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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2009/January
2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
December 2009/
January 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
City Boy Lesson Learned: Don't Use Poison Ivy As A Backscratcher
By Terry Dawley, Pennsylvania
Years ago, when the kids were young, we decided to move from the hustle
& bustle and dangers of city living, to the quiet and safe countryside.
Having been born and raised in the city, I was quite naive of the
creatures and plants of the frontier. For example, there are flies that
the locals call "deer flies". Now these flies are very intelligent and
tough, tougher then the ghetto flies of the city. It's modus operandi is
to circle its victim, picking out the best place to land, where the
victim can neither see nor swat it. It has the uncanny ability to land
so softly, that, by the time the victim realizes they've been bitten,
its flying off with a half pint of there blood, and, if by the remote
chance you do get to swat it, it will fall to the ground in a crumpled
pile, as you stand over it, gloating in your victory. (I've fallen for
this numerous times) After about ten minutes of gloating, to your
disbelief, a leg moves, then it's wings flutter and before you can
comprehend what is happening, it flies off giving you the middle wing.
When walking my dog and one begins to circle me, it strikes terror into
my very soul. I begin flailing my arms around and uttering such phrases
as (#%$@#$ deer flies, stinking rotten &%#@$ deer flies). Anyone who may
be watching me, unfamiliar with the flies, would probably think I have
Tourettes or something.
About now, you're probably wondering what the hell does this have to do
with Poison Ivy.
One hot and humid day of our first spring living in the country, I was
working outside with my shirt off. We have pine trees that line our
driveway and they were very small at the time. I looked down at this one
tree and saw a vine creeping up it. I remember thinking (I don't want
this vine to strangle my little pine tree), so I reached down and yanked
the vine off the tree. At about this same time one of those damn deer
flies bit me in the middle of my back (I forgot to mention that they
also wait for you to get busy with both hands before striking). Well, I
brought that vine up and over my head and began using it as if it were a
backscratcher, in a desperate attempt to dislodge the damn deer fly,
while uttering those phrases I tend to utter.
The next day, as I sat in my agony, despair and blisters, I remember
thinking I was much safer living in the city.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Mr.
Doodles and Me
By Matt Foley, Illinois
I remember the summer before my fifth birthday, my neighborhood friends
racing around on their bikes and scooters, while I desperately tried to
keep up with them, galloping about from lawn to lawn. Unfortunately, I
was not blessed with wheeled transportation as of yet and the only form
of riding fun I possessed was "Mr. Doodles", my trusty steed. Mr.
Doodles was a buck-toothed, cross-eyed, cloth Palomino horse head with a
3-foot long mop handle shoved in his neck. Perched between his floppy
ears was a little red felt cowboy hat and around his neck hung a loose
fitting blue neckerchief. To complete the western package, I wore a
matching red felt cowboy hat and blue neckerchief whenever I rode. While
the other kids motored about, making tire skid marks on the sidewalk and
mimicking loud engine noises with their mouths, I galloped behind them,
mop handle wedged between my legs, making horsey noises. Occasionally,
I’d stop and scream out, "Giddeee-yup, Mr. Doodles! Yeeeeehaaaawww!"
At the end of August, on my fifth birthday, my days as an accomplished
sidewalk equestrian came to an end when my parents gave me a Big Wheel.
Somehow I got the feeling my dad didn't quite appreciate my mop-back
riding skills because as soon as I jumped on my Big Wheel, he put Mr.
Doodles out to pasture. He snapped him in 2 over his knee and tossed him
in the garbage...my little red, felt hat and neckerchief soon followed.
