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June/July 2010 Humor Writing Contest Results!

Enter "America's Funniest Humor"TM Writing Contest to claim (or regain) a spot in our next Humor Showcase!



Congratulations to all Finalists in our June/July 2010 Humor Writing Contest!

(Listed alphabetically by author

The White House Appoints a Multi-Task Force to Study: Everything At Once
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia

As the Greek financial system implodes, oil gushes into the Gulf of Mexico, finance reform entangles Congress, new energy policies burst out in six directions, homes foreclose, stocks gyrate wildly, and British politics tumbles into an Italian chaos, the White House announced that it was forming a “multi” task force to deal with the multiple challenges of each day.

Composed of summer interns under the age of twenty six, the White House multi-task force will bring experienced multi-tasking skills to bear on the proliferating number of problems facing the U.S. government and world economy.

According to White House sources, each multi-task team member will be provided with two computers, three cell phones, one calculator, an i-Pod, a three hundred channel TV -- and remote -- an i-Pad, one Facebook account, one MySpace account, one Twitter account, four e-mail addresses, three alias identities, one AOL instant messaging account – plus a skateboard, two CD rom players, an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend, and one prayer book, of choice, for handling both internal and external communications .

According to Facebook sources, the multi-task team will be required to post photos of their work interactions and hair styles on key social networking sites throughout each working day.
The multi-task force also will work with action video games when:

---simulating defense related military options,
---designing optimal war strategies,
---preparing to negotiate with opposition members in Congress.

The White House said that not only will the multi-task force simultaneously deal with each day’s political events, but will also investigate each team member's dating problems, developing egos, and i-Pod music choices.

White House spokesperson:

“The world spins-off new challenges every day: oil slicks, Greek debt, British coalitions, tornadoes, floods, stock drops, and Sarah Palin speeches.

We could commission a series of single-purpose task forces and stuff – staff -- each one with the usual board of gruff Washington males, each of which would produce a “this-time-we-mean-it” White Paper.

However, White Papers quickly turn into yellow-bellied paper-weights that get stacked up title-side down on some dusty back-room book shelf.

We had to do something different. Every day natural disasters, finance implosions, terrorist threats and more erupt out of nowhere. Not to mention, or even try to pronounce, the volcanoes. Frankly, it’s a wonder anyone can absorb all the news headlines without spraining a frontal lobe brain muscle.”

The spoken person’s summer intern added:

”We decided our only hope was to use the next generation’s superior multi-tasking skills to digest it all and convert the team’s analysis of events into common sense Tweets which X-generation staff can translate into White Paper vernacular, which Baby Boomer staff can convert into White House press releases.“

A White House spokesperson said that once the Multi-task force is up and running -- and walking, swimming, doing pushups, contemplating, and practicing ping pong serves -- no more than four issues a day will be discussed in public.

The White House posted the following explanation on its website:

“Granted, we have the first generation of political managers who grew up watching TV, while instant messaging, while fiddling with the dials of a video game. However, voters over fifty get confused when the President talks about more than two political issues per month. And voters under thirty get 'bored' if they are bombarded with less than five crisis events, and one girlfriend problem, every ten minutes.

Therefore the multi-task force will also serve as a series of bridges -- links, connection, joints, channels, viaducts, Tweets and post cards -- between generations.”

Intern Kyle Haverjudge, who Tweets as “Dash”, confirmed the statement by making the multi-tasks team’s first YouTube appearance:

“You know, oil slicks spread out kinda sloo—ow, so I am glad the British Government breakup/makeup happened, and my girlfriend broke up with me, and the Stock plunge, and you know, wait: --- no I did not make up with Jenny, yet, --- and the new apartment I rented, and my skate board lost a wheel, and the Greek-government got into this, like, a student loan kind of thing, --- wait: — no Jenny is not going out with Justin —yet, and a couple Paki-bombs blew up in real-space, and I started using a new brand of toothpaste, wait: — the oil spill ---? So, why did you call?

Anyway, next week I think the job will pick up when we get a few more members, and the multi-task team can start Tweeting and pecking at each other over what flavor coffee to order.”


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

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Cull Anytime
By David Crawford, British Columbia

Canada Geese are becoming a problem. Big honking crowds of the marauding though polite beasts are being targeted by civic governments keen on controlling the spread of goose doots, leprosy, mange, spam, and other liberal propaganda. ‘Get the flock out’ seems to be the rallying cry.

