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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/November 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
October/
November 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Gun Show: Anything but ParaNORMAL
By D. Michael Craft, Missouri
My dad asked me to take him to a gun show. He wasn’t sure how to get to
the place so I agreed to drive him. I wanted to fit in, so I went to
Bass Pro Shop the week before to see if I could learn something about
people who shop for guns.
It looked like I
was going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. I figured a cap would be
good enough. A Bass Pro cap fifteen dollars, what? I asked a clerk if
they had a Bass Pro patch. They were sold out. On the way home I
realized I had an orange shirt. I wondered if it was close enough to
hunter’s orange for me to wear it. I got home and pulled it out and
wondered if pastel orange was close enough. I thought not.
I decided to try and find a ball cap around the house. I looked all over
before I found one. There was a problem though, it had a picture of Elmo
on it. What did I do with my with SKOAL, NASCAR, and NRA caps ,anyway?
Ok, so scrap the cap. Not being able to dress the part I figured the
best I could do was to not shave for five days and get a temporary
tattoo. That way I would fit in with both the men and women there.
We walked in the door, my dad started drooling. I started panicking.
Have you seen some of the people at gun shows? What’s worse, they were
all carrying guns? There were guns all over the place. There were
thousands of them. There were more guns than in an old Clint Eastwood
western. There were big guns and small guns. There were pistols and
rifles. There was even a gun that shot something like a million rounds a
minute. It cost ten thousand dollars. You could clean up the
neighborhood vermin in eight seconds with that thing. There was some guy
in military fatigues looking at it. I think he was from South America. I
tried to look at guns but I don’t know a .357 from a 96.8. My dad
stopped at the first table. I told him I’d call him if we get separated.
That took about twelve seconds. He picked up a gun to look at it and I
was waiting at the exit. It didn’t take me long to look.
I was surprised to see they sell all kinds of stuff at a gun show. They
even had a booth with jewelry. I can imagine some guy going home and
saying, “Look honey I got eight guns, three knives and a WWII helmet. Oh
and I got you these earrings made from shrapnel from a grenade that
killed three cows in a field in Germany in WWI.”
There was even an old Indian there. I wanted an authentic arrow or an
arrowhead. He was selling jewelry and gemstones. He wasn’t wearing
feathers, he was wearing a Jim Beam hat. I wonder where he got that at?
I was standing next to a father and his very young son. I overheard his
son ask, “Can I get something else, I already have a lot of knives.” I
hope that kids doesn’t go to the same school as my kids. I wonder how
many guns he has? I walked by an entire family, mom dad and five kids.
They were all carrying weapons. Saturday night at the Ferguson’s must be
a grand old time.
I saw a booth were they were selling bumper stickers. Most of the ones I
read I just shook my head at. There was one bumper sticker that caught
my eye, “Die Barney Die” I liked that one. I bought several of those to
share with friends.
There were a couple of things I didn’t see. I didn’t see any women in
heels or beer nuts. What the heck is with that? All these hunters and
gun lovers and not one beer nut in the place. Actually, I don’t even
like beer nuts. I just felt embarrassed writing about cotton candy and
funnel cake. That’s the last gun show I’m going to. The main reason I’ll
never go again? The blow gun I bought, didn't work.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Vacuum
Control
By
David Crawford
The targets didn’t stand a chance.
I had carefully planned my route, staying stealthy, low down, hidden. I
reconnoitered the target area, dialed in the killing zone, became one
with my prey.
I was stalking.
My mission? To eliminate the hordes of fruit flies that had invaded our
kitchen.
I was heavily armed. My weapon of choice? A pistol-gripped, 1 inch
caliber, built-in vacuum cleaner with a three inch barrel and thirty
foot hose with decorative, floral cloth covering.
It is a high-tech, powerful, insect killing machine.
I am…The Fly Sniper.
On some missions I utilize a silencer – a plastic tube attachment
normally used for high-angle work like valences.
For some of my kind, these add-ons help to lessen the mental blow that
dealing death brings into a sniper’s psyche.
