street view:

“If the economy did well, executive bonuses went up; if the economy listed and took on water, executive bonuses went up; if markets got torpedoed, executive bonuses went up. If executives became so obsessed with the ninth hole at some upstate New York golf course and could not concentrate on their work, executive bonuses with up. And if executives fell from their yachts and drowned, their bonuses, their life insurance payments, and wife’s mood increased in value. EBBS were predicted to increase in value no matter what happened with the rest of world economy. “

Stated another baffled, but somewhat removed, money fund manger in Princeton, New Jersey:

The collapse of the EBBS market is akin to finding radiation-tainted rats digesting the life jackets at the back end of the lifeboat of your market-tossed ship. It means market portfolios, everywhere, are drifting about, half drowned, in a sea whipping wild with bad bear market news.”

Financial experts explain that an Executive Bonus Backed Security is a financial instrument whose value is derived from the size of executives bonuses at leading financial institutions and other U.S. corporations. In purchasing the security investors, in effect, bet on executive bonuses rising. When bonuses rose, so did the value of instrument or the mutual fund which had invested in them. Mutual and money-fund managers, viewed purchasing these instruments as a “no brainer” and invested heavy in the EBBS market.

Stated the savvy New York money fund manager:

“Anyone who looked at the breakdown between a financial firm’s profits, their payments to shareholders, and their internal payments to CEOs could have seen these instruments were a solid way to make money. Those who did invest in the EBBS market saw their earnings rise dramatically throughout the past two decades as government regulation declined. What we did not predict is that one day Congress would finagle a way for Government to interfere in financial markets. Who cares if CEOs are a bunch of bumbling bonus brats -- as long you have a few EBBS in your portfolio, it is good for you, the market, and the U.S. Economy.”

However the public expressed a different view. Vance Cheers, an English Teacher at Pasco High School in Dade City, Florida, expressed a common taxpayer sentiment:

“These New York City bank bonuses are an economic travesty. I bet the executives are double dipping by doing all the buying in EBBS market themselves”

A French Finance Minister, Calay Malure, echoed the Dade City Teacher:

“The traviste’ bonus of the American system imbues a value price of justice equivalent to zero. Justice must receive a higher price or the incentive for executives will be to work less and dip double with the ladies more.”

The British Minister of Portfolio also agreed with the Dade City teacher.

“So those private portfolio mangers are panicked because rats ate up all their EBBS life vests. I say let’em take a dip in the salt of a real ocean and maybe they’ll stop trying to double their money every half minute at taxpayer’s expense. I’d say to taxpayers now is the time to go into EBBS market and short sell those darn bonus backed instruments right back to the place they came from.”

www.bananaws.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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The Next Generation Gets Itself Lost
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia

As millions of American children confront the first homework assignment of the new year, a recent education survey has revealed that seventy percent of American teenagers cannot locate France on a map and fifty five percent cannot locate, and identify, “the map” itself. Teachers blame the poor geographic skills of American schoolchildren on an education system that focuses on reading, math, history, and a bewildering web of school rules, classroom restrictions, and hallway regulations that make sense only when applied to certain species of social insects.

Educators also blame parents who provide children with little latitude for learning about Earth-based locations that do not have shopping malls.

Said history teacher Runwhy Cornel at Dade City, Florida’s, Pasco High School:

“The last time I pointed to a classroom map and asked students what it was for, they hedged and stammered, answers such as:

--‘I dunno—like, is it some “Lord of the Rings” thing?’

--‘I got it. It’s one of those funny psychology Rohrschak shapes’

However, the more savvy students provided better answers such as:

--‘like, it looks like, maybe, some,-- primitive form of a GPS device’”

Teachers, who hope to reintroduce geography into the school curriculum, are fighting across numerous fronts, a couple backs, and even a few ups. Opposing the introduction of geography courses are:

-- education administrators who claim that the Internet has collapsed the world into one spot, located within twenty yards of the principal’s office of their favorite school,

--parents who fear that their children will boot up the family computer and exchange e-mails and music with wayward teenagers in any country that they learn about in school,

---and the students themselves, who insist on using GPS devices on geography tests.

Remarkably, as the next generation’s geographic skills implode, teenagers report having close, best, and off/on and on/off friends from an extraordinary wide variety of the world’s countries and mental states.
Runwhy Cornel explained the situation to a Pasco News reporter:

“Today’s Teenagers cannot find a country on a map, but they can e-mail eight friends living across nine Asian countries, while texting a friend in Europe, while using an iPhone to order a pizza from Mexico. And if there is a “happening” clothing outlet in the capitol city of some far off, foreign speaking country, they know the store’s street address, aisle layout, and belt prices, in three languages and two computer codes.
Despite this, we must Facebook the facts. Increasingly, American teenagers cannot find foreign locations as well as the foreign locations can find American teenagers.”

Education experts agree that, increasingly, the world has beat a tracking path to the American teenager who rarely falls out of web site or phone connection with hundreds of geographic locations across the globe. Despite this, according to experts, such teenagers, often, cannot be located by school officials or their parents.

Runwhy Cornel defended his geography class “position” to his GPS device:

“To have the ability to name the capitol city of Mongolia, cluster six African countries into the correct contiguous group, and develop a passion for the shape of the world’s great rivers and mountain ranges, is critical to development a of worldwide sense of spacial belonging, place and reality. However, to America’s school children, the real world contains as much spatial sense as does a nine-level, Mario-running, video game.

I am afraid that the next generation soon will feel trapped in a spaceless real world and will end up trying to score enough points to move up to the next game level. That’s what my mother’s, and perhaps your mother’s, church group spent their time on.”
Critics complain the whole issue of increasing geographical ignorance has been blown out of proportion and is just another case of one generation’s reaction to the changing knowledge set of another generation, faced with a distinct set of needs and technology.