Not so in our town. I wish to commend civic leaders here for their ingenious solution to our goose problem.

Rather than hunting them with automatic weapons, grenades, flame throwers, tanks, and B-52 bombers, as suggested by more militant members of the public (me, actually), our civic officials have decided to cull the geese by giving them cell phones so they can text each other while flying.

“This gets the geese distracted, which in turn results in them plowing into buildings, their elegant ‘V’ formations becoming ‘____’ formations on the sidewalks below,” reports city spokesman William ‘Duck’ Bill.

In addition to these building-bashing initiatives, individual geese will be targeted by police for operating a vehicle (themselves) while using an electronic device.

A spokesperson for the police says pursuing these avian criminals will help. “We’re going to engage in a number of wild goose chases after the cell phones are deployed I’m sure, but we’ll try to minimize their impact on the community, while encouraging impacts on tall buildings,” said the spokesman. “So far as we know, they do not use wings-free devices.”

Meanwhile, the geese are fighting back. Special interest groups within the goosing community are prodding the behinds of their elected representatives.

John Beake, a spokesgoose for the Flapping Carcass Aircraft Attack Local 212, announced they have recently hired a Washington lobbying firm in order to have some impact on this issue.

“We’ve got gaping mouths to feed, and we’re going to cause a flap let me tell you,” hissed Beake. “We’re going to fly to Washington and waddle right up to Congress and let our feelings be known all over the sidewalk. We are determined to fly head-on into the face of adversity, and airplanes. We are not ducking our responsibility. We’ll get satisfaction, one way or the eidder.” Within hours of making this statement, authorities indicted Beake on charges of discharging an unlicensed pun.

To date, culling the geese has met with mixed results. Egg addling has lowered the population in some parks, while providing a much-needed boost for local addling firms.

Meanwhile, hunters were recently allowed to shoot several geese in a nearby farmer’s field. Unfortunately, several airliners were also brought down in the ensuing barrage.

Investigators believe that Boeing 737’s, used as decoys for the geese, inadvertently lured several other jets into the field, where they were blasted without delay. Cause of the crashes was determined to be ‘ingestion of several thousand pieces of number 8 birdshot from 9000 shotguns’.

No matter what plan is chosen for your local or long distance culling, something must be done about this feathered menace which is bringing us down. Ankles are being nipped. Droppings, which confusingly look like campaign literature or the tubes of dirt on your lawn after it gets aerated, cause needless, disgusting smears on your shoes, children and reputation.

Something should be done about these illegal migrants befowling our cities. In my opinion, they ought to be banished using strong legislation.

If only there was a place they could go to that had wide open spaces, a warm climate suitable for breeding, and lots of uncut grass and untrimmed shrubs to nest in. A place with a history of welcoming cross-border travelers . A place that would make them part of the community, part of the family.

Maybe a place like…Arizona.


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

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David Crawford, British Columbia

Summer is in full swing and with a new pool complex and a lake nearby, we've been taking the kids swimming quite a bit lately.

Now the problem with being a middle-aged guy (BIKINI) is that if you have eyes (BIKINI) in your head (HOTTIE) it becomes difficult to focus (BIKINI) from time to time at these (HOTTIE) locations.

This can be problematic in that (NICE TATTOO) it is distracting and hey I'm only human and it’s not easy to (focus Focus FOCUS!!) on what (OOPS LARGE BOYFRIEND) I'm supposed to be doing here.

What I'm really trying to say (BIKINI) is that I'm there with my kids and I'm (BIKINI) happily married and I don't mean to look but I have eyes don't I? Am I not a (HOLY COW!) human being?

It's not like I'm being an ogling (OHMYGOD) pervert or anything. (LOOK AT THOSE! OH SORRY BUDDY…).

It just makes me uncomfortable (BIKINI) that's all. I feel guilty (BIKINI) just for being human.

Anyway, there I was with the kids when I had to go to the bathroom so I got out of the pool.

For a change.

I can't quite remember what I was talking about just now (OUCH! WIFE PULLING MY CHEST HAIRS). I'm so distracted these days (HOTTIE) what with work and all.

