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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/ November 2007 Contest Results |
The
Constitution of the Laundry Room
By Karrie McAllister, Ohio
I, The Mom of this, The Laundry Room, in order to form a more perfect
home, establish peace, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the
remainder of my family members, promote the general cleanliness, and
secure the wearability of clothing for myself and my family, do ordain
and establish this Constitution for The Laundry Room.
Article 1: The Branches of Power
All Power herein granted shall be vested in a sole ruler, which shall
consist of The Mom, because she is the only one who will accomplish
anything in The Laundry Room.
Article 2: The State
The State of The Laundry Room shall be under the control of The Mom at
all times, and should never be blamed on The Mom. The Mom typically has
other things to do besides just the tasks of The Laundry Room, and
anyone whining about the speed at which items move through The Laundry
Room shall be punished by hand-washing gym socks without the assistance
of rubber gloves.
Amendment 1: Freedom of reach
The remaining members of this household are free to place their dirty
clothes into a number of hampers that The Mom has strategically placed
around the house in convenient locations. From the hampers, The Mom will
removed the soiled clothing and return it in a much cleaner state to the
owners of said clothing. However, The Mom will not be held responsible
for dirty clothing that is left on bathroom or bedroom floors, in piles
near the hampers, or in the garage.
Amendment 2: The right to bare arms
If family members do not cooperate by gathering their dirty clothes into
the hampers, they have the right to bare arms, legs, and other such body
parts because they were too lazy to pick the socks up and take the two
steps to put them in the hamper.
Amendment 3: Search and seizure
The rights of the Family do not exist behind the door of The Laundry
Room. The Mom may search all pockets for loose change and seize it as
her own. The Mom also has the right to save the accumulated funds and
spend them on herself in any way she pleases. Finders shall be keepers,
and losers shall be weepers.
Amendment 4: Confrontation of witnesses
Upon the instance of a member of The Family leaving a tube of lip balm
or an ink pen in the pocket of His or Her clothing, The Mom will not
assume responsibility for the destruction of the other clothing in the
same load. Instead, The Mom has the right to confront and berate the
member who committed this heinous crime, unless of course it was
herself, in which case it was just an honest mistake.
Amendment 5: Cruel and unusual punishment
If, for some reason, a member of The Family thinks that He or She is
doing you a favor by taking off sweaty exercise clothing and placing
them directly into the washing machine and leaving them there, sealed
and unwashed, to fester in their own filth, this hereby is considered
Cruel and Unusual Punishment and the perpetrator shall be rightfully
punished.
Amendment 6: The powers of The Mom
The Mom has the final power of decision when faced with articles of
dirty clothing that have not been previously returned to their
right-side-out state. Any t-shirts or pants arriving in The Laundry Room
in an inside-out fashion may or may not be returned correctly. This
decision is left to The Mom and likely depends on her mood at that time.
Dirty, sweaty, grass-clipping-filled socks that have been taken to The
Laundry Room will not, under any circumstances, be returned in their
correct state. The Mom does not wish to reach her hand in any more than
you, and will not be expected to endure such awful conditions.
Done in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of The Mom in the Year two
thousand and seven. She has hereunto subscribed her name…in fabric
softener.
www.KarrieMcAllister.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 What
Do Troubled Teens and Ketchup Have In Common?
By George
Waters, California
Great literature is one of the joys of my life, especially when they
turn it into a movie I can blaze through in two hours.
Great books are only great, however, when compared against something
else. Greatness does not exist in a vacuum, although if we shot Meryl
Streep into space, we might have an exception on our hands.
It is this idea which compels me to compare and contrast the classics
with other well-known things, in the hopes that it will become crystal
clear to you just how deep I am.
Firstly, let's compare two great works which have many things in common:
"Lady Chatterley's Lover" and "Lady and the Tramp." In the novel, the
lady's lover owns a spaniel. In the movie, Lady IS a spaniel. In the
novel, the lover's father was a collier. In the movie, Tramp knows a
collie. Which one of these is better? "Chatterley's," of course, because
it has sex.
But it doesn't end there. Let's compare:
"The Red Badge of Courage" vs. "Green Eggs and Ham." The first is about
a guy trying to overcome his fear of battle. The second is about a guy
trying to overcome his fear of Day-Glo breakfast meat. Which is best? I
give the nod here to "Badge," purely because it does not contain the
suggestive and troubling line, "Could you, would you, with a goat?"
