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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April
/ May 2007 Contest Results |
Fool At The
Pool
By
Cora Allen,
Missouri
Every summer the kids talk me into taking them to the public pool. For
them, it’s a fun way to cool off on a hot day. For me, it’s a toss up
between looking like a pool-Geek in a T-shirt and capris, or a
fresh-plucked frying hen wearing a swimsuit.
Friends of mine, who frequent various weight-loss clinics, mistakenly
assume my lack of excess pounds means I have a tanned, toned and totally
hairless body. They imagine me waking on the first warm, summer day,
tossing a tank top over my French-cut bikini and calling to the kids,
“Let’s go for a swim!” If I ever ran into them at the pool they would
see by my flaccid, albino anatomy their reasoning is flawed. But the
only mothers I see at the pool obviously never nursed, still have
abdominal muscles and shamelessly sport a genetic flaw that has left
them with extra melanin and no follicles.
If I go to the
pool fully dressed, the trick is to look too involved in the latest
bestseller to care about showing off my breaststroke. Or, with my cell
phone clutched to my ear, I pretend to be involved in an urgent business
conversation, far too important to participate in something as frivolous
as water play.
If I decide to
wear a swimsuit, I have to confront the issue of whether or not to get
in the pool. Safe on my chaise, the hope is that onlookers will mistake
me for just another sunbather trying to deepen my tan; despite the fact
my white legs reflect more sunlight than they absorb.
Getting in the pool is tempting on especially hot days. I just wish it
didn’t require walking past all the college boys lounging poolside who,
instead of reading a good book, are whale-watching. I have no need to
wave hello as my thighs are doing it for me.
If I do get in, I immediately submerge myself neck-deep in water. If I’m
having a good hair day I begin to relax, until my children spot me and
come over to play. Soon I look like I have just stepped out of the
shower. Wet hair, clinging to my head, accentuates all the facial flaws
my hairstyle is designed to conceal. My bangs have disappeared,
revealing a fleshy soccer field, complete with line markings. And now,
to get to my comb, I must parade past all the whale-watchers again, this
time looking ten years older.
With my bangs reclaimed and cover-up on, I call to the kids it is time
to go – NOW. Time is ticking, and I know I have precious few minutes
before my naturally wavy hair, blowing softly in the summer breeze,
dries – giving me the appearance of a startled sheepdog.
This is the moment when Athena Perfecto, the Cleavage Queen, emerges
from the pool calling, “Cora! Remember me? Winnetonka High School? Home-Ec?”
There we stand, toe-to-toe, a stark contrast of good genes versus bad,
of Beauty and the Beast – and she wants to catch up on the twenty-plus
years since we’ve seen each other. I say she must be mistaken, as I
attended Polar Bear High School in Nome, Alaska and have never taken
Home Ec.
The kids and I
scurry off to the van, and for the first time in my life, I lay rubber.
Suffice it to say, the notion of spending an afternoon at the pool is
about as appealing to me as parading around in front of a bunch of
strangers in my underwear.
Hmm…
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 Tooth
Or Consequences
By
Daniel Bain,
North Carolina
Parents, quick! Shield your young kids’ eyes! I’m about to reveal a
guilty secret before you’re ready for them to learn it. And I’m not
talking about Social Security.
Let’s try this: Hey, kids – grammar lessons ahead! Boo!
Okay, are they gone now? Just in case, I’ll write in “big word” code….
The aforementioned secret involves a parental cover-up. Many of us are
part of the conspiracy, regularly lying to our young about a mythical
triumvirate of nocturnal callers who reward good behavior and proper
dental care.
The most well-known member is a portly fellow who travels via airborne
caribou, dresses like an N.C State Wolfpack fan, and enters your home
like a flue cleaner to leave playthings inside tacky footwear. Let’s
call him Scanty Cause.
The second member, Cheater Rottentale (aka The FleecedYour Money), is a
rodentlike mammal – specifically of family Leporidae, but let’s not
split hares. He delivers confections in a fake grass-lined container
made of interwoven veneer. Little is explained about him, making the
lies even more outrageous. For example, how does he carry all that with
such little appendages – is he a real Leporid, or is he human-sized? And
how does enter the house? (Coincidentally, I wonder the same things
about the squirrels in my attic.)
The third member is the most bizarre – the Truth Scary. She brings
neither amusements nor delectables – just cold, hard cash. In exchange
for fallen dental ware.
Parents, these are unconscionable lies. Needless, too – we could refuse
to perpetuate the fantasy, but we pay it forward in a desperate attempt
to reclaim our own lost joy. Even that makes little sense – the joy will
only crash down on us again the second time around, bringing worse pain
when our own kids learn the truth.