And here’s another thing. Spouses have eyes too and you can’t tell me they don’t admire (PIERCING PLACEMENT) another guy’s abs any more than I happen to notice (BIKINI) in passing another woman’s shallow unimportant physical attributes.

It is hypocritical to think that it is only men who can admire from afar someone whose (THOSE REAL?) body shape is perhaps more toned than one’s own (SUCK IN GUT) physical presence.

I think of it as admiring a work of art, really (BIKINI).

You know, this column was going to be really funny but now I've lost my (IS THAT A BUTTERFLY TATTOO?) train of thought. (DON’T STARE! DON’T STARE!). I think I was going to write about (WHOA!) how wonderful it would be if we could all wear dark sunglasses (BREATHE! BREATHE!) while swimming in the pool without looking all pervy. Something like that.

I was also going to write about how distracting it is to drive past the local beaches (BIKINIS OH MY GOD BIKINIS FOCUS! FOCUS! DRIVE THE CAR!!) in the summer time.

Having to drive past the city beaches six or seven times per day (BIKINI) on my way to work (HOTTIE) is pretty annoying, especially since the beaches are 28 blocks out of my way (BITE LIP BITE LIP), so I am working on an environmental strategy that will see these trips reduced. After Labor Day. Which is good.

I wish I could remember what I was going to write about today.

My neck has been hurting lately, too. I must be sleeping funny. Huh.


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

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Date Night
By Jonathan Criswell, Delaware

Having a Date Night tonight. Date Night, for the uninitiated, is when a sucker true family friend offers to baby-sit your kids (sometimes for free!!!!) while you and your spouse go out on a date. Which you haven’t done in nearly a decade. And here I thought since we were married I didn’t have to date anybody anymore. I personally haven’t dated in 8 years. Have to admit, I’m actually a bit nervous. If form holds, for Date Night, I will probably show up an hour late, forget my breath spray and spill marinara all down the front of me.

I really am getting nervous. If form holds, I’ll forget the way to her house, call her mother by the wrong name, and absent-mindedly eat an onion-based entrée at dinner which will follow me around for the next three days.

If form holds, I’ll get a flat tire in her driveway and have to admit to her dad that I don’t know how to change it. And that I don’t have a jack or a spare in the trunk, but I do have a set of baseball cards from 1992 and 4,000 needles from the time I tried to jam into it a Christmas tree, purchased as a holiday dorm room decoration.

If form holds, her older brother will ask me about cars and ask me how much I can bench, then challenge me to a bench-off and rip me for not spotting him correctly while I will not be able to so much as cover my mouth for a sneeze without extreme agony for the next two weeks.

If form holds, I’ll leave my wallet on the dresser but won’t realize it until we get to the toll booth. At which point, I’ll have to ask her to borrow a dollar and, essentially, ask her to pay for the whole evening. Then drive like my grandma because I’ll be afraid to get pulled over.

My stomach is queasy. If form holds, my stomach will get knotted and will gurgle so loud people from across the way will look at me. I will not even be hungry.

If form holds, I will forget which theater the movie is in when I go to the bathroom and won’t get back for 15 minutes, then forget where we are sitting. If form holds, my parents will show up. Unannounced. And sit catty-cornered from us while I sweat profusely and pretend not to notice.

This can’t end well. If form holds, after stopping for gas, I’ll put the car in reverse instead of drive and take off into a motor oil display.

If form holds, I will have forgotten to print out reverse directions and find myself on roads that were meant strictly for All-Terrain Vehicles, as which my Toyota Corolla with no power steering will not qualify.

If form holds, I’ll stop on my way to drop off an overdue movie (on VHS!) and lock my keys in the car. While it’s running. In a handicapped spot. Honestly, I will not have known it was a handicapped spot –yes there will be that big picture of a wheelchair on the sign—but it would have been the fifth spot in the row. How many handicapped people do they really think would be dropping off their movies at the same time?

If form holds, I would need to call a locksmith because the police would not be an option in this instance. And the locksmith would give me a 2-hour window. So I’d search for a pay phone and bemoan the fact that they don’t make hand-held phones that you can carry with you in an emergency. Except that they indeed would have invented those already and I was too poor (i.e., cheap) to buy one. As it will be raining heavily, I will have to go back in the video store for at least two hours and pretend like I’m reading the back cover of each movie, twice, while keeping one eye out for the locksmith and making sure nobody handier than me is able to jimmy the lock and drive my car away.

