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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/May
2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
April/May 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The 2010 Claxton Census
By Deb Claxton, Wisconsin
Americans across the country are currently filling out their 2010 Census
forms, however, most people probably don’t realize that there is another
equally important census form that needs to be filled out: The Claxton
Census. This census needs to be completed by all single men living in
the United States between the ages of 40 and 70.
Here is a copy of
the Claxton Census, which can be printed, filled out and mailed in. All
answers will be kept confidential.
If you don’t fill
out a form, you may find a large, irate woman knocking on your door.
Name:
Age:
Telephone number:
1. Where do you live?
__I own my own mansion with a built in pool.
__I rent my own luxury apartment.
__I live in a ramshackle cabin in the woods with no indoor plumbing.
__I live in my mother’s basement.
2. What is your occupation?
__I’m business tycoon.
__Male underwear model.
__I volunteer in a slaughter house.
__Unemployed and living with my mother.
3. What is your status?
__Widowed after my five wives mysteriously took ill and died.
__Divorced because I have a sex addiction.
__Single because I’ve been searching all my life for a tall, full
figured woman who’s intelligent and has a great sense of humor.
__Single, and living with my mother.
4. When you go out in public, what do people say about you?
__Aren’t you Tom Selleck?
__I thought Ted Kaczinski was still in prison?
__I didn’t know ZZ Top had a concert in town?
__Get the camera, I think I just saw Big Foot?
5. What is your yearly income?
__$80,000 or more.
__$40,000-$50,000.
__Whatever I make from selling blood.
__Whatever tips I make as a Chippendale dancer.
__My mother gives me an allowance.
6. What kind of woman are your looking for?
__A Playboy Bunny clone.
__A strong, independent woman.
__A woman that doesn’t speak English.
__All women scare me.
__A woman just like my mother.
Men, please fill out the census and return it as soon as possible.
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 Sleep Talk of Purple Pigs and Peaches Wakes Up the Fun
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Have you ever started awake, looked your partner in the eye and yelled,
“Choose the purple one or the pig won’t take the right trail!”
In the moment you yelled it, it made perfect sense. It was of vital
importance, and she HAD to know!
But a half second later, as the sleep fog dissipates from around your
brain, you haven’t the faintest idea why.
Now she’s staring at you from three or four steps further away, a wild
look in her eyes as she calculates the distance to the broomstick and
gasps, “Don’t let it trample the elephant canning the peaches!”
It turns out she had been dozing, too.
Or maybe your house isn’t as interesting as ours.
It’s because of this phenomenon that the two most interesting times to
start a conversation with someone is right before she falls asleep or
just before she’s fully awake. It’s mostly gibberish and nonsense, but
usually no less strange than the world at large generally is – just more
fun.
I’ve been known to prime the pump, so to speak, by chatting amiably with
persons nodding off to sleep. In fact, it seems to happen to me quite
often.
When I notice someone once again has nodded off in the middle of one of
my stories, I begin the experiment. Somewhere between consciousness and
the unconscious, the mumbling begins.
If I ask, “What did the bunny say about the black hole?” I’ll hear
something like, “Hmm? Divide the hypothesis by the hippopotamus and …
sknxx … turn right. Ghghghghonk…”
I suspect that many “Saturday Night Live” skits and chart-topping songs
were written this way.
It doesn’t work on me, of course. I’m too smart. Instead of gibberish,
many brilliant ideas have hit me just as I’m drifting off to sleep.
The problem is they leak out of my head during the night. I’ve tried
wringing out my pillowcase into a cup in hopes of reconstituting some of
these great ideas, but it never works. They’re gone.
I probably would be a millionaire 17 times over already except for this
leakage. It’s a mystery of the mind.
That’s what’s at work here. On the list of the “The Top 10 Mysteries of
the Mind” as published by LiveScience, No. 10 is why do we dream and how
do dreams work, No. 9 is how does sleep reorganize the mind, and No. 1
is what exactly is consciousness and is there any clear line from when
one passes from it to unconsciousness in sleep.
Who cares why? It’s free entertainment.
Things can be even more interesting after your test subjects are asleep.
The siblings of a rather close relative of mine – I hesitate to say who
since he probably still has the power to ground me – say that one night
he sat up in bed and belted out “The Ballad of Davy Crockett.” All 20
verses. When he finished, he flopped back down and resumed snoring. He
has since denied even knowing that there are 20 verses to “Davy
Crockett.”
My mom says that once she woke up to see this same relative trying to
scale the bedroom wall.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Climbing the Empire State Building,” he said, and kept climbing. He
finally must have reached the top because he stopped pistoning his arms
and legs, sank back into his pillow and awoke the next morning unaware
that anything had happened. I think he denied knowing that there was an
Empire State Building, so how could he have been climbing it?
