|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
February / March 2012
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
February / March 2012 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Candidates Demand Americans Return to Using Roman Numerals
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
A growing number of political candidates, and an uncountable number of
their supporters, have demanded the United States return to using Roman
Numerals for all business and budget transactions.
Warning that U.S. citizens must be on alert for suspicious looking
symbols (that could contain anti-American sentiments), Roman Number
politicians said it was the time to ban the use of Arabic numerals on
the North American continent.
Pasco county Florida, School board candidate Hoff-Langley, summed up the
Roman number view: “Arabic numerals have been infiltrating our budget
systems for too long.”
Educators across the country quickly pointed out that modern finance and
science would collapse without the use of Arab numbers and the Arabic
system of algebra. Roman Number candidates responded by casting blame
for the “global warming conspiracy.”
Hoff-Langley:
“Algebra was invented so that the American alphabet, the alphabet our
founding fathers used to write the American Constitution, would be
mixed-in with Arabic numerals. And they knew that algebra would lead
scientists to practice international polynomial-ism. Now those
scientists are pushing the global warming fraud on an innocent ice
skating American public.”
Incumbent politicians of both parties asked candidates to tone down the
rhetoric lest someone send them a budget report littered with X marks
and V symbols. Incumbent politicians admitted that they were terrified
that if Roman number candidates had their way, the capital letter I;
might become completely detached from their own personal ego.
Mississippi Congressman Thaddeius Maxigrandon the third:
“Suppose I sent a letter to my constituents which could be read as:
‘One pushed through earmark money for the new Tupelo High school. One am
glad one did. One is with you, as always. One hopes you remember to vote
for me.’
The Mississippi Congressman added:
“On the other hand if we adopt Roman Numerals, every time I count votes,
I get to start with my own true self”.
Math professors jumped into the fray and said that, if the country
adopted Roman numerals, they could not perform the simple task of
dividing 4 digit numbers. The professors also noted most of their
freshman students could not perform such division operations using any
number system.
To show goodwill towards all Americans, the Saudi-Arabian ambassador
volunteered to take a class in Roman numerals; adding that it might help
him understand Washington’s power point presentations.
Several Roman Number Candidates called a press conference to claim that
they had proof that, in the past, the Arab figure 8 had driven America’s
women to purchase overly tight girdles and, in the present, had created
thousands of motor cross accidents.
The candidates also claimed that only in their wildest dreams, did
jihadists think Americans would place the Arabic symbols 6 and 9
together; causing Americans to destroy their own birth rate.
History professors jumped into the fray to remind reporters that Europe
had abandoned the use of Roman numerals hundreds of years before America
became a nation and that, without Arab-based math, it would have been
impossible for Columbus to sail across the Atlantic Ocean.
Roman Number Candidates responded by flashing the victory sign for five.
Anthropologists jumped into the fray to remind reporters that scientists
in Israel use Arab numbers as well as algebra, to design aircraft,
irrigation systems, and advanced medical devices.
Roman Number Candidates responded by flashing two victory signs for ten.
President Obama jumped into the fray to remind reporters that it was
both Arabs and non-Arabs working together who first developed algebra,
and that this accomplishment should be celebrated for both its content
and promise for maintaining positive human relations, worldwide.
Roman Number Candidates responded by flashing a single middle finger for
“one negative human relationship”.
Reporters across the United States continued to hop, skip, and jump
around – as well as up and down – the fray, by gleefully pointing that
school board candidate Hoff-Langley had flunked his high school algebra
class:
Hoff-Langely responded: “You mean sticking exponent numbers up over
American letters is Arabic algebra? And all these years, those marks
just had been Greek democracy to me.”
www.bananaws.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 On
Traversing The Five Stages Of Grief While Skydiving After Forgetting To
Put On A Parachute
By
Pete Ballard,
Illinois
A lot of things
go through your mind when you skydive out of an airplane at 12,500 feet
and you realize you forgot to put on your parachute. Things like: “I
cannot believe I just jumped out of an airplane at 12,500 feet and
forgot to put on my parachute.” That’s my first one.
My next thought is: “I CANNOT FREAKIN’ BELIEVE I’M SO STUPID that I
jumped out of an airplane at 12,500 feet and forgot to put on my
parachute!” You know what? It’s the damn students’ fault. It was: “I’m
going to jump!/I can’t do this!” for, like, four hours straight. It was
time to head back and I thought, “Well at least I’m going to get a jump
in.” I must have taken off my chute to help them get into/out of their
chutes 300 times. Idiot.
Now What’s-her-name’s Five Stages of Grief pops into my head, and I
realize I had already gone through Stage 1 (Denial), and Stage 2 (Anger)
of coping with death, and I have been in free fall for maybe 10 seconds
at about 115 miles per hour, so I have 35 seconds before I normally
would deploy my parachute, had I had one; 40 seconds before I would
typically pull the cord on my reserve parachute, had I had one of those;
45 seconds before I would really, really want to deploy, well, any
parachute to avoid breaking my legs on impact; and 50 seconds before I
go “SPLAT!” on the ground, so the usual weeks or months people have to
progress through the grief stages after they learn they have a terminal
illness doesn’t apply in my situation, so I’d better get a move on,
because if Stage 3 (Bargaining) were, by some miracle, to be successful,
I would need to initiate negotiations fairly soon, and if that didn’t
work, I would prefer to not spend a ton of time in Stage 4 (Depression)
but instead advance briskly to Stage 5 (Acceptance), because who wants
to be depressed in the last moments of one’s life before his (or her)
body is obliterated on impact with the rock-hard earth? Not me.
