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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June
/ July 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Finalists in our
June/
July 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Ring, Ring A
Song
By
Burton Cole,
Ohio
I have offered up many excuses
as to why I am one of two people left in America who does not carry a
cell phone. The painful truth is this: I can’t face the stress of
choosing ringtones.
There are thousands, probably millions of choices. Cell users don’t just
plug numbers into their phone memory cards. They can choose a different
ringtone for every friend, neighbor and pizza parlor.
I’m still don’t know which color socks go with which pants. How can I be
expected to match all my friends to their appropriate theme music?
Back in the days when Georgie Washington, Tommy Jefferson and I were
running around together chopping down cherry trees with an ax that
contained no digital chips whatsoever, telephones rang. That’s it. There
was one sound for all telephones, and when you heard it, you picked up
the receiver and talked.
You sat while you did this because the receiver – about the size as six
or seven cell phones combined – was attached by a cord to the phone
base, which was even clunkier. If you wanted a portable phone, you
bought a 12-foot extension cord so you could pace.
I am trying to explain this very slowly because I know 20-somethings
like my daughter have no concept of a phone that you won’t let you talk
and drive at the same time.
My kiddo makes her living peddling cell phones, by the way. I’m an
embarrassment to her.
Her phone rings frequently and always to the beat of a different digital
drummer.
On a recent visit, I knew that as soon as I heard Trisha Yearwood
belting from the vicinity of Melissa’s hip holster, “She’s in love with
the boy, yeah, she’s in love with the boy...,” the cell was about to be
unslung and Dad was about to be dumped for the boyfriend. Again.
She assigned me a personal ringtone for me, too, though I forget what it
is. “Teddy Bears on Parade,” probably.
Here’s another one for you old-timers. Do you remember when restaurants
had tabletop jukeboxes? Some meals could get annoying if several booths
dropped dimes at the same time and you were forced to hear a cacophony
of competing songs.
Well, it’s back to the future, but with the twist befitting our
dwindling attention spans. Now cell phones across the restaurant blast
short bursts of a mixture of tunes, ranging from The Ohio State
University fight song to Nickelback’s “Rock Star” to the “Law & Order”
bing-bongs. You don’t know whether to cheer, sing or approach the bench
to take the oath.
These modern innovations are not without their merits, of course.
They’re wonderful for pranks.
My brother Dan had to borrow a cell phone from my sister. So Martha set
the ringtone for the Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You” but
wouldn’t tell him how to change it. Then when he got with his tough-guy
buddies, she called as often as possible so they could hear David
Cassidy bubble-gumming from Dan’s shirt pocket.
If I ever break down and buy a phone from the offspring, I think I have
a plan. I will download the phone tones those old clunkers had when I
was a kid. Then I’ll leave the phone at home because the real truth is
this: I don’t want to take calls no matter who sings the ringtone. Even
David Cassidy.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Tall
Tales On A Short Bike
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
Today’s story is the strange
tale of a midlife crisis, a motorcycle, an electric fence and horse
droppings. And I want to emphasize here that this all happened to
someone else who is not me at all.
I know, I know, I have somewhat of a reputation for tactical errors. But
I refuse to take the blame for everything. This confession belongs to a
friend of mine. Let’s call him... no, wait ... her! Let’s call HER
Karen. And her daughter – no, no, I have a daughter and this time it’s
not me. Honest. So let’s say Karen has a son named, um, Chris.
See, I told you it wasn’t me at all.
Anyway, Karen was attending a pig roast on a friend’s farm, a festive
gathering with far too many witnesses. I mean, guests. She was sitting
by the pond, minding her own business and not bothering a soul. She
probably had filched a cookie from the dessert table ahead of time, but
I see nothing wrong with that.
Then my daughter ... I mean, Chris, Karen’s son ... puttered up on a
cool minibike. She thought it looked kinda cute and cuddly, a little
bike for beginners.
I’ll let “Karen” take the narrative from here:
“He said, ‘Hi, Mom! I bet you’re too old to ride this.’
“I said ‘Cool wheels, dude! Hand it over.’
“You would think I would know better than to accept a bet from my son.