September 16, 1970...12:13 P.M. A moment in time horrifically etched in
my mind forever. As was the schedule for kindergarteners, I finished
class by noon everyday. When the dismissal bell rang, I'd bust out the
school doors and race home to start tearing up the street with my Big
Wheel. However, on that fateful day, I would ride no more. As I
approached my house, I could hear an unusual banging sound coming from
our patio, accompanied by the all-too familiar mischievous giggle of my
little cousin, J.J. I turned the corner and helplessly watched as J.J.
repeatedly peddled my Big Wheel toward our back wall and smashed the
front wheel into the bricks. By the time I could wrestle him to the
ground, the damage was already done. The front fork had been irreparably
bent and the plastic wheel was shredded near complete collapse. My Big
Wheel was dead. Sensing an ass kicking, J.J. ran home leaving me alone
in the yard with no one to take out my frustration. In a fit of sweaty,
red-faced rage, I punched wildly in the air, spun in a circle, then
climbed a tree and wept. I remained up in the tree, sobbing and mumbling
curse words about J.J. until my dad came home, yanked me out of the
tree, told me to toughen up and to go clean something.
I couldn't get my Big Wheel replaced with a new one. It was 1970.
Everyone was poor. Money didn't grow on trees and according to the old
man, when he was my age they didn't have fancy "Big Wheels."
"We had a single metal roller skate we found at the junkyard,"
(side note: it's common knowledge in the late forties and early fifties,
children regularly played in junk yards as parks and swings had not been
invented yet)
"Yeah, the junkyard. We'd each take a turn sitting on that hard metal
skate, while somebody else shoved you down a steep hill. Sure, our knees
scraped the pavement and got bloodied something awful...but we were
tough."
I knew a replacement was out of the question and if I persisted whining
for a new one, a rusty roller skate would be forcefully wedged between
my recently spanked butt cheeks followed by a less than delicate nudge
down a dangerous stretch of road.
Eventually, my parents replaced my Big Wheel with a used bicycle, a
classic Schwinn Phantom, they found at a garage sale for $2.50. I’d like
to think they bought me the bike out of love and to vanquish the pain
their little boy was suffering, through no fault of his own. Truth be
told, the old man couldn’t pass up a bargain and more importantly, he
was deathly afraid I might revert back to my western ways and resurrect
my kinship with Mr. Doodles.
© Copyright
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And
Now a Word From Our Sponsors
By Weston Locher, Florida
I find television advertisements to be an excellent source of humor.
While most folks in this day and age are busy fast-forwarding through
commercial breaks with their magic Digital Video Recorder boxes, I
occasionally stop to watch, mostly to find out what products are
currently being pushed upon unsuspecting consumers.
Fifty percent of the ads you see during commercials are for new
fuel-efficient cars that look cool, go fast, and have a built-in iPod
connector that comes standard. Another forty-five percent of the ad
block belongs to cell phones or cell phone related services. We’re shown
which company has the latest and greatest in touch-screen technology and
how it can run helpful applications, access the Internet, tie your
shoes, and occasionally even make a phone call.
Now, the other five percent of commercial time is where things start to
get a little crazy. Usually, this other percentage belongs to the local
advertisements. You know, the ones where the volume on your TV kicks
itself up ten notches and blows your dad’s hairpiece against the wall
behind the couch. These are the low-budget ads that look like a
colorblind prison inmate in solitary confinement edited them. You’ll
spot ads for legal counsels, such as our local personal injury
attorneys, Sheckler, Sheckler, Sheckler, and Brooks. It’s one of those
ads where The Shecklers get thirty seconds to beg for your legal
business all while making Brooks feel bad that he has a different
father. Or maybe you’re familiar with your local car dealer’s ad, where
the creepy old used car salesman shoves his youngest daughter in front
of the camera in an attempt to sell a few beat up Saabs and attract the
attention of perverts in a ten-mile radius.
There are other times when this five percent is filled with a national
advertisement that just feels downright out of place. For example, a few
nights ago I was enjoying a special on the Discovery Channel about a
group of people who were making a documentary about hating television.
Sure, it was a little hypocritical, but that’s not the point of this
story. Several minutes in the commercial break kicks into full effect
and I am treated to a crazy advertisement about a new vehicle called The
Cube. It’s essentially a tiny little box with wheels that induces
claustrophobia in the driver. It also comes in blue. The fifteen-second
commercial was full of swirling colors and pounding dance music. Though
it was marketed to get me interested in possibly purchasing the car, it
really just made me want to have a seizure. The next advertisement was
for a company offering cellular phone ring tones. In quick succession, a
slew of horrible song snippets by horrible artists that my phone could
blare out whenever it rang came at me like a sonic assault. I opted not
to join the service and lost a little more faith in popular music.