My college roommate made vicious claims that would lead one to believe
that perhaps I was a chip off the ol’ block, but of course … oh, sorry …
of course, these are unsubstantiated reports and therefore … um … cannot
be trusted.
Anyway… oh, my … didja set the dial for re-entry? I don’t want … snixx …
the asparagus to drive the truck unless he fastens his seatbelt this
time… Skghghaaaxxx…
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Burton-W-Cole/136002170959?ref=ts
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Unlocking
Doors and Life’s Mysteries, One Fob Press at a Time
By Burton Cole, Ohio
He aimed his keyless remote fob at the door and thumbed the ‘‘unlock’’
button. The door wouldn’t open.
Annoyed, my buddy ‘‘Hank’’ pointed again and pressed harder. Nothing.
Hank glared at the door as he thrust the fob at it as if running it
through with a saber. He mashed the unlock button like he was detonating
a bomb — once, twice, three times, just to be sure. Then he squeezed the
doorknob in a death grip and twisted with a might grunt.
The door remained locked.
Steam began to billow from his ears. I’d never seen steam actually
billowing from ears before.
Hank reared back, ready to smash a size 13 cowboy boot right through the
door. I hated to see a cowboy boot destroyed like that so I took action.
‘‘Maybe,’’ I commented, ‘‘you should try the house key.’’
Hank froze in mid-kick. He looked at the car keys in his hand and choked
off something that sounded like, ‘‘Eep!’’
Hank slid a brass key into the lock and the front door practically flew
open. He ducked inside, barely giving me a chance to slip past him
before he slammed the door and collapsed against it.
‘‘Did anybody see that?’’ Hank asked.
‘‘Couldn’t help it,’’ I said. ‘‘Your car lights kept flashing every time
you tried to unlock the front door.’’
‘‘Eep,’’ he said again.
Hank picked up a remote control from an end table, aimed it at the
stereo system and clicked. I heard the garage door rumbling down.
‘‘Oops,’’ he said.
He grabbed a second remote, aimed and thumbed. A ceiling fan whipped
overheard. Another remote and I was pretty sure I heard a blender take
off in the kitchen.
‘‘Here,’’ I said, stepping across the room to the stereo. I blew dust
off the “on” switch and flipped it up. Music began to play.
‘‘Thanks,’’ Hank said. He flopped into his easy chair and pressed a
button to start the built-in massager.
I couldn’t blame him, really. Ever since the Zenith Space Command
television remote control went into commercial production in 1956,
existence buttoned down. Now we thumb our way through life. We even have
video games that operate by wireless remote so that we can enjoy a full
slate of outdoor sports without the bother of going outdoors.
The idea was to make day-to-day living easier. But perhaps we forgot
practicality.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could point a fob at a person’s mind —
say, bosses or spouses — and unlock what they’re actually thinking?
Let’s point a translation controller at our teenagers so we can figure
what they’re really trying to say through all that mumbling. Better yet,
how about a remote control that makes your teenage kid mow the lawn or
pick up laundry?
When my computer freezes up, it would be convenient to simply aim a fob
at it and press the thaw button. Sometimes, the swift application of a
sledgehammer sounds more satisfying, but a fob would be nice.
How cool would it be to aim a remote control at the oven and have a
roasted turkey pop out? It could be served to you on the back of the
robot stegosaur you zip through the rooms by wireless controllers.
Then I glanced at Hank, who was aiming a series of remotes at his TV
while yelling at a persistently blank screen. Through the window, I
could see his car lights flicker as the engine fired and quit. The
garage door banged up and down. CDs clanked about a changer, lights
popped on and off, and a toy fire truck raced across the floor, honking
a tiny horn, its tiny siren wailing.
I left Hank’s house, locking the door on my way out. With a key. I’d
already tossed the keyless remote fob in the bushes. It was time to
thumb my nose at this confusing life of convenience..
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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How
to Know Your Neighborhood Is Going to Hell
By Courtney Colwell, New Jersey
When I first moved to my neighborhood, I knew it was something on the
edgier side of “up-and-coming”, more like “slowly approaching” or
“looking upwards, sometimes.” But I figured with the next town over
turning around so quickly, it was just a matter of time that mine would,
too. A lot of time.
I could blame the busted housing bubble, the foreclosure free-for-all,
and the recession. Or I could blame myself for thinking that proximity
to gentrification automatically means you’re next in line.
I’m now thinking that sometimes it means that you just have a good view.
I had originally thought it might be ready for a rebound when I saw a
couple of regrettable business ventures close up shop. I mean, did we
really need another flea-market store? These aren’t even dollar stores.