Not me. I don’t need a shrink to help me understand what I’m doing. No
need to ‘get in touch with my feelings’ here. I admit I’m a killer, and
I’m OK with that.
Today, the enemy seemed to be congregating on the wall above the garbage
can – no doubt licking their disgusting little fly lips, moaning and
loosening their belts after a satisfying meal of banana peel and
discarded bits of salad.
They erupt into flight at my approach, but my weapon is upon them! Ha
Ha! Come within an inch of the business end of this Roving Vortex of
Destruction and in you go! No chance of escape!
I narrowly avoid tragedy as the nozzle comes a little close to my wife’s
chest area. By accident.
Over the fruit bowl I slowly circle my Wand of Death. In go the
juice-sucking vermin as they rise to do battle. An over-ripe small plum
also rises into my weapon with a strangely satisfying “Glurp!” sound.
Fighter Command radar sees flies everywhere as I circle the kitchen. Big
game flies, fruit flies, those little jiggers you can barely see, all
hurtle into the Hose of Doom.
Seeing the demonic look in my eyes, the children wisely scurry out of
range. My wife is not so lucky and bears a perfectly round, purple mark
on her hip as a result.
Mission complete, I disassemble my weaponry and return to my observation
post in front of the television.
You know, there are some who decry the use of domestic cleaning
equipment for killing. They say vacuums were meant for cleaning and not
hunting. They call me a mass murderer.
To them I say – vacuums don’t kill insects. All the filth in the
canister they bash into at six hundred miles an hour kills insects.
I realize vacuums can be turned on their owners, and I also know most
suction hicky’s are self-inflicted. Those are risks I’m willing to take
in the name of personal protection and dust-free carpets, drapes, and
many horizontal surfaces which can be dusted with that brush attachment
thing.
All the talk of vacuum control in this country is a waste of time. There
are too many unregistered built-ins, not to mention portables and
Dustbusters, for any kind of control plan to make a difference. If
cleaners want a vacuum, they’ll be able to get one somewhere.
And if the Government wants to register my vacuum, they’ll have to pry
the plastic hand-grip with convenient on/off thumb switch from my cold,
dead, purple-spotted hands.
http://occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
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'Tis
the Season of the Whacker
By Kathryn Cureton, Missouri
My boys eagerly anticipate the holiday season. While some people might
attribute their excitement to the return of Santa and piles of gifts,
they would be sorely mistaken. My boys count the days until the return
of The Whacker. Their keen longing reaches a fever pitch the moment I
bring a new Whacker into the house.
It doesn't matter that The Whacker is covered with wrapping paper. They
know what lies beneath. Oh, they try to make do throughout the year with
lesser paper towel whackers, or the lowly toilet paper whackers. But
nothing beats the Christmas Whacker as a prime instrument of whackage.
The boys stand near the pool table, where I lay out the non-kid gifts
for wrapping. At ten and seven, they are not there to help. They are
only in it for The Whacker. Genius, the older, lays claim to the first
Whacker. Many a time, I've been hard at wrapping, with several
camouflaged Whackers laid out on the pool table, only to hear my son
whine, "Use that one. It's almost ready. Hurry up! Just peel off a
little more." The little one, the boy we call The Pony, due to his
aversion to My Little Pony kid’s meal toys, after an unfortunate
order-taking gender mix-up, will ask, "Are you about done with my
Whacker?"
The Christmas Whacker is a special breed. It is longer than the other
varieties of Whackers, such as those found at the center of rolls of
aluminum foil. It’s more fun to swing through the air. It thumps louder
when you hit your brother over the head with it. It lets out a booming
echo when you put your mouth to the hole in the end and yell "WOOHOO"
into it. Sometimes, you just blow into it to hear air gushing from the
end. But blowing The Whacker isn't nearly as fun as stabbing or smacking
somebody with it. Too much blowing causes The Whacker's hole to get
moist and soggy, and nobody wants to touch a wet Whacker.
The lifespan of the Christmas Whacker is approximately two days in our
house. Oh, some have perished within an hour. And the odd one might have
been lost behind the couch and survived for a couple of weeks. But those
are exceptions to the rule.
