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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/ November 2007 Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
October/
November 2007 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Eating Your Way
To A Healthy Holiday
By Burton Cole, Ohio
A multitude of Yule feasts are on the front burner and I will thank you
very much NOT to sneak healthy stuff into my stuffing. I am concerned
about this because of the popularity of Jessica Seinfeld’s cookbook
“Deceptively Delicious.”
First, let me point out that she is the wife of comedian Jerry Seinfeld.
Did you hear that, those of you plotting villainy against my buttered
rolls? She’s the wife of a COMEDIAN! It’s probably just a cruel joke,
something a low talker said that spun out of control and into a puffy
shirt like on the classic “Seinfeld” show.
In case you’ve been fortunate enough to avoid the talk shows on which
she circuited, Jessica Seinfeld said she was concerned because her
kidlings avoided vegetables. So she started pureeing unexciting but
healthy things like radishes and beets and mixing them into decent foods
that didn’t need them, such as pancakes and chocolate cakes. From this
horrible deception sprouted a cookbook that details how to commit such
healthful horrors as baking spinach into brownies, carrots into muffins
and garbanzo beans into chocolate chip cookies. Yeah, garbanzo beans,
touching your chocolate chips.
It’s not right. For years, we’ve been told not give in to our basic
holiday food needs. In this case, Seinfeld says just add a few healthy
ingredients and bingo, you’re a guilt-free eater. You want chicken
nuggets? Jessica makes them with broccoli or spinach or beets. Macaroni
and cheese is laced with butternut squash. Cauliflower is scrambled into
eggs. It’s the spinach in brownies that bothers me. I intend to eat
pumpkin cheesecake bars. Pumpkin is a vegetable. Or possibly a fruit.
Don’t mar it with pureed lima beans. I plan to down squash sweetened by
brown sugar and potatoes dripping in cheesy sauce. And just try to keep
me away from the candied yams. These all are vegetables and I’m eating
them.
So please, leave the dessert table alone! We need a reprieve before
gourd vines start growing out our ears.
I suppose I should be thankful for such a cookbook as we enter the fifth
season – feast. It’s the time of year that most pricks the culinary
conscience if one pays attention to healthy eating. During the rest of
the five seasons – winter, spring, orange barrel and fall – one MIGHT be
able to eat a salad or two.
But when fall fades into feast, our animal instincts are to pack on the
pounds against the chill of coming winter. That is why nature provides
holiday fudge and cookies in abundance – for your health.
Bears feast before winter then sleep it off, probably in front of a
football game. Should we not do as nature intended? Nature covers
animals with thick coats during the winter. It does so for us, too, with
some assistance from Land’s End, Sears, Kmart and other such habitats
where big, bulky clothing grows on hangered trees.
The reason we wear big, bulky clothes is because we also are big and
bulky to protect us from winter’s cold. We do this with calories.
Remember your high school science? A calorie is a unit of energy. Energy
provides warmth. Carrots, broccoli and green beans barely have any
calories. Holiday fudge and frosted Christmas cookies (coming soon) are
loaded with nature’s toasty goodness.
So put Jessica Seinfeld on the shelf until spring or orange barrel
season. For now, enjoy the feasts. It’s nature’s way of keeping you cozy
and healthy.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Up-Front
Friends Use The Back Door
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Twice last week, sets of friends visited my home for the first time. In
both cases, they fooled me completely. They knocked on the front door. I
was waiting at the back door, where friends are expected.
“I didn’t know you had a front door,” another friend remarked when I
told her about this curious behavior.
I do, but it’s for cosmetic purposes only. In friendship, you know
you’ve made it when you reach back-door status. If you knock on the
front door, you’re selling something.
In all other dealings of life, the object is to move up front.
Practicing back-door politics means you’re sneaking your people or
policies in where honest folk can’t see them. In basketball, when a guy
slips behind his defender to break for the basket, he just ran a
back-door play. He sneaked out. In business, deliveries are taken in the
grimy alley out back while valued customers are admitted through the
front door to all the fancy trimmings.
But in friendship, it’s a sign of respect to be admitted through the
back door into a kitchen or breezeway. They may not be tidy, but it’s
home.
My front door, as it turns out, opens into the living room. Visitors
immediately either walk into the end table by the couch or trip over the
ottoman. My furniture is arranged for use of the living room, not for
use of the front door.
The back door swings right into the kitchen, where there’s room and
where it’s more likely that cookies can be found.
Maybe this is a country living kind of thing. Maybe city folk use their
front doors for more than an ornamental piece on which to hang a wreath,
ribbon or bells in the winter.
Almost always, driveways lead to the back of the house. Picnic tables
and lawn chairs are out back. Decks generally are better in the back.
Friends are out back.
So if you visit a friend in the country, generally, you go to the back
door. Sometimes, you don’t even knock. You walk right in and sing out.
If nobody’s home, help yourself to a cup of coffee and a sandwich, leave
a note on the table and come back later. If there’s a burglar, chase him
out.
Then there’s the side door. In many homes, that substitutes as the back
door. I’m not sure what it means at my place. I have a side door to
nowhere. It’s on the second floor and opens to nothing but a scenic
view. No steps. No deck. Not even a rope ladder or knotted sheets. Just
a straight drop to the ground.
I have no idea why the builder did this. Maybe there was some rule back
then that a house had to have three doors. And he, being cantankerous
like me, said, “Fine. Here’s your door. Now if you’ll just step right
this way...”
It does work as an emergency exit in case of fire, but I’d suggest
taking a running leap. You’re going to break your leg in the fall
anyway. You might as well land as far away from the burning building as
you can before you have to start rolling.
