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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March
2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
February/March 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Republican Party Announces Plan to Put a Republican on the Moon
by 2020
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
In response to President Obama’s plan to eliminate NASA’s project to put
a “Man on the moon” by 2021, the Republican Party announced that party
functionaries were assembling a rocket that would put a Republican
politician, and a live elephant, on the moon by the year 2020.
Republican Party
Chairman Michael Steele denied that the Republican moon shot plan was an
attempt to embarrass or “one up” the President. Instead, he said, that
the Republican moon shot was part of the party’s ongoing effort to reach
out to new constituencies and craters:
“Actually, we have been planning the Republican trip since George Bush
announced plans to send astronauts to Mars. It was then that we realized
the moon had been taken for granted by both parties, and was ripe for a
Republican takeover.”
Michael Steele added:
“Our first step is to assemble a six stage nuclear booster rocket. Our
second step is to train Republican politicians to handle the “light
weight” gravity of the moon. This will go quickly. Given the discussion
at recent Republican caucus meetings our party members already have
experience maneuvering in light weight environments.
Our third step, of course, is to set foot on the moon and declare the
entire lunar surface a flat tax zone."
Within hours of the Republican Party announcement, the breakaway Tea
Party announced they had developed a nautical saucer which would
transport two Tea Party candidates to the bottom of the 18,000 thousand
foot deep Mariana Trench. There, according to a Tea Party spokesman, the
submersible candidates would declare the ocean bottom a “no” tax zone
and would launch a “trench warfare” campaign to subvert the Republican
Party from underneath its own lunatic fringe.
The next day, a White House spokesman told reporters that Republicans
were free to expend resources to stretch out their influence to other
heavenly bodies.
To show good faith, across-the-aisle, the White House announced it would
provide Republican strategists with space maps that give clear
directions to the moon’s dark side.
Responding to the threat of a Democrat/Republican rapport, a Tea
spokesman slammed the Republican Party for not publicly slamming the
President for canceling NASA’s moon-shot project. He also blasted
Republicans for not calling the entire Democratic party a collection of
“mother earth cuddling, deep space-avoiding, teacher-pet-Al-Gore,
wimps”.
The Tea party then offered to scatter a million food stamps across the
moon’s surface to demonstrate, to future space traveling generations,
how widespread U.S. Government fraud, waste, and abuse had become under
a Democratic administration.
The White House hit back by stating that romantic tales by
"traditionalist " writers that had turned the moon into the largest
piece of fraud waste, and abuse in the solar system.
Both conservative parties returned fire, by blasting Democrats for
halting exploration of “barren environments” that do not provide tax
revenues for Washington D.C.'s “entitled class”.
A Democratic spokesperson denied that charge saying most Democrats do
attend some form of religious service each week.
To show good faith with the Tea party’s trench-based subversion
campaign, the Democratic spokesman said the White House would provide
the Tea party with Naval maps of the earth’s ocean currents and coastal
yacht clubs; clubs which the spokesman said "are filled with
disenchanted downstream” Republicans.
The next day Ralph Nader announced that by the year 2019 the Green Party
would plant ten thousand "progressive" green voters inside the deep
interiors of the Worlds Rain Forests.
Pat Buchanan quickly followed by announcing that, by the year 2020, the
"America First Party" would plant over 20 million Hispanic Americans
south of the Rio Grande border.
Afraid of being left out in the rush, the Libertarian party announced
they would place five hundred party members "at any location any
volunteer chooses to go."
Not to be outdone, the Government of China announced that, by the year
2021, they would put six thousand U.S. politicians on the Great Wall
walkway for photo shoots and a day of inter-continental bribe exchange.
After several days of aggressive intra-party one up-manship competition,
reporters caught up with the President and asked him if he regretted his
moon shot decision and asked if the Democrats had come up with a
dramatic inspirational spot to place key Democratic politicians.
The President answered that he was deliberating on the matter, but did
say, that by the year 2020, the Democrats hoped to place 50 different
Democrats in the Governor’s office in 50 different State Capitols.
www.bananaws.com
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 Chinese
Family Reunions 101
By Wayne Chan, California
For those of you who may attend a Chinese banquet or are Chinese and are
planning a big get together with family, I have compiled a set of
guidelines that should help you in your preparation.
With that said, here are some helpful hints on how to proceed:
1. You must select a restaurant (Chinese, of course), in the most
concentrated part of town, on a busy Friday night (in your local
Chinatown), preferably with no free parking in the vicinity that will
force you to drive past a number of pay parking lots in order to park
free in a dimly lit alleyway close to a neighborhood pawn shop.