25…24…23…
Bargaining: Haggling with God is nice idea in theory, but one that,
unlike the other four stages, requires higher-order reasoning skills,
which I’m here to tell you, are a little tough to marshal at a time like
this. The “Think Win-Win” principle occurs to me from some self-help
book I can’t recall. The “Win” for me, clearly, is not disintegrating in
15 seconds. I can’t really see what’s in it for God, except maybe a
pro-God story on the evening news tonight.
15…14…13…
Depression: As planned, I’m zipping through the Depression stage. I do
quickly note, however, that of all the things in the world I’ll miss—my
wife, my kids, my friends—the one that unexpectedly saddens me the most
is knowing that I’ll never again get a free slice of pie with any entrée
on Wednesdays at Baker’s Square and I’ve always wanted to try the Lemon
Meringue.
Oh, right! Win-Win—from “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.” I’m
glad I remembered that because it would’ve really bugged me for the next
eight seconds.
Acceptance: Ah, a moment of transcendent bliss!...that feels great but,
to be frank, not so great that I’d want to meditate for three hours a
day or go be some monk in Tibet. I mean, the massage chair at the
airport feels pretty great too.
Acceptance! C’mon, focus!
5…4…3…
It’s at this point, with my eyes closed and my soul ready to experience
life in the hereafter or be reincarnated as a mosquito or whatever, when
I land, not on the ground, but on a giant, green, swooping parakeet
named Ned, which I know because it says “Ned” on its dog collar, or I
guess bird collar.
My first thought is: “I cannot believe I jumped out of a plane at 12,500
feet and forgot to put on my parachute and was rescued by a giant, green
parakeet named Ned.” Then I think: “Well, here you go looping back to
Denial,” and since the parakeet intervention is a happy development, I
can just skip Anger, Bargaining, and Depression, move right to
Acceptance, and go get my free slice of Lemon Meringue Pie, if Ned ever
lets me down.
Ned! Fly me to Baker’s Square and I’ll split the pie with you! Win-Win!
www.deadlychicken.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
What
if the World Were Run By The Airline Industry
By Wayne Chan, California
A few days ago I flew to Seattle on a business trip.
Now, I’ve flown all over the world, for work and vacations alike, and
you’d think I’d be used to the service (or lack thereof) that one
typically gets on an economy flight nowadays.
You would think so, but you would be wrong.
The long lines, the ridiculous fees, the seats so small only hamsters
can fit in, the “elbow hockey” people have to play since there’s only
one arm rest between seats, the meals that only a hamster could feel
full from…hmm…I sense a pattern here.
So many inconveniences and they do this with the hope that they will
draw us back for more?
Well, I’ve had it. Next week, I’m driving across California on a
business trip. Yes, it will take longer, but on the other hand, I get to
leave when I want, eat what I want, take what I want, sit with who I
want, and everything will be designed for a normal, non-hamster-sized
body.
Still, there is still no shortage of people willing to endure the
onslaught of inconveniences that most airlines put us through. Maybe
we’re all gluttons for punishment. Maybe this is the airline’s way of
showing us tough love. Maybe, deep inside, something in our psyche
appreciates having to “do our business” in a bathroom the size of an
empty fridge while said bathroom is hurtling through the sky at 600
miles an hour.
Maybe it’s the rest of the world that needs to follow the airline’s
lead.
What if the world were run by the airline industry?
Movie Theaters would sell 250 movie tickets for an 8:00 pm show for a
theater that only seats 200. The theater ushers would then walk into the
theater and ask if anyone would like to wait around for the 10:00 pm
show and for their inconvenience will be given a free box of Milk Duds.
Then, as people sit down, they are only allowed to recline in their
theater seats during the movie itself. During previews and the closing
credits, all seats must be returned to their original upright position.
If allowed to recline the one inch of available space, any bump from
behind could eject an unsuspecting moviegoer across the theater into the
screen itself. The rule is: Upright = safe, One inch back = seat
ejection death.
Hotels would advertise nightly rates for their guests, but would charge
another $25 per bag if they intended to keep the luggage in their rooms.
However, if their guests chose to keep their bags in the trunk of their
car and change clothes in the backseat, there would be no additional
charges for that.
Dry Cleaners would offer "Frequent Launder" programs that would allow
customers to earn "Sudsy Points" with each paid item of clothing that
was dry-cleaned. After ten items were cleaned, a customer would have
earned one free cleaning for one item of clothing. These ten "Sudsy
Points" could be redeemed anytime, as long as that time occurred on a
Tuesday evening, during a leap year, on Rosh Hashanah, during a full
moon.
As an added bonus, customers could earn more points to allow them to
redeem a cleaning anytime (called the "Premium Launderer"). However, as
of this date, the only customers who have managed to wash enough clothes
to earn this award are the costume crew of "Dancing With The Stars" and
some customers with obsessive/compulsive disorder.
For security purposes, local gyms would need to inspect each customer’s
gym bag before entering the gym. Any items that could be used as a
weapon are strictly prohibited. This includes any soaps or deodorants
over 3 oz. in size, but also includes other potentially dangerous items
such as bras, jock straps and gym socks that haven't been washed in over
four days.
Dentists would operate the same way, but would charge differently. While
charging the same for a filling, patients would incur additional
charges, including checking in ("Pre-treatment documentation fee"), the
time spent waiting in the waiting room with complimentary magazines from
the late 90's ("Pre-treatment entertainment fee"), and sitting in the
dentist's chair ("Sedentary time fee"). Upon leaving, the patient would
have to pay a “Post-operative, post-present fee”.
The problem is, the next time I have to travel cross country or to Asia,
I’ll be…getting on a plane. So, until I can afford travelling first
class all the time, or find a great deal on a private jet on Craigslist,
I guess I’m out of luck.
www.trooce.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Kiddie
Games Teach Poor Morals
By Eric Charbonnel, Pennsylvania
“Many of the games we teach our children are actually the things that
rob them of their innocence. In order to stop this madness, we mustn’t
allow our children to ever play or have fun. Unless of course, it is in
the best interest of Mongolia” -
Genghis Khan’s Gravestone
Monopoly - Teaches kids that greed is good. “Oh, you just landed on my
hotel-donned Boardwalk! I wish I could help you out, but you’ll just
have to join the other 99% and collect 200 dollars when you pass Go.”