Then it was time for the weird advertisement. After having all of my
senses beaten into submission and spit on by the previous commercials, I
was quite surprised that the final ad was for Duke’s Mayonnaise. Yes,
you read that correctly. Mayonnaise. Backed by a soundtrack that would
have won a Grammy in the 1940s, slow-moving elderly folks spreading mayo
onto denture-friendly sandwiches replaced my world of colors, sounds,
shapes, and general sensory overload. I know the mobile phone world is
booming and the automotive industry is in the toilet, but what warrants
getting Duke’s Mayonnaise, the secret of great Southern cooks, onto my
television screen? Apparently I didn’t fit into the ad’s target
demographic. My curiosity diminished, however, as David Maus’s used car
advertisement came on, raising my television volume to eighty, and
subsequently hurtling me across the room into a wall, knocking me
unconscious.
http://www.musingsonminutiae.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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And
Then He Hit Me
By Barry Parham,
South Carolina
I admit it.
There are holes in my education. I admit it. There are things that I'll
just never figure out. The cultural benefits of vacuuming. How to fold a
fitted sheet. The simple, predictable cause-and-effect between Friday
night pizza and Saturday morning heartburn. People who cut old tires in
half, paint them white, and use them to decorate their lawn. The
theological underpinnings served by the Virgin Mary's image appearing on
a Waffle House griddle. Geraldo Rivera's appeal. Okra. Tact.
That's a big one, tact. There is a time and a place for sarcasm. I know
that; we all know that. Unfortunately, I broadly define the time as
"whenever I'm awake" and the place as "on or near Earth."
Not long ago, during one of those psychotic "Together We Can Do
Anything" motivational meetings, the speaker felt the need to chide the
audience with "Remember - there is no 'I' in the word team, is there?"
Fully (though differently) motivated, I chimed in. "Agreed. There is no
'I' in team. On the other hand, 'u' is all over the place in 'Shut up,
you putz.'"
And then he hit me.
At a recent jobs fair, I mentioned to the manager of a local radio
station the delicious irony underlying the fact that they were
advertising products, on their radio station, for the hard-of-hearing.
And then he hit me.
One day, in my usual rush to the grocery, I finally ran out of luck and
was pulled for speeding. The officer asked, "Do you have any idea how
fast you were going?"
I said, "I do! I know exactly how fast I was going! What do I win?"
And then he hit me.
A local TV station was discussing the upcoming switch to digital TV, and
the reporter suggested that anyone still using rabbit-ear antennas
should visit their website for more info.
I ran into the reporter in town and pointed out, "Look, if someone out
there is still using rabbit-ear antennas, they've never HEARD of a
website."
And then she hit me.
During a weekend event, sponsored by yet another cash-flush cell phone
provider, I had to challenge the security guard manning the entry gate.
"Are you kidding me? I can't take my cell phone in to an event sponsored
by a cell phone company?"
And then he hit me.
One night, I was leaving the local Fine Arts Center after a performance
by the symphony. As I waited to cross at the corner, a throbbing carful
of party-monsters idled at the light. I'm guessing, of course, but based
on the decibel level, I think they may have kidnapped the tympani
section and thrown them in the trunk, but forgot to bind their hands.
One passenger lurched out the window and slur-yelled, "Yo, Popsh. How
wush the shymphony?"
I yelled back. "It was outstanding. How was the unemployment office?"
And then he hit me.
And then my internet service went down, so I called Tech Support. Some
sixty minutes later, after deftly navigating the tech support phone
maze, I actually acquired an actual human being, actually named Tekh Gai,
who sounded like he might be located in a country that has elephants.
After describing my problem – my internet service was down – Tekh Gai
told me that I could download a fix by visiting their website.
Sigh.