This almost happened to me last spring with my kindergartener. (Although
his cynical tendencies actually started last winter, on a Florida
vacation – he questioned whether Sicky Souse is real or “just a
grown-up.”)
Five is way too young to find out your parents are blatant liars. Still,
it shouldn’t surprise me – he’s already smarter than I am, and
surprisingly worldly. He’s been boning up on his geography, which was my
paternal grandparents’ downfall when it came to the first member of the
trinity of lies – my father debunked the Scanty Cause myth with a globe,
calculating the impossibly large scale of Scanty’s overnight task. At
age seven. (Whereas I found out via conspicuous K-Mart tags on alleged
“workshop” creations – I still suspect my parents left them there
intentionally, to help me learn the truth before getting beaten up at my
high school.)
Anyway, geography could be my downfall, too. The night before Easter, my
son extemporaneously recited the U.S.A.’s 50 states and Canada’s, er,
multiple provinces. Including Nunavut – although that’s technically a
territory, he assured me. (I took his word for it.)
Such intellectual capacity is bound to produce skepticism, so it
shouldn’t have surprised me Easter morning when my little Alex Trebek
asked, “Daddy? Is the FleecedYour Money real?” My heart crumbled like a
hollow milk chocolate bunny, but I played nonchalant and said, “I
guess.” He accepted this with a vigorous “Kay!” and ran off in search of
the goods. Whew! Lie saved, the Leporid received a stay of execution….
Several days later he came home from school, excited to show me his
first loose tooth – perhaps a result of the aforementioned confections.
He wiggled it with his tongue, then hit me with another doubt – “Daddy,
is the Truth Scary real?”
I tried a different tack this time – more advanced deception. “I don’t
know a thing about her, so maybe you should try a little experiment –
when your tooth comes out, leave it under your pillow and see what
happens. If she leaves you money, she must be real!”
“Kay!” was again the cynicism-free reply. I was congratulating myself
for having bought his faith until he added, “Maybe I’ll get $10 for my
tooth!”
I started to refute this, then realized he’d outsmarted me – I’d already
copped to knowing nothing about her; I couldn’t now claim to know her
going rate. (Which ought to be government-regulated anyway, to keep rich
parents from setting the bar too high.)
So I’m stuck with the first of many overinflated dental bills, but it’s
worth every penny, as it will keep the lie – and the joy – alive a
little longer.
I’d give anything for that – heck, I’d even walk to Nunavut and back.
Wherever it is….
www.dan-bain.com
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Making
A Good Impression
By
Pat Detmer,
Washington
Pillow Wrinkles: Sleep long and hard in one position, and impressions of
linen folds and embroidery will create a lovely debossed pattern upon
your cheek or brow.
When I arose in the morning in my youth, I would stagger into the
bathroom, note the Pillow Wrinkles, relieve myself, and by the time I
stood back up to wash my hands and look in the mirror again, my skin
would have relaxed back into its smooth, plump, line-free natural state.
I rarely get Pillow Wrinkles anymore. For one thing, it takes several
continuous minutes of motionless sleep to carve them into one's visage,
and stationary moments in the bed of a woman in her mid-fifties are
rare: Covers on. Hot. Sweat. Covers off. Cold. Covers back on. Trip to
bathroom. Back to bed. Flop. Fret. Hot. Covers off ... It's a busy cycle
of master bedroom sturm und drang and not particularly conducive to
things like REM sleep and facial wrinkles.
But once in a blue moon I'll collapse in bed at night and awaken in the
morning in the same position, and in addition to my bones making
alarming creaking noises as I rise, I will also sport a wrinkle the size
of the Grand Canyon complete with the network of roads that surround it.
I can relieve myself and look in the mirror, and it's still there. I can
take a shower and let the water run down my face, and it's still there.
I can slather my cheeks with enough costly moisturizer to re-animate an
Egyptian mummy, and it's still there. While putting on makeup I'll need
to use a trowel to fill it in. Then later around 2 p.m. when my skin
finally releases itself back to its natural shape, I'll sport a slab of
foundation that looks like a flesh-colored relief map of Mesa Verde.
We live in the Tattoo Age, where the body is a billboard. Given that
many of us are adverse to needles, pain, indelible ink, and spending any
meaningful amount of time in tattoo parlors, I've decided that it's time
to use our extreme wrinklability to make bold and painless face
statements about who we are and what we believe in.