2. Once you have arrived, you must make sure the restaurant you have
chosen has ambient noise loud enough to drown out any kind of meaningful
conversation. After all, this is a family reunion. It’s not the time or
place for any kind of small talk.
3. Once the restaurant has been chosen, adults are seated at one table
and children sit at another. All tables are round and large enough to
seat approximately 15 people. All children must sit at one table,
regardless of how many are in attendance. If there are so many children
that some must share a seat or play “tag-team dining”, so be it.
4. The first big test of the evening is in ordering the appropriate
dishes. The dishes ordered for the adults must be so expensive that you
may need to get a second mortgage on your home to pay for it.
It is also a good idea to order something off the menu in which the
animal of choice is cooked whole and presented in it’s entirety for the
enjoyment of the guests. As a rule of thumb, the larger the carcass, the
better.
5. When the first dishes arrive, it is best to ask the waitress to slow
everything down so as to make each course a test in patience. Chinese
tradition dictates that true prosperity allows the family the luxury to
slowly enjoy their meal. If, in the course of your meal, you notice that
the newspaper delivery boy is going about his rounds, you have
accomplished your task.
6. During the meal, the role of all those who attend is to show mock
amazement and to beseech the host that they have ordered too much. This
is a customary ritual designed to convey the guest’s observation that
the host has enough money to feed a small army. The host must respond in
kind by ordering five more dishes.
Another Chinese custom is to communicate your pleasure in the dishes by
eating as loudly as possible. This conveys the pleasure you are
experiencing to your gracious host. Once the sound level of smacking
lips and gums begins to sound like a chorus of tap dancers, you have
made your feelings known.
7. Towards the end of the meal, the roles of the elders in the party are
somewhat different. It is their responsibility to grade each dish based
on how much they disliked it. Comments such as “The fish in that dish is
too fishy tasting” or “This used to be one of their specialties” are
always acceptable observations.
8. After the last dish is finished, toothpicks are handed out so that
everyone in the party can join in a round of teeth cleaning. Of course,
etiquette demands that while one hand is poking and prodding, the other
hand covers the mouth to obstruct any direct viewing by others seated at
the table.
9. At the end of the meal, the waitress will promptly present a bill for
the evening’s festivities. It is at this point that at least two or
three of those in attendance must argue over who will pay for the
dinner.
One simple tip to help determine how fervently you should fight over the
bill: For the most part, the less money you make, the more insistent you
should be to pick up the tab. This is called, “Being in denial”.
10. On the drive back home with each family going their separate ways,
it is appropriate for the adults in the car to repeatedly question, “Why
do we always have to go through the same thing every time we get
together?” The children, slouched in the back seat and stuffed to their
ears in carbs, should promptly respond by burping in unison.
www.trooce.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Sure Sign of a Recession….State Governments Attach “Super” to Crimes
By Gordon Chapman, Georgia
I’ve always strived to be the best that I can be. I was that kid who put
the extra BB into the windshield of that 74 Ford, striving to perfect
the outline of a lone, single female boobie, the little nipple BB
putting the finishing touches on that masterpiece. I felt Super as I
raised my Red Rider BB gun into the air and shouted “Are you not
entertained!”
From that day onward, my friends call me Super Boob.
As I graduated to more violent guns, like the .22 or the super fast 7 MM
Mag, they became the extra tool I had in my tool-belt for the art of war
I would perform on wildlife, some living in and out of caged quarters.
If it wasn’t the pen-raised quail that I could pick off-hand at 50
steps, it was the running boar hog dodging my spot light as I landed yet
another “Super Shot”. I had graduated to the nickname Super Death.
But the joys of being Super have lost their innocence, a downward spiral
of our societies capitalistic instincts gone awry. If it isn’t Big
Company making a “Super Computer”, it’s the small guy offering a “Super
Low” deal on some kind of furniture made out of a recycled refrigerator
box and duct tape. And now, in a blatant disregard for morals, ethics,
and the joy of just being known as a common criminal, the government of
Georgia has turned up the heat.
They have invented the Super Criminal.