I cleverly pointed out that, given the fact that my internet service was
down, visiting their website was not among my immediately available
options. Tekh Gai then told me that I should call a different phone
number. I then described, to Tekh Gai, one of my great hopes, which
centered around Tekh Gai engaging in several biologically-improbable
things.
And Tekh Gai put me on hold, contacted my local branch office, scheduled
an on-site appointment, their local representative drove over to my
house, and then he hit me.
I just have to face the truth. I'll never learn. I was pondering this
sobering news as I pulled in to the local burger parlor. At the counter,
I ordered a burger. And fries. I should have seen it coming.
"Do you want fries with that?"
And then I hit him.
http://www.pmWebs.com
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The
Day I Was Fired
By
Diane Pascoe,
North Carolina
I’m going to be flat-out honest with you.
I was fired once from a position I had always wanted. I had no one else
to blame, though goodness knows I tried. With this firing, I entered the
Hall of Shame, where you get to ponder your failures for the rest of
your life
Being fired hasn’t been my only failure of course. Being divorced
suggests some kind of loser behavior, but I jointly own that one with my
ex, Mr. Wrong, and as you would probably guess, I believe he owns the
bigger share of the blame. Well, that’s my story anyway, and I’m
sticking to it.
When I first got the f-word from the boss, I was stunned. I was actually
dismissed in front of my peers. I sobbed. It was my dream job because it
had fame, glory and prestige. I loved the position, though in retrospect
I was wholly unprepared for the responsibility and the spotlight it put
me in.
I remember f-day like it was yesterday. My brown hair was cut in a bob,
with bangs that were one inch long on the left side and three inches
long on the right side. "Lordy, did that girl get her haircut cut at the
hairdresser’s or the dog groomers?" the neighbors whispered. Even I knew
I looked weird - and I was only four years old. Yup, four.
The nightmare happened when I was in the kindergarten rhythm band. I was
usually relegated to banging two sticks together or clanging the
triangle with the other 20 rhythm band losers. I didn’t like playing the
sticks . . . I wanted to be the lone glorious drum pounder or the
tambourine shaker, not a crummy twig tapper.
Then one day, the teacher, Miss Coyle, asked me if I would like to be
the band conductor. You know, like Ricky Ricardo or Mitch Miller. My
flat chest puffed up, my shoulders went back. I was handed the baton,
led up to the platform and turned around to face my band - a sea of
faces staring at me.
Now this is the point at which it all started to go wrong. I had no idea
what I was supposed to do with that flipping baton. I had seen Ricky and
Mitch on TV, but with severe performance anxiety, I couldn’t recall if
they twirled it, tossed it or drew circles with it.
Miss Coyle grabbed the baton and started waving it wildly, while the
no-name stick girls began banging their wooden instruments of musical
torture. The tune ended and I slipped away to my seat on the floor, head
down and in pain.
Then the final insult. The teacher called upon Raymond, who hadn’t even
figured out how to tie his shoes yet, to take over my job. No warning,
no probation. She just passed him my baton and he started waving it just
like I had seen the conductors do on TV.
Please, Miss Coyle, I‘ve got it now! I desperately tried to catch the
teacher’s eye to show her the lights had finally come on. But she only
had eyes for Raymond. I was in the corner with my stupid sticks. I was
yesterday’s news.
For 50 years I have been swinging that baton in my dreams to see if I
could get it right. I can’t read a musical note or carry a tune and my
pitch has been off since the birth of my first child, and no, I don’t
see the connection between birth and pitch either, but I swear it’s
true. But music was never going to be my career, so my baton failure was
probably inconsequential in the scheme of things.
But here’s the important stuff that I did learn in Miss Coyle’s class:
• I learned that firing is just the umpire telling you that you lost the
game when all along you were playing badly and probably knew how it
would end anyway.
• I learned that career success is possible when your career goals fit
your strengths. Don’t try to swim upriver- that’s for fish.
• I learned that pain dulls over time and humor carries the day.
• I learned that people should play to their passions and stay tuned to
themselves.