To this end I'm offering a new bedding line under the name ""Pillow
Wrinkle, Inc."" which will feature pillowcases carrying embossed images
such as your Zodiac sign, or messages like ""I Stop For Grandchildren""
or ""Satan's Handmaiden."" Included in each attractive pillowcase will
be enough tranquilizers to bring down an African elephant in heat, which
is the dosage necessary to keep your face on the pillow long enough to
leave a mark.
www.patdetmer.com
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Bark
Of The Town
By
Windy Lynn
Harris, Arizona
As I walked back from the kids’ bus stop this morning I felt someone
watching me. I turned to see the little poodle that lives next door
staring at me through her front window. I gave her a little wave and a
smile, embarrassed because she knows ALL of my business. I hurried home
to my Springer spaniel, Jewel - the neighborhood gossip.
Jewel and that poodle meet at the fence every afternoon. They pace back
and forth while chatting it up. Once in a while they look back and see
me standing there by the sliding glass door. Jewel looks guilty and I
know she is talking about me again. She lowers her head and barks more
softly with her back to me.
My dog is constantly watching me, looking for juicy stories to share.
She follows me around all day waiting to see what I’ll do. She witnessed
me dropping my phone in the toilet, turning my hair a sickly shade of
pink, and accidentally planting my wedding ring in the herb garden.
Whenever I do these stupid things Jewel is sitting right there beside me
with one of her little dog eyebrows up.
“So she hurries around the corner,” I imagine my dog telling the poodle
yesterday, “and trips over the big guy’s shoes.”
“How delicious!” says the poodle in a quick little voice. “Tell me
everything!!” She moves closer to the fence and wags her fluffy ball of
a tail.
“She stood there rubbing her toes and yelling out some of those words
she saves for when she’s mad,” says my dog. “And when she looked up and
saw the kids standing in the hall, she pretended to be singing!”
“NO!” says the poodle with a small laugh.
“Yes!” barks my dog, enjoying the attention. “But that’s not the best
one.”
“More trouble with the self-tanner?” asks the nosy little poodle.
“Better,” teases my dog as she moves closer to the fence. “She got some
new hot rollers for her hair. She was all dressed up because she was
going to an important lunch.”
“Go on, go on,” yips the poodle.
“She rolled them too close to her scalp and they got stuck! You should
have heard her yelling!” Jewel begins to laugh, “Everyone was gone for
the day already so she stomped around using more of those words, and
then she ran to the kitchen.”
“Why?” pant, pant, “Why?” The poodle has her front paws on the fence
now, drooling over every detail.
“She got the scissors!”
This is where I picture the two dogs laughing hysterically.
They jump and run the length of the fence trying not to pee. When they
sit again Jewel takes a deep breath and adds, “She left the house
wearing her gardening hat!”
Again, the fits of dog laughter.
They both roll on their backs, wriggling around like they’re scratching
while the giggle barking echoes through the neighborhood.
I cringe and close the blinds.
Oh, no. Jewel wants out again. I plead to her with my eyes: “Be gentle,”
they say. I slide the glass door open and my dog heads for the fence
with a bark. I wish she hadn’t seen me mistake the orange juice for milk
on my cereal this morning.
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"The
Bachelor" -- One of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse
By
Patty K., Ohio
Tax day. There is simply no escaping April 15, is there? Comes every
year like clockwork.
And, while I’m certain you all filed your returns weeks ago and are in
no danger of penalty, here’s a proposition that makes an IRS audit sound
like a tea party: being a contestant on ABC’s “The Bachelor.”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the premise of the top-rated
“reality” television program, it’s the story of one man who woos 25
women “in hopes of finding his soul mate.”
Frankly, I’ve never understood the concept of having 25 beautiful,
allegedly bright young women claw each others’ eyes out in efforts to
snag a man who apparently cannot even get a date on his own, but that’s
just me.
I stopped briefly at “The Bachelor” on my way to MSNBC the other night
and glimpsed girls in sleazy outfits risking injury atop a mechanical
bull (not to mention the irreparable damage to their collective pride)
to impress this season’s object of desire, 30-year-old Andy Baldwin,
who’s being billed as “an officer and a gentleman.”
A gentleman? Sure, and Charles Schwab just personally called to tell me
I’m receiving a million dollar return.
A little background on young Andy: he’s a special operations diver in
the U.S. Navy, who lettered in swim on Duke’s varsity team in college
and became a surgeon who raises money for Pancreatic Cancer research and
competes in Ironman triathlons. Oh, did I mention his “doctors without
borders” type trip to Laos to help the villagers there? Lastly, the
guy’s drop-dead gorgeous with abs on which the U.S. Olympic ski team
could practice their moguls.
Yeah, seems like he’d have trouble filling up a Saturday night.
Hmm. Sure, all the pretty people are easy on the eyes; but am I really
supposed to believe randy Andy needs help with the ladies? And does seem
like a catch and all but, does that mean women should be willing to turn
themselves into fish food on national television just to try and hook
him?