The first sign of a declining Whacker is the crack. It might be a
blowout near one end, but it generally appears in the middle. The crack
causes The Whacker to wobble in a swordfight, and lessens the pain of
the victim in a good old-fashioned noggin-whacking.
As the crack is ripped open, the Whacker-wielder calls for amputation
near the gaping wound. The regal Christmas Whacker then becomes a
mini-Whacker, which is not effective against a full-size Whacker. This
causes the owner of the ailing Whacker to whimper to Mom, "I get the
next Whacker. Mine is no good anymore." He then stuffs the stumps of his
Whacker into the wastebasket. Sometimes, their dad pulls Whackers out of
the trash and places them in his burn pile. He thinks it is wrong to
waste space in the dumpster with a Whacker that is perfectly good flame
fodder.
As the holiday season draws to a close, we store our Whackers, still
covered with superfluous Christmas wrapping paper, in the rafters of the
basement workshop. Until they are called into action again next year.
http://unbaggingthecats.blogspot.com
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For
Lack of a Better Word
By
Tom Harris, Ohio
According to Regina Brett of the
Cleveland Plain Dealer, there are 1,010,649 words in the English
language. Why is it then, when just one word, or perhaps a few
well-chosen words, will do, the language is a desert, a barren plain?
The apt phrase proves to be a mirage. The hoped for witticism is drab,
withered, colorless. The desired sparkling comment – desiccated,
lifeless, dull. Finding a word is easy; finding the right word isn't.
And when I do find that perfect word, all too often it's too late. A few
years ago when I was out and about on weekend mornings covering 5Ks for
the local paper, fartlek would have been a welcome addition to my
vocabulary. Unfortunately, the word escaped my attention until last
night when I was making my way through Peter Bowler's The Superior
Person's Second Book of Weird and Wondrous Words. Fartlek, according to
Bowler, "is a method of training long distance runners, whereby the
trainee runs across country, alternating speed work with slow jogging."
Lest you think Bowler made this up, and I suspected he had,
dictionary.com, citing The Random House Dictionary, gives the definition
as, "a training technique, used especially among runners, consisting of
bursts of intense effort loosely alternating with less strenuous
activity." It is from the Swedish, meaning "speed play." While the
sources don't say, perhaps the bursts of speed are due to bursts of gas.
Because I didn't know the word, I never wrote, "Schmedley made no beans
about it, his time was better because he’s been spending more time doing
fartlek." Of course, if I had written that, the sports editor might have
raised a stink.
One of the more onerous tasks faced by a married man is assessing his
wife's appearance. And he must make regular assessments because she asks
him to. "How do I look?" she asks every time they are about to go out
the door and every time she dons a new outfit. "Boy, you look great," is
never a satisfactory answer, even when it's the truth. "Are you sure?"
she'll ask; or she'll say something like "You really don't mean that,"
or "You're just saying that," or "I think it makes me look fat."
Which is why embonpoint would have been such a handy word. Too bad I
didn't stumble over it while I was married. When she asked how she
looked, I could have said, "What a pretty dress. I love the color, and
it brings out your natural embonpoint." The Frenchiness would have
overwhelmed her, and she would have been happy for days. Eventually, of
course, she would have looked up embonpoint and discovered it means
"plumpness." That would have made for a rough week or two, but she would
have never again asked me how she looked.
And while on the subject of things nuptial, there is the word uxorious.
When I first came upon it a few years ago and looked it up in my copy of
The American Heritage Dictionary: Second College Edition, copyright
1985, the word was defined as "Excessively or irrationally devoted to
one's wife." More recently, when I looked it up online, the definition,
citing The American Heritage Dictionary, copyright 2000, was
"Excessively submissive or devoted to one's wife." What happened to
"irrational?" How is it in fifteen years the uxorious fellow went from
being nuts to being just really, really sensitive? I bet the chairperson
of the usage panel is a domineering full-figured woman embarrassed by
her embonpoint.
http://bulascribe.blogspot.com
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Let's
Wrap
By
Kurt Isaacson,
Minnesota
Lately I’ve been thinking about the
holiday season, and how it comes with the keeping of many traditions,
such as the tradition of Eating Cookies Shaped Like Snowmen Until Your
Pants No Longer Fit, along with the classic tradition of Attempting To
Find A Parking Spot At The Mall Because You Were Once Again Too Lazy To
Shop Before Christmas Eve.