If form holds, I will have to explain all this to all aggrieved parties, mostly my wife, but also our friends with whom we would have met. They most likely will say that one day we will all look back on this and still shake our heads.

But, if form holds, she’ll love me anyway.

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

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The Group
Richard Goodman, Pennsylvania

I didn’t know what to expect from group therapy. I felt reasonably comfortable talking one -on -one to my shrink, but not so relaxed with a bunch of strangers. Besides, I recognized that I had a certain quirkiness about me, but I was no weirdo. Frankly, I was scared to be in a room with misfits. Allow me to introduce the cast.

There’s a group of old timers. Most in this group have been coming weekly for at least several years. When they introduced themselves, each announced their respective seniority in the group along with their history.

Ted was schizophrenic with a compulsive disorder. Every five minutes he would wash his imaginary friend’s hands.

Don was suicidal. Unfortunately, his psychiatrist has a window office on the 78th floor. He takes medication for his depression with the warning label. “CAUTION: LEDGES appear closer than they really are.”

Sam went to Assertive Training so when he was late for a session, he slipped his written explanation under the door.

Bill goes to class for impulse control. For obvious reasons, there’s no Waiting Room. Jill’s hypnotist charges $5,000 to get her off painkillers. Jill doesn‘t have that kind of cash so she replies, “For a hundred bucks, can you just make me believe I’m a masochist?”

There’s a bunch who are semi-regular. They’ve been attending off and on for around a half-year. The lineup looks like this.

Thelma is so paranoid, she can’t watch, “Cops” in Surround Sound. Warren is so far removed from reality, he thought he was a zombie, one so traumatized, he almost had a near-life experience. Jim has multiple problems. He’s claustrophobic and broke -- so his shrink pushed him out the window. Talk about killing two birds with one stone!

The newbies seem to be more of a guilt ridden collection. Each person revealed his or her past. Some attempted to glorify and rationalize behaviors, but most spoke somewhat shamefully.

Gary discussed his childhood and the difficulties of being the class clown. For punishment, his teacher made him write 1,000 times, “I will not talk back to Mr. Barnum. I will not talk back to Mr. Bailey, I will not talk back to Mr. Barnum. I will not…” You get he idea.

Paul was also attending a Tuesday session for kleptomaniacs. Can you believe it was $1,000 per session! I know it’s a lot, but can you imagine what the shrink pays for homeowner’s insurance? The group leader wrote a book called, “Are You A Kleptomaniac?” There’s 600,000 in circulation, but only three sales. They produce results, but not many receipts.

Jennifer broke up with a schizophrenic. He wanted to start seeing and hearing other people. Tom talked about what life is like for an Anal-Retentive. During the ink blot test, he brought, “White-Out.” Judy discussed her disorder. She’s a paranoid/schizophrenic, which means her imaginary friends have formed a conspiracy. Tony has ADD, but not ADHD, ’cause he loses concentration after, you know, three letters.

Me? I’ve got body image issues. In other words, I’m extra, extra large. I tip the scales near 500llbs. I wear a shirt that says, THE GAP, apparently, there being none between lunch and dinner. When I go to the mall, those sensory/automatic doors open when I’m in the parking lot.

I guess I don’t have it so bad. One guy went to AA, NA, and GA. He finally found the root of his problems. Turns out he had a fear of last names.

I forgot to pay for three sessions, so the psychologist is treating me for amnesia. He sent me twelve, “Past Due” notices, so maybe he’s the one with a compulsive disorder.

The real winner is the shrink. He cures the schizophrenic of his imaginary friends and then he starts treating him for a separation anxiety.

Can’t wait for Wednesday.

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

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Wallet Prank
By Ben L.,

(Author's last name withheld by request.)

One year ago, my friends and I played a prank on our good friend Stewart. We took his wallet when he wasn’t paying attention and hid it from him. We all thought it was a good prank, because Stewart rarely misplaced his wallet.

You should have seen how he paced around his living room lifting up couch cushions and checking under his La-Z-Boy. We couldn’t help but laugh at his expense. After an hour or so, he threatened us for conspiring against him. When he left the living room to check his car, we all agreed to prolong our prank for as long as possible.

In hindsight, we should have known better than to ignore his threat.