Thinking I might be coming down too hard on the show I am certain is the
catalyst to Armageddon, I asked some other women for their opinion.
Marianne Novatny is licensed physical therapist, a wife and a mother who
thinks the show should be deep-sixed.
“It’s the worst program on television today, bar none,” she said. “What
kind of message are we sending to young women by encouraging them to
sell out other women and themselves? Plus, it’s solely based on
appearance; how shallow!”
Exactly. Because, I, too, could look like the bachelorettes if I wanted;
I choose instead to have gnarled hair and sagging biceps and triceps in
the name of the solidarity of sisterhood.
“Oh and that whole ‘rose equals beauty’ thing is bogus. It makes the
women who don’t get the flowers feel like ugly ducklings,” she
continued.
Yeah, we gruesome geese have feelings, too, you know.
Chris Carlton, a single twenty-something administrative assistant,
dislikes the show for a different reason.
“What kind of girl could possibly kiss a boy who’s kissed all those
other girls in the same day?” she asked me.
“You couldn’t pay me any amount of money to date a snake like that,” she
said, clucking her non-forked tongue in disapproval.
I might have gone out with that guy briefly in college, but he soon
slithered away; hissing something about me being too nice for him as
whipped me to the curb with his rattler.
Forty-five-year-old Mary Vargis, mother of three nearly-grown bachelors,
disagreed with Novatny, Carlton and I.
“You are taking it way too seriously. It’s just for entertainment. I
think it’s funny to watch those girls go at it,” she said with a laugh.
Why am I guessing this gorgeous blonde always got the rose in high
school? Hmpf.
Vargis told me she never misses the show because, “It’s so carefree and
fun. They go to all these fabulous places and do these fun things.”
True, I can’t imagine anything more pleasurable than getting dumped in
front of that famous “Hollywood” sign – not to mention the entire
country.
Listen ladies, turn off that rotten, psyche-destroying show and remember
that cute guys come and go; but real friends with be with you always --
just ask my best pal Michelle, whom I met in kindergarten.
It’s like I always tell my almost 13-year-old niece: no boy is worth
crying over; laugh with your girlfriends instead.
Besides, boys are stupid.
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Earthquake
Preparedness
By
Yvonne Minassian,
California
Our earthquake prepardness container was hastily put together after the
big '88 Bay Area quake. It's suppose to have enough food and provisions
for a family of 4 for 3 days. That's two adults who don't need adult
diapers of any sort, and two average sized kids who agree to be seen
with their parents while running for safety.
Somewhere in the house, I have a U.S.G.S. list of suggested emergency
items; it's in the drawer of take out food menus and various family pet
guidebooks that have lived and died on our watch.
Once I dug the can out from the toolshed, I was ready to take stock of
what needed to be replenshed to ensure my family could survive at least
3 days away from home and the Internet.
It appeared that our earthquake prepardness container hadn't been opened
or thought about since OJ's white Bronco was seen purusing the LA
freeway.
It's contents revealed a wind-up Fisher Price radio that plays "Mary
wore a Red
Dress", a faded box of AhkMak Middle Eastern crackers, 2 plush
Barney dolls, 4 cans of InstaPudding, and one pair of size 4t panties.
Embarrasingly, we packed everything to start a family-run
Montessori-school that served mid-morning snack, instead of water
sanitizing tablets,layered clothing and a radio.
Admittedly, we were lacking some essetial items and I envisioned us
wandering homeless after the next Big One, knocking on the neighbors
door for help while they hid in their fully stocked RV while we ate
flower petals from their yard.
Guilt and shame prompted me to act and I quickly found a handled pie bag
from Marie Callenders and stuffed it with a few boxes of raisins, tube
socks, 3 bottles of YooHoo! chocolate drinks, a tin of Turkish delights,
and a Batman sleeping bag, and threw it in the back of the car.
If the Big One hits today, and we need more extensive provisions than
this, we've agreed to meet at the 7-eleven down the street, and if that
parking lot was full, then the Pasha's Market & Hookah Lounge on Carumba
Ave. will serve as "Plan B".
Now that I've found our shortcomings, we've become more focused as a
family. The kids know they're responsible for getting out of the house
quickly even though they might be IMing friends at the moment, and they
won't waste precious time in a possible unsecure structure, to go find
the hair straightener or Guitar Hero controller.
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Knives
By
Natalie Olsen,
Washington
The guy on the phone said he got my name and unlisted number from Merry,
who up until that moment had been a good friend of mine.
“I am presently enrolled in a marketing class at the university,” he
explained, “and must be completing five practice sales presentations for
my assignment.”
I’m the one who slams the door on missionaries, declines all Tupperware
party invitations and stays clear of anyone selling Amway products.