A Washington D.C. panhandler, who introduced himself as: “14th and L street,” summed it up to a sidewalk audience:

“People see a bunch of school kids that don’t know where France used to be and go ‘generation’ crazy.

Other people say: ‘So what. I never had to drive my car to France. And besides, these kids have got electronic gizit-mo’s to tell them where to go . I don’t see any school principal that can find his way around the website world. In fact, most of the last generation can’t even find the search key on a Google map site.”

www.bananaws.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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‘You See, But You Do Not Observe’
By Burton Cole, Ohio

I was talking to my wife on the phone when the woman walked in.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “Chris changed her hair. She looks great!”

Ugh! How could I have been so stupid! I noticed something.

Noticing something about another woman while talking to my wife also was an error in judgment.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, no, this is good,” she said. “Let’s work with this. What did she change?”

“The part. She used to part it down the middle.”

I thought for a moment.

“No, wait. Maybe the part switched sides. Did she have a part? It’s something to do with her hair, though. I’m pretty sure about that.”

My wife sighed.

“Keep trying, sweetheart,” she said. “You may become observant yet.”

It’s a problem for us guys. Our women keep expecting us to notice things, then get frustrated because we don’t. At least she tells me later when she’s been frustrated, but I don’t see how I was supposed to notice that.

“So what,” I asked, “do you ladies wish we’d notice?”

“Wives wish their husbands noticed what was for dinner and gave some feedback on how it was,” she said.

“Wives wish their husbands could see dust, and would do something about it,” she said.

“Wives wish their husbands knew the birthdays of their children, how old they were and what grades their children are in. Bonus points for knowing who a child’s teacher is,” she said.

I hadn’t noticed any food disappearing out of the fridge lately, but I thought it might be safer just to ask outright: “Do we have any kids?”

She hung up.

It’s not that guys are completely obtuse, as some of my female friends have suggested. We just notice different things. Important things.

As Sherlock Holmes famously told Watson, “You see, but you do not observe.” In Watson’s case, he daily trod the stairs at their shared flat at 221B Baker Street but never noticed how many steps there were. Seventeen.

(Notice, Holmes’ exercise in observation was directly related to crime fighting techniques and had nothing to do with noticing if someone had lost four pounds on a special diet or that the kitchen sink leaked and needed fixed.)

Observation is how we know to pitch a batter on the inside because we see that he hits balls on the outside of the plate very well. And it has nothing to do with the way he parted his hair.

If our significant others are counting on us to observe that the car needs gas or that the milk’s low or that our socks are in the middle of the living room floor and shouldn’t be, we won’t. We do not clutter our minds with unnecessary details for fear it will push out something vital, like the specs on the 7.1 Surround Sound home theater system we need or LeBron’s shot percentage against Kobe compared to the rest of the league.

So you can observe how embarrassed I was that I noticed that Chris had parted her hair differently.

“No, the part’s the same,” she said. “I straightened my hair. It’s always been curly. I used to have highlights, too.”

Aha! So I didn’t accidentally notice something! Manhood preserved! Phew!

I’d still like to know if we have any kids, though.

www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Hang Up! My Pocket's On Hold!
By Burton Cole, Ohio

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Dumb Juan
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom

First came my “revolting period.” A period of loneliness when women looked at my pocked face, repulsed, while muttering words such as ugly or gross out or double cheeseburger on rye. The last one never made sense, but I used to hear it a lot before I was fired from that fascist fast food joint.

Oh how I’d look longingly into my neighbour’s seductive eyes, dreaming of love, my body tingling as it pulsed with desire injected adrenaline. This lasted a blissful six weeks, and then I spotted her Adam’s apple and broke my binoculars.

One time, a snooty harpy rejected me, scoffing that she’d rather date a talking fungus. Even when I pleaded that my athlete’s foot had spread to my torso, that still wasn’t fungal enough for this snobby purist. I tried to impersonate a truffle, but three men tried to sell me to a swanky London restaurant—that is, until they heard me speak. “What the hell is this thing?” they lamented. "No truffle would jabber with such a brogue.”

Then, suddenly, I entered my “Adonis period.” It began after I’d noticed that seductively dressed beauties would flirt as I merely walked down the street. Smitten by my charms, they didn’t even want me to pay for a date, and were happy to accept a romantic monetary gift and then immediately express their love.

Self-esteem restored, I mastered seduction. I learned that while girls love dogs, they don’t love dog impersonations. I figure they’re just shy about being asked to impersonate the lamppost.

I learned that if a woman likes you, she’ll give you a coy wink. And I soon noticed that most women winked at me constantly, often with such enthusiasm that they used both eyes in tandem, repeating the procedure every few seconds.

But most of all, I learned that women are impressed by linguistic creativity. I'd captivate a girl in a bar by inventing a new word. For example, I’d say, “My ‘mashinkers’ have been aching for a week, and also smell slightly off.” Enamoured by my skills, she’d stroke me playfully: sometimes my hair, sometimes my chin, and sometimes even my lips—albeit in a subtle, indirect way using her boyfriend's fist.

Then came my “dating period.” One girl, Tammy, became freaked out by my controversial views on the uncertainty of gravity. I thought, Sure, she might find my bespoke fifty-kilogram boots embarrassing, but, as I keep telling her, "Ain’t no one gonna see me floatin’ away.” But she found it weird, and I suspect she only stayed with me out of fondness of either my extreme wealth or snorkel collection. I then became too afraid to pop the question to her—that is, would she object if I modified the toilet. Heck, if I’m ever right then there’s no way I’m scrubbing that ceiling clean.

Things ended, and soon the smile of a girl named Sally made me go weak at the knees. A smile that, to an onlooker, didn’t even look like a smile; rather, it looked more like someone mouthing, “Get lost jerk.”

