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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
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February / March 2012
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
the Winners of our
February / March 2012 Humor
Writing Contest!
Skirts v. Skins
By
Barry Parham, South
Carolina
As an adult (sic), one discovery I keep making is that most of what we
were taught in school is bunk. Reams of facts with a Real World
Reusability Factor of zero. I don't know about you, but in my social
circles, the per capita income of pre-industrial Europe almost never
comes up.
I've never been asked, "What, again, is that Latin third person plural
of 'to love'?" I've never been vetted with, "Okay, I'll go out with you,
after you discuss, in 250 words or less, the broad use of irony in the
short stories of O. Henry. Include examples."
All my life, I've been avoiding responsibility, and salads, and I've yet
to get myself out of a jam by knowing the value of pi.
(I did say 'hypotenuse' once, but I meant something else.)
Schools should prepare us for real issues, like the timeless, burning
question: Why do guys act like that?
Specifically, American guys, who are different than guys in non-NASCAR
countries. For example, in Africa, some women all do the hard labor,
including, well, labor, building the homes, cooking, cleaning, and
driving off George Clooney.
So here's a handy "What Would A Guy Do?" quiz.
~-~-~-~-~-~
There are two grocers near your neighborhood. How does a guy choose
between the two?
A) High quality
B) Low prices
C) An aesthetically pleasing fresh produce space
D) Distance from the parking lot to the beer
What plot device guarantees a guy will love a movie?
A) Cars
B) Women in cars
C) Women in cars, with weapons
D) Nearly-clothed, heavily armed, gladiator women with massive, uh,
glandular disorders
What production element ensures a guy will hate a movie?
A) Subtitles
B) Subplots
C) Animated forest animals, unless they're heavily armed
D) Hugh Grant
Of the grocer's 48 check-out lanes, 3 are actually open. How does a guy
pick a lane?
A) The one with the least customers
B) The one with the least overflowing carts
C) The one with the most magazines discussing drastic diets, ditzy
Kardashians, and Hugh Grant
D) The one with the check-out clerk named Amber
What does a guy consider to be a new car's most important feature?
A) Great miles per gallon
B) Great safety ratings
C) Free pizza with any test drive
D) The car was in a TV commercial, where it got hand-washed by a
burger-eating blonde
When shopping for a television, what technical spec is most important to
a guy?
A) A crisp, bright picture
B) A long-lasting display
C) A remote control where, roughly, the number of buttons = pi
D) A screen the size of your average pre-industrial European nation
To save time, a guy decides to use the grocer's self-check-out. Of
course, one item won't scan, because the whole self-check-out process
was designed by evil mutant space-alien trolls who hate Earthlings and
never trim their nose hair.
That was not part of the quiz - I just needed to get that off my chest.
When it comes to job interviews, what is a guy's greatest fear?
A) An unattractive salary
B) An unattractive benefits package
C) An unattractive but flirty boss
D) An unattractive but flirty boss who's a guy
When it comes to eating out alone, what is a guy's greatest fear?
A) The big-screen TVs might all be tuned to professional league bowling
B) Those pitying sidelong stares from other restaurant patrons
C) The dreaded self-Heimlich
D) That fight-or-flight moment at the salad bar when he contemplates
just exactly why they call it a "sneeze guard"
According to the Creation story, God took a rib from Adam, the first
guy. What happened to the rib?
A) It became Eve, Adam's helpmeet
B) It became Eve, whom Adam called the 'apple of my eye,' although that
little term of endearment soured quickly
C) It became the first body part to be represented by celebrity attorney
Gloria Allred
D) No one really knows, but ever since then, guys have had this thing
about barbecue
~-~-~-~-~-~
By the way: I didn't intend to just discuss guys. But nobody could agree
on the female equivalent of the word 'guy.'
Neither 'girl' nor 'gal' will suit. 'Ladies' is corny, as is 'the other
half.' 'Distaff' is pretentious; besides, half of Facebook would think I
was talking about a stick.
One can't say 'babe,' one can't say 'chick' and, though it worked well
once upon a time, one can no longer say 'dolls.'
And don't even ask Rush Limbaugh what one can't say.
www.pmwebs.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 How
I Feel in Love with My Phone
By Peter Quinn, Tennessee
During a mid-afternoon respite in my man cave, I was watching
another riveting episode of Oprah. As I'm a middle age, balding, fat
white guy, some might think this was unusual.
I don’t care.
Anyway, this episode was about the governors and golfer, who got caught.
You know, caught! That Carolina governor who walked the Appalachian
Trail in South America, the other governor that took “maid service” to a
whole new level, and the golfer whose wife could hit a driver with a 9
iron. They all got caught sexting.