No sooner did I say, ‘Woo-Hoo!’ than the bike accelerated from 0 to 30
mph in 3 seconds. Chris forgot to tell me it was a VERY fast bike.
“The brakes were a caliper on the left handle and the throttle was on
the right. When one is under duress of clinging desperately to a tiny
rocket on the mistaken premise that it would be better to stay aboard
than abandon ship, one tends to confuse tiny details, like which side is
left and which is right.
“I didn’t even get my feet on the pegs when I drove through the fire
pit, narrowly missing the big iron corn cauldron. Thankfully the fire
wasn’t lit. Well, not until the heels of my flailing feet played
flintlock on the rocks.
“Then I drove through a group of suddenly unoccupied lawn chairs. Did
you know that lawn chairs can fly?
“I headed straight for the electric fence surrounding the horse pasture.
It is a good thing the current was on. When the wire sliced open my
knee, it also cauterized it at the same time.
“Lucky for me there was some fairly fresh horse manure. It bogged down
the tires and wiped out the missile on wheels.
“That’s when I heard my son racing behind me yelling, ‘Mom! Let go of
the throttle!’
“Now, if he had told me that in the first place I wouldn’t be sitting in
a pile of horse droppings, would I?
“When I called the doctor’s office to request a tetanus shot, instead of
saying, ‘How about 3 p.m.?’ the receptionist sighed, ‘NOW what did you
do?’
“Well, it wasn’t like I was wrestling a steer to prove I still could.
Not again, anyway. I do learn eventually.”
Anyway, that’s the way Karen told the story to me. For once, it was
someone else’s midlife crisis, not mine.
You do believe me, don’t you?
www.tribune-chronicle.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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For
Sale: Previously Unused Unmet POTENTIAL
By
Laurissa Doonan,
Pennsylvania
Each person is born into this
world with seemingly unlimited potential. I have recently been sorting
through my life and have come across this whole wad of unused POTENTIAL.
I was one of those who had the oodles of POTENTIAL -- genetics provided
me with the POTENTIAL intellectual gifts beyond comprehension. My career
path could really have been anything, from bee farmer to astronaut, or
both and everything in between. The world truly was my oyster and all I
had to do was reach just a smidgeon of my POTENTIAL to be an
incomparable success.
Alas, I didn't. You see, making use of POTENTIAL is apparently a CHOICE
one has to make for herself, and I didn't do that. I followed what I was
told, I did all I was supposed to do. At some point upon becoming an
adult, where control of one's own POTENTIAL is transferred, without any
pomp and circumstances (and no cash gifts) from parent to child,
something was forgotten. I had other things on my mind. I have no idea
what those things were, but I'm sure they were INCREDIBLY important at
the time.
So I continued through life weaving my way around, utterly unaware of my
POTENTIAL just packed away collecting dust there next to the other wads
of missed opportunities, the ships passing in the night and stopping
only briefly to refuel as they steamed on past my existence. Opportunity
probably knocked, but I was in one of my dark goth phases, so I ignored
the door, assuming it was yet another pompous esoterical wannabe friend
who was beneath me.
Years passed and I continued weaving through life. Never finding that
one thing I would be able to use my POTENTIAL for. I was a phenomenal
researcher, but without a topic of interest. A great writer, but no
subject appealed to me. A huge sense of humor with a death grip fear of
public speaking. A tone deaf lover of music. An inventor without
technical skills or ability, a skilled scientist with an
incomprehensible lack of interest in detail, a legal wiz with an utter
lack of respect for authority, complete lack of patience, and endless
frustration at the disparity between logic and law eliminated that
option.
No, perhaps one day I would find a use for my POTENTIAL, but for now,
I'll save it …–And there it lies, this wonderful wad of unused
POTENTIAL, hidden under the mattress getting no light, air or use.
I have therefore chosen to offer for sale the right to use over 35 years
of actual unused POTENTIAL Not a LICK of it was ever used. Nothing,
nada, zip, zero. Still in it's original packaging. Don't believe me?