"Sense and Sensibility" vs. sin. "Sense" is the story of a bunch of rich
English people who all want to marry someone they can't. Sin is a
wrongful act which people do, but only if they are Catholic. Which is
better? I have to go with sin. Well, SOMEBODY has to try to bring it to
a wider audience.
"Great Expectations" vs. great expectorants: I can discern no difference
between these two.
"Lolita" vs. lo mein. One is the tale of a man who cannot get his
one-track noodle off a tasty dish, the other IS a tasty noodle dish.
Which is best? The latter, because thinking unclean thoughts about a
pile of noodles never hurt anybody.
"The Catcher in the Rye" vs. ketchup. "Catcher" is about a troubled
teenager who is constantly expelled from schools. Ketchup is a condiment
which is notoriously hard to expel from a bottle. My pick? Ketchup.
Fries are lousy with troubled teens.
"The Scarlet Letter" vs. "The Scarlet Pimpernel." "The Scarlet Letter"
is a novel about Puritan-era adultery, and frankly I don't know what the
heck a pimpernel is. I think it's some kind of really inflamed zit, and
who wants to read about that? So my vote is "Scarlet Letter." Besides,
Hester Prynne really kick-started the whole slogans-on-shirts industry.
"The Sound and the Fury" vs. the sound my son makes when he has to go to
bed. These two are pretty much the same.
"Anna Karenina" vs. Anakin Skywalker. "Anna" is basically "Sense and
Sensibility" in Russia, except, being Russian, the heroine throws
herself under a train. (That Tolstoy was a real cut-up). Anakin is a boy
in "Star Wars" who grows up to become Darth Vader. Which is best? No
question: Vader. Cool hat.
"Slaughterhouse-Five" vs. The Dave Clark Five. These two are so
incongruous as to be laughable. So I hope you did. Because that's all
I've got.
"Call of the Wild" vs. Oscar Wilde. "Call" is the story of a dog who
reverts to the wild and joins a wolf pack. Oscar Wilde was reportedly a
bit of a dog himself. Which one is better? Oscar, because he famously
uttered something I aspire to make the underlying theme of all my
writing: "I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word
of what I am saying."
This little exercise only goes to show that comparing apples and oranges
is not very effective, metaphorically speaking, or even metaphorically
jumping up and down and waving at a TV news camera.
I hope we have learned a valuable lesson from it, though, that classic
literature will always have a place in our modern lives, which is right
there, propping up the Xbox 360.
www.georgewaters.net
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Roasting
My Town
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
We moved to Ashford about five years ago. The first thing we noticed
about Ashford is that it lacks an airport. The second thing we noticed
is that it lacks people. I would mention a third thing, but nobody in
Ashford counts that high. Anything above two is considered “poaching” or
“providing”. Anything above ten is your average number of kids.
I would fear for my life here, but nobody in Ashford can read. If
somebody outside of Ashford reads this to them, I have to flee. Despite
these shortcomings, we love Ashford for several reasons. Here’s ten and
some bonus points:
1) Nobody lives here.
2) The signal from my ankle bracelet can’t cross the hills.
3a) Speed limit signs serve two purposes: They’re target practice for
hunters, and a mild suggestion to cut your speed in half. Since nobody
here can count, they’re mostly just target practice.
3b) No speed limit signs have any holes yet, but there’s a lot of dead
cows and thus, free beef. Theirs is a lot of healthy llamas, because
they appear smarter than cows in a cute, Doctor Seuss way, and avoid
speed limit signs like the plague.
4) Over 99% of all guns in Connecticut are located in Ashford. None are
registered. You can find many fine varieties in the “swap shack” at the
transfer station. Most are fully loaded for your convenience. Popular
with the kids.
5) If there’s no witness, then relax. What happens in Ashford, stays in
Vegas. It just adds to the confusion.
6) The Andy Griffith Show is new and cutting-edge here.
7) Mayberry is huge compared to Ashford.
8) A school of fish is huge compared to Ashford.
9) A school of fish is smart compared to Ashford.
10) There’s now two Ashford animals with a bounty on their heads:
Coyotes and me. Contrary to popular belief, rattlesnakes are protected.
You can tell because people wear them in the form of boots, belts, and
fillings.