Those have vendors, inventory, sales. No, these are like consignment
stores filled with the crap that’s typically found for sale on blankets
on the sidewalk in New York. One man’s trash is, well, just crap.
Beside the indoor yard sales, what we have a lot of are fast food
restaurants. There are few fast food chains that aren’t represented
within my ten-block radius, and I have to examine of the lower rungs of
the fast food ladder to find them – like Arby’s or Long John Silver’s.
The “nicer” restaurants near me are just lukewarm buffets among folding
tables and chairs. It’s barely a step up from McDonald’s. The former
might offer chairs you can move; but the latter actually offers better
atmosphere.
So with my neighborhood offering all of this, you might understand why I
got a little excited when I saw that a new restaurant was going in. I
anxiously awaited the opening like some people might look forward to
lottery numbers being announced. And like most of them, I was a loser.
When the new restaurant finally opened, I only needed to see the huge,
permanent sign that read “___ Chinese and Mixcan Restaurant” to know
this was no symbol of change. I’m omitting the first part of the name
because 1) you can pretty much guess it will include the words “lucky”
or “happy” in it, and 2) how could that possibly matter next to “Mixcan”?
I’m not even sure it wasn’t intentional. I mean, maybe they really are
serving mixed canned food, and this is just a cute colloquialism for it.
I really wouldn’t know. What I do know is that this doesn’t bode well
for my neighborhood coming up … it’s more like it’s going down.
www.lightbaggage.com
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Why
I Cannot Live Without A Messy Desk
By Glenn H.,
Florida
(Editor's note: Last name withheld by request.)
“Where is my checkbook? What happened to
that phone number I copied last week? What happened to my life insurance
policy that I took out of the safe-deposit box?”
You cannot believe all the aggravation that I have faced because my desk
is in a continuous state of disorder. Although I am not a fan of
personifying inanimate objects, I sometimes daydream that my desk is a
hungry beast eagerly awaiting important documents to swallow. Bills,
receipts, government documents, letters from friends and every other
imaginable piece of needed documentation vanish from sight into my
wooden "black hole" of confusion.
My wife gets angry about my disposition toward chaos. My son alternates
between laughter and frustration. The latter is the case when the UFO
(unlucky friendly object) had his name on it. I have wasted so many
hundreds of hours looking for things thrown on my desk that even at
minimum wage; I would not be so desperate to get this article published.
Why do I let it happen? I am not a lazy slob. I put intensive effort
into projects. A sequenced, orderly day always pleases me with a sense
of accomplishment. I am not a devotee of Heisenberg's "Uncertainty
Principle," eager to prove that I am unable to put an item in exact
place-so why bother? Provoking my wife's wrath does not fill me with
sadistic joy.
For a time, I wondered if the messy desk was the result of "nature or
nurture." Searching my family tree has not revealed any evidence of
congenital grunge. My family raised me in a neat, orderly house. Could I
be suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder and one of my many faces
is a slovenly renegade? It was clear that I needed to seek professional
help. But from whom should I seek the cure?
A behavioral psychologist could set up a schedule of negative outcomes.
Possibly he could arrange to have me shocked when I mess up the desk.
What if I grew to like the shocks? Might a regimen of therapeutic drugs
place my house in order? I would probably put the prescription on my
desk. Was there any hope?
I decided to seek solitude to search my soul for a solution. Since no
one would approach my desk, I decided to stay seated and allow my mind's
eye to scan my memories. After a few hours it came to me. A messy desk
was my link to longevity and possible immortality. (Maybe a Freudian
therapist would help?) For many years I had taught an ethics course that
engaged many speakers. Several of the speakers' presentations dealt with
end of life issues. Almost without exception, when people realized they
were confronting a terminal condition; one of the first actions they
undertook was to clean their desks-"get their affairs in order."
My mind had equated a clean desk with preparation for end of life
activities. As long as my desk remained messy, I was safe. I can sense
what you’re thinking. "This guy is nuts!" However, my desk is still
messy and I am still here.
© Copyright
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To
Tortoise Owners Everywhere
By Neil Hocking,
United Kingdom
To tortoise owners everywhere, all twelve of you. Have you ever
contemplated what you would do if your pride and joy escaped from your
garden sanctuary?
You might think that finding a lost tortoise
would be considerably easier than tracking down a tearaway terrier or
repatriating a playful pussy, but this is not necessarily the case.
It is generally true that if you were to
momentarily lose sight of your prize specimen, as it went foraging in
the lettuce beds, you could draw up a relatively accurate diagram to
narrow down its potential position, based on an estimate of its maximum
speed of movement and original position. By discounting such
impossibilities as scaling six foot wooden fences and traversing streams
(though I would suggest looking in any sources of water), nine times out
of ten you could probably flick the kettle on and find the creature
before the water came to the boil.