You heard me correctly sports fan. Tired of just being a speeder? Why
not be a certified Super Speeder? Simply pack up your families station
wagon, drive on over to Georgia, find any two-lane road, and go 20 MPH
over the speed limit for as long as you can. Any cop with a commission
will certainly pull you over, give you a Super Speeder ticket with
matching rear window decals, and send you on your way to the Billy Bob’s
Bait and Loan for that money you’ll need to live the lifestyle of the
Super Speeder.
Admittedly, being a Super Speeder seems harmless enough. That is until
you get some egomaniac that is tired of regular old tickets and labels.
The real crowd-pleaser is when we start getting into a bigger recession
or the state wants to build a new swimming pool for crack babies. That’s
right, soon we will have the likes of Super Drug Dealer or Super Gun
Shooter convictions as part of the revenue-making scheme. And it is
certain to back fire.
I can already see it now. There is this drug dealer named Hector who is
bound and determined to one up his competition. He consults marketing
advisors. He reads the advertising journals.
Nothing.
But then, what the hell, he watches the news and sees that the State of
Georgia is instituting a new Super Drug Dealer tag to those who sell
more than 5 ounces of cocaine a day. Well, Hector has his marketing now!
He simply markets himself as a Super Drug Dealer, lives on the street
credit he’ll get if he gets captured, and basks in the glory of being a
Super Criminal at the Super State Prison. The mere mention of his name
would draw interest on his bank account.
But that’s not all. Hector wants something a bit dangerous added to his
title. So, he buys a grenade launcher to put himself into the category
of Super Gun Shooter. But wait, there’s more! If Hector acts now, he can
also earn the title of Super Pimp Daddy if he simply adds 5 more
to his harem. And if that isn’t enough, the more research Hector does,
the more he realizes he could franchise this Super label statewide. He
could open a Super Crack House so everyone caught there gets
the Super Crackhead conviction.
I must be honest with you here. I’m all for watching Super heroes at the
movies but the last thing we need is the government to start enticing
people into taking their crime to the next level. If a state government
wants more money, then they should become a Super State..a place where
they give all the residents their damn Super Tax Money back!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Police
Interview
By David Crawford, British Columbia
This is the big city.
Some people here steal for pleasure. Some people steal just because it’s
there – you never know.
My name is Crawford. I’m a detective.
I was working the robbery detail when a lady in distress called in…
“There’s been a robbery!” the lady said.
“Yes Ma’am – what happened?”
“My credit card got skimmed.”
“Okay ma’am, I’ll need to gather the facts of the case. You say your
credit card got scanned?”
“No – skimmed. Someone skimmed my card and PIN number and made illegal
purchases.”
“Ah – so it was a skimming scam.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“How much got skimmed?”
“They scrammed with over a thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of scratch. Do you know what else the skimmer scammer
scored?”
“Skirts.”
“Skirts. I see. Do you know the identity of the skimming scam schemer?”
“His name is Scott.”
“And where does Scott live?”
“Scarboro.”
“Of course. So Scarboro’s Scott is the scheming skirt-scoring skimmer
scammer. Where did the skimming scam skulduggery take place, Ma’am?”
“Near a school.”
“Now let me get this straight. You say your credit card got skimmed for
skirts and scratch by Scott from Scarboro, a scummy school skimming
schemer scamp. When did you succumb to this scalping scam?”
“Oh, it must have been around seven. I was feeling squeezed for time.”
“Did you see any other clues at the scummy skimming scam scene?”
“Scads. There was scaffolding around the bank machine...maybe he climbed
over it?”
“Ah, so Scott could be a scaling scamming scofflaw operating a
skirt-scoring skimming scheme. Anything else?”
“I also found a piece of scarf at the scene.”
“Color?”
“Scarlet.”
“That figures. So we’re looking to scuttle Scarboro’s Scott, a scarlet-scarfed
scaling scammer scum scoring skirts with a skimming scanner scam near a
school. Is that about the size of it?”
“Yes. Do you think you’ll be able to find this scabrous school scheming
skirt-skimmer scum?”
“I’m skeptical. Scrofulous scheming skirt-scoring skimmer scum usually
scatter from scoping scams. If this scarlet-scarfed scamp from Scarboro
hasn’t scrammed, we’ll do a scope and scoop after we scrutinize the
scanty schedule of known scurrilous skimmer scallywags.”
“Thank you, officer. Would you like me to do anything else?”
“Answer me this – are you familiar with Carson’s Copper Clapper Caper of
1968?”
“No – is that important?”
“Not really.”
My name is Crawford. I’m a detective.
My father was Captain of the Crawford Clippers Clubbing Clan.