Maybe it was his peculiar accent and desperate need to have “just five
people” listen to him in order to pass the class that made me give in.
Merry had given him my name, after all.
Warning him in advance that I wouldn’t buy anything, I agreed to let him
stop by after he assured me he wouldn’t try to sell anything.
“Oh, no, Lady. I am only needing your signature to confirm I did the
practice.”
Maybe I could manage to be out when he came.
“I am parking just around the corner. I will be arriving at your house
in one minute,” he said before hanging up.
Profiler that I am, I did think of terrorist warnings when I opened the
door and saw him. He didn’t have bombs in his suitcase, though. Just
sharp knives.
He whipped out a black velvet cloth, draped it over my coffee table and
began to carefully lay out each weapon. I began to sweat.
“You know, I don’t need any knives, so this is wasting your time and
mine,” I said.
“Oh no, I am just needing to present a short sales talk for my class.”
He picked up an enormous butcher knife. “Please feel this piece of
cutlery,” he ordered, stressing the “cut” syllable. I quickly took the
knife out of his hands. He talked about the tempered steel and pointed
out features of a few of the other knives. He could have just used the
word “sharp.”
He took a penny out of his pocket and with great drama cut through it
with one of the special scissors. “I will bet you do not have a knife or
scissors capable of doing that,” he said.
He didn’t laugh when I told him that as much as I always try to cut
expenses, I’d never tried slicing pennies.
I politely asked him to leave, but he kept on talking about knives. When
I mentioned calling the police, he started packing up his arsenal. He
paused on the way out and asked, “Since you were not buying my knives,
will you be kind enough to give me names and phone numbers of ten
friends so I will not be failing in this class?”
I slammed the door.
The next time I meet an Amway distributor, I’m going to mention my
friend who wants to try their laundry detergent. Any missionary who
knocks on my door is going to get Merry’s name and address, too.
www.natalieolsen.com
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One
Lump Or Two
By
Randy Richardson,
Illinois
"Ladies and gentlemen," the ring announcer droned, "in this corner,
weighing in at a slightly pudgy-but-still-respectable-for-his-age 155
pounds, Big Daddy."
"And in the other corner, weighing in at 34 pounds, the featherweight
champion of the Family Boxing Federation, The Kid."
You already know who wins this boxing match, right?
The Kid, of course. The undefeated, undisputed, undersized FBF
titleholder.
It would be an upset of stunning proportions if Big Daddy were to win
one of these fights, real or imagined, akin to the Washington Generals
defeating the Harlem Globetrotters.
I thought about that as I nursed a bloody nose the other night that came
when The Kid's 3-year-old fist met Big Daddy's schnoz, an admittedly
large and sensitive target. The blow was accidental, coming during a
nightly wrestling ritual with The Kid, but it stung nonetheless.
We always hear about all the bumps and bruises that little ones endure.
What we often forget is that parents take a lot of hits, too. Our hair
gets pulled and we pull out our own hair, leaving many of us with much
less on top than we had before we had kids.
There are the emotional pains of being a parent. The cry of your child
goes straight to your heart.
There are also physical pains. Not only are those almost-daily
parent-child turf battles emotionally draining, they are physically
exhausting. There are the sicknesses that you haven't experienced since
you were a child. The bumps and bruises – and bloody noses – that
parents endure everyday, during ordinary playtime.
Fortunately, kids heal incredibly fast. The pains from those bumps and
bruises and the memories of those parent-child turf battles seem to wash
away with the tears.
Kids are miraculous healers as well. They always seem to have a cure for
whatever it is that is ailing us. Sometimes all it takes is a hug from
them. Other times it is a hearty dose of humor. When there are those
times that I want to cry myself, no one can turn that frown into a smile
better than my son. Sometimes even when it's not intended.
My son is really into back rubs, and refuses to go to sleep without one.
He has a self-deprecating sense of humor about this particular
obsessive-compulsive personality trait of his.
One evening while brushing his teeth, he asked me to rub his back. I do
it, and he giggled as the toothpaste foamed in his mouth, making him
look like he was rabid.
Then he cracked, "Rub my head." I do it, and his face turned red from
laughing so hard. With the rosy cheeks and the toothpaste foam oozing
down his chin, he resembled a deranged Santa Claus.
Next came, "Rub my two breasts." Huh? The parents wondered what kind of
a monster they had created.
Then he grinned, with chipmunk cheeks, and held up his toothbrush. The
parents breathed a sigh of relief. There was no need to call in the
child therapist just yet. Their ears had been tricked. A mouthful of
saliva and toothpaste had impeded his speech and twisted his innocent
"Rub my toothbrush" into something normally reserved for late-night
cable.