But what if the thing actually did go
missing? Perhaps you went shopping and it crawled, ninja-like through a
shrub-concealed hole in the perimeter fences, or maybe a naughty
schoolchild popped over to retrieve a football and decided a tortoise in
the rucksack would do wonders for his street cred.
Calling the beast would be a futile exercise. Even if you had bothered
naming it, it is highly unlikely that the poor creature had ever been
made aware of the event. Perhaps, though, your pet shop had brought in
an exotic line of intelligent and responsive tortoises. But what could
its manner of response be? Excitement is a lot easier to display when
you are a dog, the propensity to over exaggerated affection obviously an
evolutionary advantage when your food source is cruelly hidden inside
metal skins that rely upon another species to break into it. Even a
cat’s more refined show of commitment is a lot more obvious than
anything your glorified garden ornament could emulate.
What could the tortoise’s ecstatic return to
its loving owner’s arms translate into apart from a wrinkled smile and a
meandering wander towards a creature that infuriatingly won’t stand
still and actually look in the right direction. Even if you did happen
to look at it you would most likely mistake it for a rock or a lump of
vegetation.
And what about the posters? There are myriad ways to describe a missing
moggy or pinched pup; the colour of its fur, the distinguishable marks,
torn ears, gouged eyes, responds to the name ‘Carnage’. However, it is
quite likely that when sitting down to design the reward notice it might
suddenly dawn on you that you had never actually thought to look at your
pet before, and while you desperately try to console your grief-stricken
four year old, her contributions of ‘it’s green’ and ‘it has a shell’
and ‘it likes dandelions’ might have you reaching for the pet shop
telephone number and taking the easier route back to her heart.
Which begs the question, is it really worth
the effort to even look for a missing tortoise? Unlike a cat or dog it
should be relatively easy to sneak a replacement into the vegetable
patch before milking the adoration of your children for your sublime
detective skills. However, moral conscience would probably kick in and
although you know very well that the little blighter is munching away on
poor old Granny Jones’s cauliflowers and getting fat, the niggling worry
that a psychopathic pothead is devising the most entertaining way of
separating him from his shell in order to obtain a new ashtray won’t go
away. Fearful that your nights and days would blend together in a
nightmarish guilt-fuelled existence, with thousands of mutilated
tortoises plodding over your prone corpse for eternity, would no doubt
motivate you to continue looking.
I hope this little piece of writing will strike a chord in the hearts of
all tortoise owners, and owners of any other boring, pointless pets out
there. You may have thought you were being clever, taking the easy
option, dodging the responsibilities of pet-parenthood but you are
mistaken. Look after that long-distance relative of the Dime bar, that
famous hare-racing, One Foot in the Grave starring reptile for it may
even now be plotting its escape. Of course, you could always spray paint
a cross on it.
http://www.nhwriting.com
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The
Adventures of Bison
By
Jessi Hotakainen,
Florida
Last week I was taking my Great Dane,
Bison, out for a stroll in the local dog park in Jacksonville Beach. In
the center of the park, there is a slight drop off that leads to a small
body of water, perhaps twenty five yards long. Because Bison is a spry
ten month old, he doesn't go for the typical 'walk' around the park, but
instead demands to reach speeds that hover on the 'cardio' range. Seeing
as how I am only twenty four years old myself, I can't honestly deny him
the exercise, even though I would rather be at home on the couch.
This particular evening was beautiful, the sun was setting across the
horizon, casting an orange glow through the sky. Bison and I were
jogging slow circles, his head held high, my tongue hanging out. Just
then I spotted her; the most beautiful woman alive, coming into the park
with her Weimaraner.
After that things happened quite rapidly and all at once:
1.) I twisted my neck to see her (yes ladies, we can't help ourselves)
and slowed almost to a standstill.
2.) Bison saw, what must have been, the most enticing squirrel in
Florida, running toward a tree.
3.) The woman looked up, perfectly, into my eyes and smiled.
Stop time, stop the sun from sinking, and absolutely stop that
squirrel's bushy tail from bouncing across the leaves. Somewhere a dog
barked, a child laughed, and everything was right in the world. Okay,
now if you must, press play:
Bison took flight, the length of the leash between us stretched out like
a whip, jerking me along with him. Just for the record, I don't think
people should own dogs that they cannot control. So thankfully I,
somehow, stayed on my feet and managed to run backwards with Bison for a
few feet until I turned around. In which I immediately tripped on a root
and slammed into the ground. Bison stood staring down at me, head
cocked, like 'Really? I think I could have gotten that squirrel'. I
stood quickly and brushed myself off. Then, like nothing happened, I
jogged straight out of the dog park, via the other gate. It's hard to
attract women when your dog is more suave than you are.
