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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April / May 2012
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
April / May 2012 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Time
to Relax
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
The heart-doctor put it to me straight: You have got to get serious
about relaxing. Your heart cannot take more stress. I recommend you
start right away.
In short, the doctor had ordered me to, aggressively relax.
Thinking about the problem and possible solutions, of course, made the
blood pump faster.
This left me with the task of solving a problem that became worse when I
thought about it. It was like choosing who to vote for in the next
congressional election.
Several possible solutions floated up without my thinking: take long
walks, listen to birds, and practice yoga. Maybe I could take up the art
of cursing—and dump my own stress onto those around me.
I switched my computer to YouTube and downloaded everyone’s
favorite—George Harrison’s: “Here Comes the Sun”. The cute guitar
tweedle got me thinking; thinking about global warming, angry
congressmen, human denial, and what it would be like to be caught facing
a 40 foot high wall of tsunami- water loaded to the teeth with panicking
sharks.
“Let it be” started me thinking of about the lassie faire economic
policies of the tea party, which could leave me out of a job.
I mistakenly hit a Van Halen icon on the YouTube suggestion list. This
act ripped open a guitar riff that nearly made my heart explode. I
quickly turned off the computer.
Taking a walk, the only birds I heard were crows and seagulls. However,
I did hear a garbage truck grinding its loader against the sound of
banging trash cans.
I went back inside, turned on the computer again, and typed “relaxation
videos”.
Up came videos of rain; rain falling on a roof, rain falling in a
forest, rain falling on the surface of a lake. Outside, the midday sun
hit the concrete walls that surround our house with a fierce intensity.
I searched through hundreds of waterfall videos; some with gurgling
water sounds, others which had the water-gurgles mixed-in with music. I
discovered relaxation videos that produce the sound of crickets and all
other sorts of insects. I had grown up in a house located next the woods
and had peaceful memories of insect sounds outside my bedroom window.
I typed ants.
There was no ant-sound video.
Drats, it would have been fun watching creatures work harder than me,
for the same wasted purpose.
I hit a low waterfall picture and a bubbling video began to flood the
computer screen. As my mind melded into the continuous sound of bubbling
water; I began---- worrying about running out of water. At some point
the rain stops, so not so long after, the waterfalls will stop. What is
the lag between running out of rain and running out water for the fall?
And –getting relaxed—when is the world going to run out of rain? At some
point—the sky has to run out of clouds.
This is what I learned. When relaxing; you don’t stop thinking; your
brain only wanders about a clutter of half-witted thoughts. That was it!
Global warming deniers are regular people, like me, who are just
aggressively relaxing.
A friend called and recommended that I practice yoga.
I began to wonder? Why does everybody practice yoga? Is there some big
yoga tournament coming up?
And:
What happens if I qualify for the tournament? Could I get evicted from a
game of yoga for sneezing? How about burping? Could a well timed burp in
the middle of yoga competition create some sports scandal?
And:
What would happen if people practiced yoga while sitting, legs folded,
on an ant bed. Or in a rain-storm. Or under a gurgling waterfall?
I eventually went back to YouTube.
The YouTube bird videos reminded of the crows and seagulls outside my
window.
Crows Caws: brokers scrambling inside the Chicago trading pits.
Seagulls: corporate raiders—swooping down to steal our daily bed.
Finally, Paul McCartney’s song, Yesterday, resonated.
I began to think, peacefully, “This song is about me, today. How did
Paul McCartney predict my future—by singing about my present daydreams
about yesterday; yesterday when my heart was healthy and my memory
aggressive.
I looked out the window. The world had not run out rain. I turned off
the computer and watched rain-drops bounce off the concrete wall next to
our house. From the back of my brain—up floated a message, “
just wait—because soon, the next message will be:
‘—tweedle –deedle---
Here Comes the Sun.’”
It was, I hate to admit, alright.
www.bananaws.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Leonard
Speaks Spanish
By Beth Beggs, Texas
My neighbors Wanda June and Leonard worry about senility, and if
truth be known, they have reason for some of those worries. They watch
Dr. Oz religiously and have taken to drinking some kind of green sludge
as a preventative. In addition, Leonard is doing Sudoku puzzles, and
Wanda June has spent a lot of time doing the Jumble puzzle in the paper.