Trust me, ask my mother ... I haven't used ANY of it. Did I even take a
teensy bit of my POTENTIAL and apply it? Nope. Not one little bit. How
can you be SURE it's completely unused? How's this ... all this
POTENTIAL, all this creativity, talent, intellect, opportunity ... and
what do I do? I'm a project manager for a web company is East Butt, USA.
Who aspires to that as a kid????
RETURN POLICY:
You've GOT to be kidding. Did you really think I'd offer to take back
this potential? I've had enough grief holding on to it this long and not
using it, so now you'd want to return it? Get real, that's just
ridiculous.
CONDITION:
If you sat on your excessive potential for as long as I did, do you
really think you wouldn't smoke like a chimney too? Any expectation that
this would not be exposed to smoke, pets, spittle, bodily fluids,
profanity, extreme weather conditions and other undesirable elements is
unwarranted and not supported in this description.
GUARANTEE:
This POTENTIAL is not guaranteed to be successful as you will have the
ability and free will to apply it and apply it properly. I sure didn't,
that's why I'm selling it. I am not responsible for the inability or
lack of ambition to apply said POTENTIAL.
DISCLAIMERS:
This transfer does not include any royalties, income or successes that
may or may not have occurred during the first 35 years of my life; it
entitles the user ONLY to the POTENTIAL, and nothing whatsoever tangible
or claim rights to anything that has occurred or will occur in my life.
www.JockoDog.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dr.
Mom...a PhD on Life
By
Laurie Fabrizio,
Minnesota
Recently, I was in line to
renew my driver’s license at the DMV. A young mother was struggling to
keep her toddler from ripping the forms off of the table. She struggled
to drag the little nuisance up to the counter.
“Occupation?” the clerk mumbled.
She hesitated as her child was tossing used Kleenex, tampons and a fuzzy
mint out of her purse.
“Ah…” she stammered.
“Do you have a job, or are you just a ….?” said the clerk.
“Of course I have a job,” she snapped. “I’m a mother.”
“We can’t list ‘Mother’ as an occupation…but, housewife covers it,” the
clerk said.
I had succumbed to the same occupation as that poor young mother. All
the years of being a maid, nose wiper and ""Mom Goddess"" had relegated
me to the degrading title…“Housewife.” What about all of the dirty
diapers I had changed, dog barf I had cleaned up and the piles of dirty
underwear I had washed?
What about ‘Hubby? I made sure he left the house with matching socks,
reminded him to trim his ear hair and put up with his intestinal
issues. I deserve a medal for putting up with his snoring and not
smothering him in his sleep.
This clerk was really irritating me.
“Next,” she snapped.
She stood there, intimidating and smug. I figured her name tag would
say… “Official Interrogator”
I handed her my form and held my breath.
“What is your….occupation?” she said stifling a yawn.
I became possessed. All of the years of feeling unappreciated,
propelled words out of my mouth, like an auctioneer on speed.
“I’m a Senior Research Associate in the field of Child Development and
Human Relations. I specialize in teen and young adult issues.”
What the heck?
The clerk paused, her pen barely touching the paper, and looked up at me
like an alien was perched on my shoulder.
“Pardon me?” she asked.
I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing the important sounding words.
To my amazement, she was jotting down my title next to the word
“Occupation.” It was impressive in print.
“Can I ask what kind of work you do in this field?” she said.
Regaining my composure, I replied,
“I am involved in an ongoing research program (what mom isn’t?) that
requires both lab and field work (Isn’t that the same thing as indoors
and out?). I have my Bachelors degree in Early Childhood Development,
my Masters (all family members including pets) in Family Relations and a
PhD in Teen Counseling (two daughters). My job is extremely demanding
and I often work 16 hours a day (alright 24, but who’s counting). While
not your typical job, it is a constant challenge and the rewards I
receive are not monetary but in the daily satisfaction.”
The clerk was now gazing at me with new respect. Gone was her
authoritative demeanor. She placed my form on the top of the perfectly
stacked pile.
“Good luck with your job. It sounds extremely rewarding.”
A feeling of euphoria spread through my body faster than a hot flash.
Not even the petrified dog snots on the car window dampened my
spirits. Entering my driveway, I felt confident, bolstered by my new
career.