At first, she neither spoke nor made eye contact—presumably because she was bashful. I even thought, Maybe she’s blind and is simply a lucky driver? But that was nonsense, because I soon noticed that she crashed frequently, usually when I waved at her in the street, often requiring me to dive for cover. I’d try to talk to her, and she’d do a vomit type mime to her friends, putting her fingers down her throat. I think she was probably hinting that I’d be worth her turning bulimic.

Being a gentleman, I’d walk Sally home each evening, ensuring that she was safe. When she noticed my presence, she’d often break into a coquettish sprint and let out screams of pleasure.

Wooed by my charms, our first date had me wrestling with the usual moral dilemmas. Do I pay or go halves? Should I hold the door open for her? And will she ever understand why I had to use all that rope and tape to help me persuade her to travel in the car boot?

And that brings me to my “incarcerated period.” I used to think that I was locked up out of other men’s jealousy, but now I’m not so sure. The other day I heard the psychiatrist conclude, “This patient is clearly insane. Any fool knows that he’d need at least ninety-kilogram boots, like mine.” Boy, now I’m really dreading my “floating period.”

www.humourwhiffet.wordpress.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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New-Relationship Contract
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom

NEW-RELATIONSHIP CONTRACT
(INFORMAL VERSION)

[Note: Use this precedent if you are a typical adult male]

DATE:[Insert]

PARTIES:

1) [Insert name of typical adult male]

2) [Insert name of woman]

DECLARATIONS:

[Note: Insert the male’s requests below. Standard ones are listed]

1. Our relationship is to be built on sharing and openness and disclosure of everything—but definitely NOT my Internet browsing history. You know, just in case I’m planning a surprise present for you and the disclosure ruins the surprise.

2. I love to be asked, “Hey, what ya thinking”—that is, unless I look as if I actually am thinking, which is pretty much 100% of the time. A safe bet is to assume that I’m thinking, Stop asking me what I’m thinking, dammit—I’m trying to think.

3. Just accept that the only thing that’s up with me is that you keep asking what’s up with me. I was fine before you asked, like, twenty times. There’s a strong possibility that “what’s up” may have something to do with interrupted thinking sessions.

4. If you ask me whether you look a little fatter around the midriff, try to give some sort of clue as to whether you want an honest answer or an ego-flattering answer. A good clue would be to shake some of your rapidly expanding midriff.

5. Provided we are within ninety miles of each other, let’s deem that to be “Doing Stuff Together.”

6. Look, just assume that I’m attracted to all of your “Low-Fat Friends” and never ask.

7. You’ve had a quarter of an inch lopped off your hair. That’s right: A QUARTER OF A DAMN INCH. Like, not even Superman would have noticed. Let it go already.

8. We are to treat each other as equals. Labelling an activity “Romantic” shouldn’t mean that I pay 100% of its cost.

9. Drinking beer is to be labelled Romantic. Ditto watching me drink beer. Don’t forget clause 8, and therefore, in the interests of equality, let me have your 50% contribution to my beer fund.

10. I’m sure that I read that the most efficient till girls also happen to be the best looking ones. So please, don’t criticise my efficient line choices.

11. Of course I love it when you unexpectedly turn up at my apartment. The only reason that I look annoyed is because, until you saved me, my lousy buddies were forcing me to drink beer and watch sport. At times like these definitely don’t ask what I’m thinking.

12. When you tell me “it’s that time of the month,” I promise that I’ll never do a slow head nod and mutter to myself, “Ah, so that explains everything.”

13. Until I start attracting attention from the neighbourhood dogs, my underwear is to be deemed clean.

14. Imagine if it turns out that God is a hypochondriac who hates touching “unsterilized stuff,” and one day he comes to my apartment and begs to use the toilet—the seat of which I haven’t sterilized. What I’m saying is this: please accept that I like to be “God friendly” and that such friendliness is a pretty compelling reason to leave the toilet seat up.

15. Never question why God doesn’t simply use his “God powers” to sterilize everything. He’s probably not thinking straight, because he’s busting for the loo.

16. In any season other than summer, I’ll assume that you feel cold. You don’t need to keep reminding me.

17. I’ll be frank: when you ask “What do you think of this new dress?” my criterion for deciding is very simple—provided it’s at least six inches above your knees, I’ll love it.

18. When you tell me how much you paid for your new shoes, be aware that I have a medical condition that forces me to make an uncontrollable noise. To the untrained ear the said noise may sound like someone saying, “But they look just like all your other damn pairs.”

19. “Making love” is such an overused euphemism. Let’s come up with a more honest description for what we’re about to do. How about “Making Up Naked Mental Images of Your Low-Fat Friends”?

20. Making up all those naked images is very tiring. That’s why, afterwards, a good way to feel really close to each other is to let me sleep. Don’t try to wake me. EVER.

www.humourwhiffet.wordpress.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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What I Learned While Watching The World Series On FOX, Presented By Coors Light, Wells Fargo, and Sierra Mist
By Patrick Foy, Pennsylvania

I must confess: I’m new to baseball. As I watched my local team, the Philadelphia Phillies, advance through the 2009 playoffs, I relied on my baseball-savvy friends to teach me the players’ names and rules and such. What followed was a crash course in basics of the sport and the star players who determined the outcomes of the games. Because I didn’t want to distract my buddies from the action, I only posed my queries during the many, many, many commercial breaks – and boy, did I learn a lot. My newfound baseball knowledge certainly enhanced my enjoyment of the playoffs – I’ve retained so much information, I’m practically a baseball expert now! And even though the Phillies didn’t bring home the title this year, I had a heck of a time watching the local boys go down to the wire in The World Series on FOX!