There’s also the tradition of Trying To Properly Wrap Presents But
Failing Horribly At It. I’ve kept this tradition as far back as I can
remember. Simply put, I cannot wrap a present to save my life. When I’ve
finished wrapping anything, it always looks like it was the victim of a
direct artillery strike. The tape is randomly scattered about, rarely
even holding anything in place. The wrapping paper is rumpled, torn, and
uneven, many times leaving gaping views of the present itself. I never
even attempt such flairs as ribbon or bows, as I’d most likely end up
strangling myself.
I believe that my lack of present wrapping ability is part of my genetic
makeup and cannot be corrected, even with complex rehabilitation. I’ve
had people show me how it’s done, and it always makes total sense when I
watch it, but when it’s my turn, everything goes terribly awry. I also
believe that I’m not the only person afflicted with this problem. My
guess is that there are many others out there like me, the vast majority
of them male. (I also figure that most of these individuals cannot fold
a shirt properly and have serious issues fixing their beds.) So, in
order to help other people like me out, here are a handful of methods
I’ve come up with to confront my wrapping weakness:
The Duct Tape Method – This consists of placing the gift in a paper bag
and layering it with several rolls of duct tape. The purpose is to make
it nearly unopenable, which is always snicker-inducing, plus it allows
for the bypassing of wrapping paper altogether. This is the favorite
method of my brother. I’m not sure if he’s afflicted with the same
wrapping deficiency as me, or if he’s just evil, but it’s his trademark.
Sometimes he’ll wrap the present in a bag and duct tape it, and then
place that entire thing in another bag and repeat the procedure,
sometimes up to several times. He’ll then cackle the entire forty-five
minutes that it takes to tear it open. However, it is a tradition, and
it never gets old. For him, I mean.
The Make It Worse Method – This is when you embrace your deficiency and,
instead of trying to do a good job, which you’ll undoubtedly fail at,
you set out to wrap the gift as badly as possible. This usually involves
a large amount of wrapping paper, some tape, and a blindfold. When
you’re finished, the original size and shape of the item isn’t even
remotely reflected in the final product. When done correctly, anything
from a digital music player to a snowblower could be concealed within.
The payoff comes when somebody sees your wrap job. They automatically
assume that it’s your idea of a hilarious joke and laugh at your
craftsmanship, while never suspecting that if you’d truly tried, the
finished product would’ve only been marginally better.
The Acceptance Method – This is when you simply accept the fact that
you’re hopeless at wrapping. You still make the attempt, which leaves
you with what I call artillery strike presents, which you should push
towards the back of the tree to keep from being an eyesore. On Christmas
morning, when each recipient finally gets to theirs, they’ll treat you
like a child who’s drawn them a picture they can’t discern exactly what
of. They’ll say something like, “Wow, what a...uh...interesting wrap
job!” and you’ll die a little inside. I’ll admit it’s not a perfect
solution, but it is the easiest.
Even if you use one of these methods, it still isn’t a lot of fun being
terrible at wrapping gifts. This is why you should always keep in mind
the old saying that it’s the thought that counts. Remember, a perfectly
wrapped present or an artillery strike present should be viewed the same
in the eye of the receiver. Still, if you want to hedge your bets, make
sure you give something a little extra. Nothing helps your thought count
more than a few twenties tucked away under all that duct tape.
http://fromthedeskofcurly.blogspot.com
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3
Stories That Didn't Make The Front Page In 2011
By
Carl M., Florida
(Last name withheld by
request.)