Upon getting out of the car, I was greeted by my two tail wagging lab
specimens. As I entered the house, my one research assistant (age 16)
had her cell phone implanted in her ear. Obnoxious, rap music boomed
from upstairs as my other assistant (age 19) was conducting a “hearing
impaired” experiment. The cuss words were testing the impact of
vulgarity on the impressionable teen mind.
My husband kissed me hello, as he swiftly hid the bag of chips he had
absconded from my daughter (obviously researching the effect of junk
food on teen growth patterns). The trail of crumbs he left was
slobbered up by the lab specimens.
My research team was waiting for me to announce our 6:00 dinner
meeting. I picked up discarded pop cans and the strewn jackets
littering the floor like discarded surgery scrubs, onto their
appropriate hooks. Finally I stepped in a tepid puddle of dog pee no
one had bothered to sop up.
None of the irritating minutia mattered. Victory was mine. I had
sliced through the bureaucratic BS and I was listed on an official
document, as someone distinguished. I had a title which demanded
respect.
I was Dr. Mom…a PhD on life.
Now…let’s talk about that sign for my door.
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Scythe
Matters
By
Chuck McKay,
Maine
Since planting our first garden last year, we have learned a ton about
what it takes to grow vegetables:
1)You can't just stick cucumbers and carrots and broccoli and spinach in
the ground and expect them to grow. You have to plant the seeds.
2)Manure makes great fertilizer, but not just any manure. Dog feces may
seem like a nice, inexpensive substitute, but it contains almost no
nutrients (try telling that to your dog, though).
3)Roto-tilling via dynamite may seem like a fantastic idea, but first
make sure old Mrs. Beasley across the street is in good cardiac health.
Beware that she might try to report you as some kind of horticultural
terrorist.
Despite these and other missteps, we actually managed to grow some food
– enough so we could go two whole months without buying groceries for
our colony of Japanese Beetles.
My wife and I did swipe some harvest for ourselves, as well. From one
20-foot row of tomato plants we plucked exactly six delicious tomatoes.
We aren't exactly the sort of people to simply rest on our laurels after
such a success. In search of more gardening info and advice, we trucked
ourselves down to Unity, Maine a couple of weeks ago for the annual
Small Farm Field Day, sponsored by the Maine Organic Farmers and
Gardeners Association.
Now before you go activating your stereotypes of organic-types being
pot-smoking peace-nik hippies, remember that these folks are just like
you and me, except they are trying not to actively destroy the
ecosystem.
For example, when we got there, several fellows were cutting a field of
grass with scythes, lazily swaying the giant blades back and forth in
the morning sun, cutting smooth, even swaths through the pasture. They
made it look like an easy replacement for my gas-powered push-mower.
Then a tourist (probably an amateur gardener like myself) tried to use
one, and I quickly discovered the scythe could also double as a hoe,
and, under the right emotional circumstances, a javelin.
The friendly farmers offered helpful suggestions and encouragement, but
you know later they were just laughing themselves hoarse over a few
bottles of home-brewed ale.
In fact, I bet there's this huge rivalry within MOFGA between the
farmers and the gardeners, and the farmers are always pulling these
stunts to make the gardeners look silly.
I found further evidence of this during a lecture by a bearded guy named
Clayton, who showed a thoughtful-looking audience a garden in which he
had deliberately grown weeds so he could scythe them down and use them
as mulch. He called it “thatch,” and he was totally serious.
Right, fella. You want me to grow weeds on purpose. Good thing I'm on to
you.
The rest of the day was pretty much a blur. I did find out that you
shouldn't use horse manure for fertilizer, which is bad news for those
of us who have access to an ample supply (i.e. those who live near
horses or near Augusta).
And sawdust is no good for mulching because it invites bacteria that
suck all the nitrogen out of the soil. Although, you can -- this is true
– urinate on the garden to help restore the nitrogen (“Good morning,
Mrs. Beasley! You're up early today!”).
Just to be clear, when the cops show up, blame Clayton, not me. He's the
one with all the weed. Uh, I mean, weeds." "
http://tongue-cheek.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Say
Cheese
By
Yvonne Minassian,
California
According to Homeowner's World, people will risk their
lives to re-enter a burning house to save their family's photo albums.