I know, I know – they lost to the New York Yankees. It was a bitter pill to swallow, losing The World Series on FOX, but that’s okay – the Phillies are a great team and they had an exciting post-season. Sadly, they ran into a stronger squad – the vaunted Yankees, a storied franchise with a winning tradition. Those Damn Yankees have won The World Series on FOX more than any other team – an astounding four times! They even won the very first World Series on FOX, way back in 1996.

The Phillies are no slouches, however. Coming into the 2009 World Series on FOX brought to me by Budweiser, Toyota, and Windows 7, they were the defending champions, having won last year’s The World Series on FOX presented by Goodyear, Taco Bell, and State Farm. As the parade of advertisements whizzed by on the TV screen, I kept one ear open as my buddies filled me in on some background concerning the local team. They told me about the Phillies’ star players like Jayson Walmart, Raul iPhone, and Chevy Equinox Utley, who led the team to 93 wins in the regular season and a division title. Their successful season was also due in part to stellar play from veterans like Shane Volkswagen and breakout years from youngsters like JApplebee’s Happ.

Perhaps most importantly, the Phillies received a huge boost when they traded for ace pitcher Cialis Pfizer “Cliff” Lee, formerly of the Cleveland Intel Processors. No Bones (Thursdays at 8/7 Central on FOX) about it – Lee was dominant in the postseason, going 4-0 with a 1.56 ERA (Earned RadioShack Average). Unfortunately, the rest of the Phillies’ pitchers had trouble with New York’s hitters. Hideki McDonald’s, the series’ Most Valuable Playstation, was unstoppable, and he was backed up by great performances from shortstop Dodge Ram Jeter and much-maligned third baseman TDAmeritrade (or “A-Rod” for short).

I think the turning point of this year’s World Series on FOX presented by Domino’s, Sprint, and Blackberry came when the nerdy PC guy kept insisting that his new operating system would “work better this time,” year after year, saying “Trust me!” while the cucumber-cool Macintosh guy, who I’d like to be friends with because he seems really mellow, just stayed modest and made sure his computers ran well. (My friends referred to this as “Game 4.”)

The Phillies were down, 4-3, in the eighth inning when light-hitting third baseman Pedro Flomax hit a home run off of Yellow Pages reliever Jiffy Lube Chi-Chi’s to tie the game. The momentum appeared to be on the Phillies’ side – until the top of the ninth, when beleaguered closer Brad LidGeico allowed three runs to seal the Pepsis’ fate.

The Phillies should not be disappointed with their 2009 postseason, though. They steamrolled through the National League Divisional Series on TBS and the National League Championship Series on TBS, and that was a baseball experience I’ll never forget. Sunoco. Pontiac. Wendy’s.

As they bested younger teams like the Carfax.com Rockies and the Lopez Tonight Dodgers, the Phillies’ experience shone through – all of their best players are in the prime of their respective careers. I guess you could say that they are, as the old baseball cliché goes, “Men of a Certain Age starring Ray Romano, Scott Bakula, and Andre Braugher. Coming in December to TNT.”

Before you accuse me of being some bandwagon-riding Johnny-come-lately who doesn’t know a split-fingered fastball from a SlimFast or a Charles Schwab from a Citibank, get this – I also learned a lot of baseball history from my seamhead pals. For instance, did you know Jackie Robinson was the first player to break the Corona barrier in 1947?

I love Major League Burger King!

http://www.camp-woods.com

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Life's To-Do List
By David Goldstein, California

The last time I went to the dentist she cleaned my teeth, and then with a disappointed and horrified look on her face she handed me a gum massager: "You need to use this twice a day. Everyone should.”

I replied “To be honest, I’m brushing three times a day. I’m flossing. I’m not sure how much more dental-related activities I can fit into my daily schedule.”

She nodded, thought for a moment, and came up with this great solution: “Keep the gum massager in your car and massage your gums as you drive.”

Later on that day, as the police officer was writing me a traffic ticket for gum massaging without a hands-free device, I realized it wasn’t my dentist’s fault. She’s a dentist. I’m sure she massages her gums 5 times a day. Matter of fact, she probably takes them out for a girl’s day at the spa: massage, hot stone treatment, a jacuzzi, then a pedicure.

And that’s how all professionals, specialist and experts spend their days: telling their customers and patients what we all need to be doing and how we’re failing to do so. The plumber thinks the only thing we should think about all day is proper pipe maintenance. Your barber thinks you should be giving your hair special hot oil treatments 6 times a week. Your mechanic wonders why you don’t bring your car in for a tune-up every 13 miles.

But I never remember any of this stuff. So I decided make a simple list of everything I need to do:

Brush your teeth. Floss. Massage your gums (either in car or sans car) Exercise 4-5 times a week, 40 minutes a day. Look for unusual moles and growths on your body. Check yourself for testicular cancer once a week (optional for women). Check all your car’s fluids. Run a test check of your sprinklers every week: look for clogs, leaks, drippage. Speaking of water, drink 83 glasses of it each day. Check your dogs weekly for bumps, cuts, missing patches of hair. Give them their flea and tick medication once a month. And heartworm meds once a month. Express their anal gland monthly. Check their poop for worms. Change your guitar strings every three months. Run a firewall on all your computers. And anti-virus programs. Update your computer software weekly. Clean your cache (the computer equivalent of expressing your dog’s anal gland, I guess?) Compress your hard disk. But don’t compress your lower back. Sit up straight. Repair disk permissions (wha? huh?). Pay your bills. Check your balance. Your bank balance. Not your body balance. But don’t fall over. You’ll skin your knee. Keep all receipts for tax purposes, track all mileage, make quarterly payments, put money in the bank, but not too much, put it in the stock market, whoops — your money is gone, put your remaining $3 in CDs instead. Change your air filters. Change your toothbrush. Change your smoke detector batteries. Test the carbon monoxide detector. Get your sewer scoped once a year. Get your chimney reamed once a year. If you’re over 45, do the same for your anus. Get a checkup. Pee in this cup. Prepare an earthquake kit. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Check for termites. Defrost your freezer. Rotate your tires. Rotate your mattress. Clean the lint trap. Trim your trees. Join a book club. Read the newspaper every day. Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Watch Mad Men, ‘cuz I hear it’s really good. Listen to Public radio. Support live theater. Support the troops. Only buy free range chicken. And free range coffee. Vote. No, American Idol doesn’t count. Read food labels. Eat according to the food pyramid. Fat is okay, but not too much trans fat. Find out what trans fat is. Buy local. Buy organic. Wait, what about your dog’s teeth??? Brush them daily! My dog too? Geez! Yes, smart-ass, your dog too! And check them for testicular cancer. Wait — they’re neutered. Scratch that. Well, not "scratch" scratch, you know what I — Never mind. Oh, and a yearly eye exam. Not your dog, you, dummy! Wait, did I check the fluids? Mine or the car’s?! I can’t remember!!! Has everyone’s anus been covered???