I am a “with it” man of the 90s, what is sexting?
I was intrigued. So I called up my neighbor, a 30 year old twenty
something, living with his mom.
“Dude, sexting, is when you send naughty stuff to your girlfriend in a
text message.”
“What’s a text message?”
"Oh really my phone can do that?”
Now I was curious, who should I text first, my girlfriend Donna, who
dumped me three years ago, she seemed like a good candidate.
I started out slow and patient, this was my first time. I hit the send
button and off the message went to wherever these messages go when they
go.
Then I got a message back. WOW this really works.
Your txt message to your Doctor has been sent.
Doctor! No it was supposed to go to Donna!
Moments later my phone beeped. You have 1 txt message.
My doctor had actually responded back to my text.
N ur condition, u shld not b do n such actvty! Have u had ur hrt chkd?
Two days later I got a bill for $150 for a consultation. So far this
sexting thing wasn’t what I thought it was.
Later, at one of my board meetings, which to the common eye would look
like a group of octogenarians sitting at a McDonald’s drinking coffee, I
turned the conversation to sexting
“You don’t know about sexting?” Jan blurted
“Well not really.”
“You nimrod, Jan is the best at sexting!” Norm exclaimed which surprised
me because I thought Norm was deaf.
Jan is an 80 year old great grandmother with fire engine red hair, which
I don’t believe is her natural color.
“Yea she sex-texts all of us.” Jim said.
Then I looked down the table as 8, 80 plus year old men, held up their
phones each with a grin from ear to ear.
“What’s your number sonny?” Jan demanded
I gave it to her and within a minute I had my first legitimate sex-text.
“OH MY GOD! Is this legal?”
This explained why there were 9 guys and Jan at these board meetings.
It seems that Jan has taken up sexting as a way to keep her mind and
hands active, she said it was better than drinking Gin all day.
I became one of Jan’s minions, in my mind she wasn’t the 80 year
octogenarian but a nubile young 30 something with desires for me. I am
lucky my mind works that way.
Soon though I found that during sexting my hand would fall asleep, then
Jan wanted to know what kind of protection I was using. She didn’t want
our texts to be infected with a virus.
Then I realized the length of my texts varied, the morning they were
short and sweet, by midafternoon my texts got longer, and then in the
evening I settled back to hardly any at all. Especially after a big
meal.
I confessed to Jim about my sexting.
“You need to be using the little blue keys, you can sex-text for 4
hours.”
Once I started using the little blue keys, I found I could text a lot
longer at a time, and up to four hours. I was texting everyone about
that, even my doctor.
At last my bill came, texting wasn’t free, in fact it was at the
opposite end of free. I took out a second mortgage on the house and went
to pay the bill. At the phone center they offered me the various
options. I had a decision to make: was I going to commit to unlimited
texting or would this just be a short term relationship and pay as I go.
Commitment, damn it.
Unlimited texts, I decided, I was all in.
At my next board meeting, Norm came up to me. I told him I had signed up
for unlimited texts.
“Good sonny, does your phone get pictures?”
http://bevnapdiaries.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Dead
Soon With Miss Eula
By Cindy Small, Alabama
Growing up in New Orleans, I was taught I could count on St. Anthony to
help me find something lost – a way of wheeling and dealing with the
saints. It only made sense that when my ancient, obese cat, Miss Eula,
was missing, I would dig a hole in front of my house and bury a
miniature St. Anthony. Not that she was worth it. Miss Eula was a
demonic feline coated with long jagged red hair, huge green half-moon
eyes and a mouth housing sharp teeth capable of shredding sheet metal.
She hated everyone, was extremely disagreeable and would never have been
kidnapped. I was also afraid to kill her knowing she would await me on
The Other Side.
New Orleans is known for jungle-hot rainy August days where grass
flourishes and sprouts on top of concrete, like a Chia Pet. Panicking
that I couldn’t find the damn cat plus feeling stress at owning a home
that would not sell, I would have buried Baby Jesus alive underneath my
house for luck. Frantically tossing furniture around inside and hurling
clothes everywhere, I noticed a reddish piece of tangled hair dangling
outside the large, multi-level kitty condo. Five hairs drooped out the
second level hole. I bent down and squinted inside Miss Eula’s mansion
–had she finally gone to her sweet rewards?!? Inside the condo. Deep in
the hole. No exit. Rigamortis. Obviously St. Anthony had not done squat.