They have managed to keep down the green sludge three days in a row;
Leonard finished a whole book of the puzzles; and Wanda June has stopped
calling me for help with five letter words. I’m not sure I’d call that
success.
It still has Leonard spooked, so last week, he decided he’d put that new
smart phone of his to some good use, and he downloaded an application to
learn Spanish. I was proud of him for mastering the purchasing
operation, but Wanda June admitted later, that he stopped the postman
and got a little help. I don’t think the postman would have stopped,
except for the fact that Leonard was standing in the middle of the
street … looking lost.
He showed me the program. It’s cute. With fifty levels of learning, the
game will probably keep Leonard busy for quite some time. It starts off
with colors and numbers, and Leonard took to that quickly. He learned to
count in Spanish back in grade school, but it seems they’ve changed the
pronunciation a bit. He was pretty sure that the only difference between
the word for six and the word for seven was the “d” on the end. Sometime
in the last fifty years, they changed “sis” to “seis” … and “sisid” to “siete.”
Leonard looked it up on the internet to be sure the game was right.
“I don’t want to get down there to Brazil and find out that I’m buying
six tacos when I want seven.” I assured him that he’d not confuse anyone
in Brazil … since the language in Brazil is Portuguese. He looked that
up, too.
Over coffee that morning, Wanda June and I were interrupted several
times with comments about the color of the coffee … “café,” the color of
my hair … “gris,”(That got a big laugh since it is pronounced grease.)
and informed us that we had no idea what the word for “red hair” was. “Roho,”
I guessed using my best Dora the Explorer terminology. He rolled his
eyes. “Pellirrojo,” he said, “I knew you didn’t know.”
Leonard doesn’t have the pronunciation down exactly. His double l’s are
sounded separately, his j’s sound like g’s, and his r’s are giving him a
little trouble. Might I say that Leonard’s hearing isn’t too good, so
even though the program pronounces the words, he doesn’t always hear
them as spoken.
Their daughter called and we heard Leonard answer the phone. “Hollar, my
choo choo,” he said, and laughed. I think his daughter must have hung up
on him, thinking he was drunk.
Wanda June shook her head. “He just needs to speak English, and if he
wants to speak a foreign language, he could try to speak it with a
British accent.” That should work. I hear a lot of British people visit
Brazil.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Champagne
Reign
By Michael Hall, Arkansas
In a sleek corked bottle
Breathes a potion that people coddle.
Smooth and delicate to the taste
Makes it’s consumer leave no waste.
It’s bubbly, ubbly, wubbly woo.
Makes me pose a toast from me to you.
Soothing my mind and relaxing my body
Helping me to be the life of the party.
Inebriate a woman and you will find
She nonchalantly corrupts a man's mind.
He wakes enraptured in her charm the next day
She takes a few more drinks and want go away.
It’s bubbly, ubbly, wubbly woo.
Makes me pose a toast from me to you.
Soothing my mind and relaxing my body
Helping me to be the life of the party.
Celebrating life is a wonderful treat
In front of the world sharing what is neat.
Holding that magic potion in your hand
You pop the cork and strike up the band.
(Shower everyone in the land)
It’s bubbly, ubbly, wubbly woo.
I’ve had a few drinks now I see two.
Misusages my mind, hey, I think I’ll have another.
No doubt about it I wouldn’t have any other (hic).
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Showering Connoisseur
By Kathryn McFadden, Nevada
Closing Scene:
Twenty-three days pass. It's midnight. The shower cascades micro-beads
of titillating moisture over my tired, jet-lagged body. I've been
traveling twenty-four horrible hours, starting in Zagreb, Croatia and
ending in Reno, Nevada. Fitful flights recede into the filaments of
amnesia. My skin glistens. Jewels of moisture caress my body. I relish
this moment of showering pleasure. No, this is not a prelude to some
pornographic episode. Instead, it's a testament to my wonderful walk-in,
conch-shaped shower and the glorious showerhead, purchased in Sydney on
my last trip.