~
Three nights ago I was set up on a blind date, by my co-worker Greg. He
had been hounding me about his girlfriend's sister for weeks, and
finally I broke down and agreed. Friday night came around and there I
sat, awaiting Marline's arrival at my favorite Italian restaurant I have
to admit that I was nervous, although I had seen a picture, it was my
first blind date after all. Marline arrived exactly on time, a pretty
blonde with big green eyes, and we hit it off right away. The date was
going so well, in fact, that I invited her back to my place for a glass
of wine.
Before unlocking the door, I warned her about how large Bison was, but
reassured her, he was harmless.
"You didn't tell me you had a dog!" She exclaimed with a huge smile.
When I opened the door Bison came barreling down the hallway toward us
and Marline nearly screamed in glee, "OOOH, he is SO handsome!" and then
began hugging and kissing Bison. With tall pointy ears, a square snout,
and a brindle coat, Bison is quite the ladies man. After about five
minutes of affection, we walked into the living room, where I asked her,
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
Marline smiled those lovely red lips at me and nodded. In the kitchen I
marveled at how well the date was going for a first time encounter
between two total strangers. It was great to finally meet someone
interesting and beautiful. After uncorking the bottle, I walked back
into the living room, where I stopped short. Marline was allowing Bison
to lick all up inside of her mouth!
It was mostly disappointing because Bison got to her first; I mean, I
knew there was no chance of ME kissing her after that. Needless to say
Marline didn't stay very long; now, what people do with their dog is
their business. Marline will make some lucky dog owner very happy one
day, but Bison's not allowed to cuddle on first dates anymore.
© Copyright
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Patty
Kimerer Has Become a Fan of "Hating Facebook"
By
Patty Kimerer,
Ohio
I hate Facebook. Seriously. Not kidding -
it's ruining my life. Totally.
OK, I'm exaggerating. Facebook does not have that much power over me.
But it has hypnotized several of my friends, family members, and
colleagues into bind submission - and I'm out to stop it.
For real.
If one more of my Facebook friends tries to get me to eat their
imaginary tofu pumpkin truffle muffins with gorgonzola icing, I'm going
to literally - not to be confused with virtually - hurl.
If I get one more request to find a make-believe loving home for an
adorable pink unicorn with blue velvet spots and a satin bow around its
neck, I'm going to start inventing animals of my own for which to
crusade - maybe the Patty-guin or the Kimer-saurus? Hmm, I could be onto
something.
But, no, no! I won't get sucked into some Facebook Fairy Land.
If one more of my colleagues asks me to join his or her to fight to wipe
out a rivaling family, execution-style, as part of their ongoing Mafia
War, I may turn my own cold hand.
Look, as the 1980s fitness guru Susan Powter so eloquently shrieked in
her campy infomercial: Stop the insanity!
And it truly is insanity. Because, even though Facebook is a convenient
way to stay in touch and share photos with out-of-town friends and
family members, it's gotten way out of hand.
To illustrate, I cite Exhibit A: My girlfriend who lives in Trumbull
County but shall remain nameless for her own protection. This pal, let's
call her "Regina," is a Facebook zombie and is in particular and dire
need of a Facebook intervention.
Not only does Regina spend several hours a day posting videos, editing
photos, and writing blurbs for / to her page, but she also sets aside
extra time to become the fan of about a dozen new Facebook pages every
day, too.
Honestly. I think the Facebook Czar reached in and entranced her brain
ala the "Stepford Wives."
Think I'm overreacting? She has a Facebook page that is hosted by her
dog.
Then there's my childhood chum, let's refer to her as "Marie."
Marie was spending so many consecutive Facebook hours bedazzling her
page with hearts, joining online causes, and chatting with people she
hasn't even thought of in two decades that her husband called their
township police department and had an All Points Bulletin put out on
her. And when the police sketch artist came to the house for a
description from her hubby and children, no one could even remember what
she looked like.
True story - check it out at Snopes.com. OK, I may have embellished a
tad.
Anyway, the sad fact remains that I'm just as guilty as they. Why?
Because I cannot completely shut my page down. I did it once, for about
a week - but then curiosity about whether or not my friends are happy,
sad, cold, bored or tired got the better of me and I reinstated the page
(which is as simple as logging back on).
Oh, and I'm a total Facebook coward, too, because I'm afraid to ignore a
"Friend Request" - even if it's from someone who is completely mean to
me or whom I have never met in my life.
Why, you ask, would someone even want to see the page of a rival or a
complete stranger in the first place?
I can't answer that. I've never requested to be "Facebook Friends" with
someone whom I've never met. And naturally, I try to like everyone, so
... I digress.