See? That’s not so daunting, is it?

www.ourannoyingworld.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Pedigrees & Crossbreeds
By C.W. Plunkett, California

The San Francisco Kennel Club is having their annual dog show next weekend. How many of you own dogs? I love dogs. Aren’t they great? I own two myself. Ahhh, but how many of you own purebred, pedigreed dogs? People can go crazy with stuff like that, and that’s putting it mildly. If you ever go to one of those dog shows, it almost feels like you’re at a psychiatric outpatient seminar. These people are certifiably nuts-in-a-can!

The really fun part about going to dog shows is you get all the latest information on all of the most recent cross-breeds. You know what I’m talking about. If you go to the classified section of this newspaper, there’s plenty of crossbreed dogs being sold right now. For instance, a cross between a Labrador retriever and a poodle is called a Labradoodle. I’m serious. And there’s plenty more new and unusual cross breeds out there. While at the show, if you hear someone mention that they’re going to go get a Red Bull, they’re not talking about a drink. They’re talking about a cross between a Bull Terrier and an Irish setter.

Some of the cross breeds sound very innocent, such as a cross between a West highland Terrier and a Lancashire Heeler is called a High Heel. Others aren’t so innocent and sweet-sounding, like a cross between Japanese Spitz and a Bloodhound, which is called a Spitz Blood. That’s just not right.

Some of the newer breeds have some fairly entertaining names. There’s a new one out that’s a cross between a Mexican hairless, an American Pit Bull, and a Border collie. It’s called a Mexican/American Border. If you’re ever thinking of getting one of these, you need to keep in mind that this type of dog is a jumper and should have a secure fence around it.

Last year, the most popular dog that was given as a Christmas present was a cross between an Old English sheepdog, a Saint Bernard, and a Chinook. It’s called an Old Saint Nook. The dog is instantly recognizable as it is usually very fat with a long white beard, and an equally identifiable bark that sounds like, “ho-ho-ho”.

About five years ago, someone crossed a Bulldog with a Shih Tzu and came out with a Bull Shihtzu. It’s a cute little dog that is constantly barking. But don’t confuse this one with another dog that is a cross between a Bull Mastiff and a Shetland sheepdog. That one is called a Bull Shet. They look a lot alike, although the Bull Shet is bigger and barks more.

Sometimes when two different breeds are crossed it turns out to be a big mistake. Such as the case when you cross an Icelandic Sheepdog, a Kerry Blue Terrier and a Portuguese Pointer. The outcome is a Ice Blue Pointer. It’s just an ugly little dog that seems to get smaller during cold weather. On the other hand, every once in awhile, two breeds are crossed and it’s like a perfect marriage. A great example of this would be a cross between a Chesapeake Bay retriever and a dog called a Leonberger. The result is a pooch called a Chesa-Berger. And if that dog is then cross bred with a Bichon Frise’, it is called a Chesa-Berger & Frise. This breed has a weird affinity for pickles and ketchup, and actually condiments of all kinds, so keep an eye on it when at family picnics.

For some reason or another, Yorkshire Terriers (or Yorkies) are a very popular dog to use in cross breeding. One of the less successful attempts was a cross between a dog called a Hanover Hound, a Yorkie and a Moscow Watchdog. The result was a little mugger called a Hanover Yor Watch. These are usually thieves and should be constantly monitored. A more successful attempt was a cross between a Finnish Spitz, a Yorkie and a Chow Chow. The result was a Finnish Yor Chow. This dog seldom eats all of its kibble. Scientists still don’t know why.

A popular Yorkie mix during the month of July is a cross between a Yorkie, a Poodle and a Dandie Dinmont Terrier. The end result is a canine called a Yorkie Poodle Dandie. Uncle Sam would be so proud.

Right now I’m on my way to buy a dog. It’s a cross between a French Spaniel, an Australian Silky and a Teddy Roosevelt Terrier. It’s a gift for my girlfriend. It’s called a French Silky Teddy. I guess you could say it’s for both of us… Ruff!

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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What Possessed Them... To Buy That Stick Family Decal?
By Ann Marie Jancovich, Arizona

Lately I find myself continually perplexed, maybe even a little haunted, by this stick family decal trend. At first I thought, weird and quickly forgot. Then, as if by the mere act of noticing, I couldn’t stop. They appeared everywhere. In the drive-thru line at Starbucks, the mall parking lot, the car in front of me on the freeway…and after a sighting, I could only spend the next half hour wondering…why?