I know. Who would bring a showerhead 7,610 air miles back home as if it
is a coveted treasure from the land down under? Well, anyone, who has
travelled to near and far-reaching pockets of the world, in search of a
reasonable showering experience and even, non-peripatetic individuals,
who are dissatisfied with showerheads, that merely emit a paltry,
dribbling amount of precipitation, that's akin to using a drip
irrigation system to bathe.
Act One:
Prior to the closing scene, there are lots of showers to be had. The
first showering experience goes awry. In Frankfurt, Germany, I go to the
executive lounge and sign up for a shower. A half-hour later, my pager
remains stubbornly silent. Too late, I have to catch the bird to Zagreb,
Croatia.
Act Two:
As I drive to the hotel, Zagreb greets me with colorful, cafe-dotted,
cobblestoned lanes. In my room, I drop the suitcases and I check the
shower. There's a half-door glass panel. This convoluted design is
perfect for creating a wading pool on the floor. Water gushes out like
an unattended high-pressure fire hose. Oh well, it's only one night.
Ljubljana, scheduled for three nights, has to be better.
In Ljubljana, my abode has a spectacular view of a twelfth-century
castle. It also comes with a glaring problem. Six, jaggedly-angled
steps, leading downward into the bathroom where there is a MIA shower
door, complemented by a dangling showerhead, and, a broken holder. Only
a penguin could safely waddle into this dungeon-like area but he would
surely have the dignity to refuse these bathing conditions. Not me, I
surrender. I'm staying. I'm incapable of continuing to fight with my GPS
dictator and her incessant mantra: "Re-calculating."
After surviving wild waters in Ljubljana, I marvel at the Alpine
panorama of Lake Bled, Slovenia, magnified in its brilliance by an
enchanting island, reached by swan-shaped row boats. The Julian Alps
provide the mystical backdrop for a medieval castle that overlooks the
sapphire-imbued waters.
At the Bed and Breakfast, I spot what appears to be a tenable showering
situation. My initial optimism is dashed upon usage. There's no holder
for the shower spray coil. A balancing act ensues. Stumbling, dropping
the shampoo, and, losing control of the sprayer, I remind myself, it's
only for one night. Besides, I still have the turquoise, Adriatic Sea to
enjoy in Split, the seaside promenade of Roving, the hiking trails of
Plitvice Lakes, the Roman Forum in Zadar, the lavender-laced fields on
the island of Hvar, and the fairytale setting of Dubrovnik, all in
Croatia, plus, the historical locales of Mostar and Sarajevo in a
country named, Bosnia and Herzegovina, to experience.
Act Three:
From Zagreb to Split to Sarajevo, and places in between, I encounter
more showering mishaps. Regrettably, I earn a Ph.D. in "showerology."
Credits for this degree include: dealing with showerheads, misplaced in
the middle of the tub wall area, rather than the corner, effectively
providing an express conduit for a tsunami, using hand-held spray coils
that lack a place to affix the cord, holding a shower door shut with one
hand because it's off the track, taking a cold shower because the hot
water heater switch is turned off, having a shower curtain enclose only
a third of the showering area, and, showering with low water pressure
that presents all the grandeur of bathing under a watering can with
blocked perforations in its' nozzle, and, entering a high, narrow tub,
best reached by pole vaulting. Caution: Once you stick your landing,
don't turn in this tub unless you have a suicidal death wish. All these
memories and more vanish down the drain as I finish my home, sweet home,
shower.
Opening scene:
Waking up to a new day, I glide into my luxuriant shower. A veil of
water springs forth and each drop replenishes my energy reservoir. Yes!
It's time to plan those trips to India and Ethiopia. I wonder, what
showering experiences await me?
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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My
Shocking Secret
By Christa McKibben, Minnesota
I had a shocking secret. I was a 40 year old woman who couldn’t
cook. A “homemaker” no less. I dreaded the recipe exchange e-mails and
dinner idea discussions with other moms. I had an arsenal of canned
answers to “What are you making for dinner tonight?” The deception went
deep - I decided I just couldn’t live a lie anymore.