I spun and rotated the faux-covered leopard kitty condo all over the
floor hoping the stiff body would eventually fall out. Pounding the
condo, she was not going anywhere, stuck in her woman cave forever. I
had to get her ass out of there somehow especially since my realtor was
showing my property that afternoon. This called for extreme action, like
asking my Republican neighbor in boxer shorts, Victor, to haul and drive
the condo embedded with said dislikable dead cat to my brother’s house
for amputation of the building. This was not an intrusion considering
the fact my neighbor’s entire social agenda consisted of sitting on his
porch devouring several pounds of Hershey’s kisses. His daily output of
energy was peeling the foil-covered candies like bananas and throwing
them into an old paint bucket.
Arriving at my brother’s Harry’s house, an unemployed bagel maker who
managed to get fired for not bagging bagels quickly enough, Victor and I
miserably tossed the entrenched Miss Eula into Harry’s garage. Harry
used every Home Depot tool imaginable attempting to surgically excise
the cat from her woman cavity but to no avail. Apparently the condo was
composed of particle board brewed from a recipe of nuclear waste, dirty
diapers and plastic bottles. She would not budge. Those same five
tangled red hairs dripped pathetically from the condo hole. No noise. No
life. Just a dead, bad-tempered, nasty Miss Eula.
After the realtors showed my house, Victor and I hauled the kitty condo
back into the truck. Rolling and wobbling the large tube toward my yard,
Miss Eula was positioned in all her glory against a crepe myrtle tree
until I had more time to deal with her surly self. I had a month-long
family trip planned and paid for, it was time for me to leave Miss Eula
and hope a possible tornado, cyclone or some such violent event might
sweep her away upon my return. Times passed as I found myself restfully
flying home feeling new-born from spending a month in the sun and salty
ocean. My cell phone collected a few messages from the realtor saying
some interest had peaked in my house for sale.
There was Victor on his porch peeling back Hershey kisses where I
arrived. Peeking through the sun, my eyes captured a “SOLD” sign! No
way! I speed dialed the realtor and St. Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost
Things, worked! Yay, his Holiness, Amen. The realtor had a full price,
all cash sale on my home. That little rusty statue buried in the front
yard finally delivered luck.
Like a sledgehammer hitting me, I parked in the back yard spotting a
grass-covered mound tilted against the crepe myrtle tree. Oh My God,
Miss Eula…the condo…dead…outside. Nervously, I dialed the realtor. All
was good, the closing on the house a week away, buyers loved it and
after the act of sale they would have their landscapers clear the yard
and haul away all debris. I’m sure Miss Eula will be awaiting me on The
Other Side.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Does
This Mattress Make Me Look Fat?
By
Ron Clyburn, Ohio
You come home from a hard day’s work. You kick off your shoes, grab a
cold one from the fridge and plop down in your recliner. You grab the
remote, turn the TV to ESPN… and the inevitable happens. Your wife steps
right in front of you, modeling some new article of clothing she bought
on sale at some discount clothing store, where the only men who work
there are in the back unloading semis full of discount clothing. And
then she says…
“Does this make me look fat?”
Time starts to slow down. You can’t even hear Sports Center anymore
because the blood rushing to your brain has drowned out all possible
sound. You sit there, trying to remember what the beer tasted like,
because you know that no matter what words come out of your mouth… you
are going to die. And this will be your last beer.
You stand a better chance of survival in a gladiator arena.
In the flash of an instant, possible scenarios play out in your mind:
Me: “You look great. Now, can I finish watching the scores?”
Wife: “Great? You mean like… great big? Is that what you mean?”
Me: “No, no. I mean… you look wonderful. Can I just drink my beer and
finish—“
Wife: “Wonder-full? Like full-figured? I’ll show you full! How about a
face full of sutures?!”
It doesn’t matter how you play it out… it still ends the same:
Sincere me: “Honey, you look like a goddess! You’re a pure vision of
love and beauty. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, can I please finish
watching—“
Not fooled wife: “You’re being over dramatic again. You do that every
time you don’t tell the truth. You think I look fat, don’t you? I’ll
show you fat! How about a fat lip?!
I’m a lot older and a lot wiser now. Older means, my cat-like reflexes
are not what they used to be. Wiser means, I try to take a step or two
toward the door before I give her my answer.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and no… my wife is not that bad. But
I’ll be willing to wager, there is not a man on this planet with a wife
or a girlfriend, who has not been in that situation.
Where am I going with all this? I’m going to a conversation I had with
my vision of love and beauty, where the shoe was on the other foot:
Wife: “You need to flip the mattress.”
Me: “Huh? We've had if for a year. We can’t make any money on it now.”
Wife: “No. I mean turn it over.”
Me: “What for? It’s comfortable the way it is.”
