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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/September 2012
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
August/
September 2012 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Great Communicator
By Kevin T. Boekhoff, South Dakota
Most people don’t realize that I am a great communicator in the vein of
Ronald Reagan, a/k/a The Great Communicator. Despite my grandest efforts
to impress this concept upon the minds of others, technical difficulties
in the transmission or reception of this information have repeatedly
hindered my efforts.
Despite great advances in the conveyance of information in its many
forms, whether oral, written, gestures, and even basic guttural
utterances, the biggest problem with communication is a gap. This
communication gap works like digital television reception. If it is
disrupted, the picture comes through in fits and starts, while the
dialogue sounds like “gick, gack, gack-gack, gick...”
At times our marital telepathic interactions work great – we know each
other’s thoughts, and at times even think alike. Although, at times the
art of expressing and conveying ideas between us crumble into an
interchange of words that don’t accomplish their intended purpose of
verbal expression, which the brain interprets as “gick, gack, gack-gack,
gick…”.
The debit card has been a wonderful thing. Instead of filling out check
blanks, all I have to do is swipe it through a slotted doohickey, answer
a couple of questions and away I go. The trick is to remember to record
the transaction in the checkbook register later. Occasionally, an entry
is forgotten, but all in all, I do pretty well.
However, on one occasion, we had a communication gap regarding an entry.
I was busy doing whatever it is I was busy doing at the time, when Katie
who was reconciling the checkbook, asked me, “What is this entry in the
checkbook about?”
“What entry is that?” I asked.
“All it says is “Garage,” with slight annoyance in her voice.
“That’s who it’s to.” I informed her matter-of-factly, knowing that I
had done the right thing by entering the info in the register promptly.
“But ‘Garage’ only tells me what you spent the money on but not where
you spent
the money.”
I quickly realized that a communication gap had entered the room and
threatened
to enlarge itself to “gacky” proportions. I quickly made an effort to
deflate it before it could cause “no signal” to flash across the blank
screen of conveyance. “I did not spend the money ON the garage, I spent
the money AT the Garage.”
“What’s the difference?” She asked. Reception was impaired, or was it
the
transmission?
“I had the pickup repaired.”
“So?” Obviously, my attempts to head-off this event were failing.
“AT the Garage, not IN the garage.” Certainly, emphasizing the major
differences
in the use of prepositions would clarify the issue.
“Again, what is the difference between AT the garage or IN the garage or
ON the
garage or AROUND the garage? Just writing down ‘Garage’ doesn’t explain
anything.”
I related, “The name of the place is The Garage,” which came across as
“gicky
gackiness.” I know this because she did not respond favorably.
“Argh.” She said with absolute sincerity.
Relying on my superior communication skills to bridge the gap, I
reiterated the
concept that I had thought I had related before. “I am not trying to be
difficult. I had the pickup fixed at a shop called The Garage.”
“That’s a confusing name.”
She did have a point. “I didn’t name the place. There’s also a shop
called The Shop.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I assume because they thought they were clever. Or else they were not
very
original like naming their dog, Dog or cat, Cat.”
“Look at the confusion it causes.” It certainly had caused a
communication gap to
“gickity-gack” up our marital bliss and happiness.
“Well, I had to have the heater core fixed on the pickup.”
“Why didn’t you fix it?”
“Too difficult, even the mechanic said so.”
“You didn’t get it fixed then? What did you pay money for?”
“They fixed it, but the mechanic had to tell me the story.”
“Well, do tell.”
The mechanic said, “I had to unbolt the dashboard and move it out of the
way.”
I said. “I know, that is why I brought it to you.”
Mechanic:“Did you know the heater core cover was gone? It is a wonder it
worked at all.”
I said: “No, but that is why I brought it to you.”
Mechanic:“I had to be a contortionist in order to get to it.”
I said: “I know that is why I brought it to you.”
Mechanic:“But I got it, I hope it doesn’t leak anymore.”
I said: “If it does, I bring it back to you.”
“If it does leak, you won’t try to fix it yourself will you?” She asked.
“Nope, I bring it back to THE GARAGE.”
“Well, next time would you put “car repair” in the second entry line?
“What do I do if I need to buy something to fix the garage?”
“Argh, you drive me crazy.”
As you can see, even the greatest of communicators can have episodes of
“gick, gack, gack-gack, gick...”.
http://kevintboekhoff.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 And
Yet They Advertise...
By
Cy Creed,
New York
There are
certainly challenges as a single homeowner. Throw “female” into and
you’ve got the makings of a “Lucy Episode.” (I can say that being
female; you can‘t.)
At times during one's homeownership, you have to call in “contractors”
to do work you have no idea how to do or have no business doing.
Changing a light bulb is one of those things you can do (uh, not
always…more on that later). Building an addition is something you
probably should not handle on your own unless you own a really swell
toolbox.