Bumper stickers are bad enough, but for every fifty you see, you can bank on getting at least one laugh. For instance, the time I was picked up for a date when I was home one college weekend. There was a metal head guy I had a crush on in high school who heard I was in town and asked me out. Imagine my surprise when he opened the car door (aww…he had manners!) only to find a bumper sticker proudly displayed on the glove box that said “To all the Virgins in the World, Thanks for Nothing.” Okay, offensive…but seriously funny…at least with my skewed sense of humor.

What I want to know though is who these people are proudly displaying stick family window decals and what is their thought process in doing so?

I find myself trying to pass them on the road; slowing down to get a glimpse of this happy clan. Certainly they brand themselves as the perfect family unit and apparently do so for the viewing pleasure of everyone else. What emotion do they hope to evoke – one of pure joy at their familial success? Am I to think…how great that you procreated and bought this cross-over vehicle to haul your spawn and pets as you shuttle across the city. Should I beep the horn, give them a thumbs up? As if to say, “Hey man, you did good!”

Personally I do not know anyone sporting one of these. Clearly they are not my demographic and I’m fairly certain we will never be friends. So who is the target audience here? Okay…I’ll just say it…the Wal-Mart shopper? Where else would one go for this type of purchase? Now, before you judge me for that comment, I ask you to sit for a half hour in the parking lot and tell me if you see where I am going with this.

Now as luck would have it, there is a new vehicle parking in the assigned space next to me at the office. Each morning, before my first cup of caffeine, I am greeted by another doozy of a decal which depicts a Father, Mother, Son, three cats, two dogs, and what looks to be lizard, all grinning from ear to ear.

Call me crazy, but when I get a glimpse at that, I think…Wowza…that looks like a hot mess! That’s a lot of crap to contend with: a spouse, a kid, and SIX animals?! Is that supposed to be the American Dream?

The worst part is that the stick figure drawings are now evolving with enhanced features which come in a variety of forms. How do ten smiling dolphins dancing across the rear window, tagged with cutesy nicknames grab you?

Clearly the traditional family unit is back and displaying their empowerment; a constant reminder to this single girl to be happy she has never been a trendsetter. So as I cruise along, I’ll have to learn to accept these decals, rather than racking my brain with questions. Is the decal split in case of divorce? Are step children indicated by a (-)? What is the redneck millionaire who invented these things doing right now? I think I know the answer to that one…certainly working on Phase 2: vehicle wraps.

http://CreativeRaven.wordpress.com

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Hang Up Or Die!
By David Jenkins, Montana

I'm sure everyone's heard that the world's supply of bees is mysteriously dwindling and soon mankind will follow suit. Without bees around to pollinate the majority of the crops we depend on, our food supply will disappear and we'll be left to eat each other.  Eventually there will only be one person left and when that person finally succumbs to hunger and eats himself (or herself), that's it.

There are many theories buzzing around as to why the bees are vanishing.  Global warming, pesticides, and mites are being mentioned as possibilities, though I don't know why someone hasn't considered that just maybe the bees are fed up with the queen and her royal system of government and have decided to become self-employed.    

Whatever the reason, there is actually a name for this phenomenon – Colony Collapse Disorder, or CCD.  According to scientists, CCD occurs when a hive's inhabitants suddenly disappear, leaving only a queen or two and a few immature workers, not unlike a Taco Bell at midnight on a Tuesday.  Both have an unpredictable effect on the food we expect.

The best argument is that cell phones are to blame for these suddenly vacant hives. The theory goes that radiation given off by mobile phones is messing up the navigational systems of bees, preventing them from finding their way home.  

This ultimately creates a lot of anxiety in the hive each night as bee spouses nervously sit up and stare at the cold side of their slot, wondering why their mate hasn't come home.

Consider this:  Bee-4957 (or B-4957 for short) has just had his way with the prettiest tulip on the block.  He's feeling pretty good about himself and is on his way back to the hive to brag up his conquest to the other bees in his sector.  The sun is shining and life is good.

“B-4957, this is flight control for Hive 114.  Do you copy?”

“Roger, Hive 114, this is B-4957.  I copy.”

“You are clear for re-entry, B-4957.  Expect a little turbulence just ahead.  A few crows did a fly-by and disturbed the air pattern, but you should be fine.  Adjust flight path accordingly.”

“Roger that, Hive 114.”

“B-4957, prepare to descend and...”

**crackle* *fuzz* *crackle** “...your landing gear...”

**crackle* *crackle** “...so I told that s.o.b. that if he ever wants to eat my meat loaf again, he'd better not come home smelling like a damn saloon!”

**crackle* *fuzz*

“B-4957, are you there?! You're coming in way too high! Adjust your rate of descent!  I repeat, adju...”

**crackle* *crackle**

“Hive 114, I'm losing contact!  Please repeat my heading!  Hive 114?  Hive 114?!?”

**crackle* *fuzz* *pop**

“...no, that's two pepperonis and one sausage with anchovies. *pop** “...real anchovies this time.  The last one tasted like trout...” **crackle*

“B-4957! This is Hive 114! Do you read me, B-4957?!?”

B-4957 was never heard from again. Scared, lost, and confused, he buzzed aimlessly about, hoping upon hope to once again hear the comforting voice of Hive 114's flight controller.  But it was not to be.  Eventually his buzzing tired into a slow flap and he went down in a cornfield just 0.002843 miles from Hive 114 where he was immediately consumed by an excited raven who thought he'd just found the mother of all corn kernels. This scene is being played out thousands of times a day all over the world.  Weary and confused bees are slamming into buildings and windshields and we have only ourselves to blame.
 