Ah, and, speaking of liking everyone, Facebook brings up so many
sophomoric issues that I feel I'm back in high school any time I log
onto my profile.
I mean, is "Suzy" just asking to be my friend so that "Nancy" - who is
"Suzy's" BFF but despises the fact that I even consume oxygen - can use
my family photos to make a new dartboard in her basement recreation
room?
That's it. I'm done with Facebook once and for all. Seriously. Today.
After I make sure that no adorable faux farm animals need a fake home –
and once I eat the Mincemeat and Guacamole Pie someone whipped up just
for me.
www.tribtoday.com
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The
Best Medicine May Be in the Mailbox
By
Vincent O'Keefe,
Ohio
My mailbox cracks me up.
Each morning as I walk to the end of my driveway, I look forward to the
day’s catch of medical literature. My wife is in the profession, and the
box bombards her with ads for medical conferences, roundtables,
symposiums, seminars, webinars, and many other big words for
professional gatherings. I often giggle right there at the mailbox at
the irony and wordplay of these events, whether planned or unplanned.
Sometimes the irony involves semantics. For example, the Neurology for
the Non-Neurologist Conference always puzzles me. In my field, would
that be equivalent to a Humanities conference for the Non-Human? And
does that mean that Non-Neurologists have to attend other
Non-Conferences for Non-Specialists? When do they get to attend their
own conference?
Also entertaining are attempts at excitement-via-punctuation for
activities diametrically opposed to excitement — e.g. “Save the Date for
the Wound Care Conclave!” Other non sequiturs involve images. One
postcard recently featured a picture of a turtle with the question in
bold print: “Chronically Questioned about Chronic Constipation?” Why
smear the innocent turtle?
Sometimes the irony in the mailbox involves geography. Granted,
organizers try to make their conferences attractive by offering
desirable locations, but the results are often comic. For example, as a
parent I especially love the “Headache Update” conferences held at
Disney’s Grand Floridian Resort. I’m sure they don’t have any trouble
finding suitable subjects for study there. I could have been one myself
a few years ago when a Magic Kingdom employee accidentally poked my
seven-year-old daughter in the eye. (On the bright side, that poke led
to “free cuts” in the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad line.)
Or how about the “Sleep Disorders” conference on Bourbon Street in New
Orleans? That one got my neighbor’s attention as I laughed out loud in
the driveway. Or the Dermatology for the Non-Dermatologist Conference
in, of all the skin-friendly places in the country, Key West. And “Pain
Week” in Las Vegas? Isn’t that title likely to discourage attendance --
and perhaps jog some traumatic memories that were meant to stay in
Vegas?
Surprisingly, the most absurd medical conference titles involve the most
serious health problem: heart failure. In fact, over time I have
detected an almost celebratory approach to heart problems, as if some
type of opposite-day spin has invaded the issue. For instance, there was
the “High Touch, High Tech: Heart Failure for the 21st Century”
conference, which suggests bigger and better heart failures in the new
millennium. Similarly, the “Lub, Dub, and Splash” conference suggests a
more playful, water-based way to experience vascular catastrophe.
And finally, the most oxymoronic medical promotion: the “Heart Failure
Holiday Symposium,” held in beautiful downtown Chicago. What better way
to celebrate the holidays than with family and massive heart failure in
the Windy City? One of the brochures actually had a festive image of
Water Tower Place on the cover, complete with holiday lights in the
trees and the John Hancock Building illuminated in the background.
It’s enough to make me want to attend the Pain Management for the
Non-Pain Specialist conference. And if you think about it, aren’t we all
non-pain specialists to one degree or another? Besides, at least it’s
held in an appropriate location for a change: the islands of Florida,
well south of Disney.
www.vincentokeefe.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Bedhead,
Bedroom Shoes and A Runaway Bosom
By
Joni Pittman,
Georgia
It was bound to happen. For years I have
been playing with carpool fire, escaping the humiliating burn that was
inevitable to occur. Risk takers, in general, are a prideful bunch,
attempting to defy odds that all reasonable folks know are not in their
favor. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall, words that ring in my ears as I now contemplate the events of the
morning.
I would ask that you refrain from judgment. As presumptuous as it may
sound, I am certain that I am not alone in circumstances that beg for
anonymity in the car line. In fact, we often pass by one another,
baseball hats pulled low over our foreheads, huge sunglasses hiding the
smudges from the previous day’s mascara and morning breath that can only
be described as demonic.
The habit began innocently enough. A rushed morning, a scramble to fill
lunch boxes and empty backpacks, left little time for proper dress. As
is the case for most harried, worn-out moms, priority is given to the
needs of the offspring first, and any remnants left over is hardly
adequate to address decent grooming.