It is now one year later, and I am writing this message on loose bits of debris that have blown into my hidden cave-dwelling. As far as I know, Stewart has murdered everyone else, and I am the lone survivor.

Thinking back, we probably took the prank too far. You see, after Stewart came back inside from checking his car, he was in tears. He said there was an important check in his wallet he needed to deposit, or the bank was going to foreclose his home.

Instead of returning his wallet, we joined hands and danced around Stewart singing, “Walletless Stew! What are you going to do? You have no money! Isn’t that funny? Soon you’ll be homeless, too!”

Then we slapped him in the face with our own wallets until he bled, which was funny at the time but terribly mean-spirited in retrospect.

The next day, the bank foreclosed Stewart’s home, and he retreated in shame to the forest that borders our town. This made us all giggle with delight, because no one was going to be able to top our prank (to this day, no one has).

Several months passed. From time-to-time we’d overhear the local hunters chatting about a shadowy figure deep within the forest cursing our names (this made me laugh so hard I shot milk out of my nose).

We were convinced our prank was the best ever.

Then the murders started.

Of course it is blatantly obvious Stewart was enacting his revenge on us now, but at the time we were too caught up in the prank to make the connection. We were a naïve bunch. I mean, it could have been anyone who folded my friends in half to death and stuffed them with paper money, loose coins and credit cards.

All I know is by the time we realized it was Stewart doing all the murders, it was too late to let him in on the prank.

Our original plan was to slip a $50 bill into his wallet, so when we finally gave it back he’d be all like, “Oh you guys!” But that plan flew right out the window for three reasons.

1) Stewart had become a murderer.

2) $50 is a lot of money to give someone in one go, especially after that person has brutally murdered a few of my friends.

3) We lost Stewart’s wallet.

Losing Stewart’s wallet is probably what caused our prank to barrel out of control. I’ll take the blame for that. The ocean seemed like a great temporary hiding place to me, but, then again, I was drunk when I threw it off the pier.

OK. I’m running out of room on this pizza box, so I’ll use the rest of this space to leave some advice for any would-be pranksters who happen upon what may be my last correspondence with the outside world.

First: don’t go overboard with your pranks. Most people are one prank away from going on a murderous rampage. No matter how much you laugh at them, they’ll never understand the prank. The only thing they do understand is murder. So watch out.

Second: Make sure you know the difference between “pranking” and “being mean.” What we did to Stewart was a prank. What he did to all of us (except me for now) was being mean. Murder isn’t funny.

Last: If you’re going to prank someone, be sure to learn basic survival skills. Trust me. You’ll need them if you prank someone who turns out to be a murderer.


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

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By Barry Parham,
South Carolina

"This time, it will be different."

Count on it, single guy. Count on that shoulder-perching little imp, teasingly muttering.

No matter how terminally single a single guy is, the day will come. The day when endless pizza and unselfconscious scratching in public just aren't enough. Some internal biological timer trips, reason is jettisoned, a history of futility gets ignored, and it's time to try dating again.

This time, it will be different.

No, it won't. But this time, I'm here to help.

Granted, I may not be your best choice for Dating Coach of the Year. After all, I'm older than Alaska, I think Hall & Oates were brilliant, and I still have bangs. But I do have qualifications. As it turns out, I am America's Penultimate Husband. A surprising number of my dates married the very next guy they met. Somehow, I became a very useful practice spouse.

So let's proceed. For starters, I've put together the following "man seeks woman" personal ad for use by my "what's the big deal with the toilet seat?"single comrades:

Single hetero male seeking minimally neurotic, baggage-free, non-ferret-owning female for companionship, dating, and ultimately destructive miscommunication. I enjoy music, dining, and writing odd stories about shrimp, civil servants, and other aliens. Ideal candidate will have ten (or more) of her original teeth, and zero (or less) pierced face parts. Please send, for review, an audio tape containing an average-decibel sample of your voice during a heated argument. Dues-paying Satanists, the heavily-tattooed, and career politicians need not apply.

What, too subtle? Well, feel free to personalize. Maybe you don't write stories about aliens and shrimp. That's entirely up to you, of course, but if you don't, well, good luck getting a date.

Now. As a seasoned single veteran, I've put together a helpful checklist of characteristics which, any minute now, I'll think up. I may include some comments, too, if any occur to me. I don't know yet. That's what puts the "creative" in "creative writing."