The thought of losing baby photos, precious milestones, and the secret
photocopies of your butt on the copier at work, cause regular folks to
dash, fists clenched, knowing they could possible scorch their sideburns
if not, fry to death.
That'll never happen at our house. For two reasons; just like the clean
towels, I'm the only one that seems to know where the photo albums are.
I could make stepping stones out of them on the front lawn and the kids
and dad'll accuse me of not being sentimental enough.
I've bought every lousy picture that my kids knowingly posed for in a
school setting. The minute those goldenrod notices are sent home from
the school office encouraging them to "Look Your Best, We'll Do the
Rest" is a parents' cue to get your kids teeth straightened or at least
schedule the rhinoplasty. Doing otherwise, you can consider yourself a
negligent parent.
There's no such thing as a simple picture - you're not going to be let
off sending in a check for the Basic Package that includes a class pix
with the cardboard cutout of the principal. No, now you have options and
sitting styles to choose from:
Standard Package #1:
Includes 3 standard individual shots of your child, no retouching or
airbrushing is done. Retakes are not allowed even if your child's eyes
are closed or half his face is missing from the picture. This is the
best package to buy if you're looking for a 'no frills' kind of deal.
These are inexpensive and good to use in Christmas cards to distant
relatives who are incarcerated.
Premium Package #2
In this package you get a choice of 2 backgrounds of either a faux
forest scene with a startled deer peering between the trees, or, a canoe
on a lake scene with realistic facial expressiosn of it's inhabitants
faces as they approach the upcoming Falls. A class picture is also
included for an extra $10 or you can opt for the aerial view of the
custodial staff posing near the air ducts on the administration
building.
Deluxe Package #3
This package is for the parent who wants only the best for their child.
These poses will reflect a thoughtful yet natural-like expression using
props and if necessary, historic weapons.
Yes, these photos will grace the walls of your home and of the child's
grandparents, long into the future when grandma won't even notice she's
hanged the photo upside down in the bathroom.
Your child will pose in fun, yet natural poses that express his/her
personality and budding vulgarity.
(A Note to Our Returning Customers"": This year, the skull and
crossbones with leather vest option has been discontinued.
Yes, even the class photo in front of the faded cafeteria is thing of
the past. When I was in 4th grade, we used principals' pick up for a
backdrop. My daughter's kindergarten class picture resembled a scene
from Pimp My Ride. The class mother at the time, knew the manager at the
local Hummer dealership. So all the kids stood around posing in 95
degree weather, leaning up against cars bigger than their homes,
scratching the paint off with their fingernails. Of course we bought the
airbrushed package for $99.00.
If we should have a house fire, I'll still make a grab for the photo
albums - some of my best hairstyles are in there. Before I had kids I
could afford a stylist unlike the $13 cuts I now sport that make me look
like David Cassidy.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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My
Life as a Diet
By
Cathlene Smith,
Utah
Little did I know, the diet would
turn out to be emotionally devastating. So, I needed to lose a few
pounds. I had thought about my approach and decided on the strictest
diet possible. This would be the route to a figure worthy of a new
swimsuit. Keeping a diary is very important for a Herculean pursuit such
as this.
Thursday evening:
I drove to the health food store with heroic urgency. I was encouraged
to buy: a digital scale with fat index, the book, The Fabulous World of
Fiber, protein shakes, colon cleanse, and multi vitamins. I was
guaranteed to lose ten pounds in one week. Guaranteed! Excitement
overtook the loss of the $300.00 I spent.
Diary - Day 1
5:00 am. I woke up one hour early to do cardio exercises before going to
work.
5:05 am. I went back to sleep. Must not overdo on first day.
6:30 am. I got ready for work. Drank first protein shake. Oh my God!
This stuff is terrible! Took colon cleanse, three vitamins, and drank 8
ounces of water.
7:00 am. I pulled car over to use public bathroom at Grocery Mart.
7:45 am. Late for work. I spoke to my boss. She was quite displeased
with my tardiness. I tried to explain, but needed to rush to the
restroom.