Twister - Teaches kids that interlocking with members of the opposite
sex is a wholesome practice. Those who realize the inappropriateness of
the whole situation will end up only playing with those of their same
sex and in turn become homosexual (not that there’s anything wrong with
that).
Chinese Checkers - Reinforces the falsity that all Asians are Chinese.
Battleship - Teaches kids that war can be fun. “You sunk my battleship!
And senselessly slaughtered three hundred hard working men and women in
the process!”
Candyland - And we wonder why there is a drug problem in America.
Candyland is essentially the craziest acid trip a person can have. It is
the board game that surpassed marijuana as the ultimate gateway drug.
Don’t Wake Daddy - We see what happens when an infuriated daddy wakes
up, but what we don’t see is the aftermath and I can assure you, child
abuse is not funny.
Guess Who - Teaches kids to blatantly judge people. “Does your person
look like they have poor fashion sense? Does your person look like they
earn minimum wage? Does your person look like a possible rapist?”
Risk - Teaches kids that with a little elbow grease, world domination is
possible. “After a few more games I’ll be able to apply my craft to the
real world and become the next Mussolini!”
Snakes and Ladders - Gives kids the idea that sliding down a serpent’s
back is a healthy practice.
Yahtzee - One night you’re playing a wholesome game of Yahtzee. The next
night they’re in an alleyway rolling dice for crack money.
Jenga - Teaches kids to be destructive. Next time a building falls down
we may assume it’s a terrorist attack, but it’s probably a twelve year
old on a power trip.
Mouse Trap - Teaches kids that animal cruelty can be fun if you let some
kind of outlandish Rube Goldberg invention do the abusing.
Hungry Hungry Hippos - Teaches gluttony. And we wonder why one-third of
our country is obese. And we also wonder why one-fifth of our country
scatters marshmallows around a table and gobbles them up by only
extending their necks.
https://twitter.com/#!/the_real_charbi
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Screening
for Sainthood
By Patty Clark, California
On May 1, 2011, the late Pope John Paul
moved a step closer to becoming a saint in a jubilant ceremony that drew
over one and a half million people revering the pontiff. Wouldn’t we all
like to be worthy of beatification in our lives?
Then it dawned on me. Who makes these
judgment calls of passing all criteria for saintly stature? I hope it’s
not the team of panelists from Dancing with the Stars. If they sit in
the twinkling atmosphere that close to angels, forming opinions by
presiding over any of my course of actions, some of them may not be
tallying up a good score for me.
Although I wouldn’t say my virtuous conduct is second rate, even if my
fox-trot is.
If I have to be virginal to attain this merit of mightiness, forget it.
I had three births, unless my trio decides to never acknowledge me as
their mother and I can have a magician get rid of my stretch marks.
There is a surplus of other embryos in incubation bringing my own walk
towards canonization to a crawl, bearing in mind that there could be
another Mother Theresa entering the population. It may take a few
miracles on my part to enlist myself into martyrdom. I could favorably
pick up the phone book ready to lend a helping hand to a few hundred
thousand fellow Americans. Or try to buy the vial holding the Popes
blood to inject for sanctity if they would accept a two party check from
Boise.
I’ve traveled through life somewhat a friar. I open doors for five
people, not just one. I have given to the Anti-Defamation League of
B’nai B’rith International and I’m not even Jewish. And I’d be happy to
donate more blood before all the mosquitoes get it. I may not possess
the vocal talent of Streisand, but I have gifted some elders at the old
folks home with songs of off-key cheer. I would like to stand as a
divine angel before the Senate to amend abominable acts of voting
against sufficient health care. Nursing the ill is already my dedicated
motherly tradition, but serving the poor is another whole plate of mush
I need to master.
I have seen the “light”, or was that the beams of an approaching car
last night? I’m no skeptic. I swear I’ve seen a vision of the Lord on a
tree trunk bordering my property. I would have Fed-Ex'ed the Vatican my
proof, but it has miles of roots and the kids in the neighborhood climb
on it with their dirty shoes marring the image. Sometimes it’s covered
in bird poop, but I know He’s there. When I pass it every day going to
the mailbox, He speaks to me. Either that, or it’s close neighbor Henry
calling my name to join him for a scotch and soda. Sometimes I think of
Henry as the Almighty One, since he frequently has alcohol already iced
and I don’t.
I hope nobody abolishes my attempts in jumping the hurdles towards
holiness. So I fibbed to my children that Santa was real. And since I
was the proud owner of trimming shears, I perfectly pruned my friends
Maltese with only two bald patches. It wasn’t my fault he moved! Or the
time I left the restroom at Target and walked straight out the door to
my parked car with a whole roll of toilet tissue trailing behind. That
wasn’t really stealing, so I hope that doesn’t obstruct my progress to
the pearly gates and sanctification. My strict Catholic upbringing kept
my conscience in check and away from most misdeeds. I was always afraid
to go outside in fear that a bolt of lightening would strike me from the
sky if I did something morally or ethically wrong.
I was baptized and almost drowned in the process. I made my first
communion and almost choked to death. So those should account for some
of the suffering I have endured. After I’m long gone, I too would love
to have a huge tapestry bobbing above a densely packed crowd of devotees
revealing my name just as he had. But being a US citizen, we could fill
Times Square instead. To honor me, they can carry a special occasion
custom carved candle for a lighting ceremony. Oh, and a cocktail. No one
would need to bribe Henry to be there with booze.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Hey
Weirdo, Welcome to the Club!