All the day's troubles rubbed away as I laughed like a kid while my kid
giggled along with me but without having the slightest idea as to how he
had tickled my funny bone when it most needed it.
Parents take their lumps, but, fortunately, some of them come in the
form of pure sugar.
www.lostintheivy.com
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Poison
Control
By
Stephanie
Rogers, Louisiana
I was quite clueless when I had my first child, Sylvie. She taught me
about my idiocy by swallowing things that could either be harmful or
fatal. Poison Control had a folder on my daughter that listed things
like:
· an entire tube of toothpaste
· baby powder (Which I learned is not poisonous, but a choking hazard.
Good to know.)
· a capful of floor cleaning liquid (When I yelled at my husband about
what I thought she had ingested, he looked at me and said,
"There is no way she drank that. Here let me show you.")
· a fourth of a bottle of vapor rub
· caulk
· a buck fifty (She is my own personal savings and loan. The loan
officer tends to get messy.)
It got to the point where they called me once a week, just to check on
things.
“Hello, Mrs. Rogers. How is Sylvie today?” was the standard greeting I
received from whichever Poison Control representative was assigned this
task.
“She is doing quite well today. The only thing she has chewed on so far
is the coffee table. The last time I called I was told that the varnish
on it was probably not harmful in small quantities.”
“Good to hear. I would tell you to be sure to contact us in case of an
emergency but I doubt that is worth mentioning. Is the same time next
week good for you?”
"We have Mommy and Me class that day. I'm available the next afternoon."
"I made a note on her file."
Out of curiosity I ask if it is normal to have a file. I am told it is
not. We exchange a few more pleasantries and say our goodbyes. I hang up
the phone and squish my daughter’s cheeks together in order to get her
latest find out of her mouth.
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Hey,
You
By
Lynette Sheffield,
Oregon
Through the years, I have said many nonsensical statements that, when
taken out of context, might sound a bit ridiculous.
I have truly asked the following questions.
-Could you help me get the tomato paste off the ceiling?
-Can you wash our son in the shower because the baby just pooped in the
bathtub?
-What do you mean, ‘We’re out of diapers?’”
Let me just say that if you are in a similar situation as that last one,
never, ever ask the follow-up question. That follow-up question has been
the basis for more divorces and injuries caused by using bottles of baby
lotion as assault weapons than any other question on the planet.
For some bizarre reason, though, the follow-up question is usually
asked: “Are you sure?”
That is a very bad question to ask when your baby is already in a
precarious position being held by his or her ankles with his or her
buttocks lifted in the air while the other parent searches frantically
for a diaper substitute such as a bucket, mixing bowl or maxi-pad. If
you ask, “Are you sure?” at this time, you run the very real risk of
your baby being witness to a violent scene of unbelievable sarcasm and
it may scar the little one for life.
Another useless question to ask is, “Are you listening?” If you have to
ask, chances are; they are not.
When I was a child, I used to go to a church where the preacher would
sprinkle his sermons with the question, “Are you listening?” Looking
back, I so very much wished I would have possessed the chutzpah to stand
up with my transistor radio glued to my ear and announce, “Hell, no, I’m
not listening! I’m trying to get a Chargers score!” But even at that
young age, I knew that the beating that would have resulted would have
made the act so not worth it.
When dealing with my own children, I have learned various ways to get
their attention. I have lived with virtually every video game system
made and so I’ve learned a few tricks. The most effective ways to get
them to look at you are to blow a referee’s whistle in one of their
ears, make loud flatulent noises and/or set one of their feet on fire.
Although if my son was in the midst of a game of “Gears of War” and I
set his foot on fire, he would probably still reply “Just a sec.”
I really hate being told “Just a sec.”
But today I read a statement in my newspaper that thrilled me no end. I
would have never guessed in a million years that I would ever see this
statement in a newspaper story and one off the wire at that. I know that
I will spend the rest of my life trying to work this statement into a
conversation because it is just that delightful and I know that once I
tell you what it is; you will feel the same way.
Ready?
“Obviously there aren’t enough turkeys to generate enough poop to power
a nation.”
It’s a real story from The Associated Press. In Benson, Minnesota they
are using turkey poop to generate power.
Honestly.
They have this 55-megawatt power plant there that burns about 500,000
tons of turkey litter a year and turns it into energy. “Poultry litter
works as a fuel because it’s relatively dry, so it’s easy to burn
compared with cow and hog manure, which are too wet and smell far
worse.”
Well, if that doesn’t grab your attention; what will?
I think it should become the new slogan for the environmental movement.
“Poop more to power the nation! What do we want? Poop! When do we want
it? Now! Push it out, push it out, waaaaaaaaay out!”