9:00 am. Consumed sickening, oaty tasting, protein shake. I got a bit
dizzy and drank the shake two hours early. Reminder - drink one less
shake today.
I took one colon cleanse and chased it with twelve ounces of water. I
believe I may have to move my computer into the women's bathroom.
1:00 pm, Drank a stupid protein shake! Why do they call it a shake? It
has no desirable flavor, it is not cold and frothy. It stinks! Took
another colon cleanse, what the hell do I have left to cleanse? Drank
twelve more ounces of disgusting, tasteless, water. Went to the bathroom
three more times. I missed my lunch break because my boss noticed all of
my trips to the restroom and counted them as my lunch. I hate her!
3:00 pm. Drank more disgusting, putrid, stench, stagnant water! My
stomach hurts! I hate everyone! They eat their cookies and drink their
lattes with such delight in my pain. I hate them!
5:00 pm. Drove home. Stupid traffic! Stupid water! Stupid colon cleanse!
I got a speeding ticket as I went 20 mph over the limit. I tried to
explain to the officer that I needed a restroom. He looked at me as
though I were crazy! He gave me a ticket for $150.00. I hate him!
6:00 pm. I got in my stupid house! I tore down the pictures of skinny
girls in cute bikinis, shredded my book, flushed my pills and threw my
scale out into the parking lot. I got in my car and drove over it, four
times! After the most emotionally exhausting day of my life, I ordered
three pizzas. Ahhhhhh." "
www.writearoundtheblock.com
© Copyright
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Plans
By
Natalie V.,
Ohio
I had a life plan once. It covered everything from ideal career paths to
names for my future children (first Jackson, and then Ella Marie.) I
didn’t just doodle some ideas in the margin of a notebook, either. This
was a comprehensive, multi-page document housed in a faux leather binder
with color-coded tabs.
Pretty as it was, the binder and its plans erased themselves from my
memory as soon as they hit my bookshelf. It was a bit like the scene
where Indiana Jones finds the ark, except in reverse. All the ethereal
light and choirs were going and then, poof, there was just another
binder on my bookshelf and I was wondering if there was anything good on
TV.
I took a year off. That was part of the plan, actually, or would have
been if it had been a single year. It wasn’t. It was ten years, one
husband, and two kids. My version of a goal was reduced to leaving the
house without spit-up on my shirt.
My former plans were the furthest thing from my mind until the day they
attacked me. I was dusting when it happened. My rag swept over the
binder and the corner of the once carefully applied label ripped free.
My left eye narrowed to a dangerous slit. Peeling stickers are worse
than fingernails on a chalkboard for me, so I rubbed my finger over it
in an increasingly frenetic effort to get the darned thing to re-stick.
And then I had this crazy thought. Why not read it? You know, for kicks.
Twenty minutes later, I put down my cleaning supplies and walked over to
the kids with steely determination leading the way. When I turned off
the TV they whined piteously for an encore. I, being fully aware that
they’d seen him rescue the freaking anaconda ninety-three times,
remained unmoved. I lifted my hand for silence and for once, got it.
“Mommy’s going back to school,” I announced quickly, because I had to
tell someone, didn’t I?
“Cookie?” my daughter asked, pinching the air like a lobster.
“The chocolate ones,” my older, wiser, son clarified.
“Right,” I acquiesced, heading for the cupboard.
Well, it wasn’t an awful idea. Cookies would keep them busy, which was
good since I had very important things to do. Afterall, I was a college
freshman.
Almost.
A few short weeks later the almost was history and I was settled in
front of my laptop for my first class. Online, of course, because with
two kids my ‘free time’ consisted of a twelve minute period between
bed-time and please-go-back-to-bed-time. Still, it was my class, so I
clicked around diligently, taking careful notes on the spiral bound
notebook at my side feeling extremely pleased with myself and oh so
scholarly. I clicked on the Syllabus link last. And then I screamed.
Alright, I didn’t scream, but I would have. If my kids hadn’t been
sleeping, I would have leapt four feet in the air and hovered there like
a cartoon character, ears smoking and eyes bulging.