But that’s another story.
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
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Quality
Toilet Paper: The Secret Behind Every Happy Family
By Vicky DeCoster, Nebraska
Everything changed in our house the
moment I brought home a twelve-pack of expensive toilet paper to replace
the generic facsimile I had been purchasing for years from the large
discount chain store down the road.
Oh, I knew we’d come a long way from the early days in America when
settlers were forced to use corn cobs and pages torn from the Sears
catalog, but I was quickly growing tired of the incredibly shrinking
double roll that was now actually half-a-ply thickness and the size of a
single roll due to secret width shrinkage by toilet paper CEOs who
obviously thought they were more clever than the consumer. When I
realized we were all using approximately eight feet of paper during one
bathroom visit, I called my accountant to inquire if we could deduct the
cost of toilet paper off our tax return as some sort of home office
expense. But when my teenage son informed me that he just couldn’t
successfully teepee his high school friends’ houses anymore with, as he
called it, “that cheap stuff you call toilet paper,” it was just the
kick in the chaffed bottom I needed. As a result, I decided—recession or
not—that it was time to invest in toilet paper with superior absorbency,
soothing aloe, and the thickness of my pillow-top mattress.
After spending way too much time in the toilet paper aisle mulling over
moistened or perfumed, lotion or Vitamin E, designs or solid colors, and
softness or durability, I returned home that morning with a twelve-pack
of what I, after careful consideration and detailed research, considered
to be pure luxury. No matter that I had to take out a second mortgage on
the house to pay for those twelve rolls with double-digit plys, I just
knew that with one swipe of that expensive paper, our bottoms would
surely think they’d died and gone off to spa heaven to be pampered
forever.
As the children and their father helped me unload the car, I heard a
collective gasp as the designer toilet paper package was unveiled in the
trunk. “Did we hit the lottery and I don’t know it yet?” my husband
asked as he threw the package to my son who immediately informed me he
might be out a little late that night and not to worry if I was missing
six rolls out of the twelve in the morning. My daughter grabbed the
package away from my son and ran to the bathroom where after a few
seconds she shouted gleefully, “I only need two squares not half a
roll!”
It’s been a few weeks now since we switched toilet paper brands and I
have to tell you, we’ve never been happier, wealthier, or softer. Best
of all, one roll now lasts days, not minutes, my accountant started
returning my calls again, and our need for soothing ointment has dropped
dramatically.
That second mortgage was definitely worth it.
www.wackywomanhood.com
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Plump
Shiny Lips Anyone?
By Sheli Ellsworth, California
Cursed with a tendency to have chapped
lips, I have embarked on a lifelong journey to treat this medical
mystery. In an effort to buy down my karmic debt and better my fellow
man, I am sharing my success and failures.
I became aware that my lips were different from others when I was
sixteen and working in a department store. It was winter and the warm
forced-air heating had dried my lips into two piecrust-like slices.
Desperate for relief, and unable to leave my work station, I searched
around the counter until I found an almost-new jar of Vaseline. I
carefully applied a small amount of the jelly. Within minutes the pain
had subsided. Proud of my ingenuity, I mentioned the Vaseline cure to my
middle-aged co-worker, Joanna. She looked somewhat surprised, and
readily informed me that Sylvia, another hormonally challenged
co-worker, used that jar of Vaseline for her hemorrhoids.
Totally disgusted, I considered the possibility of either a lipectomy to
excise the contamination from my skin or shock therapy to erase it from
my mind. During my break, I raced to a drug store to buy Listerine,
Lysol, flea shampoo, and anything that might wash the image of the large
woman’s sphincter from my brain.
If post-traumatic-petroleum-syndrome wasn’t bad enough, I still had dry
lips. Eventually, I made a bold decision to go across the department
store to the cosmetic counter, where I had found a long-wearing,
plumping vitamin E lipstick. It was like finding out that ice-cream is
healthier than broccoli. The shiny display cases flaunted several shades
and seduced me into buying what appeared to be the perfect solution to
my dry-cracked dilemma. I selected a subtle coppery shade that
complimented my pale complexion. The next morning it went on smoothly;
the color looked perfect in my bathroom mirror. Then I caught a glimpse
in a dressing room mirror at work. It appeared that the soft copper
gloss had turned a deep pinkish purple with the dubious side-effect of
giving my lips the pie-crust finish once again.