It’s that time of the year where we reflect and look back at the top
news stories of the year. But, what about those stories that didn’t make
the big headlines? The ones that were buried on page 97? This is due, in
part, to the fact that many times the article is short on information
and many of the questions that you would like to have asked go
unanswered.
In keeping with the journalistic integrity that I swore to when I took
my Oath of Hypocrisy, I would like to present several of these articles
from the past year and ask those tough, unanswered questions.
The first article comes from Maryland where the Assistant Maryland State
Veterinarian says that racing pigeons from New Jersey, New York and
Pennsylvania must have health certificates, before flying to Maryland,
because of avian influenza. My first question is obvious. How do you
know when a pigeon has the flu? How do you get the thermometer under
their little tongues? And, most importantly, do they get charged sick
days if they don’t race?
Another question comes to mind. How do they carry the health
certificate? Isn’t their just so much room in those containers strapped
to their legs? And, what about this flu? Can humans catch it? What are
some of the symptoms? Will I have an uncontrollable urge to want to
leave little spots on my neighbor’s windshield? Will I be found sitting
in the park on top of the General Custer statue? These were the
questions not answered in the article.
The next story comes from Frenchboro, Maine. Apparently, they had an
opening for the sixth time, in as many years, for a teacher in it’s
twelve student, one-room schoolhouse. Here comes the kicker. Frenchboro,
Maine is an island ten miles out in the Atlantic Ocean. My question here
is, who makes up the twelve students? Gilligan, The Skipper, The
Professor, The Movie Star, Mary Ann and Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell?
The article goes on to say that qualifications include a love of
solitude and the ability to survive harsh winters. They left out one
important qualification. You must never have seen “The Shining.” The
article also says you must be able to do without stores, movie theaters,
and restaurants. Now, there’s a plus.
So, what is there to do in Frenchboro, Maine? The last teacher there
said that she is stepping down to spend more time with her new baby.
Okay, now I know what there is to do in Frenchboro, Maine.
The next story comes from Hillside, New Jersey. A Newark postal clerk
was honored, recently, with a special headstone for bravely protecting
the mail from going down with the Titanic ninety-nine years ago. My
question is, what kind of mail would be on the Titanic? A postcard from
the ship’s gift shop that says, “Dear Cousin Cleo, Having a wonderful
time. Wish you were…what was that?”
So, there you have it. I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for another
selection of interesting, yet pointless, stories in 2012 and I won’t
give up until I have asked the really tough questions. Now, where was
that story about the guy who mailed himself to Latin America in a number
ten envelope?
http://contributor.yahoo.com/user/319855/carl_megill.html
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A
House Divided
By
Judi Veoukas,
Illinois
“My three houses in England all have names,” the pompous British lady
told the radio interviewer.
“La-de-da” was my first reaction, but soon the snob had my interest. I
wish I could have jotted down all the titles she articulated, but since
I was driving that was out of the question. I think this is what I heard
her rattle off (although I could be wrong): The Old Tweed House, Large
Tooth Cottage, and Welsh Corgi by the Wayside.
After 30 minutes of listening, I began to think it quite the quaint
custom. By the time I arrived home, I suggested to my husband that we
name our house in the tradition of the English.
“Goody,” he said. “We’ll name ours ‘The Money Pit.’”
“You don’t understand,” I asserted, “I want its name to be something
utterly British.”
“How about ‘Ye Olde Money Pit’?” he replied.
“It’s not a money pit,” I argued.
“Tell that to the county assessor,” he said.
“It’s also not old,” I argued.
“Look at the roof,” he said, in a tone geared toward the not-too-bright.
“I’m too busy pondering this naming thing to do that,” I said in a snit.
“Want to know what conclusions I’ve formed while doing my in-head
research?”
“No,” he said.
I’ve never let “no” stop me from telling him something, so I blathered
on. “In the United States we don’t name our houses, but several places
in our country have the word ‘house’ or ‘home’ attached to their names
and they aren’t actual houses.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” he said, completely flummoxed.
“The Waffle House, The Huddle House, and The International House of
Pancakes.”