First things first. Find someone to do the work. Amazingly, people
advertise to do everything from putting in patios to digging a moat.
Their ads sparkle with their accomplishments and their low prices. So
you call them. They say they’ll be there on a certain date and time.
This is where the fun begins and this is the “amazing” part. These
people pay money to put ads in the paper and on the internet but they
don’t show up. You wait. They still don’t show up. And you wait some
more. No show. You check your calendar and are sure you have the right
date. But maybe you wrote down the wrong time. So you wait some more.
You’ve spent all day waiting. You call. You leave messages. You’ve taken
your last vacation day from work to wait.
This happens if it’s a plumber, an electrician, a home builder, a date
(wait, that’s another subject). So why do they advertise if they have no
intention of doing the work? Is this fun for them? To say they’ll come
over and don’t? Is it kind of a “gotcha” moment? Are they sitting at
home saying, “Ha, ha, stupid lady, she really thought I’d show up. What
an idiot!”
I wonder if they are thinking “the poor female” route. Do they assume
because I’m single and female, I can’t possibly afford their service and
it will be a waste of their time?
With that in mind, on those rare occasions when someone does show up to
give me a quote, I run into the house and get dressed to the hilt. No
matter it’s July. I pull out the mink coat, dangling diamond earrings
and tiara. I print my W2. I show references. I show them the balance in
my checkbook. I whip up some Lobster Newburg and chill Dom Perignon in a
silver monogrammed bucket. I don’t smoke but I carry a cigarette holder
like I’m Elizabeth Taylor. I speak with a British accent, though I’m
from Buffalo. I do whatever it takes to assure said contractor I’ll pay
their bill. Really, I will. Promise!
The rule of thumb has been to get three quotes. This is a fairy tale of
sorts. In order to get three quotes, that means you have to have three
people actually come over. Duh. That’s never going to happen. So, if you
call five contractors, and one comes over, you are on cloud nine.
Hallelujah! You don’t care what they quote.
“Sure, I’ll pay $5000 for you to clean the gutters on my 800 square foot
house.” “Sure, $10,000 sounds fair to plant a couple of shrubs.” You
really are at their mercy and they know it.
There are things you as a homeowner can do on your own- sometimes.
Changing a light bulb is one of them as previously mentioned. It sounds
easy but have you ever tried to change one of those recessed bulbs? My
hands are tiny; yet I cant get them into the recess in order to change
the bulb. I tried with all my might to no avail so I called an
electrician.
Miraculously, he showed up- probably because he wanted to see how
someone could be so lame as to not be able to change a light bulb. I
showed him how I tried and tried, squeezing my small hands and fingers
around the bulb itself with no luck.
Looking at me like I had three heads, he calmly and with just a slight
snicker, removed the ring around the bulb exposing a lot more room in
which to remove the bulb. I apologized, obviously feeling stupid. He was
kind enough to say it was no big deal and as he left, placed a bill for
$100 on my kitchen table.
I deserved that.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Attending
High School Reunion Checklist
By Cindy Modlin, Indiana
Attending Your High School Reunion Checklist:
12 months before:
Restrict calories.
Schedule more workouts.
Start using wrinkle cream.
9 months before:
Worry that weight isn’t coming off fast enough, and the wrinkles haven’t
disappeared.
6 months before:
Ditto.
3 months before:
Consider changing your mind about attending, or decide to finally accept
yourself and Grow Up. (Whatever THAT is.)
Start sharing stories with your husband.
1 month before:
Read yearbooks to remember names and faces.
Gather pictures and news clippings.
Read all hand-written notes on back of pictures and in yearbooks. Laugh
and cry.
Make your husband listen to more stories.
Order teeth-whitening solution from dentist.
Schedule hair appointment.
Schedule manicure for a few days before the reunion.
Start trying on your favorite clothes and pick several outfits to wear.
Despair.
2 weeks before:
Spend some time in the sun.
Commit to the long term plan of cutting your hair short and highlighting
despite the upcoming reunion.
Meet with just turned 100-year-old friend for high school reunion advice
as this is the first reunion attended since graduation. Share Oreos and
realize life is too short to worry about the weight that hasn’t been
lost and the acne scars and pimples that still show.
(She says reunions can be fun AND scary and that I should color my hair.
Too late, mine is cut and highlighted and the illusion is lifted. She
NEVER colored her hair!)
2 days before:
Whiten teeth one last time.
Pluck eyebrows.
Pluck chin hairs.
Trim nose hairs.
1 day before:
Remember even if you don’t have all your mental or physical faculties,
you still have the essence of your youth inside.
Don’t eat beans or gas-producing vegetables.
Day of:
Remember: The risk of shared memories today may be the joy of tomorrow.
Don’t forget to wear your uplifting padded bra, and spandex thigh
shapers.