Studies seem to back up this theory.  In areas with high concentrations of cell phones – like a high school, for instance – bee populations are down and those that remain are bumping into walls.  This particular test is inconclusive, as unrelated studies have shown teenagers tend to confuse all life forms, with or without phones. So, until bees learn to survive by inhabiting areas with poor cell phone coverage, we have a decision to make:  Hang up or die.  Or perhaps mankind can create a drug to treat CCD -- one that could be sprayed on the crops bees normally pollinate so they would get their dosage without even knowing it. We could call it 'Beenoxilquil'.  Read the disclaimer really fast for the proper effect:  "For those times when you just need a little help finding your way.  Take only as directed.  Side effects may include diarrhea, vomiting, and a swelling of the antenna.  Some bees may experience increased buzzing, irritability, and a desire to sting themself for no apparent reason.  If stinger remains erect longer than four hours, consult your doctor."

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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The Girl For Me
By Barry Parham, South Carolina

I just learned that Barbie turned 50 this year. That settles it. I'm asking her out.

She's perfect. For all you perennial single guys out there, she's perfect. She's petite and passive. She's always a sharp dresser and she's aged amazingly well. She's sexually dysfunctional, and her vocal cords are controlled by a little string in her back. And she doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve. (Sleeve not included.)

If that smacks of a shallow outlook, there's a reason: it is a shallow outlook. Single guys have a misunderstood lifestyle. All Hollywood evidence to the contrary, a single guy does not, as a rule, amble around the mansion in expensive bathrobes, enchanted by the fine aromas wafting windward from his monogrammed snifter of French brandy, choosing an evening's companion from an eager stable of almost clothed super-models camped out on the expansive front terrace. Single guys mostly do a lot of walking: they walk from the TV, to the couch, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, and back to the TV (to watch super-models.) And any aromas wafting about in a single guy's place are not likely to be applauded by any pundits of popular culture, in France or anywhere else. Well, maybe in France.

Career anthropologists are at a loss to understand the non-mating habits of the single guy. (But then, career anthropologists are at a loss to figure out how to wear a tie without having it splay sideways from their shirt collar like a Frankenstein neck bolt.) For arcane reasons, the single guy's point-to-point walking patterns define a very prescribed, narrow course, known in textbooks as the Critical Carpet Comfort Corridor. Single guys will rarely deviate from walking on the same familiar areas of the carpet, the same little path, back and forth, over and over and over. According to some studies, 97% of all carpet in a single guy's house has never been burdened by a single footprint. The poor guy might as well just buy two squares of carpet and staple them to his feet. (Staples not included.)

So the whole dating scene for single guys can be pretty dismal. But there's hope. There's Barbie, looking good at 50. Word has it that Barbie has successfully completed her rehab, is no longer addicted to wax cigarettes, and her "dealing with feelings of elbow inadequacy" therapy is going well. So well, in fact, that in 2008, Dennis Kucinich had her pegged on his short list for running mates.

And if all of that weren't enough to pique, the average single guy will definitely make up his mind after reading her personal ad in the 'Singles Wanted' section. (Single guy's mind not included.)

-------------
Single, non-existent female seeking single-dimensional male for imaginary relationship, preferably a fun-lovin' guy with faux hair implants. Objective: matrimony, possibly; accessories, definitely.

I'm just a fun-loving, Material Girl -- well, a Combustible Material Girl -- who has seen the best, and is ready for the rest. If you're an unindicted guy with an off-shore portfolio, and you have pupils that never dilate, we need to talk! Flat-line EEG? No problem! Please send picture of portfolio.

Turn-ons: short walks on the beach, accessorizing, nebulous erogenous zones, bulimia nervosa, 'Little Women.' (Accessories not included.)
Turn-offs: opposable thumbs, kitchen matches, N.O.W., guys with spaces between their toes, Midge.

Must be tolerant of 2"-high house pets. (Pets not included.)

Dennis Kucinich need not apply.
-------------

I know, guys...as the ultimate fulfillment of your concept of the Ideal Couple, some of you will waver at the imagery: you, a more-or-less normal human, more-or-less properly dressed, more-or-less behaving at your neighbor's pool-side barbecue, standing next to your one-foot-tall plastic wife. But think of the kids you'd have! Not only would they be cute as a button, but the same size as one. (Kids' orthodontia and college education not included.)

And her current boyfriend? No worries. He's…what? 15 inches tall?
You can take him…

Personally, I think Barbie would have made a great presidential running mate, and I'll look forward to her participation in future televised candidate debates. (Dennis Kucinich not included.)

http://www.pmWebs.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Getting A Haircut
By Rick Turck, Washington

Haircuts are so expensive these days. Last weekend they practically charged me two bucks just for walking through the front door. Then, to make matters worse, I didn't leave a tip. So it looks like everyone got screwed.

Due to the price, the next time I get a haircut I'm going to wear a big Afro wig and have them cut that first, just so I feel like I'm getting my money's worth. After they're finished with the wig, I'll take it off and say, "Surprise!", and tell them they can cut my real hair now. Then, as they're trimming, I'll start giving instructions that are really difficult to follow like, "Don't cut every 19th strand. Could you stop staring at my head? Every time a piece of hair hits the floor, I want you to yell, "There she blows!"

Once they've finished with the cutting, I'll request they style the hair on both sides of my head into bull horns and shape the top into a seahorse. While they're working on these sculptures I'll make sure to continue giving instructions like, "Take care to make both horns the same size. Make sure the seahorse appears thoughtful, yet happy." All I have to do is keep this up and my hair cut will be worth every penny, which is perfect because that's what I plan on paying with.

When my appointment is finally finished, I'll walk up to the cashier and place a bag full of pennies on the counter. She'll probably look at me like, "You can't be serious." But I'll look right back at her like, "I have a seahorse on top of my head." It doesn't get much more serious than that.