I will just explain to my Homeowners Association that I am trying to
help reduce my carbon footprint by keeping a flock of turkeys in my
front yard.
And maybe a big plop of their by-product in my son’s lap will get his
attention.
In a sec.
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A
Ream A Turkey
By
Laura Snyder,
North Carolina
My mother is originally from Germany. She has not lived there since she
was ten years old, but those first ten years of her life have had a
profound affect on her language skills.
Her mother, my grandmother, still had her German accent when she passed
away a few years ago. My brothers and sister and I have spent our lives
interpreting these two women and now we have gotten to the point where
we have, in essence, created a new language out of the English that they
have been butchering.
My mother, although she does not have a German accent, cannot seem to
say “crab apple” to save her soul. Unfortunately, we had many crab apple
trees where we grew up and every spring brought the comment, “Aren’t the
crap apples pretty this time of year?”
We used to hide a
snicker behind our hands, but now we look forward to that comment each
year. My grandmother used to confuse us when we were younger because she
liked to eat cottage cheese. Only she called it “college cheese”. There
is a world of square footage between a cottage and a college. But we’ve
been calling it “college” cheese for so long now, that my daughter, who
is nine years old, thought that the grocery store had a shipment of
college cheese containers that were spelled wrong.
A phone conversation with my mother is like being on the Teacup ride at
an amusement park.
“Aren’t the crap apples beautiful this year, Laura?”
“You mean crab apples, right?”
“That’s what I said, crap apples!”
“They’re lovely, Mom.”
“You know, Bob’s brother retired… wait, isn’t that when you get new
tires on your car?”
“If you mean he’s
not working anymore, retired is right.”
“Well, he is working, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Then he’s not retired.”
“Yes, he is. But he
got a job doing newspaper delivery…wait…that doesn’t mean he’s taking
livers out of newspapers, does it?”
“Newspapers don’t have livers, so I think he’s just taking newspapers to
customers.”
“Yes, that’s right! Bob says it’s a very ludicrous job.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Now, honey, there’s no need to be mean.”
“I’m not, Mom. Ludicrous means crazy.”
“No, it means he makes a lot of money.”
“That would be lucrative.”
“Right, that’s what I said. He says he’s making enough to be able to
afford to put Prego on their floor.”
“Wait, they’re putting spaghetti sauce on their floor?”
“No, no. Prego is that new fake hardwood flooring that’s in all the home
improvement stores.”
“Oh, you mean Pergo?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. You need to pay attention. Didn’t you get any
sleep last night?”
“Well, now that you mention it, Mom, I’m pretty tired right now.”
“Okay, then. I’ll hang up now if you promise to get some sleep.”
“Okay, Mom. Auf Wiedersehen.”
“A ream a turkey!! That’s goodbye in Itailian. I just learned that
yesterday!”
“That’s Arrivederci, Mom.”
“Right, that’s what I said. Get some sleep, dear.”
www.lauraonlife.com
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Mapping
The Universe
By
Laura Snyder,
North Carolina
It is amazing to me when I get a tiny glimpse of how children must view
the world. I got one of these glimpses the other day when one of those
random thoughts that floats around in my ten year-old’s head suddenly
exploded out of his mouth.
He started spewing some kind of mumbo-jumbo that I surely would be
impressed with if I knew anything at all about scientific stuff. This is
what I got out of it:
He told me that there was some kind of puzzle that scientists have been
trying to work out for hundreds of years. Let’s stop right there for a
moment.
Hundreds of years?! They must’ve been some pretty tenacious scientists,
because I think I would’ve given up after oh, say…twenty minutes. I
can’t even get through a SUDOKU puzzle without my eyes sweating.
My son continued to yammer about the solution to this puzzle being the
key to mapping the universe. If they were male scientists, I can see why
this might have taken so long. A woman would’ve asked directions and had
it down in about two weeks. Well, okay, this is the universe we’re
talking about. Two months…tops.
Somewhere in his very, very, veeeerrrrryyyy long story, he said that
part of the problem to solving the puzzle had to do with the fact that
the scientists had to work with 268 dimensions. You know, I’m not real
good with science. In fact, I’m really bad at it. But I’m aware of only
three dimensions: Height, Width, and Depth and we could stretch it to
four if we included Time, which I’m not all that aware of.
That makes four dimensions. Even if I accepted the fact that I might not
know about a few of them given my complete lack of aptitude for science,
I don’t think it would be that easy to squeeze 260 some-odd dimensions
by me with me knowing it. So somewhere in this story there is a problem.
Now, I don’t want any scientific-type people e-mailing me after they
read this column and making me feel like an idiot: “Mrs. Snyder, how do
you manage to function?”