Re-check for chin and nose hairs (boingers, as we call them in our
family)
Remember not to eat any beans or gas-producing vegetables, then CHANGE
MIND. (After all, you were the one who handed out the Fart Quiz to your
math and English teachers, and willed the English teacher a bottle of
flatus on Senior Day).
Embrace your friends who have taken the same journey, and smile.
Offer to light a match.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Requiem
For The Family Pet
By Peter Quinn, Tennessee
Spot Q went to the big fire hydrant in the sky today. She succumbs to
the long battle of being a dog. Spot is preceded in death by every dog
she knew. Mainly due to the fact she lived ten years beyond her life
expectancy. In passing she is survived by her pack, alpha dog Carolyn,
two runts (Ashley/Drew) along with one tall guy who slept with the alpha
dog, which she mercilessly tried to kill for the past 17 years.
Spot came to be part of the family as a six week old puppy in March of
1994 when her owner, the tall guy’s mother in law, couldn’t stand her
anymore. Spots inability to ask to go outdoors to relieve herself and
her relentless pursuit of food, were the turning points in the family
acquiring her. My mother in law always said, leave the grand kids with
me and I will feed them sugar and send them home with a puppy. Damn it
if she didn’t mean it.
Spot leaves her pack with a full list of accomplishments:
Turning several homes, in several locations, into her private indoor
bathroom. Finding areas of the house to pee in that are unreachable by
any human or cleaning device.
Begging at the dinner table. A skill she had honed into an art form. She
was so ardent at begging several politicos ask for videos of Spot at
work to be used as training films for prospective political candidates.
Spot also processed a keen sense of danger, warning the family of the
deadly perils of the Postman, UPS driver, Girl Scouts, two minor
children, and a yellow plastic bag tied and flapping in the wind on the
front door of the house.
The bag was the premiere achievement of Spot’s attentiveness. She was
able, due to non stop barking, for an entire work day, to keep the bag
at bay and not gain entrance to the house to kill anyone. Exhausted
after a day of fighting off the wind slapped bag Spot ate her dinner,
begged for more food at the dinner table and slept for three days.
Resting in her crowning glory with a full stomach.
During Spot’s entire lifetime not one signal delivery man, squirrel, or
Jehovah Witness, did any harm to anyone in the house. Way to go Spot.
Religious fervor, even though she professed of no religious affiliation,
as mentioned before her influence at the dinner table led many to pray
out. “For the love of GOD”! As she relentlessly pursued what ever we
were eating. Relentlessly pursued!
“Be the doggie” a phrase coined to celebrate Spot’s determination and
one mindedness on her goal. Annoyance for food.
Spot's talents did not stop at just mere annoyance, oh no. She was an
accomplish sleeper, barker at nothing, walking under foot, bed hog, face
licker, trying to trip the tall guy as he was going down stairs, and
finder of poop in the yard to roll in. Of particular note was Spot's
ability to pick up a tennis ball and drop it in front of the lawn mower,
as the tall guy was cutting the yard. Thus bringing to a stop, many
times, an arduous task made even more so by her talents. She also was
accomplished at chasing down ping pong balls, tennis balls, horse shoes,
and during one festive occasion lawn darts, along with shedding
Spot was also a notorious wanderer liking to walk in the middle of the
road pretending not to hear the approaching cars. Skills that caused the
alpha and runts of her pack to scream hysterically as the tall guy was
placing his bets on the car. Spot won out every time.
.
Her retirement years were spent sleeping, eating, peeing under
furniture, barking and producing an odor that could make a grown man dry
heave. She went peacefully today surrounded by family and a dirty old T
shirt. Her last words were a growl at the tall guy, a lament I am sure
to acknowledge that she had failed miserably to kill him before she
went.
She will be surly missed. We can only hope that someday we will become
half the person Spot thought we were. She was a good doggie.
http://bevnapdiaries.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Indirect
Deposit
By Joel Schwartzberg, New Jersey
The paycheck I earned during my first few
weeks in Hollywood wasn’t much — a small weekly stipend from Dick Clark
Productions that barely covered my meager hot dog lunches. But I was
proud nonetheless to be working “in the industry,” proud enough to skip
the ATM and present it personally at my bank.
My teller, a slim young woman with glistening eyes and sandy hair,
chatted with me in an alluring way that was easily and willingly
misinterpreted. Her name tag said “Jennie.”
“Are you in the entertainment industry?” Jennie asked, examining my
check.
“I’m in production,” I knew to say.
“Interesting. Tens and twenties okay?”
“Sure.” So would have singles, pesos, Euros, or cattle.
As we parted ways, I felt her warm eyes follow me. Or maybe they’d just
turned off the air conditioning.