Seeing how expensive everything is becoming, the only thing we as consumers can do is make sure companies have to really work for our business. So the next time you're out paying for a haircut or a massage, don't just accept whatever they want to give. Instead, tell them you'd like an inverted rainbow mohawk, or feel little, baby panda feet on your back. Only then will we be getting the full value of our money.

www.journalized2.blogspot.com

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Merry Christmas Eve, Everyone -- Some Assembly Required
By Dawn W., Ohio

Yes, gather your unassembled toys, your tools and your six-packs, folks. It’s that special night when reindeer fly, children dream, and parents assemble gifts. All. Night. Long.

For such a wondrous, joyous, never-flippin’-ending occasion - and since I’ll be very busy this evening - I have written a poem. No, no, don’t thank me. Just send help. Please?

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Two parents were cussing, I called him a louse.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Visions of working toys danced in their heads

And me with directions, and him with his tool,
Got me thinking "For this? I deserve some new jewels."
Down by the tree there was nothing but work,
Me yelling "Not that screw, you big, clumsy jerk!"

Then right beside me there was such a clatter,
I said "For $%* sake what the *#@$ is the matter?"
He tossed the pliers down and said "Ouch!",
Then threw himself over, kerplunk, on the couch.

The moonlight on top of his sorry old head,
Made me feel bad for nasty, mean words that I'd said.
"C'mon honey," I told him, "let's just hit the hay.
Tomorrow we'll do this. Better hooch on the way!"

He shook his head no. “We must get this done.
If their toys aren't together, they won't have much fun!"
More rapid than arrows, my cusses then came.
I whispered them loudly and spoke names in vain.

As parents will do, we wanted to please,
And met with directions writ all in Chinese,
We went on ahead through the night with our mission,
Me trying, but failing, to stop all my witching.

And then, in a twinkling, we fell fast asleep.
The parts strewn around us, a crazy-quilt heap.
As I slept, I dreamt of the big man in red,
Perched at the foot of my childhood bed.

His eyes, they still twinkled, his dimples, still merry,
And I felt just like I was back in the 70s.
But as I looked down at myself in my dream,
I saw belly and hooters and wrinkles extreme.

I said "Hey Santa, it’s work, now that I'm older,
It’s crazy, I’m tired, please, rub my shoulders?
These toys, they're messed up, missing parts, bad directions...
Got the sprockets and whats-its all in the wrong sections!"

He spoke a few words, before getting his start,
“You have to stop buying these toys from Wal-Mart!
Cheap junk made in China, we all hate it too…
Those elves end up fighting like they’re from the zoo.”

And laying his old hands on top of my head,
Right there in my dream on my little-girl bed,
He told me “I know that - at your age - it’s work,
But you gotta stop calling your old man a jerk.”

He sprang to his feet, disappeared from my sight,
And I drifted and dreamed on through the cold night,
Then came the small footsteps, and I thought “Oh crap!
Their presents, they are not finished - or wrapped!”

I nudged my old man, by my side on the floor,
As the kids’ little footsteps drew close to the door,
And what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But assembled, wrapped toys - and a six-pack of beer!

What a jolly old elf, that Santa still is!
Christmas is for all, not just for the kids.
What else did I learn, my valuable lessons?
Less Wal-Mart, less witching - cut back on the cussin’.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Alternate Endings
By Ed Welter, Oregon

Every so often a movie starts with its original ending, but based on audience feedback sometimes ends up with a completely different one. “Pretty Woman” is one such movie. Apparently the original had Julia Robert’s character not ending up with her prince charming but instead going back to a life of drugs. I can’t imagine why audiences didn’t rate it highly.

That got me wondering whether there were other movies that had alternate endings that weren’t quite so upbeat. Perhaps famous movies we all know and love also had alternate endings that were secretly changed in the Area 51 underground studios that control all human programming. I immediately sent out my investigative staff. Here’s what they came up with:

WARNING: SPOILERS OF MOVIES YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN BY NOW UNLESS YOU WERE LIVING IN A CAVE OR WATCHING REALITY TV

“Shawshank Redemption” – The original ending didn’t have “Red” strolling up to a tanned and happy Andy Dufresne working on his boat. Instead, Andy lost all his money on an outdoor flea market business selling trinkets to American tourists only to be later captured by “The Dog” and extradited back to the USA for bounty money. Red had to succumb to 17 straight hours of timeshare condominium presentations and went mad.

“Pulp Fiction” – It didn’t matter; nobody could figure out where this movie ended anyway since all of the pieces were out of time order. They simply swapped pieces in every single theatre just to have some fun with the audience.

“The Matrix” – Neo doesn’t place a call through the Matrix phone booth and then “Superman” away into the digital atmosphere. Instead, it turned out he didn’t have change for the phone call and Agent Smith hits him with a Microsoft Error Message which places him in perpetual “running” mode, unable to do anything ever again. Eventually Morpheus determines he couldn’t be the “one” (he was probably two or five or something) and unplugs him. The “one” is eventually outsourced to a third party provider in India who isn’t as good, doesn’t have the cool leather clothing and ultimately causes the demise of human kind.

“It’s a Wonderful Life” – Interestingly, the original version doesn’t end with George smiling while Zuzu points out the ringing of the jingle bell. Instead, the original had subsequent footage of the IRS coming in and seizing 60% of George’s newly acquired income. This causes George to take out a no-money-down loan with a variable interest rate balloon payment at the end. Of course, at that time he is unable to make the balloon payment having squandered all his money in order to finally travel around the world. But this time his friends don’t bail him out again since he’s been selling them LP Siding all these years. Apparently they dropped all this subsequent footage due to movie length and the lack of Astronaut diaper technology at the time.

“American Beauty” – Instead of getting a bullet in his head by his neighbor, the original version had the neighbor shooting him with only a squirt gun acquired from the Third Reich (a rare collectible indeed). They became close after that and eventually he divorced her and married him during the legal Gay marriage window and went on to open his own chain of restaurants featuring real Nazi china.

http://vehow.blogspot.com

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