• I learned that failures are where life’s lessons are learned, so
celebrate failure as a character builder.
See, I really did get it, Miss Coyle.
© Copyright
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Dead
Bears and Sour Cherries
By
Beverly Petravicius,
Illinois
After you return from vacation, people
will ask “How was your trip?” They don’t really want to know. It’s a
rhetorical question, like “How are you?” You’re supposed to say, “Fine!”
and allow the conversation to end. Modern society has embraced this
affectation so we can pretend we care about other people’s lives and
aren’t self-absorbed narcissists.
So I’m not going to tell you about my family’s vacation in northwest
Michigan. It was fine. I am going to tell you about the region though,
because I’m tired of fancy vacation spots getting all the press.
Sleeping Bear Dunes is in a national park along the northwest Michigan
coastline. The name Sleeping Bear comes from a solitary dune that is
shaped like a sleeping bear. At least it was back when it was named by
the Native Americans. Now it's eroded and looks more like a turtle in
profile. The name Sleeping Bear remains, however, due to an enduring
Native American legend and an unwillingness to pay for new signage.
According to the Sleeping Bear legend, a long time ago Wisconsin caught
on fire. No explanation is offered as to how an entire state caught
fire. Maybe that kind of thing used to happen. Anyway, the legend is
that a bear and her cubs crossed Lake Michigan to escape. The mother
bear fell asleep when she reached the Michigan shoreline and became
Sleeping Bear Dune. Her two cubs died in the lake and became islands.
You’d expect them to be named “Dead Cub Islands,” just for consistency’s
sake, but they went with something else.
Northwest Michigan is also known for its abundance of charming lakeside
towns. Charlevoix, one such town, has a charming downtown filled with
charming shops (which, technically, makes them “shoppes”). Charlevoix
has two fudge shoppes. Presumably your average tourist is a vigorous
consumer of fudge, because fudge can also be found in most other
Charlevoix establishments, including restaurants, gas stations and
liquor stores. I estimate that approximately 90% of Charlevoix’s tax
revenue is generated by fudge sales.
The other 10% probably comes from sour cherries. The economy in
northwest Michigan used to rely on logging and fishing. They ran out of
trees and fish, though, so lumberjacks and fishermen started hanging
around the house all day, driving their wives crazy. Someone noticed
that cherry trees grew well in the lakeside climate, and decided to
plant more. The conversation probably went something like this:
Unemployed Lumberjack: I’m going to plant a cherry orchard. This will be
a big money maker for us.
Unemployed Lumberjack’s Wife: Yes, of course it will. In fact, you can
plant the first one right over my dead body.
UL: While I respect your cautious nature, I have decided that we will
make our town the Cherry Capital of America.
ULW: I want a divorce.
So all the newly single fishermen and lumberjacks devoted themselves to
growing cherries and succeeded in making the region America’s main
source of sour cherries. Their ex-wives opened fudge shoppes.
The cultivation of sour cherries is not the cash bonanza one would
expect. The northwest Michigan farmers realized that sour cherries
taste, well, sour, and require some clever marketing. People were
convinced to mix sour cherries with about 10 cups of sugar and cook it
inside sweetened dough to make what came to be known as “cherry pie.”
This arguably edible food caught on over time, and even inspired a song
by the same name. Or, I don’t know, maybe that song was about something
different.
As interstate commerce increased, people were able to buy fruit that
actually tasted good. Sales of the sour cherry consequently decreased.
Luckily, the cherry farmers realized two important facts: (1) people buy
anything they think has health benefits and (2) people believe food that
tastes bad is good for them. Suddenly the fact that a sour cherry tastes
like a ball of menthol with skin worked in its favor. Sales soared,
assuring the future of both sour cherry farms and dubious health claims.
Consider spending your vacation dollars in Northwest Michigan instead of
some big show-off city like New York. But if you’re in a Las Vegas frame
of mind, go to Las Vegas. Because whatever happens in northwest Michigan
doesn’t stay there – northwest Michigan expects you to clean up after
yourself.