Entering a neurotic stage of denial, I convinced myself that poor
lighting was the cause of the apparent color transformation. This lasted
until lunch, when I discovered that not only were my lips rather dry and
purple, but they were also absurdly swollen. I appeared to be the victim
of a rare allergy called necrostupidosis. I went into the ladies room
and using hand soap, attempted to scrub the dye from my swollen lips.
When this did not work, I tried hand sanitizer, only to find that this
actually contributed to the plumping, drying process.
I spent the next two days averting my gaze from all forms of reflection,
and fearing I would be mistaken as the first place winner of a
pie-eating contest at a country fair somewhere in Iowa, married to a guy
named Bubba.
Continuing to seek out lip concoctions over the next few years, I
discovered that sunscreen, tequila, kissing and a few things I won’t go
into, only aggravated the problem. Timing was also important. Applying a
lip balm right before I went to sleep made a big difference in overall kissability and cosmetic appearance, although anything that promised to
soothe or had a tiger on the label turned out to be a mistake. But
moving the lip treatment du jour to my nightstand was genius.
One morning, my sleepy eyes caught sight of a pair of blue lips staring
back at me from the medicine cabinet mirror. I was shocked to discover
that I had developed a rare form of cyanosis. I looked closely,
wondering if my doctor could treat this, or would I need an internist,
allergist, or even an OBGYN! I ran my finger across the blue surface. It
was sticky. I grabbed a tissue. The gummy stuff came off. I charged into
the bedroom opening the small drawer. There, to my relief, I found
several sticks of zinc oxide sunscreen in neon colors I had purchased on
a recent trip to Australia. I grabbed a fluorescent yellow one and
applied a dot on my nose. I was feeling better already.
www.dearmissbetty.com
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The
Joys of Home Ownership: L.A. Style
By Margie Finn, California
One of the joys
of living in Los Angeles, aside from the Kardashians being our role
models, is awakening each morning to discover that, during the night, we
haven't been burglarized. This is due to diligent effort of our
citizens--the backbone and nasal passages of L.A.--who no longer
carelessly toss our house keys under the mat. We place them carefully,
instead, in our mailbox.
But I suspect that this just isn't enough.
Take my neighbor next door. After he installed $3,000 tamper-proof
numerical locks and indestructible steel deadbolts, a thief rammed his
door down with a trashcan sitting in the driveway. This is the type of
thing that locksmiths never tell you about during their numerical lock
installations. Well, I for one, refuse to take such crimes lying down,
unless it's time for the Wheel of Forture to come on. Which brings me to
the question on everyone's mind: What's the truth about Charlie Sheen?
No, that's not the right question. I meant: Are we alert to
suspicious-looking activity in our neighborhoods? I had a close call,
myself, last week when I spotted something fishy on my balcony.
MARGIE: (hollering) Hey, you up there, with that black trash bag! What
are you doing entering my second-story bedroom window?
STRANGER: Who, me? I just like climbing to keep physically fit.
MARGIE: Oh, okay. I thought you were one of those burglars.
As you can readily see, we just can't be too careful. We citizens, who
constantly put our noses to the grindstone only to run short of those
nose- sized band-aids, must protect not only our families, but all that
garage storage, so it'll be in good condition when the Salvation Army
comes to pick it up.
With all due modesty, then, I think that I have The Answer to burglary
prevention. Inspired by innovators like Leonardo di Vinci, Thomas
Edison, and Paula Abdul, I've invented a deterrent: "Obscur-O-Tex." Its
life-size plastic fold-out feature will blanket your home's exterior
with a realistic appearance of squalor and decay. Painstakingly crafted,
it is guaranteed to repulse even the most drug-crazed, nose-ringed
burglars. They'll be certain to bypass your house and rob your annoying
neighbors instead.
Priced at only $299. for this fine plastic house cover, "Obscur-O-Tex"
comes with your choice of faded paint colors and broken shutters at no
extra charge. If you order now, you'll receive realistic-looking
tarnished porch lights with broken glass. Such true-to-life detail is
guaranteed to repel highly aggressive salesmen, pushy evangelists, and
obnoxious neighbors. This promises to be a fine investment, especially
if you don't like to have company.
I sincerely believe that this product ensures Angelenos of safety, but
of their birthright: life, liberty, and the pursuit of repulsive
exteriors. It's our chance to protect our valuable homes, even if they
do eventually slide down the hill or collapse from an occasional
earthquake. But hey, that's one of the joys of L.A. home ownership,
right? I said, right?