Wife: “It has a divot on your side.”
Me: “A divot?”
Wife: “Actually, it’s more like a crevice, or a crater.”
Me: “What are you trying to say?”
Wife: “Nothing. The mattress needs flipped. That’s all.”
Me: “You’re saying I’m fat.”
Wife: “No. I’m not.”
Me: “You’re saying… my fat ass has put a crater in the mattress.”
Flustered wife: “No. I just—“
On a roll me: “You’re saying… I’m so fat, I make memory foam forget.”
Out of options wife: “UGGH!”
She stomps out of the room, and I stand… victorious, in the gladiator
arena, raising my imaginary sword to the emperor as the throngs of
spectators chant my name…
Ronicus Gluteus Maximus!
I go to the fridge, grab a cold one and make my way to the recliner.
Half way through Sports Center, I realize that I’m going to need some
help flipping that mattress. It’s a king size, and kind of heavy. Hey,
where else would a fat-ass like me sleep?
www.remedialthinking.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Go
Ahead -- Spam Me!
By
Anita Lanning,
Oregon
Annoying as it
is, unwanted e-mails are a part of internet users’ lives. Call it spam,
bulk or junk mail, there it is, filling up inboxes. My internet service
provider does a good job filtering the junk but because they don't
always get it right, I periodically scan through the list of messages,
click "delete all" and free my hard drive of unwanted incoming.
Often, curiosity gets the best of me and I take a closer look before I
click.
Several messages from different senders asked me the same question: How
would you like to add three inches? Well, if they're talking about
adding three inches to my waist and hips, they're too late. I'm doing a
pretty good job of that myself. However, if the intent is to add three
inches to me vertically, I'm tempted to check it out. Recently, during
my bone density scan I discovered I'd lost an inch-and-a-half in height
since my previous one three years ago. Yikes! The Incredible Shrinking
Woman! The tech quickly assured me that this is normal for women as we
get older, but that did not assuage my anxiety. At this rate, I
envisioned myself one day looking up at my cat!
But back to the three inches offered by the e-mailers--I'm guessing they
don't mean vertically or horizontally. In fact, since I’m female, I
doubt they're talking about me at all and I click them into oblivion.
As I further peruse my junk mail, I note I’ve received several from
ladies with offers of their own. Kayla, Jennifer, Lisa2819, AnneMarie,
Mitzi and numerous others, all asking if I want to hook up tonight. I
contemplate what would happen if these "girls" coordinated their offers.
It would be quite a crowd! Again, I'm guessing they aren't aware of my
gender. Intriguing as the prospect sounds, I send them into the black
hole called cyberspace, along with one from Tiffany3730 who’s HOT
tonight and invites me to join her via webcam. Pretty sure she’s not
talking about watching as she brushes her teeth!
The range of topics in my junk mail folder is endless. I can get out of
debt, raise my IQ, buy property in Costa Rico, get a degree, order the
weight loss pill Oprah endorses, lose 20 pounds with a colon cleanse (ew!),
learn the secret of winning at slots, train to be an auto mechanic or
find out if I'm a winner in some sweepstakes/contest I never entered.
Tempting, but I have a feeling I know the answer before opening the
message. So, all these and dozens of other incoming get the
click-you're-gone treatment and my junk mailbox is much shorter.
There's one message, though, that catches my attention. It is from a
Mrs. Mary Martins in Switzerland, who starts her message with "Beloved,
Greetings in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." She goes on to say she
is recently widowed, childless and dying from cancer, with only two
months to live. Her husband, a wealthy man, left her his business and
wealth of £9 million. Somewhere, Mrs. Martins found my name, and after
much prayer, has decided to share that £9 million with me upon her
death. Once she hears from me, she will send me the informations (sic)
I'll need to get this money released to my bank account. She only needs
the number to complete the transaction. It is her fervent prayer that I
use the money to help the less privileged, as God spoke to her and told
her that is what He wants her to do. Touched as I am by Mrs. Martins'
offer, I think I won't take her up on it. I'm pretty sure if I gave her
my bank account number I'd shortly find myself among the less privileged
she’s so concerned about. Oddly enough, a few months later I receive the
same offer from her, and while I’m relieved she survived past the two
months she had to live, I once more consign her message to the black
hole of cyberspace.
When I click the "delete all" button on my junk mail messages, it is
with a certain sense of melancholy, watching them disappear from my
screen. They have provided an entertainment value I haven't always
appreciated. But I need not fear. They will be back, I'm sure. Like cans
of Spam on grocery shelves, spam e-mail is plentiful and easy to open,
if you can stomach what's inside!
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