© Copyright
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10
TV Shows I Can't Wait For My Kids To Leave Behind
By Joel Schwartzberg,
New Jersey
To their parents' eyes, kids seem to stay
at one age forever. The same feels true about preschool TV shows they
watch religiously. Parents find themselves asking, "Will they ever grow
out of Sesame Street and Dragon Tales?"
In fact, they do. And when kids eventually leave some of these shows
behind -- even the award-winning, halo-wearing ones -- parents offer a
silent thanks. Not because the shows were all that bad for kids, but
because you personally were ready to go Gillooly on Mr. Noodle's
kneecaps.
Here's my personal top ten list of good, bad, and simply beguiling shows
I’m thrilled to leave behind.
Dragon Tales
I'm not sure which world was actually more annoying -- the real one, in
which Max is obnoxious, or Dragon Land, in which Max is obnoxious. This
show also accomplishes the seemingly impossible feat of making dinosaurs
dull.
Thomas & Friends
Is it just me, or does this show seem like it premiered around 1923 and
hasn't changed since? I’m pretty sure Sir Topham Hatt went to grammar
school with Mr. Monopoly.
Clifford
Goodbye Emily Elizabeth, Clifford, Speckle, and your irony-free,
jeopardy-free, humor-free world. I hope to see Jetta someday in an E!
True Hollywood Story.
Teletubbies/Boobah
Things that make no sense tend to irritate me after about ten minutes.
Caillou
Isn’t this the same whiny kid who follows me to movie theaters and
restaurants?
Dora the Explorer
For Pete’s sake, stop talking to me! I’m trying to eat cereal and watch
your show in peace!
Big Comfy Couch
Things that make no sense tend to irritate me after about two minutes.
Elmo's World
I love you, Elmo. You know I do. But couldn't you leave the house or
find new friends besides Computer, TV, and Dorothy once in a while?
Credit to Kristin Chenowith for being the least creepy Noodle.
Barney & Friends
The word "Barney" alone should convey the point. Also, how fun is a show
featuring the least cool children in the history of the world? They make
the ZOOM kids seem like the cast of "Entourage."
The Wiggles
Things that make no sense tend to irritate me after about 30 seconds.
www.joelschwartzberg.net
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Godzilla
vs. The Mall
By
Karla Telega,
South Carolina
As a rule, I would rather gargle with
drain cleaner than go to the mall. Motherhood will do that. After
playing multiple games of hide and seek in the clothes racks, and later,
listening to weeping on the other side of the fitting room door, it got
to where my back would start aching the moment my foot crossed the
threshold of a department store. Now menopause has come and gone, taking
my waistline with it, and the tears have come from my side of the door.
My shopping trips are normally very focused and carried out with
military precision. I locate the item(s) on my list, sprint for the
register, and throw money at the confused cashier on my way out the
door. The only exception to this routine is if I am buying toe fungus
medication. Then I will try to shake off any possible witnesses by
casually strolling through sporting goods and ladies’ lingerie before
making my escape.
I have the unfortunate handicap of not being built for speed. My
osteoporosis and me would never survive a Black Friday stampede in an
electronics store. You definitely don’t want to lose your footing
anywhere near Gloria Lister. I hear that she wears cleats.
I decided instead of shopping, to do some research for a book. I firmly
believe in personal experience to help add life to a story. This is a
recent development in my life, born out of personal heartaches and lack
of good programming on TV. This hands-on approach required that I look
for a hobby for my protagonist, which would also provide enrichment and
personal growth for myself. I settled on rock collecting. The flaw in
this plan was immediately apparent. I looked in dismay at my geological
survey map of South Carolina, discovering that most of the low country
consists of clay and sediment.
I could either smack the heck out of clay globs with my new rock hammer
or range farther afield for my hobby. On a suggestion from a friend I
typed Pee Dee basin into my search engine and made a remarkable
discovery: the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp. Since the name “Godzilla”
is already taken, let’s just call him Hal.