© Copyright
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I
Am An Idiot
By
Christopher Hivner,
Pennsylvania
I changed a tire yesterday, a very manly
thing to do. Kneeling in the dirt, getting grease on my skin, muscles in
my arms and shoulders rippling as I loosened the lug nuts, swearing like
the spawn of a longshoreman and a character in a Martin Scorsese
gangster movie when I realized I screwed up and have to start over.
It was a lovely spring-like day here in the northeast: About 60 degrees,
sun shining, and the neighborhood abuzz with activity. My brother had
plugged my flat tire for me and it was time to take the donut spare off
and put the repaired tire back on.
I started on the lugs. Apparently I didn’t realize my own Herculean
strength when I had tightened them a few days earlier. I pulled, yanked,
pushed, huffed, puffed, strained, growled and called them names, but
they didn’t budge. I brought in Lou Ferrigno to help but the nuts just
laughed at him. I set off C4 explosives but they absorbed the impact
growing larger and stronger. Their cognitive functions grew
exponentially. They developed communication, speaking to each other in a
rudimentary romance language. At one point they bandied about ethnic
slurs aimed at me.
Finally, I went Chuck Yeager on them. I ejected myself from an F-15
fighter jet wearing an old fashioned diving suit and helmet. Making a
raptorial dive at the speed of sound, I crashed into the lug wrench with
enough force to pry them off. However, the process was time consuming.
An era of time passed that saw the squirrels in my tree evolve into a
rodent/opera singer hybrid capable of hoarding nuts and hitting the high
C in performance. I myself actually died after the third lug and was
brought back to life by robot mechanics who wanted to see me finish the
job.
With the lugs loose, I jacked the car up, took off the donut spare and
put the regular tire on. Next came the fight with the wheel cover. The
design of the cover is that it is held on by the lug nuts. You have to
reach into 5 small holes to get the nuts started. Whoever designed this
should be forced to sit under Rush Limbaugh’s chair while he farts his
way through his 4 hour radio show.
Since I have the manual dexterity of Larry Fine, it was drudgery trying
to hold the tire still, hold the wheel cover in place and get the lug
nuts threaded through the small circular openings in the cover. Each
probe into one of the openings resulted in another cut or scratch and
more loss of blood. After a field transfusion by a WWI nurse conjured up
by my weakened and delusional mind, I perked up, lowered the car,
tightened the nuts and inspected my work.
Now we get to the title of this piece. I forgot about the valve stem.
When I put the wheel cover on, I didn’t place it so the valve stem would
stick out through the provided slot. I rushed it, slapping the cover on
and tightening the lugs like an inmate’s sphincter in the prison shower.
The valve stem was buried behind the cover. And since the cover is held
on by the lug nuts . . . I had to change the tire all over again. I had
to loosen the lugs, jack the car up, take the lugs off, reposition the
wheel cover, hold the tire still while holding the cover in place and
hand tightening the lugs through the tiny holes, lowering the car, and
tighten the lugs with the wrench.
I took a 20 minute job and turned it into a 45 minute fiasco, much like
I took a 30 second story and turned it into the 670 word tome you’re
reading now. Take a good look. Gaze upon me in all my glory, for I . . .
am an idiot.
www.chrishivner.com
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Booty
Call
By Sheila Hudson, Georgia
I could see it in their eyes as the steward pushed my wheelchair down
the gangplank. Poor thing got drunk and sprained her ankle.
Well they got the “sprained” part right.
The night before my husband, Tim, and I celebrated our 41st wedding
anniversary aboard the SS Disaster, I caught the heel of my shoe and
took a tumble. The problem occurred when my foot remained in my shoe
that was wedged in a crevice between the carpet and hardwood floor
causing all of my weight to come down on my foot.
A crewman whisked me to sick bay and if I hadn’t been in such pain it
would have been exciting. But unlike the Love Boat, this medical
facility had seen better days. Tim filled out reams of paperwork and
waived all of our rights to a legal suit, which appeared to be top
priority. Instead of friendly Dr. Adam Bricker the medical team
consisted of those for whom English was a second language. With
everything else aboard the cruise ship in a-one condition, I found the
x-ray machine primitive and as it turned out not very reliable.
I hobbled back to my stateroom with an Ace bandage, 4 Ibuprofen, and a
borrowed cane. I received 3 phone calls reminding me to return the cane.
Tim and I had room service for the last breakfast before debarkation.