School mornings that resembled a three ring circus became less hectic
and a little more bearable when I readied myself in less than thirteen
seconds. Through much practice, and studying film of various pit crews
in NASCAR, I have been able to accomplish pseudo-acceptable dress in the
amount of time it takes for my children to bicker their way to the car.
Certain concessions in attire are made to ensure arrival before the
mocking of the tardy bell is heard. For instance, a sweatshirt is often
worn over a pajama top. While I am aware that I have reached an age that
has been sucker-punched by gravity, and fully recognize that any outing
lacking underwire is just plain wrong, the reality remains that it is
quicker to hang free rather than support that which hangs.
Pajama pants worn to bed are also worn to school. At first, it was
confusing to my children, as they often asked if I was headed to
Wal-Mart after drop-off because “you know we always see people in their
pajamas in the check-out line.” In addition, the bed head that frightens
my husband every morning is sometimes covered with a baseball hat
completing the look that can only be admired by a colorblind hobo. And
besides, who is going to see me if I don’t get out of the car?
Famous last words spoken by the unkept, unshowered and unsightly.
My son's forgotten lunchbox in the back seat of the car forced the issue
this morning. He was to leave for a field trip any moment with high
hopes of taking nutrition with him. I sped back to the school, hoping
that the bus hadn’t already left, knowing that if it had, the
preservatives eaten for breakfast couldn’t possibly combat ensuing pangs
of hunger.
With a quick glance to the mirror to confirm that I looked as disheveled
as you are now imagining, I pulled my hat lower, and briskly walked
towards the entrance of the building. Positioning one arm across my
chest – as though I were about to say the Pledge of allegiance – I tried
without much success to hide the unrestricted body parts my best
friend’s child refers to as “falling acorns.”
Wearing red and white striped pajama bottoms topped with a faded blue
sweatshirt, I looked like a tattered American flag shuffling up the
steps in my bedroom slippers. My battle plan was to toss the lunch box
at the kind receptionist and then turn on my fuzzy heels and run like
the Red Coats were coming.
Instead of a quiet, inconspicuous retreat, I was met with an impromptu
meet and greet with a few of the staff and two visiting students who
fully took in with bulging eyeballs my bed head, bedroom shoes and
runaway bosom. Together we all pretended that I didn't look like a
bra-less fugitive in patriotic colors.
Allow my mistakes to be a lesson to those of you who tempt fate every
morning in the carpool line. You may think that you are getting away
with bulky sweatshirts and flannel bottoms, hiding crusty eyes behind
sunglasses and halitosis behind rolled up windows. But I'm here to
proclaim this very painful truth: it's only a matter of time - and one
forgotten lunchbox - before you too will be caught in all of your
unsupported, floppy glory.
God Bless America.
www.jonisjoy.blogspot.com
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Fun
at the Beach
By
Richard Turck,
Washington
I love going to the beach. There are so
many activities to enjoy. You can build sand castles, look for sea
shells, go sun bathing, play in the ocean, bury yourself up to your neck
and wait for the tide to come in... the possibilities are practically
endless.
Simply swimming in the ocean is one of my favorite activities. I can
enjoy just bobbing up and down in the waves for hours. Enjoy it, that
is, until I realize I can no longer see the beach. At this point, I
decide I'm enjoying it considerably less. There's something about
floating alone in a giant body of salt water that makes me worry. And,
to make matters worse, something just touched my foot. Keep in mind, if
you're ever out in the ocean and something touches your foot, it's
always a shark. What else could it be? I don't think seaweed floats
around looking for feet to touch. Sharks are the only ones that do that.
They are the only wild animal that have a foot fetish, and they can
smell a pair from up to forty miles away.
Now that I can't see the beach and I have a shark tickling my feet, I do
the only thing I can; swim madly for the shore, scramble onto the beach,
and pass out from exhaustion. I call this part 'sunbathing', and it's my
second favorite activity. It feels so nice to just lay on the beach
unconscious, without a care in the world.
Once I wake up, I usually find myself back out in the ocean and have to
repeat the steps all over again. This will generally continue for 3 to 4
days until I realize I need to crawl further up onto the beach to avoid
the tide. Even though there's a lot of work involved with this, I still
like to keep reminding myself that I'm having fun.
After I'm done sunbathing, I enjoy scouring the beach for sandcastles
that kids are making. Once I find a good one that's almost complete, I
like to pretend I'm a giant and smash it with my foot. Most of the time
the kid starts crying because he didn't realize I was playing giant. I
would explain it to him, but I'm usually bored with the game by then and
just walk away.
The beach sure is full of excitement and thrills. There are so many
people doing so many different things that it's hard to choose what to
do next. Do I want to throw a Frisbee, kick a beach ball, fly a kite, or
bury myself in the sand? These are all tough choices to make, and in the
end, I usually just choose to bury somebody else instead. Why should I
get to have all the fun? It's time to start giving back.