The first written account of Hal was made by 17 year old Christopher
Davis in 1988. According to the story, while returning home through the
swamp, his car developed a flat tire. As he was cleaning up after
changing the tire, he glanced out into the swamp and saw a creature, 7
to 8 feet tall looking back at him. As the monster ran toward him, Mr.
Davis jumped into the car. The irate critter took his frustration out on
Mr. Davis’ side view mirror.
Godzilla picks on unsuspecting elevated trains, while Hal picks on
innocent minivans. I think we can all see the connection: Monsters hate
commuters. Evolution has equipped Hal with 3 inch talons in order to
better rip up your leather interior. He does not spew flames from his
mouth and has not been reported getting tangled in high tension wires,
but otherwise, the similarities are uncanny.
On Christmas Eve Day, without regard for the safety of myself, my son,
my dog or my truck, I loaded up and headed for Mayesville, South
Carolina. We found our way to a swamp near town, where we learned that
there were no neon signs indicating the names of local swamps.
We chose the most likely location of Scape Ore Swamp based on the lack
of “No Trespassing” signs in the area. After driving for several hours,
we were not going home without slogging through a swamp, and if we were
guilty of trespassing, we might not be going home until after Christmas.
I parked my truck down a dirt road as bait for Hal. Under the canopy of
trees, only the wheezing of my overexcited dog broke the silence.
In that moment I could clearly see one overriding truth. I would rather
be standing in alligator and leach infested cypress swamps than waiting
in line at the mall. Even though Hal was a no-show, the prospect of
meeting up with his 3 inch talons was less scary than Gloria Lister’s
cleats.
http://www.telegatales.com
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Toys
By
Katherine Turski,
Texas
Men love their toys, but seldom share with
others. They especially don’t share with their wives.
When we last brought home a new TV, I couldn’t wait to watch my favorite
shows. I should have gotten a good book instead.
“Look what this can do,” my husband said, happily pushing remote
buttons. “It’s a picture in the picture. Isn’t that great?”
“Wonderful. Can it also switch to channel eight? The movie’s starting.”
“Wait, you can even get three pictures in one. What do you say to that?”
“Would one of them be my movie?”
“Sure.” He pressed some more buttons. The screen’s upper left corner
showed a snapshot sized version of Star Wars. I couldn’t tell whether I
was looking at Darth Vader or a black chess piece.
“I’m amazed,” I said, contriving a look of awed respect. “How do you do
that?”
“It’s easy,” he said with a smug expression, and proceeded to
demonstrate.
Once I’d figured it out, I grabbed the remote and switched my movie to
the big screen. Then I erased the other pictures obscuring my view. My
husband gave a strangled cry.
“You made them go away,” he gasped.
I patted his shoulder. “There, there, you can play after the movie.”
“But I haven’t tried the cool sound features yet.” He sniffled. “And the
closed captioning. And—“
“Here.” I handed back the remote and left. Squinting at our little black
and white, I decided it was better than watching him cry.
After my husband had had fun with the programming, operating the new TV
was like cracking the Enigma code. After three months, I still hadn’t
seen an entire show on it. If my husband was present, he insisted on
showing off the latest function he had mastered. When alone, I could
only get the weather station. I got really good at naming cloud
formations.
One day, while cleaning, I came across the TV’s operating manual. My
husband had neglected to mention we had one. And so, while listening to
the weatherman’s drone, I pored over the instructions. After several
trial and error sessions, I rediscovered the wonderful world of color
programs.
It was like a family reunion. Had Matt Lauer done something new to his
hair? And suddenly Oprah looked as though she’d gotten a completely
different wardrobe. As I pondered this, my husband walked in and let out
his favorite word.
“Whatareyoudoing?”
“Watching TV. Why?”
He rushed to check the TV as if it were a critical patient. “Give me
that remote.” (I swear he almost said, ‘stat’.) “Will the channels still
change? The volume and mute buttons work? What about the picture in a
picture?” After a frantic diagnostic, he took some slow, calming
breaths, then fixed his gaze on me. “Just what’s happened here?”
“I found the manual, and figured out how to work it.”