“Now you’ve got me salivating,” he said, looking toward the kitchen. But
he stayed put and went on. “In the United States,” he said, “we do have
genuine homes with the word ‘house’ in them. We have the White House,
Little House on the Prairie, and of course, The Big House.”
“I’d rather you focus on our property.” I said. "And, I don't know many
people who would consider The Big House homey.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll focus. We can call our place La Casa de Beige.”
“That’s Spanish,” I grumbled. “I thought I made it clear I want it to
have an English name.
“Have you been reading Jane Austen again?”
I hadn’t, but I thought his question brilliant. “We can call our place
something like Donwell Abbey or Mansfield Park!”
“We live in a suburban development,” he said “where our house looks like
every other one and you want to attach ‘abbey’ or ‘park’ to it? Maybe
Cookie Cutter Cottage, Vinyl-sided on Avon, or Blimey Beige in the
Boonies would be closer to the truth.”
Frustrated, I took a walk outside to ponder further romantic Jane
Austen-like names. I came up with Mr. Darcy’s Domicile, Emma’s Estate,
or Fanny’s Field of Fragrance, leaving me in a happy British state of
mind.
My husband soon joined me, declaring he had some brilliant
British-influenced ideas. He also insisted that since we live at the
edge of the woods we must take that into consideration. He offered me
these three to choose from: Coyote View, Chipmunks Merry Meadows, or,
his very favorite, Deer-Dropping Lane.
We now have a sign in front. It reads, Judi & Stan's House."
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Toenails
For Love
By
Chris Weilert,
California
There is an old saying, "a happy mama means a happy home." Translated
for husbands means, keep your wife happy and you might get some lovey
dovey, hanky panky or silence during the football game. Sometimes, we as
husbands have to begrudgingly do tasks to receive our little favors in
return. Going to a chick flick and buying her women's hygiene products
at eleven at night in a convenience store may be part of the deal.
My wife finally coerced me to go get a pedicure because she couldn't
take the constant jabbing of my toenails in bed. I resisted as long as I
could until she used the threat of no sexy times for me. She tried to
insist that I would enjoy it and other men do it. "Baloney, no man would
be caught dead in one of those joints", I'd say. The moratorium on sexy
times turned out to be true and off I went to Ms Kim's Salon.
The deal was we had to venture across town at night to secure my
identity. If this got out in the neighborhood that I was a salon patron,
the men folk would be whooping it up like a bunch of crazed hyenas. I
entered the establishment with my wife in tow, who was acting like kid
in a candy store. "Honey, you can get a haircut, and a medi-pedi all in
one visit", she exuberantly announced to me and all of the other
patrons.
I lowered my baseball hat and Ms Kim took my arm and sat me in a
reclining chair.
This was no ordinary recliner, it had a built-in tub for the feet, a
massage remote control for vibration control and heat. So there I sat in
the big comfortable chair, with the salon girls giggling as I submerged
my size thirteen feet into the warm water bathtub. Sitting next to me
were other women with one exception of teenage boy getting his feet
worked on. I asked him if he was dragged in here too and before he could
answer his mother chimed in, that he likes it.
I will not deny that this didn't feel comfortable and soothing, but it
is the principle of why we are here. We as husbands are not supposed to
be pampering ourselves with beauty products and getting ourselves all
dolled up. He are hunters and gatherers, not dancers and prancers. As
the experience progressed, there was some pain, some laughter and almost
tears when the tools were used on my tender tootsies.
Believe it or not there was a small selection of men's magazines to choose from, so I diverted my attention to a sport magazine. I was thumbing through
it when I locked on to an article about a guy up in Alaska who was a six
time dog sledding champion. There is a big race every year where
dogsledders from all over the world enter this thousand mile trek across
the Yukon. I was in awe of these guys who endured this journey for a
meager prize and free Alpo.
The journey that I had to make was from the nail shop in disposable flip
flops to secure my clear acrylic that was brushed onto my toenails. I
thought of those guys in the great white north bundled in parkas and
boots and then I had to sashay to my car in flimsy little sandals.
Oh well, we all can't be Commodore Perry exploring the north pole, some
of us have to be good husbands no matter what it takes.