To bury someone, I just look for a person that's napping in the sun, dig
a 4 to 5 foot hole next to them, and convince them to hop inside by
shoving them in. They're usually really confused and angry at first, but
once they're buried up to their chin, they become quite docile. After I
do this, I feel good knowing that I'm helping someone else have a great
time. Its no longer all about me. Eventually, they'll say something
weird like, "Dig me up", but I'm usually kind of sick of digging at that
point and tell them to look for someone else to mess around with. It's
strange how some people can just dig forever.
Now that I've been at the beach for 2 or 3 weeks, I figure it's time to
head to a dermatologist to get tested for skin cancer because I forgot
to wear sunscreen. In all the excitement it completely slipped my mind.
I guess the moral of the story is, playing giant and bury people in the
sand is fun, but not getting skin cancer is right up there too. It's
probably on the level with picking up sea shells. And, think about how
exciting it'll be if I don't have skin cancer. In fact, sometimes I'll
forget sunscreen on purpose just so it's more surprising if the test
results come back negative. I love surprises.
http://journalized2.blogspot.com/
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The
Robe
By
Thomas Wheeler,
Texas
I am a state district judge for a
medium-sized rural county in West Texas. Being a mud-on-the-boots
country boy, I am more comfortable working livestock than strappin' a
thoughtful look on my face and meting out justice. Early on, I found
that adjusting to some of the formalities associated with my position
gave me a bit of trouble. One of the most difficult adjustments was the
wearing of a judicial robe.
The robe presented a particular challenge at the beginning of one of my
first jury trials. I had spent the preceding weekend armpit deep in
weeds at the family farm. I expected to and did get a bait of chiggers.
(A chigger is a microscopic, flea-like critter whose purpose in life is
to attach itself to the most dark, damp recess of the human body and
cause an itching sensation.) On the first day of the trial, in response
to chigger-induced stimuli, I reacted as would any normal person. I
scratched my mid-section. The problem (outside the chigger infestation)
was the jury's view and possible mis-perception of my actions. With a
robe on and positioned behind a bench, I was concerned that some of the
jurors might wrongly interpret what I was doing with my hands. It was
probable that one or more of the twelve suspected I was engaging in the
same kind of deviant public behavior that occasionally brings folks to
my court.
I had to do something to respond to the accusatory looks. Should I: 1)
Interrupt the trial, go through the weed/chigger story and hope the jury
buys my explanation, 2) grin real big and wink at any juror that is
staring at me to give credence to his or her suspicions, 3) duck behind
the bench every few minutes and hope the jury thinks I am picking up
things or 4) stand up, turn around, scratch and mutter "damn chiggers'
so both the record and the jurors would be clear? I found that employing
option two resulted in a quick verdict and the jury's quick exodus from
the courthouse.
A couple of weeks ago, the robe once again played a part in causing
those in the courtroom to question my judicial demeanor. A young man had
plead guilty to a drug charge. His momma was sitting on the front row of
seats crying silently. The lawyers were serious. I was looking down on
the gathering, a black-robed Solomon about to hand down justice....when
something stung me on my side.
The sting hurt. I started whopping myself on my left side with my right
hand in an attempt to discourage the offending insect from inflicting
further pain. The bug retaliated. The robe proved to be a barrier to
effective whopping but instead of unzipping it (the normal manner of
removal), I reached under and flipped the robe up to gain a more direct
path to the now very perturbed attacker. I am thankful that there were
relatively few there to witness the gyrating, robe-over-the-head
representative of law and order beating the bejesus out of himself for
no apparent reason. The now-stunned insect, still under my shirt,
dropped down to my belt area and continued to move around. Fearing
additional stings, I then employed both hands and began pummeling my
mid-section. I did have the sense to excuse myself to my office before
becoming further undressed and I found...nothing. No ant. No bee.
Nothing to show my staff to counter their suspicions that I had finally
gone over the edge. No dead or woozy offender in my pants. None on the
floor. I needed evidence. I needed a body...but nothing.
I walked back into the courtroom (pants and robe appropriately situated)
and told my story to the mildly confused gathering. I saw disbelief in
the eyes of many. I briefly considered raising up my shirt to show the
whelps left by my attacker but then realized my reputation probably
couldn't have withstood that additional offense. It was at that moment,
I realized that the courtroom security cameras continued to roll.
I can fire my staff if they should bring up the incident. I can make the
lives of the lawyers a living hell should the story be repeated. I am
praying the video tape is never reviewed. I gave the young drug user a
slightly better sentence than originally contemplated. I am hoping he
and his mother will repay my kindness with their silence.
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