With Jennie’s smile stuck in my head, I went back a few weeks later
determined to ask her out. Along with my new apartment, my new car, and
my new job was the strong desire to paint my personality anew. No more
Mr. Wait-and-See, Mr. Scared-to-Make-a-Move. I brought a personal check
of my own as an ice-breaker. It wasn’t from Dick Clark, but it’d have to
do.
I first killed some time at the ATM. With nervous fingers, I
accidentally double-pressed the zero, withdrawing $200 instead of $20. I
didn’t even think I had $200.
Once on line, I realized I was in the trajectory of a different teller,
a large woman named Lupe. This wouldn’t do. I told the woman behind me
Jennie was my sister. We swapped places, then swapped again. The woman
looked annoyed.
Then Jennie called out my name, or the closest thing:
“Next!”
“Heeeeeey, Jennie,” I said in a regretfully high pitch as I walked to
her and presented the check for cashing. I took a deep breath as she
punched up my account.
“Ummm, I know this seems forward, but…would you like to go out sometime?
For dinner? There’s a new restaurant just around the corner. French, I
think.”
Jennie looked at her screen.
“I know we hardly know each other,” I said. “But I thought we really hit
it off last time.”
“Last time?”
“A few weeks ago, remember? We talked about the industry and… tens and
twenties…and…”
“Are you sure you can afford it?”
A bead of sweat dripped down the side of my clean t-shirt.
“Hmmmm?”
“I can’t cash your check. It says ‘insufficient funds to cover.’”
“What? No, there’s a mistake, a rounding error. You’re in finance. You
understand.”
“According to this, you owe US money.”
Dick Clark had left the building. I followed soon thereafter, and never
looked back.
The next closest bank branch was miles away, but I made the trek from
then on, knowing I could never step into Jennie’s branch for the rest of
my life, or until I had facial reconstructive surgery, whichever came
first.
Life Lessons #124 and #125 of infinity: Never let your money speak for
you, and never assume service with a smile is anything but.
www.joelschwartzberg.net
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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We
Must Stop the Curse
By
Cheri
Thacker, Tennessee
There’s a tragic cycle of parenting that carries from generation to
generation that must be broken. It must stop with ours. It must stop
now.
I’m not talking about spanking, or free-will parenting, or planting your
child in front of the tube to watch Sponge Bob while you sneak to the
patio to down a glass of wine. I’m talking about the “One Day I Hope You
Have a Child Just Like You” curse.
You know your parents said it to you, and if you have spawned offspring
that have reached Teenagedom, you've made the mini-replica voodoo doll
and you're wondering if you should cast the spell upon them. Yes, “The
Curse” works but I believe the electric chair is a more humane
punishment.
In the last week, our crumb snatchers have engaged in behavior that
clearly indicates our parents cast the spell upon me and hubby, Chief
Money Maker. Sure, neither one of us was a piece of cake, but did we
really deserve “The Curse?” I think not!
One night, Sweet Pea asked for my help getting her cartilage earring
back in the hole that God never intended to be in her ear in the first
place. Since I’m not a spring chicken anymore, my eyesight is a little
off. Like, “Mama that’s a drainage ditch, not a highway exit!” off. I
couldn’t see the hole in her ear. Suddenly she becomes the spawn of
Satan and I'm in the starring role of "Rosemary's Baby." Except my name
isn't Rosemary.
The next thing I know, Sweet Pea is in tears, throwing a tantrum. I
yelled, “I hate you,” because we never fight and I forgot that the rules
of Teenagedom state that she is supposed to yell that phrase at me.
Later, after we cleaned up all the broken glass, we talked about the
argument. She said, “I’m sorry Mama. Sometimes I just get so frustrated
that I take it out on those around me. I’m just like you.” Before I
could open my mouth to protest, she cut me a look and said, “You know
it’s true.” Why I did I teach them "Thou shalt not lie"?
I also witnessed “The Curse” with G-Bear and Chief Money Maker as they
father-son bonded over a woodworking project. In between the back and
forth of patient instructions and hammered-thumb expletives, I watched
Chief Money Maker’s frustration grow. When G-Bear insisted on “doing it
his way” Chief Money Maker sat back and allowed G-Bear to split the wood
on the project.
Chief yelled, “Oooh, Mama Bread Baker is gonna be maaaad.” But I
digress. Then he said, “I told you. But you’re so stubborn and
hard-headed you had to do it your way.” G-Bear said—wait for it—“Dad,
I’m just like you.” Before Chief could open his mouth to protest, I cut
him a look and said, “You know it’s true.” Oh yeah, THAT'S why I taught
them "Thou shalt not lie."
As you can see, “The Curse” works, although the damage doesn't manifest
until years later. I can envision our parents sitting in their clean
living rooms, stocked pantry and sans the sound of door-slamming.
They’re looking at their watches and smiling at one another. “Honey,
it’s 2012. The Curse should have kicked in by now.”
I might be over forty, but I still say this is child abuse!
www.crumbsnatchertales.com
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