By
Burton
Cole, Ohio
The great philosopher Scott ''Dilbert'' Adams succinctly summed up the
simple truth: ''Everybody is somebody else's weirdo.''
Truth sets you free. If you already know others think you're a nimnod,
you don't have to pretend anymore that you're not. You get to goof up as
much as you like, and no one is surprised. They count on it.
If you, say, cut a hole in the kitchen wall because you forget to let go
of the power saw (I'm not saying I actually did this, and please, it is
not necessary to ask my wife. She makes stuff up), your family will
shrug and say, ''Didn't really expect anything different. He's weird
that way.''
If you accidentally get a job right, your astounded loved ones treat you
like a hero. (Note: While adoration is nice, don't make perfection a
habit. Pretty soon, the chains of raised expectations make a snatch at
you, and you lose the freedom to flub.)
If you open your front door on Halloween or step outside on St.
Patrick’s Day, you probably witness plenty of peculiar. Festivals grant
even the most stuffed of shirts permission to clip on pirate’s beards,
wear bed sheets, throw beads or speak in the worst brogue this side of
Lucky Charms commercials.
But nothing reaches the height of weirdness as much as what we pass off
as normal, everyday behavior.
My wife thinks it's weird that I won't use a soup spoon for soup. I tell
her my mouth isn't that big. You should see how weird she looks then. I
once unballed all the socks in my drawer and folded them the way I
prefer. More weird looks.
My daughter tries on several shades of red when I break out into song in
a department store, especially when I'm singing the Barney song to a
Barney doll. "Stop being a weirdo!" she hisses before she sprints to the
house paints aisle and snatches up a stir stick in case I follow and
claim to be related to her.
As the bumper sticker states, ''I'm not weird, I'm gifted.'' Exactly.
I saw this sticker on the back of a Chevy Malibu, the same model I drive
around my northeast Ohio home. If you think about it, the words
"Malibu'' and ''northeast Ohio'' in the same sentence is, uh,
''gifted.''
Some insane people consider me weird – or possibly gifted – for walking
in the rain without an umbrella, an activity I happen to enjoy.
While I stroll through a downpour, the Umbrella People try to thrust all
manner of bumbershoots, parapluies and even parasols into my drenched
hands as they dash past. They judge my precipitation amble as a sure
sign of insanity. Or that my brain is too soggy to work.
They're weird.
But I will not, under any circumstances – possibly including to escape
charging bears – get anywhere near the edge of a dropoff higher than
five feet. My knees knock enough at three.
I live near scenic ledges. My daughter and sister will sit right on the
edge of those cliffs, not caring that the next step is 25 or 50 feet
straight down to a sudden stop at the end.
I judge their precipice perching as a sure sign of insanity. Or that
their brains are too drained of oxygen to work.
They think I'm the weird one. I'm OK with that.
Besides, the sooner we accept that we're all weird, the sooner we're
free to build Play-Doh animals at our desks at work, surprising no one.
To quote C.S. Lewis, a professor who created the peculiar world of
Narnia, ''Many things – such as loving, going to sleep or behaving
unaffectedly (this means not acting weird) – are done worst when we try
hardest to do them.''
Embrace the weirdness. After all, you're already somebody's weirdo.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Burton-W-Cole/136002170959
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Disc
Golf Is A Funny Game
By
D. Michael Craft,
Missouri
I met a guy who invited me to play disc
golf with some buddies. I thought to myself, well, it’s fifty degrees
with a twenty mph wind, with gusts to forty. Sure, why not? All the
while I was getting ready I was thinking, “What am I getting myself
into?” I got my knit hat, my gloves (I figured mittens would make it
hard to grip the disc), my scarf and parka together and drove to the
course.
I arrived at the course and noticed the other guys had canvass bags. I
wondered if we were having a picnic. Nope, they carry ALL their discs in
those bags. My friend handed me two. I was confused and thinking, If
they need that many, why do I only get two? I can’t go “real” golfing
with just two clubs. These guys are talking about the different discs
they have and have used. Man, they are talking about the Destroyer, the
Boss, Valkyrie, Sidewinder, the Vulcan and the Nuke. The NUKE? Man these
guys take this game way too seriously. They don’t have any named the
Sylvester or the Tweety? My friend asked me which one I wanted to use. I
said, “I’ll take the orange one. “That’s a good choice, you’ll get a lot
of distance and it’s good on windy days. I told him, “Oh yeah, that‘s
what I was thinking.” What was I really thinking? I’ll take the orange
one. It’s my favorite color.
Okay, so they said we are playing eighteen today. Would that be holes?
No, that would be baskets. Baskets? Let me get this straight. We play
eighteen baskets? Just doesn’t sound right. Maybe that’s what all those
athletes are making in the underwater basket weaving class. So I watch
as the other guys step on to the “box”. Wow! What form. I give my new
friend Andrew a 9.5. His form was great and his disc flew about a mile.
How am I supposed to follow that. So I step up. Are they watching? I let
her rip. Literally. I think I ripped a muscle in my back. I amazed
myself. My disc must have flown a good ten feet before it landed with a
thud in the mud in a thicket of thorns. Oh yeah, this is going to be a
fun game.
Well, it only took me ten throws to get to the hole, uh I mean basket.
My next throw took advantage of the wind, no doubt. That thing must have
gone two hundred feet…in the wrong direction. The wind took it far left
and across the highway. As I stood waiting for the cars to pass I could
have sworn drivers and passengers all had a look of, “What an idiot.”
That didn’t bother me though because I figured by the time they drove
back the other direction I would be gone, so they wouldn’t have the joy
of seeing me take seven throws to get the disc back across the highway.