The checklist may not work for you, though it's guaranteed to be utterly useless. (That's what puts the "disclaimer" in "legal disclaimer.") Here we go:

The Perfect Woman...

...will own at least 2 Frank Zappa albums. This not only assures that you're age-attuned; it confirms that, as teenagers, you were both equally dazed and confused. Extra credit if she giggles anytime you say "moving to Montana."

...thinks delivery pizza and day-old pizza are two of the five food groups. (The other three, of course, being coffee, Chinese takeaway, and two-day-old pizza)

...has never been blind-date-pitched by friends as "she has a great personality" or "she makes her own clothes."

...will have no "I (heart symbol) something" or "I'd rather be ..." bumper stickers, like "I'd rather be mud wrestling farm animals while under the influence of psychotropic drugs." Pretty good clue, that.

...supports laws to have ferrets classified as foreign enemy combatants. Now, here, some people will take me to task. "Ferrets aren't evil," they'll say. "Ferrets are cute." Ferrets aren't evil? Have you ever SEEN a ferret? Basically, it's a rat with a zoning variance.

...has a sane amount of beauty products. Her bathroom "body maintenance" cabinet should not resemble a Center for Disease Control Haz-Mat lab.

...has never sent an "I'm sorry your relative died" email. Research shows that a woman who fires off "condolences" emails will go all Lorena Bobbitt on you at your first toilet seat infraction.

...will not have any relatives within a hundred mile radius who have ever shown up at a church wedding wearing a tank top, Bermuda shorts and black stretch socks. Also, be sure to check the relatives for ferret bites.

...has never been in a bar, run into an old friend who is an escaped felon, and greeted him with a secret handshake and the wistful expression, "Hey, Slade. I miss your discipline."

So there you are, single guys. Armed, and warned. In these weird days, caution must be your byword. I once spent 3 weeks online, chatting up a gorgeous coed named Amber, before I learned she was actually my old college roommate, Chris.

Now, some will say I'm too picky, and that's why I'm still single. I disagree. I prefer "discerning." But if you've read this far and still can't figure out why I'm single, I really don't know what else to say.

Maybe, one day, my imp will whisper again.

Once I get over Amber.


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

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Flight 227
By Andy Schwaderer, California

“Can you believe it? No hot water—and that was twice on that layover. And that breakfast bar…I’m telling you Gladys—what’s that? You can hear me—Oh! Ladies and Gentlemen, good morning—can you hear…Yes?—Ok, good morning. I’m Linda, your chief purser for Flight 227. On behalf of your Washington-based flight crew I welcome you aboard this Soviet-era Ilyushin jet. We hope to provide you with an on-time takeoff, so please do find your space as soon as possible. Today’s flight is expected to be as smooth as metal hurtling through air can be, and we are happy to offer a number of fee-based amenities during our international service today. Benches and seatbelts are available for purchase—which may also be used on subsequent flights—provided your Ilyushin is of Ukrainian origin out of the Dnipr-Petrovsk assembly station. Full details are available in the ship’s schematic. Translation is available for a small fee.

Federal Aviation regulations do not allow smoking during flight, and tampering with smoke detectors is prohibited. Please note that the Supreme Court has roundly rejected spontaneous combustion as a smoking defense, even when directly caused by airline inadequacies.

Our flight time to Budapest is approximately 17 hours.

Oh—I’ve just been handed a note—we wish to offer a very special welcome to the dozen or so teething toddler models flying with us this morning. Welcome aboard.

Several security protocols remain in effect—please refrain from leaving your baggage unattended, traveling with prohibited items or attempting logic when accused by transportation security agents. A prompt confession is encouraged.

Because of the inordinately large number of babies flying with us today—hey, that’s you!!—special measures will be observed. The lavatory in the aft of the hold will be reserved for pregnant mothers, mothers traveling with a child, and our corporate elite members. The forward slop pail is available for cash purchase, and as always—correct change is appreciated.

Due to the engineering limitations of this airframe, you may be pressed into service in the event an emergency egress becomes necessary. If the forward door—that’s the one you came through sir, yes, that one. The handle to your left…other left. There you go.—is not available please do the following if you are seated in an exit row. Actually, any row. Using the crash axes that will be distributed just prior to impact, cut through the thin aluminum of the hull.