I set about the process of learning to cook. At least some basics so
when there was a hunk of meat lying in front of me I had some idea of
how to handle it, or at least identify the animal it came from. I wanted
my son to learn to eat more than chicken nuggets so I started a 30 day
blog where I would cook a new dish each day and report it to the world.
A digital mother to wag her pixelish finger at me so I wouldn’t blow off
dinner.
I used cookbooks to guide my journey. Turns out I was pretty good at
following directions so most of the dishes I attempted came somewhat
close to what I had set out to do. The cooking wasn’t too shabby from
someone who lived on mixed nuts and cereal for years. But one night,
about halfway through my adventure, my family won’t soon forget the
night of the Sour Cream Turkey Patties or as it was later named, Zombie
Sauce.
My favorite grocery store was small and calm. I could find things, there
weren’t 14,000 people standing in front of the milk refrigerator
deciding on skim or 1%. They bagged my groceries. No menacing conveyor
belt of doom smashing the next customer's can of Hawaiian Punch into my
bread. It was lovely. But it had some limitations, like no fresh ground
turkey, only frozen.
In the recipe it clearly states: frozen turkey that has been defrosted
may not hold together as well as fresh. If you use it, add the milk one
tablespoon at a time so that the mixture doesn't become too loose. It is
not written in a foreign pen. It is not in small print. It says it right
at the top of the recipe. I even read that statement before I left for
the grocery store but thought I was going to bring home fresh turkey, so
it wafted out of my mind. I would be reminded of it right after I added
the entire 1/3 cup of milk the recipe asked for.
I immediately made my son go in another room so he wouldn't see the
horror I had created. He would undoubtedly be turned off from turkey
forever. He couldn't however escape my moans of disgust as I tried
desperately to knead the slush together like an ER doc trying to massage
the heart of a doomed patient. Come on damn it! You can pull through.
The slice of bread the recipe called for was pathetically under staffed
to do its job of thickening up the soup so I added about 9 more for back
up. Now the sauce had lumps thank you very much. (This is the point
where the concoction acquired its infamous name.)
I had started to think maybe I had gotten the hang of this cooking
thing. But my next move will tell you all how far I was from having a
handle on any of this.
I tried to strain the turkey.
Yup. I knew it was wrong immediately but I still tried to stir it around
and sort of mush it through the mesh. I had no idea ground turkey was so
pink. My son walked in and said "Oh, mom no" Even the seven year old
knew this was a sin.
So the same page of the cookbook has a recipe for Tarragon Turkey Loaf.
Loaf! I can make it into a turkey loaf! I poured the mess into a bread
pan and baked it for about 3 years when it finally started to harden up.
When it came out there was little splash marks on the side of the pan
like a wayward muffin. We finally ate at quarter to seven. My husband
who had been very supportive and complimentary of this whole cooking
project dutifully ate every bit of his turkey. No comment one way or the
other. I’ll take it.
The boy however had witnessed the crime first hand and had simply seen
too much. He politely asked for chicken nuggets to which I
empathetically said “Of course.”
www.tippytop.net
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Lloyd
Re-Enlisted?
By
Lloyd S.,
New York
(Last name withheld by
request)
Last night I woke up in a cold sweat.
What a dream! No, it was not a nightmare, like the ones I had after the
war. I was in the Army again, I mean Basic Training at good old Fort
Lost In The Woods. That place had to have been chosen because of its
Korean like weather, roasting hot or arctic cold with no in between.
Basic was bad enough, but to relive it in a dream is way too much.
What was I doing there? Why would they want a recruit almost seventy
years old? That’s more than twenty five years older than the general.
Even the battalion commander looked like a kid. The other recruits were
young enough to be my grandchildren, if I had any. Even the man in the
next bunk (in my dream) at thirty three was about ten years older than
the other recruits. Now I know more about military stuff (especially
history) than most of the enlisted staff. Hey, I lived through a bunch
military history. I was even at Valley Forge (the Army hospital, not
during the war with George Washington). All that I got from mentioning
my experiences was trying to push the ground down, twenty times every
time I opened my big oral cavity.