I really enjoyed my day, really. In three hours of playing disc golf on
a course in the middle of the woods I must have hit every tree, landed
in every pond, my shoes were covered in mud, I missed lunch and had to
pee like crazy. All that and my fourteen year old son, who was walking
along with me, said, “Dad if this was a movie about a ravenous bear, you
would be the first one eaten.” I’ve lived in the city far too long. All
the “holes” were par three so that’s fifty four for eighteen. I was only
sixty four over. Not bad for a first time if I have to say so myself and
believe me I was the only one to say so. Some say I am very frugal. I
like to get my money's worth. I sure did today. Okay, so it was free,
but at least I got more throws for the free than the other guys.
Disc golf is a funny game. At least that is what I gathered from the
guys I was playing with. Every time I threw I looked up and saw them
laughing. Did you know there is a PDGA? That’s right. A Pro Disc Golf
Association. I know. I couldn’t stop laughing either. How about that? It
is a funny game.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
What's
Up Doc? A Visit to Your Physician
By George Davis, Maine
Have you ever been to the doctor’s office and experienced visits like
this with your doctor?
“You may experience some discomfort.” Translation: Get ready for some
excruciating pain, Unbearable discomfort, and jaw jarring agony.
“This medicine has very few side effects. It is very safe." Translation:
it is remarkably safe are the words of the salesman who left the samples
for the doctor. Get ready to take the ride of your life. You will spin
out of control. The Vertigo will be so intense you will wake in the
middle of the night, head swimming and the room traveling at warp speed.
Try throwing up into a ten quart cleaning pail traveling at the speed of
sound. Good luck hitting the target.
“This surgery may have some minor setbacks.” Translation: Get ready to
wake up hooked to four different machines. One for breathing, one to
allow all that solution to drip into your body, one to monitor your
heart, and blood pressure, and one to calculate everything for billing
purposes.
“Does this hurt? “Translation: The doctor touches where it hurts the
most, adding to the already torturous, persistent throbbing pain. Then
he asks, “Did that hurt?” as if he had not already caused you enough
pain to go into cardiac arrest.
“How are we feeling?” Translation: Will you live long enough to pay your
bill? If not would you mind paying cash on your way out? Where do they
get this “we” thing? As if they felt your pain.
“Do you smoke?” Translation: “I need something to blame on your
affliction”.
“Do you drink alcohol?” Translation: Because if you do, you will be
restricted to one, one ounce drink per day. If you do not imbibe, he is
thinking, maybe you should, because then you would not spend so much
time bugging him about your ailments.
“You need to get more exercise.” I love this one. Translation: Your mind
tells you to exercise while your body declares "you got to be kidding
me." By the way, did you see his new Mercedes in the parking lot? You
have to wonder how much exercise he gets, and who is paying for that
fancy automobile.
“This prescription, It should take care of your problems.” Translation:
“If it does not kill you first.
Check the side effects. Often they are worse than the cure. You went to
the doctor to get something to help you sleep, not vegetate. The small
add on tags on your medicine bottle filled at the pharmacy for insomnia
probably say something like this. “May cause light headiness, drowsiness
(You can hope), diarrhea, upset stomach, headache, Gout, upper
respiratory infection, pneumonia and get this, insomnia.
“I want to see you again in two weeks.” Translation: I need to make a
payment on my new Mercedes by the end of the month.
Before you make that next appointment with your doctor, be sure you are
truly in need of his or her services.
www.mainemystericalsociety.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
An
Afternoon with a Shopping Cart
By Chad Hatfield, Washington
I recently stunned my wife by volunteering to go to the grocery
store for her. I wanted to help (and really wanted to try pushing my own
cart for once).
I noticed that some shoppers will forego the shopping cart and grab the
hand basket. This is a mistake. No matter how few items a shopper
intends to purchase, it cannot possibly be more convenient to carry the
weight in one’s arms than to push a cart holding the items. Do these
people hold their grocery bags in their lap as they drive home instead
of putting the bags in the trunk? It just seems like bad math.
Maybe these shoppers feel guilty because the carts are heavily used all
day long. However, I saw about a hundred carts right out front of the
store just hanging around doing nothing.
So, I grabbed a cart, but, of course, I picked a bad one. As I shot into
the store, I quickly noticed that only three of the four wheels touched
the ground. I briefly considered returning the cart, but my delicate
conscience could not bear discarding the disabled cart (or the shaming
looks of others watching me do so).
I quickly remedied the problem by loading heavy items over the hovering
front right wheel. All was fine, except due to the disproportioned
weight, I could no longer turn left. (I had always favored my right and
had never before realized how useful the left was.) So when I needed to
turn left, I did the following: turn right; pretend to check my
“shopping list” (old gas receipt); lightly shake my head like I forgot
an item; and then continue going right until I was heading in the right
direction (which was to my left originally).
These steps enabled me to go where I needed without drawing attention to
my cart’s disability. I was feeling pretty good at this point.
My shopping was stalled, however, by a woman with her cart parked in the
middle of the aisle comparing prices of soups on either side of the
aisle ($1 per can or 10 cans for $10). Does she not know the rules of
the road? She should. She had to drive her car to the grocery store,
right?
I suppose if this woman were in her car and did not know which way to
turn, she would probably stop in the middle of the intersection and put
her car in park. Take a look to the right. Take a look to the left. Call
her husband and ask if he had a preference.
I for one would hate for her to have to turn right, only to have to turn
around and later turn left (like I was doing intentionally with my
cart), especially in the context of a store aisle, where the margin of
error is three feet. And so I waited patiently (carts do not have
horns). I thought, perhaps she really does not know how to drive a car.
Maybe she rode with one of the many guys in the parking lot, sitting
alone in the car, just looking around with the window down. I continued
to wait somewhat patiently (I made one horn noise, while I pretended to
cough in the other direction).