I may not know about all those dimensions, but that’s because I only use
four of them. I would surely go insane trying to keep track of all my
dimensions if I used a full set of them. I have enough trouble keeping
track of my three-dimensional children. Lord help me if they came
equipped with a couple hundred more.
My son’s ramblings continued until he reached a fevered pitch that
included the words, “and they figured out the answer to the puzzle a
couple weeks ago!”
Well, it’s about time! After spending what must’ve amounted to
bazillions of dollars of taxpayers’ money over the last couple hundred
years, they finally found some guy who wanted to work for a living and
he spilled the beans on the big secret.
My son, in ecstatic joy, let out the last bit of his random thought of
the moment on a beautific sigh, “Now they’re going to map the universe!”
I murmured, “That’s great,” my usual response to his flights of fancy.
My daughter, however, being all of nine years old, was duly impressed.
“They’re gonna map the universe?!! Whoo-hoo!!”
Then after thinking about it a moment, she added wisely,…”but they’re
gonna need a really, really big piece of paper.”
www.lauraonlife.com
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The
Toddler Helpline
By
Kathleen M. Wooton, MD,
New Jersey
When you you buy a new computer, there is a 24 hour hotline to assist
you when your machine malfunctions. After a very stressful morning out
with my two young children, I wondered what it would be like if such a
hotline existed for parents. The following dialogue is the result of
that train of thought.
Please note that the following is a work of fiction. No actual children
or ceiling fans were harmed during the conceptualization, writing, or
proofreading of this story.
A phone rings.......
Operator : “Good afternoon, Toddler Helpline. How may I help you?”.
Parent : “Hello, I’m calling about my toddler unit. I have reason to
believe that it’s malfunctioning.”
“Could you please state the nature of the problem?”
“State the nature of the problem? Okay, you asked for it - my toddler
is, as we speak, tied to the ceiling fan!”
“Okay sir, please calm down - you don't need to shout. Now, I'm going
to need two pieces of information to assist you fully. Number one - do
you have the boy or the girl unit?”
“A boy unit - why?”
“Okay, I see. Number two - is your boy toddler unit just tied to the
ceiling fan, or is he actually fooling with the wiring? Oh yes, and one
other minor detail - is the ceiling fan turned on?”
“No, he is not rewiring it, the ceiling fan is not turned on, and he is
actually tied to the fan! Why does any of this matter? He is tied to
the friggin’ ceiling fan, neither my wife nor I put him there, he is an
only unit, and the dog lacks the know-how to do the job. Obviously,
this unit is malfunctioning!”
“Listen, sir - I am really sorry, but if you have a boy unit, the
ceiling fan is off, and the wiring is intact, then there is absolutely
nothing wrong with your unit - it is functioning up to specs! Aren't
these boy models clever?”
“No, you listen, lady - I’ve spent a pile of money on this model, and
you’ve been as helpful as the instructions on a toothpick box! I want
to speak to someone in technical support!”
“I'm sorry, sir, but our entire technical support staff is on an
assertiveness training retreat at the Marquis de Sade Institute in Death
Valley.”
“Dammit - If you can't help me, then I want to order an instruction
manual!”
“Sorry, but I just can't do that. If you were stupid enough to order
the toddler unit, then the instruction manual would be far too difficult
for you to comprehend.”
“ Darnit to hell! Just tell me where the flippin’ off switch is! You
can do that, can't you?”
“Sorry, sir - no can do. Only product development knows where that is,
and they're not telling.”
“Okay, I want to send it back for a refund - pronto!”
“I am truly sorry, sir, but all units are custom-made and totally
non-refundable.”
“Oh, c’mon, help a guy out! Can’t I at least exchange it for another
model?”
“No, I’m sorry to inform you that you can’t, but you wouldn't want to
anyway. The girl models are just as much trouble, are more expensive to
maintain, and the whining - well, let's just say you got off easy with
the boy model. You can order a new girl unit if you so desire, but I am
afraid your boy model is a keeper.”
“Great, just great - now what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, this is just a suggestion, mind you, but if I were you, I would
get your toddler off the ceiling fan and then call the doctor and make
an appointment - for yourself. You sound stressed - stress can kill.”
“Yeah, if the diabolical little troll beast doesn't do it to me first!
Geez - thanks a bundle, Lady - for nothing!”
I'm so glad I could be of assistance to you today. By the way, due to
recent budget cutbacks beyond my personal control, the Toddler Helpline
is required to charge you $4.99 per minute for this call. Have a nice
day, and thank you for calling the Toddler Helpline.”
The scene closes with the parent dropping the phone and clutching his
chest in pain, to the sound of a toddler squealing “WHEEEEEEEEE!” as the
fan slowly turns around and around and around............
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