The town motto of Ashford is “Live Free or Cry.” New Hampshire stole
this in the French-Indigo Girls War of the eighties, thinking “Cry” was
“Die”, because people from Ashford drink a lot of homemade hooch and
slur. Ironically, this is also the name of a local watering hole, the
“Hooch and Slur.”
I mock the people here, but in reality they’re very nice. Usually
they’re lost and trying to find Route 84, but they are, in fact,
residents. I’m banking on the good humor of my fellow residents and that
unique ability to laugh at themselves so that I’m not lynched. This
would probably be a big Saturday night hoedown kind of thing, performed
to the lively tunes of that fresh breakout artist, Buck Owens and the
Buckaroos. For reasons still unclear to the First Selectman / Town Hall
custodian, Madonna never returns calls concerning “Ashford Lynch Party
2007”.
My parents wanted to visit from Florida, but not stay here at our house
among the restless dogs and questionable bedding arrangements (tent in
the wetlands out back). I suggested the Ashford Motel, which boasts a
massive billboard on the westbound side of Route 84, with more wood and
stability than the actual hotel. My parents wanted quaint, and they got
Calcutta on a bad day. That was a few years ago; lately I heard it’s
been converted into quite a successful and lucrative opium den.
I travel a lot throughout the Nutmeg State (Nutmeg being an Indian word
for “overpriced gasoline,”), and it’s fantastic to come home. I mean, I
can just feel the tension and work day melt as the miles (and miles and
miles) unreel, and no matter how hard work may have been, I always know
that I’ll be crazed and desperate to rush back after surviving yet
another hellish night in Ashford.
And yet, there’s nothing like a quiet evening on the patio, watching
bats dart among the giant tulip trees, listening to the distant sounds
of gunfire and unmuffled pickups built during the Hoover administration
. . . ah yes, nothing but people and nature. Lots and lots and lots and
of nature. Come for the night. Bring matches and firearms. I happily
digress from this friendly roast of a great town.
*Ashford is very much like my in-laws’ family retreat in Acton, Maine,
and in truth, it would be too easy describing the great things about
Ashford.
*Ashford is a Nipmuc word for “small toaster oven”.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Running
On Kid Time
By Carol Band, Massachusetts
I recently celebrated my birthday and my oldest son (sweet boy) gave me
a T-shirt that says, “In Dog Years, I'm Dead.”
Nice.
“Ha! You are over 300 years old!” my youngest figured with a burst of
mathematical insight. Then he eyed the dog. “That means Chester is
twenty-one…Wooohooo! Go Chetty! You can buy beer!”
Nice.
Although I seem to have a grasp of how canine time is calculated (after
all, multiplying by seven, while not as easy as multiplying by five, is
still fairly straightforward), I haven't been able to comprehend what
makes my kids tick. The struggle for us to synchronize is a daily
effort. Maybe that’s because my children aren't living on Eastern
Standard, Central, Mountain or Pacific Time. They're on kid time.
If you set your clock to kid time, an hour of TV isn't nearly enough,
nine o’clock is way too early for bed, and Saturday morning, while your
parents are still sleeping, is the perfect time to try to cut your own
bangs.
On the kid calendar, Christmas is always too far away, summer vacation
lasts forever, and your birthday is a national holiday. If you ask my
kids, they'll check their watches and tell you that recess is too short,
math class is too long, and all teachers are all really, really old.
Even older than me.
In kid time, sitting through an hour-long church service is equivalent
to being stranded on a rock in the middle of the ocean for a month. You
are hungry. You are starving. “Mom, do you have any Tic Tacs? When will
they pass out the little pieces of bread? I'm hungry, I'm thirsty. Will
there be donuts at coffee hour? I am starving… I am fading away… I am
slipping under the pews… Ahhhh. ...”
Likewise, a twelve-year-old boy who is supposed to practice the piano
for thirty minutes will race through his piece and declare, “I'm done!”
after a minute and a half. That's because a half hour of practicing the
piano in kid time is like an adult spending three hours at a Weird Al
Yankovich concert. It is interminable.
Maybe we should be more understanding. As parents, perhaps we should
learn to expect a different kind of punctuality from our kids.