After some time I continued my shopping, but I never made it to the
register. I had this eerie feeling that I was being followed—up one
aisle, down the next—by almost everyone in the store.
http://chadhatfield.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Targeted
By Scott Mahler, Maryland
I read most of Barbara Ehrenreich’s book Nickel and Dimed: on (not)
getting by in America a few months ago. I didn’t finish it because it
was depressing and hit a little too close to home. In it, she details
the stupid questions employers ask when applying or interviewing for a
job. “How many dollars’ worth of stolen goods have I purchased in the
last year?” (my answer: none, since I’m forced to apply here to pay off
my Sears credit card debt) and “Would I turn in a fellow employee if I
caught him stealing?” (my answer: it depends on how much I like the
person). These inane inquiries reminded me of the time when I sought a
job at Target for during the Christmas season after I moved back from
Baltimore.
I figured I would apply there as seasonal help because I had experience
in the industry years ago. I worked for the discount retail chain Roses
for soul sucking seven years until I was fired for using the f-word
within earshot of an elderly customer (obviously her hearing was still
good). You name it, I did it there - stock guy, department manager,
cashier. Despite my less than stellar job past, I still felt I was a
shoe-in for a job at Target.
I went to our local Target weeks before the holiday rush began in
earnest and applied using one of their designated computer terminals. I
muddled through the standard questions: my current address
(embarrassingly my parents’ house), work history (a bit spotty but
okay), and availability to work (I was unemployed, so my schedule was
pretty wide open). I then moved on to the apparently more
“psychological” ones and was asked a question that still baffles me to
this day: how rebellious are you? I believe there were three possible
answers: 1) Not at all...2) Somewhat...3) Very. I’m sure I put the
middle one because I didn’t want to lie, but I also needed a job.
The words rebel/rebellious conjure up many images in my mind, none of
which fit my image: James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause (I’m not
dramatically brooding and am a safe driver), Marlo Brando in The Wild
Ones (I’m not into motorcycles or leather), and Alberto Korda’s icon
Guerrillero Herico of Che Guevara (the beret is not a good look for me).
I do, however, have a problem blindly following orders. It’s not so much
the commands themselves, but rather the people giving them. As long as I
respect (don’t have to necessarily like) the person giving them (i.e.
their intelligence and common sense) and generally understand the logic
behind their request, I have no problem doing what they ask. If I don’t,
there’s a problem. My hesitation has more to do with their inability to
lead and less about my disobedient attitude. Moreover, I’m not one to
adhere blindly to stupid rules - I view them (rules) as subjective and
make judgment calls. I’m so glad I never decided to go into the military
because I’m sure I would have been court martialed and been dishonorably
discharged - and wouldn’t that have looked great on the Target
application? Or thinking in more societal terms, did it mean rebelling
against the whole management/worker/capitalistic system? Who am I?
Norman Rae? I can barely rally myself to get to work five minutes late
every morning. How in God’s name am I going to organize the proletariat
to throw off their yoke of oppression?
About a week or so later, I received a postcard from Target telling me
to come in for an interview, training, or testing. I drove the twenty
plus miles up there, showed them what I got in the mail, and was ushered
into the back. I showed it to the girl at the desk, who checked a list,
checked it again, then went into another office to confer with her
superior. She came back and said to me, “Oh, you shouldn’t have been
sent this card.” I felt like responding, “So, apparently, you can be
blatantly incompetent but not dare question the powers that be?” I said
“okay” and left. If they had suddenly had a change of heart and summoned
me back to offer me a job asked me I know what I would have answered
#1...Not at all.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Elevator
Etiquette
By Carl Megill, Florida
Technology is an amazing thing, isn’t it? Just look at the advances
technology has made over the years. We have picture within a picture
television, which is good if you can focus on more than one thing at a
time – like a fly. There are airbags in our cars to prevent us from
injury, unless, of course, a sharp piece of metal punctures the airbag,
during the crash, causing it to deflate and sending the steering wheel
column out the back of your head. And there’s the elevator. Many jokes
have been written about the elevator, like, “The stock market has been
up and down more than an elevator.” Or, uh, okay, maybe that’s the only
joke written about an elevator.
Some elevators feature security cameras, many have digital floor
readings and some are even voice activated. “Thirty-ninth floor. Please
watch your step.” I can only imagine that it will be just a matter of
time before elevators, in tall buildings, will be featuring stewards
handing out meals and showing in-flight movies. “Today’s presentation
will be ‘The Towering Inferno.’”
One thing that hasn’t changed about the elevator is Elevator Etiquette.
People will get on an elevator, like voiceless mannequins, staring up at
the numbers of the floors as they pass by and hoping that someone in the
elevator doesn’t speak to them.
Has Society become that rigid that we’re afraid that someone is going to
speak to us in an elevator? I say, “Yes.” I also say, “Lighten up.”
We’re all on this crazy planet together, so why not be a little less
rigid and a little more pleasant? That’s why I’ve developed the “Carl
Megill Handbook of Elevator Etiquette in the New Millennium.” Here are
some fun things you can do on your next elevator ride.
1. Even if you are spoken to on an elevator, most elevator trips are
only about thirty seconds long. It’s not likely you are going to develop
some lifelong relationship with that person. And, what topic would you
most likely be discussing? The effects of American involvement in the
Middle East? I don’t think so. Most likely, you’ll be discussing the age
old favorite – the weather. Here’s a simple conversation even you could
initiate:
You: Nice day out there.
Them: Beautiful.
You: May rain tomorrow.
Them: I hope not.
You: Well, this is my floor.
Them: Have a nice day.
You: Take care.
Almost nauseating, isn’t it? But, a real no-brainer. You’ve been
courteous, informative and, yet, no threat of any future involvement
with that person.