He stared aghast. “You’ve been reading instructions?” He spoke as though
I’d been reading subversive literature. “You’ll never learn properly
from a manual—they never get it right.” He puffed out his chest
slightly. “You have to just keep practicing until you master it, that’s
the only way to learn.”
“Let’s see.” I took the remote and put the television through all its
functions, finishing with four pictures in pictures. The whole thing
took less than five minutes.
Afterward, while squinting at my little black and white, I decided it
was still better than watching a grown man cry.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Financial
Mess Affects Mr. Potato Head
By
Christopher Venckus,
Wisconsin
Like most people I'm concerned about the
stock market volatility, seeing my bank account dwindle, and that long
black hair dangling from my Aunt Audrey’s left nostril.
I tried to grasp the complexity of the financial mess. After several
months of intensive research and interviews with three people who just
happen to be related to me, I came to the conclusion that someone
screwed up! Actually, a lot of people screwed up. And we're not talking
about a minor screw up. It wasn't an "Oops, I forgot to flush the
toilet." To be precise, it was a super, duper, monster screw up.
So, what did some CEOs do after their company fell apart? Of course they
came to the good old US Government for money. Subsequently, everyone
wanted a bailout. Heck, I heard about some guy who got in so much
trouble with his ice cream business he was looking for Uncle Sam to spot
him $17.50. What nerve! His 1982 Schwinn 3-Speed was recently paid off
so the only debt he had was his ice cream inventory. Rumor had it he was
over leveraged due to an excess inventory of fudge pops. Apparently he
never performed a true market analysis. It's that type of poor planning
which has caused the taxpayers to suffer.
A good friend of mine who happened to be a financial guru and Tupperware
salesman loaned me a very sophisticated computer program. It used a
complex algorithm to help analyze any financial situation. After
spending several days entering lots of information it spit out the
following:
Fannie and Freddie ran up Capitol Hill
To fetch a government bailout
Then Lehman fell down
Merrill Lynch and Bear Stearns were no longer around
And AIG came tumbling after
Even with such poignant analysis I felt some of the best financial
advice I ever received was bestowed upon me by my Grandma who only had
an 8th grade education. She told me to never get involved with
derivatives, stay out of debt and drink a glass of prune juice once a
week.
In contrast, my neighbor Fred was jobless and in debt up to his ears. He
had spent a small fortune and an inordinate amount of time working on
his Mr. Potato Head toy. I heard he recently acquired the rest of the
Potato Head family and was distraught that he wouldn't have enough money
to send Baby Potato Head to Spud State College someday.
My fifty-two year old cousin Andy lost his job as a potato chip taster
about ten years ago and never found another full time job. He told me no
other type of employment filled him with the saturated fats he enjoyed
from the chip job. He became so desperate for cash that he sold all his
gold to a local pawn shop. At first I thought it was a fine idea until I
realized the only gold Andy owned was in his mouth. With all his gold
crowns missing he was down to only two decent teeth so he was required
to eat almost everything with a straw. Unfortunately his favorite food
was meatballs. Yuck!
Things took a turn for the worse when I ran out of quarters for the
laundry and resorted to washing my clothes in a nearby lake. It worked
well until an officer walking past yelled at me. I got scared and ran
away leaving most of my clothes on the grassy shore. Days later, I found
a homeless man wearing a pair of my underwear over his pants. The
underwear was blue with the word “Wednesday” printed in yellow letters
on the front. I didn't have the heart to tell the guy it was Friday.
I searched everywhere for an answer to the financial meltdown. I used my
friend's program once more. After fifteen exhausting hours of entering
data about the banks and brokerages that failed, inputting information
about the derivatives which were setup, and the type of undergarments
each CEO wore, the computer offered the following response:
Each naughty CEO's salary should be invested in a fund to partially
reimburse the employees of the failed companies and buy them a new set
of dishes. The dish pattern is not important.
The executives should be made to consume laxatives, wear purple leisure
suits, and be forced to participate in the local cable access show
called "101 fun things to do with oatmeal."
Who said justice can't be fun?
www.christophervenckus.com
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