Five months later, I still couldn’t wear regular shoes or put pressure
on that foot so my private physician x-rayed my right foot again. The
culprit was a hairline fracture that had refused to heal. He placed me
in a “boot” for five weeks to encourage healing.
On thing about lugging around an ugly “Frankenstein” boot is that it
takes energy. Energy burns calories so voila! If I can keep this boot on
for say about a year, I would be down to my fighting weight. Of course
my husband would differ that I am always at my fighting weight.
Friends ask what happened to my foot. I grow bored with telling the
truth so I embellish. I fractured my foot climbing Kilimanjaro or while
scaling the Austrian Alps or ice skating in Switzerland. Without too
much encouragement I can elaborate that I shared drinks with Brad and
Angelina in the lodge where we stayed and dropped in on Johnny Depp when
we breezed through Paris. Flight takes fancy when I began on poetic
license with emphasis on the “lie” part.
Usually though when friends inquire about our anniversary cruise, I say
that it was a big trip complete with a booty call, they smile and think
they understand what I mean.
www.sheila-brightideas.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Giving
My Kids a Tune-Up
By
Joel Schwartzberg,
New Jersey
During long car rides with my kids, we
listen to the carefully-curated iPod playlist I created for them back
when they were little. As each tune shuffles to the top, my 10-year-old
son and his twin 7-year-old sisters vote to "play" or "skip" the song.
In addition to a vote, each kid gets a single powerful veto, which they
covet like found pennies.
(Now well-versed in the democratic process, they routinely form voting
blocks, make quid pro quo deals, and stage emphatic filibusters.)
The musical hit list -- a manically cheerful, perhaps seizure-inducing
sonic soup of Dan Zanes, Jessica Harper, John Lithgow, Laurie Berkner,
Carole King and others -- has been the soundtrack of their lives ever
since they first learned to kill time.
For me, listening to my kids' music was always a chore. I craved harder,
edgier, sexier music -- songs with teeth. But some unwritten law says my
children had to be protected from toxic influences like the wail of an
electric guitar, a mumbled verse, or a rap about anything other than
food groups and proper hygiene.
To be fair, many kids are exposed to The Beatles at a young age. This
seems perfectly reasonable until, like me, you encounter a 4th grader
weakly strumming an electric guitar and warbling "Come Together" at a
school talent show. Then it all seems terribly wrong. We can all feel
his disease.
And so it was during one outing, after a long stretch of unanimous
"skips," I suddenly realized my children’s tastes had matured. They were
rejecting the clap-friendly, crisply-articulated songs of their youth.
Gone were "Froggie Went a-Courtin," "(Don’t Give Me That) Broccoli," and
"Sunny Old Sun".
I wanted to help wean -- no, tear -- my kids from their music, but
feared the siren songs of Disney’s manufactured teen pop stars would
waste no time filling the void. Moving from Dan Zanes to Miley Cyrus is
hardly a trade-up.
So I made a major, radical intervention.
Muting my conscience, I exposed the kids to my highly-eclectic,
highly-uncensored, 80’s-drenched personal playlist.
As each song played, I checked my kids' reactions in the rear view
mirror. No one's head exploded; no one's mouth foamed; no one’s
innocence lost. They patiently listened and voted. I took careful notes.
Almost every song with a hard beat and a catchy chorus got their thumbs
up -- "Groove is in the Heart," "Centerfold," "Back in Black," "Bust a
Move," "Just What I Needed," "Jessie’s Girl," "MmmBop," "Sure Shot", and
"Poker Face" (Yes, those last two are from Beastie Boys and Lady GaGa --
it wasn’t like I was going to excite them with Barry Manilow.)
I know what you're thinking: Put together, these songs are about sex,
porn, lust, addiction, succotash wishes, and... uhhh... mmmbop. But it's
thrilling to finally be able to listen to music with my kids without
wanting to drive into a tree.
Too often, parents martyr their own happiness for the sake of their
children, but my kids and I genuinely enjoy the music together (as
opposed to, say, spending an afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese). Nothing
makes me happier than to hear, from the back row, "Dad, can you stop
singing, please?"
We rarely bond over 3D movies or trips to family-friendly restaurants,
but my children and I are all right there with Rick Springfield as he
painfully pines for his bud's girlfriend. Why can't that nice boy find
himself a woman like that?
Yes, the themes are not always PG-13, but by the time my children are
old enough to decipher adult lyrics, it’ll be too late to save them from
creepy songs like "Birthday Sex" anyway. So, no offense to Mr. Zanes and
Father Goose, but we won't be comin’ round the mountain anytime soon.