In the event of mass hysterics from our infants, you may be conscripted to provide entertainment. Time will be of the essence, as the shifting harmonics of wailing youth can affect beverage service, the psychological well-being of your captain and the structural integrity of the aircraft.

Today’s emergency entertainment option is PANDEMONIUM!, a bold and adaptive work in the style of OKLAHOMA! Parts may be assigned randomly—but also available for purchase. Please note: if reduced oxygen levels are experienced within the hold, Act III, Scene II: “Life Among the Clouds” will be omitted due to its strenuous vocals. Instead, Act I, Scene III: “Man-made Metallic Meteor” will be presented again, with the option of also being presented via encore to rescue personnel. Furthermore, Act III, Scene IV will be changed as follows: the part of Louisa will be played by a male; parachutes will not be distributed; and the finale will be a cappella and fortissimo, not forte as it reads currently.

Part of today’s routing will take us over water. In the unlikely event of a water landing, we will launch into Act III, Scene II: “Life Among the Clouds” regardless of oxygen levels within the hold and continue until the termination of flight.

Thank you for your kind attention, and don’t hesitate to shout for attention once power and heat have been removed from the hold at altitude. Good day.”

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

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The Male Robin: A Perfect Baby Daddy?
By Terri Spilman, Indiana

Spring has sprung. Mother nature never fails to put on a spectacular show in our backyard featuring fragrant lilacs, light violet clematis, purple Irises and bright red roses all flanked by a lush carpet of bright green grass. However, the real star of the show is always the Robin feathering her nest for her new brood. This year, the Robin chose a beautiful pink flowered tree beneath our bathroom window for her birthing center. We literally have a bird’s-eye view of the three baby birds tucked in their nursery made of sticks and mud. I am totally obsessed with watching their every move and I began to wonder, “Is the male Robin a perfect baby daddy?”

Benefit #1: Winters in Florida. No more shoveling snow, just hanging out with the gang down south during the coldest months of the year.

Benefit #2: Male Robins want their women big. Yes, Robins are chubby chasers. Imagine, actually getting to pig out while dating. It’s no longer a fantasy. The male Robin feeds the female while courting. This brings a whole new meaning to the term, “eating like a bird”. Bring it on!

Benefit #3: Male Robins have a full head of hair. The male Robin grows a black plumage of feathers on top of his head during courtship. A natural Rogaine.

Benefit #4: Male Robins are monogamous. Male Robins are loyal throughout the courtship. It’s not likely you’ll hear one of them saying, “Look at the breast on that one!” in front of their betrothed.

Benefit #5: Simple And Short Mating Technique. Translated, I can keep my man happy and still watch my Real Housewives shows, catch the weather on the late news and get through the huge magazine stash on my nightstand while barely having to move.

Benefit #6: Male Robins like their jobs. Male Robins sing from morning into evening. No more war stories and crankiness after Ward gets home. Everyday would be like a musical.

Benefit #7: Female Robins have total control over the nest. Once the deed is done, the female Robin takes over the nesting process in preparation for arrival of the eggs. No bickering over paint colors, window coverings, area rugs or furnishings. It’s like an open charge account at Arhaus Furniture.

Benefit #8: No nasty after effects of pregnancy. Robins lay beautiful Tiffany blue colored eggs of which the babies emerge with no mess. The female Robin even has her shape back prior to birth or shall we say, “the hatch”.

Benefit #9: The male Robin helps take care of the little ones. What I would have given if my husband and I could have taken turns nursing our daughter. I may have had ten more. Maybe not ten more, but I would have been better rested.

Benefit #10: The babies leave the nest in two weeks. Eighteen years of child rearing condensed into two weeks of constant care in the nest and then everyone moves on. Sounds pretty easy.

While there are certainly many benefits to a male Robin being the perfect “baby daddy”, there are also a few negatives. Only 25% of the Robins will survive mating season into November. Of that, another half will make it to the following year. After the male Robins mate, that thick black plumage does eventually fall out. And those babies, they really never leave the nest, often following the parents around while constantly begging for food. And let’s face it, I really don’t think I could live on worms, bugs and berries. Even if it is all you can eat. With that said, I think I’ve got it pretty good with my current baby daddy and my brood of one. Bye, bye birdies. Until next spring…


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

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