2. If you would like to make the conversation a little less impersonal
and perhaps even get you a laugh, you can say something like, “Isn’t it
amazing that this elevator was named after the same guy who used to get
drunk on Saturday nights and would lock himself up in the jail on ‘The
Andy Griffith Show?’”
3. If you’re feeling daring, the next time you are on a crowded
elevator, get a sing-a-long going with the music being piped in from
WDUL. Of course, it will be necessary for you to know the words to “Tie
A Yellow Ribbon”, “Somewhere My Love” and “Muskrat Love.”
4. If you’re really feeling daring, call the radio station from the
handy, emergency telephone, that the elevator supplies, and have them
dedicate a song to the group on the elevator. “Alright, this is Bobby
Boring on WDUL dedicating the next number to those wacky folks on
Elevator Number Three, in the Hitchcock Building. Here you go guys, it’s
the Fifth Dimension and ‘Up, Up And Away.’”
5. Speaking of using the telephone, if everyone on the elevator has the
time, hit the Emergency Button and let everyone have a chance to call
someone and ask them if their refrigerator is running. It will loosen
things up and make for a memorable ride for everyone.
If you follow these suggestions, this should make for a less rigid
Society and a lot more fun for all. (Incidentally, if the building
custodian should complain about the misuse of the elevator, the next
time, use the emergency telephone to have a dozen pizzas sent to his
house.)
http://contributor.yahoo.com/user/319855/carl_megill.html
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Revenge
of the Blackberry
By Cathy Turney, California
Weary of the insults I hurl at it, my Blackberry refused to cooperate
with its new battery. I had no choice — time to upgrade to an iPhone. So
off to the iWant store, which is the default setting on my GPS.
In the public’s perception, I will drop 20 years from my age and assume
10 years of hipness by just carrying an iPhone. I don’t even have to use
it — I can say the battery is dead (again). But I must rise to this
challenge, overcome technology and get back to making a living.
I enter the store. My Husband the Engineer, who knows what I should want
and how much I should pay for it, is on his way because if there is any
excess money to be spent on tech toys they need to be his. And he knows
that techno power is wasted on me.
Amazingly, I am next in line at the store. A smiling 20-something
strides over to me and asks what I want (need and want are two different
things when dealing with technology).
"What do I want again?" I ask my husband over the techie’s phone. I
repeat what he says, word by word, to him as John is speaking. The
fellow gets a sweet, "Oh, you poor dinosaur" look on his face, and says,
"Right over here . . . we’ll show you all the choices until your husband
arrives."
"No." I say. "You don’t understand; I’m not pro-choice." Well, not that
kind.
His smile disappears, but he perks up when John arrives because he can
spot a kindred soul. They lead me to the iPad section, where the boys
figure they’ll get some playtime in.
"No guys, I just want a phone – a phone that lets me talk, get e-mail
and take pictures. And I want out of here ASAP!"
Dejectedly, the salesman goes to the back room and returns ten minutes
later with a box containing all the gadgetry he hopes to sell me. First
things first — I have to be able to talk while driving.
"Where’s the headset?" I ask.
"You don’t have a Bluetooth?" he gasps.
"No, I use this," pulling out my two-foot wire with the earphones. "I
call it my ‘toothless.’ Works just fine." John is wishing there were an
app for disappearing.
Next, he pulls out a fancy cover. He can’t get the plastic off, so John
whips out his Swiss Army knife.
"You know, a lot of my customers have had knives lately." I wonder why …
John confiscated mine before our second trip to the iWant store.
"I’m sure you don’t have a pink one with a poodle on it, so lets talk
about how the phone works.”
"You’ll be using the GPS, I assume."
"Does it talk to me?" I ask. He indicates that the iPhone doesn’t have
that feature yet, "but it’s coming." I’m sure; an iPhone laundry app
will be here soon.
"No, thank you, I’ll just keep using my Garmin."
"Garmin? I’ve been hearing that a lot lately," he says. Could be because
Garmins talk to you — loudly. And don’t answer, "I’m doing my hair
tonight," like Apple’s Suri when asked for a restaurant suggestion.
Garmin is not on his radar.
"Pleeeease, can you just show me how to talk on the phone?"
Reluctantly, he reveals the secret to dialing a phone number. These
teeny screen keys are not made for human fingers. And they don’t respond
well to pointy little objects – unless they’re the kind Apple sells.
They would never be included for free with the starter package.
Fortunately, they, too, come in pink so I can deal with it.
"Gee, these keys are a lot smaller than my desktop’s," I comment.
"Desktop?" So I define "desktop" for him.
By now I realize that the techie and I are in parallel universes and the
only thing we agree on is that the iPhone will make me look way cool. I
need to get out of there.
Recalling something about a trade-in (this is supposed to help minimize
sticker shock on the iWant products) I ask him how much forfeiting the
Blackberry will reduce my bill. He grimaces (only my ignorance and
playing with the toys elicit smiles in this fellow) and gives me a
four-dollar Verizon gift card, acknowledging what I believed all along —
that the Blackberry was not worth a double latte.
http://speakingfranklydotme.wordpress.com/
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Great
Deal on an Ab-Rocket and National Geographics
By Chris Weilert, California
One man’s junk is another man's treasure – it has become a
phenomenon that’s sweeping the land. Just turn on the television and you
can find several programs dedicated to showing scavengers rousting
people in their home so they can haggle for an old Schwinn bicycle. Yah,
I watched some of this so-called entertainment and always root for the
person that is oblivious why some city slicker wants to purchase his old
rusted water pumper lying in a field of cow dung.
Garage sales give credence to this treasure hunting mania, which appears
to be a habitual event for shopping junkies. My wife and I never staged
a garage sale and always felt inclined to donate our tired unwanted
belongings. We decided it was high time we get in on some of this cold
hard cash. Maybe our junk was going to set off a bidding war between two
crazed drooling shopaholics. Maybe I was going to finally get a taker
for the National Geographic’s that were stockpiled for this very moment.