Instead, we're taking the Highway to Hell, singing at the top of our
lungs the whole time.
And if anyone really wants to shut me up, it'll cost a veto.
www.40yearoldversion.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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When
Rock Bands and Kid Shows Collide
By
Joel Schwartzberg,
New Jersey
Are your kids ready for KISS? No matter,
because Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons and company are ready for your kids.
Word is out that the timeless rock band is currently developing a
half-hour comedy for kids.
Also getting into kids entertainment is the band Devo, which recently
whipped up a performance of "Watch Us Work It" for the hit show Yo Gabba
Gabba -- which itself sounds like a Puff Daddy song. Try to detect it.
It's not too late
With all of this rock-to-tot crossover going on, I'm wondering what
other well-known musical acts might see the kids' space as a way to
expand their fan base. A few suggestions:
"Ozzy Does It"
In this game show, Ozzy Osbourne makes various statements aloud; kids
compete to see who can make sense of them first.
"Goin' Gaga"
In this half-hour, half-dressed series, Lady Gaga performs fashion
makeovers for kids using only the school supplies and adhesive material
found in their lockers.
"Adams' Family"
Pooling their talents, Adam Ant and Adam Lambert visit unsuspecting
families in the bible belt to teach makeup tricks to their sons and
daughters. (Well, sons mostly.)
"The Bowling Stones"
Mick Jagger and his bandmates look for satisfaction competing against
high school bowling teams across America. Tune in to see how many
students actually know who The Rolling Stones are, and who'll score the
most Lucky Strikes.
"Graduation Day! with Kanye West"
Kanye West surprises high school graduation ceremonies across America by
running onstage during the valedictory speech to show love for the
salutatorian.
"Puff, Daddy"
In this touching documentary series, Puff Daddy talks to young rappers
with bronchially-challenged fathers.
"Houston, We Have Problems"
Whitney Houston uses her sound judgment to help kids across America
overcome their relationship and addiction issues.
www.40yearoldversion.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Louse-y
Job
By
Kimberly Swed,
Pennsylvania
I was searching the phone book today
looking for the number to my son's new school...I was in the S's. A
search heading caught my eye, SCALP SERVICES. Scalp services? Huh? What
constitutes a scalp service and who needs it? I immediately thought of
the Native Americans of long ago- but no that wasn't it. Well, well,
what have we here...Lice and Nit Removal Service?!
Really? A real business that employs real people to pick real parasites
out of other people's hair? And what of the employees? It took a minute
for it to sink in that they had to seek out the position, contact the
business, request an application (hoping that they, above all others,
would be hired) and sit through an interview professing their desire to
dig into the infested heads of strangers. Who were their references and
did they brag about their nit picking experience in the interview?
I thought for certain that this must be the only lice removal business
EVER. I mean, come on! I jumped on the internet and lo and
behold...franchises! For a $25,000 franchise fee I could own my own
"exciting and unique" business and meet "exciting and interesting"
people. I've never had lice and (up until this point) had considered
myself lucky but according to them I'm just too boring.
Personally, I think they could have done a better job of enticing others
to join the ranks of lice and nit removal business owners everywhere.
Maybe something like this...
Want to meet exciting and interesting people? Enjoy the shiver of the
heebie jeebies? Yearn for the thrill of the chase while invading the
personal space of another? Want to feel like a cowboy of your own tiny
rodeo? If you answered 'yes' to these questions then the challenging
career of Lice and Nit Removal could be for you.
FACT: Evolution tells us that lice want their baby nits to be nestled in
a hair of opportunity. Only the most charismatic and intriguing scalps
will beckon this picky parasite. The locks of the mundane offer little
appeal to the louse.
Just think, their exciting host today, your awesome customer tomorrow!
With every customer you're guaranteed hours (2 hr. minimum appointment)
picking not only the scalps but the minds of some of the world's most
thrilling people!
However, as with any job, it's not all glitz and glam. Occasionally a
louse might be misled and accidentally inhabit the hair of someone less
than exciting; dare we say boring. Those with a "can do" attitude will
pass out his/her business cards and use this as a great networking
opportunity.
The perfect candidate will possess a positive attitude, a strong
stomach, nimble fingers*, and be extremely near-sighted.
*acrylic nails a plus.
Makes you want to rush out to get a business loan, no?
http://thelifeofswed.blogspot.com
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