Remember the guy in the next bunk? He works with me in the supermarket
where I have a part time retirement job. I’ve yet to ask him what he was
trying to prove by invading my personal dream. Someday I’m going to ask
him why he wanted to enlist at his age. Just for the fun of it, I wish I
could find a way to get into somebody else's dream. Not for any evil or
ulterior (ulterior, how is that for a word which makes me look
literate!) reason. I just want the comfort to know I am not alone in
this dream stuff.
Does anyone remember basic training with helmet liners and M14s? Right
shoulder arms! Klunk… Ooh that hurts! For the first week that rifle
barrel would glance off the helmet liner and my brain would feel like
the clapper in the worst sounding bell you’d ever heard. With the second
week my aim got better and the ringing stopped until we got the steel
helmets. After almost fifty years my shoulder still has a permanent
groove where that hunk of iron was slammed into it.
How about the rumor about saltpeter in the food to suppress certain
desires? I was too tired at the end of each day to even think, let alone
think about those kind of desires. Another thing about Army food, it
kept your plumbing clean. That malady was not for nothing called GIs. I
liked Army food, even the creamed beef on toast and C-rations. Comparing
Spam with a certain part of a horse’s anatomy may, or may not, have been
fair, but when you’re hungry, you’ll eat almost anything!
Why can’t I have normal dreams? Before I went into the Army, I took
flying lessons. I would dream of trying to land an airplane, but on
every try, the wheels seemed to be held off the ground by some invisible
force. At the moment of success I would fall out of bed. My biggest
fear, when I enlisted, was falling out of a bunk bed. Wouldn’t you know
it, I was assigned an upper. I feared it, but it never happened. The
fear came back when I became a helicopter crewman. I think what kept me
safe was that I was not the pilot and had no reason to try to land in my
sleep.
It’s rare that I remember a dream. When I do remember one it is always a
weird one. Back in the Army at seventy? Not unless I get a desk drivers
job, an officer’s commission and no more basic training.
www.lloydsbridges.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Beer
Served by Loving Hands
By
Chris Weilert,
California
Some folks like their chocolate, others like coffee, I like beer. I
don’t like the fact that beer prices always go up but never down like
gas prices. So if I want beer, I got to pony up and pay the price for my
vice.
There are those who are loyal to brands and
styles. I do like to indulge mostly in European lagers but still, my
all-time favorite has to be, Free Beer.
Free Beer almost always tastes cold and
refreshing and easy on the pocket book. I have to admit if your hosts
are providing “Free Beer”, I tend to drink more than one. If they have a
cold mug to go with it, even better, I may have three.
All of this love for Free Beer came to an
end recently when I was given a can served by loving hands. I cracked
open the little guy and anticipated a taste of mother's milk. What I
experienced after than was befuddlement. I have tasted my share of
watered down artesian suds and insipid tasting swill but this was in a
league of its own.
Here is the review from the magazine "Beer Advocate" followed by my own
BA: Appearance - Dark golden-yellow with copious amounts of carbonation.
Head is huge and fluffy on initial pour, but quickly dissipates to
practically nothing, leaving little trace of its presence on the glass.
My Review: Looked like really foamy urine
BA: Smell - Lightly malty, with a few twinges of hops
My Review: Smelled like an old bar rag from last nights poker game.
BA: Taste - Sickeningly sweet. Ugh, Like syrupy sweet. A stale sweet.
Like real sugary candy past its prime. Some skunky hops keep it from
being overwhelming, but this is not something I am enjoying at all.
My Review: Tasted bitter and was really fizzy. Like a cross between
backwash and seltzer water.
BA: Mouthfeel - Pretty full-bodied for a lager. Nothing clean or crisp
here. its all saccharine stickiness, blegh!. There is an interesting
bitter aftertaste, but it seems so feeble compared to the sweetness.
My review: I wanted to spit it out, but didn’t want to offend my host
I ended up drinking six of these beers and wished I hadn’t. I got a
headache and wanted to pray to the porcelain God. I found out where they
hawk this swill and it ends up it is a featured beer at the local Trader
Joe’s. It sells for an amazing $2.99 a six pack. There you have it.
Sometimes cheap is good, sometimes cheap is cheap and in this case,
cheap means, come on man don’t be a cheapskate.
www.lowbudgetdreamer.com
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