We planned the big event by going through all of the years of horded and
stowed away clutter that we thought we could part with. This took days
and days to accomplish because of the second thoughts on belongings such
as things I bought off late night television. It is hard to admit that I
got suckered in to buying the “Ab-Rocket”. My abdominal muscles didn’t
turn into a washboard and I still can’t take my shirt off in public. My
wife can’t seem to part with shoes. The deal with women and shoes is not
something that men can comprehend just like they don’t understand why we
love cars, boats, tools, guns, gadgets, cigars, booze and floozy women.
The day arrives and it’s early, real early, pitch dark early. We haven’t
gotten out of bed yet and we hear a knock at the door. The dogs are
barking and I stagger to the door in my underwear. Standing there is a
bright-eyed couple and they politely ask me if the garage sale is open
for business. I guess we under estimated the start time and 9am is not
going to work. So for future reference we must consider the 5am crowd.
We scurried out of bed and went to work on our garage sale extravaganza.
As we were setting out items for sale, shoppers were already sifting
through our stuff like prison guards. I had big plans to organize and
display our wares for maximum curb appeal. There wasn’t going to be any
curb appeal here, it looked like a tornado scattered our belongings all
over the yard.
Unbeknownst to me was the pile of my old shirts that went up for sale
and got snatched up by a savvy shopper. In that stack of shirts was my
beloved flag football jersey with my name professionally printed on the
back. There were many of storied and glorious moments tied to that
jersey. Now some kid is going to walk around town impersonating me and
taking credit for my heroics. Along with my treasured football shirt was
a 1981 Rolling Stones concert shirt. I don’t remember much from the show
and if I wear it my gut hangs out the bottom, but it was a sentimental
reminder of youth and blowing all of my dough.
What we soon found out in garage sale negotiating is that almost every
bid starts out at twenty-five cents. It didn’t matter if it was an old
car alternator or a blender, the customer was first reaching in their
pocket for spare change. If we turned down their offer for the loose
change, they would next whip out a dollar bill like they were really
sweetening the deal. This went on all day and we learned really quickly
that never put a price tag on your items. If you do, that means you
would be lucky to get half of the asking price. If the customer walked
away from our counter-offer, we usually caved in to these sharks and
their high-pressure sales tactics.
The garage sale came to a close when we sold almost everything including
a box of used wooden soup bowls. My wife said, “give me a dollar and its
all yours.” My wife turned out to be quite the Monty Hall. I didn’t get
a buyer for the National Geographics, but I did get a lot of lessons in
haggling, wheeling and dealing, and the fine art of garage sale
negotiating.
www.lowbudgetdreamer.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Racy
Rooster Talk
By Linda Zern, Florida
A professor asked my son’s college class, “Who decides if a baby is a
boy or a girl?”
One bright young genderless humanoid piped up and said, “Society.”
After my child (possibly a son) related this fascinating tale of modern
American education, I walked out to my chicken coop and watched as our
thirteen roosters commenced to crow, spur, posture, fight, flap, peck,
and have their way with my flock of hens.
“Who told you, you were roosters,” I yelled.
I sold twelve of the thirteen roosters to my next-door neighbor for six
dollars and fifty cents a piece. He got a bargain. My hens got some
relief, and I learned a lesson about the nature of the species.
Roosters do not lay eggs.
According to a recent scientific study (so it must be good) men think
about sex 2,072 times every second of every minute of every day—girls,
not so much. This is because of rigid social conditioning, hospitals’
excessive use of pink and blue blankets on newborns, and that poem about
snips, snails, and puppy dog tails.
Personally, I’m glad my mother did NOT socialize me to be a boy so that
I would have to think about sex constantly. I occasionally enjoy
thinking about other stuff like breakfast or the Civil War.
When my husband was born, his mother, fooled by his resemblance to a
rooster, socialized him to be a boy, which means that when he became a
teenager he enjoyed riding naked on motorcycles through the Florida
backwoods. Not to worry; he likes to point out he always wore tennis
shoes so that he could shift and to protect his feet from thorny
underbrush.
Now my husband (of thirty plus years) flies away to various locales
around the globe for work; he leaves on Sunday afternoons and gets home
on Thursday nights, and I used to pick him up at the airport, my heart
filled with that little frisson of happiness and excitement that
accompanied the notion of my man coming home from the sea.
I was always glad to see him—for about five minutes, and then he would
talk. I make him take a taxi now.
Back when I was still picking him up, I always said stuff like, “I’m so
glad you’re home, honey.” Then I’d reach over and squeeze his hand,
while navigating through airport traffic, trying to merge into a steady
torrent of full sized bumper cars, and still not get us crushed by a
bevy of shuttle buses.
Typically, a noise not unlike the sound of pizza being digested and
recycled would erupt out of my husband’s body.
“Man, shouldn’t have had that foot long chili dog in Boston.”
I would struggle to remember that it was social conditioning that had
him all confused about being a barbarian—also a rooster.
“So how was your week? How was your flight? See anyone interesting in
the airport like Caesar Milan?”
Silence. Silence. Quiet and then more and a bigger silence and then . .
.
“Let’s get it on,” he would say.
“What?” My hands would clench convulsively on the steering wheel, my
eyes closing to slits. “Should I pull off the road right here next to
the palm tree or do you want to wait until we pass the merge sign near
the exit, and please tell me this isn’t your idea of romance?”
The conversation often deteriorated from there.
What I want to know is who told my husband he was a rooster?
I’d like to thank them, because after thirty plus years, four kids, and
nine grandchildren, he’s still crazy about me in his boys-will-be-boys
kind of way. What can I do?
We’re just getting to the good part and I, for one, am glad that
roosters do not lay eggs.
www.zippityzerns.com
.
|