For instance, when an adult says, “Do your homework right now,” a child
will say, “Okay,” but she will not move. That’s because in adult time,
“right now” means sometime soon, like in the next few minutes. But in
kid time, “right now” means not until your mother has asked you again
and again and again, and then not until she finally stomps into the den,
snaps off the television and says, "I said RIGHT NOW!”
I try to accommodate the members of my own household who are operating
on kid time, but it’s not easy.
“Can you take me to Shawn’s house?” my son asked at 8am on Saturday.
“Soon,” I said. For me, “soon” means later—after I’ve had a cup of
coffee, after I’ve changed out of my pajamas and after Shawn’s parents
are conscious.
For my son, Lewis, who apparently has no snooze button on his kid clock,
“soon” means now. Right now.
"Are you ready yet? Can we go now? How about now?”
My oldest son also has a clock and it runs on its own sweet time.
“Take out the garbage,” I say.
“I am,” he replies, even though I can see him sitting barefoot at the
kitchen table consuming vast quantities of expensive,
not-from-concentrate orange juice.
Again, the fact that I am able to see him is not because he is able to
bend the time space continuum. It’s because he is on kid time where “I
am” means he will ... eventually. Maybe.
Kid time starts the second you become a parent and, apparently, just
keeps on ticking. Anyone who has ever walked the floor with a colicky
newborn, sent a teenage driver out with the family car, waited in an
emergency room with a sick toddler or read Green Eggs and Ham over and
over and over knows that time with kids can make minutes seem like an
eternity and the years pass in a moment. Even dog years.
www.carolband.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Oven
Cleaner and the Holidays
By Cy Creed, New York
Signs of the season are all around us. Christmas music in stores,
catalogs invading our homes daily, houses with lights on them, annual
suicide threats from my ex husband.
Ah, nothing says Christmas more than a suicide threat and this year is
no different.
The build up begins around Halloween peaking on Christmas day and slowly
declining mid-January. Initially, you can imagine the horror of this. It
was a bit jarring to say the least. Surely, he wasn’t serious, my
children and I mused. What would happen to his dogs? Would it be messy?
Who would deal with the body? Does this mean I get my fondue pot back?
The questions were numerous and we found ourselves preparing for the
worst when this tomfoolery began ten years ago. In order to appreciate
this tale, you need to understand the man. He is and always has been a
peacock. His looks are more important to him than anything. His clothes
have to be the best and I would be erring on the side of conservatism if
I said he looked at himself in the mirror twelve times before venturing
out. I well remember being in labor with my son for twenty-four hours
while he asked if I liked how he looked in his new Ralph Lauren shirt.
You can only imagine my reply as I writhed in pain from back labor.
So knowing narcissism is the bane of Boyle’s existence, it’s impossible
to believe he would harm himself. It would have to be done in such a way
which wouldn’t blemish his body.
One Christmas Eve, the children and I spent the night trying to figure
out how he would plan his demise. All of the ways we came up with would
have blemished his exterior- a gun shot or knife wound ,for example,
wouldn’t be appealing. Poison seemed to be the most likely candidate but
I think that’s painful so again, wouldn’t appeal to Boyle. After
appearance, comfort was also important to him.
The novelty of these threats was beginning to wear thin so we finally
confronted him with it. If he wanted us to believe he’d actually commit
the deed then we would be as cooperative as possible. My daughter said
to him, “ Dad, we really don’t want you to commit suicide but if you
feel you need to, we should plan your funeral.”
Boyle was silent.
My son continued, “ She’s right, Dad. We love you and don’t want to see
you go but if you must, you must. We figure we’ll play some Beatle’s
tunes in the church and then come back to the house for some Doritos and
beer.”
Again, Boyle said nothing. Both kids then asked what he wanted to be
laid out in. Did he want the jeans that made his rear end look smaller
or the jeans that made his legs look thinner or perhaps the jeans that
made his waist look more narrow? These were all things that needed to be
taken into consideration and with the conversation focused entirely on
him, his interest started to peak. He seemed to forget this was not a
dress rehearsal we were discussing but a very final event.
As Boyle began to make dinner that evening, contemplating which jeans
would make him look the best in an open casket, he reached for the
non-fat butter spray to make his low calorie, non- fat organic omelet
but instead grabbed a can of oven cleaner. Honest mistake. Both cans are
the same size.
In planning his funeral, we opted for the jeans that made his butt look
smaller. We’re sure he would have wanted it that way.
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