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Till
Death, $79.95 Or Death Does Us Part
By
Thomas Wheeler,
Texas
An unfortunate irony is that financial difficulties often contribute
to a couple’s decision to divorce. yet it can cost thousands of dollars
to hire a lawyer to assist in untying the marital bonds. Do-It-Yourself
divorce forms, retailing for as little as $79.95, are sold both on-line
and at many office supply outlets. As a result, our local family law
court is flooded with “pro se” divorce cases.
I am a huge believer in the concept that the common man should have
access to the legal system. That belief, however, does not lessen the
problems caused by a lightly educated person trying to maneuver through
a hyper-technical legal system. For a great percentage of these
self-represented folks, the dream of getting a high school diploma
remains yet a dream. The thought of stepping in front of a judge is
frightening. Nevertheless, the desire to be “free from that
bitch/son-of-a-bitch” emboldens those who seek to end their marriage.
The designated period during which uncontested divorces are heard in my
court is facetiously called “happy hour”. I am faced with getting these
always nervous petitioners “from here to there” without giving legal
advice or becoming advocates for either side. The proceeding generally
goes something like this:
Judge: “Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth?”
The Guy*: “Uh huh."
Judge: “Mr. Smith, I need you to testify under oath to the information
contained in your Petition for Divorce. Start with your name.”
The Guy: “My name is David.”
Thomas Judge: “I need your full name.”
David: “Do I have to say my middle name?”
Judge: “I need you to tell me your full name.”
David: “David Clydesdale Smith, the third...but I go by Skippy.”
Judge: “OK, Mr. Smith. When were you married?”
Skippy: “In August.”
Jude: “What year?”
Skippy: “Ummm. This is 2011, right? It was last year. That was ummmmm “
Judge: “2010?”
Skippy: “Yeah. Wait. Maybe it was before.”**
Judge: “We will go with 2010. Tell me the reason for the divorce.”
Skip: “Cuz she’s crazy. She wouldn’t let me have any fun. Get a job.
Change your drawers. Put down the lid. She was bitchin’ at me all the
time.”
Judge: “Your petition says ‘irreconcilable differences’. I so find.***
Did ya’ll have any children?
Skippy: “No. Thank God. I have three and she has three but she had her
tubes tied after the last one. She’s sterile.”
Judge: “Have you agreed on how to split your property?”
Skippy: “When she kicked me out, I tried to take the big screen but she
kept whoppin’ me with a three iron so I guess I just want my truck.”
Judge: “What kind of truck?”
Skippy: “A 1996 Dodge 350. It’s got a Hemi. You can hear me comin’ from
a mile away.”
Judge: “You mean your wife doesn’t want your truck? That’s hard to
believe.**** Do you have a Decree for me to sign?”
Skippy: “A what?”
Judge: “A paper granting your divorce. I see you looking through a bunch
of papers. Let me see them. Car registration, letter from your parole
officer, a notice claiming back child support...Here it is. Give me a
minute…OK. Mr. Smith, You are divorced.”
Skippy: “Thanks…How long is it before I can get married again?”
* Wearing his best beer company logo t-shirt
** Math and history were not Skip’s strong suits
*** The man did have a point
**** Skippy has never heard of the word “facetious”
On occasion, the Almighty peeks into these proceedings. A couple of
weeks ago, a large but clearly female human stepped onto the witness
stand during happy hour. I gave her the oath (Do you solemnly swear…etc)
and I heard from her direction “I will”…except the “I will” was said in
a deep resonating voice that would shame James Earl Jones. Both my head
and the head of my court reporter whipped around to examine the source
of the sonic boom-like “I will”. If I were to imagine the voice of God,
this would be it. I recall a similar sound coming from the synthesizer
in the “E. T.” movie. The bass singer for the Oak Ridge Boys couldn’t
hold a candle. It was mammoth. It was disconcerting. It was…scary. I am
not sure whether or not the divorce was properly proved-up. At that
moment, I didn’t care. When the voice of God asks me to sign, I sign.
.
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