As it was, I wilted like week old lettuce.
Somehow, this wasn’t quite the university dream I had in mind, me in my
pajamas fighting tears as I tried to decide how long it takes to read
eighty pages and write seven hundred words. I mean, just how much
Benadryl could I give my kids before it crossed a moral boundary? There
was no way I was going to be able to handle it.
A year later and I still think there’s no way I’ll be able to handle it,
but somehow I am. Granted, 19th century literature loses its romance
when you’re reading it while stirring macaroni and cheese. And I
seriously doubt any study guide would recommend the crayon-marked,
peanut butter crusted corner of my sofa as an ideal learning atmosphere.
But, I’m sticking with it. By God, I will get an education.
At the very least, I’ll have both feet to stand on when I’m drilling my
kids about their own college plans fifteen years from now. And at the
most? Well, I might need a bigger binder. I’ve got some planning to do.
© Copyright
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Why
Did The Bird Cross The Road?
By
Joyce West,
Kentucky
I’ve been bird watching lately. Not the kind of bird watching with a
field guide in hand, trying to identify various migrating fowl,
listening for their distinctive bird calls.
No, I’m observing my local birds for signs of insanity. Specifically,
this can be seen by their behavior in traffic.
How many times have you seen birds walking across the road? It’s
senseless, these small vulnerable creatures walking as fast as they can
on their spindly legs -- as if they cannot fly.
Think about it. Flying is something humans achieved only after thousands
of years of evolution. Now we fly whenever we can, mindful of the speed,
the ease, the breath-taking beauty of flight.
Birds, however, are born to fly. Yet, oddly, they opt out, and walk
across the road.
Why? They go through no baggage checks, there are no long lines, they
don’t get searched by security.
It makes you realize why birds are birdbrains. What are they thinking?
To be fair to our feathered creatures, maybe it’s not all birds who
behave this way. Maybe there’s just that occasional bird who lives for
the high he gets by cheating death. Hey Fred, look at me! I’m walking
across the road -- I’m NOT gonna fly!
Maybe some of them are just very easily distracted. You often see birds
preoccupied by that worst of all foods, white bread. A stale hamburger
bun will be in the road, and these birds will be gathered round like
it’s Thanksgiving buffet, all unaware of the hazards of dining in
traffic.
Imagine if humans behaved this way. There’s Melvin, eating a piece of
Wonder bread on the center line of U.S. 68. Melvin, get off the road!
You never see birds get hit by cars. Do they warn each other of
impending doom? Do they have some amazing system of communication, some
intuition, kind of like their ability to fly south at the right time,
that saves them from death by automobile?
There’s always the lone bird still trying to eat the white bread after
the others have flown the coop. What do they say to him? The buffet’s
closing, buddy. Look out!
Clearly I’m nurturing a superiority complex when it comes to birds. When
I see a bird carrying a twig in its mouth, mindlessly meandering along
the side of the highway at rush hour, I feel a sense of the pre-eminence
of my position in the natural order of things, behind the wheel of the
earth-bound Buick, sanely obeying the rules of traffic.
Yet, occasionally a bird will come along with such death-defying feats
that I do stop to think, is it madness or divine inspiration?
The other day I drove down a neighborhood street when, of course, I came
upon one of these insane birds who lives for the cheap thrill of facing
down cars and darting away at the last second.
This, however, was no ordinary bird. He didn’t skitter away stage left
or stage right as I approached, beating a hasty retreat into the safety
of a suburban front yard.
No, he came right at me!
He took off at precisely the right moment so that his tiny body was
lifted by the fierce flow of air over the body of the Buick. He glided
right over the hood of the car and on … up, up, up over the windshield,
just a feather away from being smashed onto the glass.
I got a close-up view of his belly before he flew on over the top of the
car, the macho daredevil of a bird.
Can you imagine him telling the tale at the birdbath afterward? “You
should’ve seen the look on her face, guys. I glided right over the car,
right over it, gave the lady an unprecedented view of my underbelly,
wink wink. It was the ultimate rush. Try to top that, Fred.”
“Aw, quit your bragging. Hey, look -- Wonder bread!”
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