So go ahead, drop by my place. If I don’t know you, knock on the front
door. If you’re a friend, meet me around back. But if I ask you to meet
me at the side door... well, perhaps you ought to go knock on someone
else’s door.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Mets Approach MLB for a Shortened Season in 2008
By Len Di Gregorio, New Jersey
The New York Mets have officially approached Major League Baseball,
requesting a shorter season for 2008, citing that a 162 game season is
just too long.
“We were in sole possession of first place, for 135 days and since the
middle of May, and look what happened,” said their dejected and
exhausted manager, Willie Randolph.
“I used to be able to celebrate with the guys, especially after a home
run was hit, but no longer,” he continued. “In spring training, and
early on in the season, I was capable of doing that jumping, high elbow,
hip check, high-five dance thing that Carlos Delgado and Jose Reyes did,
after one of them hit a homer. It was so unique and complex, that those
guys actually practiced it and shared their technique with me.
"As the season progressed, however, I couldn’t even find the energy to
smile, let alone doing a high-five celebration, even when things were
going well. I don’t think anyone caught me smiling since the All-Star
break. And I miss that, I really do, because from the organization I
came from, actions like that were discouraged. Heck, even this
good-looking mustache I’m supporting now wasn’t allowed by Mr.
Steinbrenner.”
Many members of the bullpen, which posted a whopping 5.30 ERA in the
final 48 games, and lost 12 of the team’s final 17 decisions, supported
Willie’s decision. In fact, a few were even considering a career change.
“In the NFL, they only play 16 games in a season, and they only play
once a week!” exclaimed Jorge Sosa, who logged an amazing 112 2/3
innings this season, mostly as a relief pitcher.
While most of the other players echoed Willie’s sentiments, there were a
couple of ballplayers that didn’t fully support his theory. Veteran
starting pitcher Tom Glavine, for example, thought that a 161 game
schedule would suffice.
“And I’m not even sure why they handed me the ball on that last day of
the season,” Glavine stated. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t warn them.
It’s even in my contract, for God’s sake!”
He went on to explain that many starting pitchers have incentives for
innings pitched, and a typical goal is 200 innings. “And that’s exactly
what I gave them. When they asked me to start the final game, game #162,
the most important game of the season, with us being tied for first
place, with our season in the balance, and with exactly 200 innings
pitched, I just couldn’t do it. I simply ran out of gas. That’s why I
gave up 7 earned runs in only one-third of an inning. And I barely had
the energy and the stamina to get that one batter out. Two hundred
innings were fine. However, 200 1/3 innings was just asking for too
much.”
Another player who, on record, disagreed with his manager was Lastings
Milledge, a young, promising, but over-aggressive, cocky outfielder. “I
actually could have used more than the standard 162 game schedule, he
said, “because I am just too immature for this league. Teammates frown
at my aggressiveness, my manager questions my actions, and opponents get
irked when I, for example, after hitting a home run last season,
returned to my position in right field and gave a high-five to all of
the fans in the right field box seats. I was just too excited, man. I
could definitely benefit from a 180 game schedule, to grow up a little
and mature, if nothing else.”
Reflecting on the game prior to fateful game number 162 this past
season, Lastings went on the defensive. “Just because I celebrated in
front of the Florida Marlins bench after hitting a home run, in a rare
late-season blowout for us, and at the most defining moment of our
season, doesn’t necessarily mean that I was 'showing up' a last place
team. It’s all Glavine’s fault, that we lost that final game, simply
because he didn’t pitch well. It had nothing to do with me and my antics
the day before.”
Baseball commissioner Bud Selig has declined Willie Randolph’s request
for a 150-game season, citing the fact that since the Mets failed to
reach the post-season this year, and who were the clear favorites to
make a World Series appearance, that their season, for all intents and
purposes, had already been shortened.
The Mets declined the opportunity to appeal this decision, citing
fatigue as the main reason.
© Copyright
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The
"Scrooge" Intervention
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…blowing the dust off of the
Christmas boxes, rooting through piles of decorations, realizing that
items previously considered keepsakes now deserved a proper burial in
the “tacky pile.”
I lugged what I could salvage upstairs anticipating a “Norman Rockwell”
moment. The family gathered around, ripping open boxes and reminiscing
about their favorites. There was a sudden poof… and then there were
none.
It was so quiet I could hear the “dust bunnies” vying for position in
that impossible-to-reach corner behind the Christmas tree. I stood
amidst the Christmas clutter, wondering where that magic moment had
gone.
Sacked out on the couch, totally engrossed in a football game, was my
husband, in his trance. Out of desperation, I glanced at the dogs, who
both yawned and went back to sleep.
It was once again up to me to be the “Christmas Fairy.” I knew after I
spent numerous hours creating a Christmas wonderland, they all would
magically reappear. After the oohs and awes, they would clamor together
about what a terrific job “we” had done.
Many curses later, I had burned off enough calories to justify a few
Christmas cookies. I headed to the kitchen only to find my dogs had
“counter surfed” (scoffed all the cookies off of the counter), leaving
only a trail of crumbs. They were both snoozing on their backs with
contented doggie smiles in a cookie induced stupor.
Frustrated, I figured my decorating task was almost complete, until I
walked into the living room and found my “mantel masterpiece” strewn
precariously across the floor. It looked quite nice as a hearth
embellishment. Time for several pieces of fudge.
Hubby was now standing directly in front of the TV watching the movie
“Saving Private Ryan”. What the heck was wrong with him and where was
his Christmas spirit? He needed a “Scrooge intervention”. I hinted that
a Christmas movie would really put us in the spirit.
“Honey, I want a good holiday movie fix. I need it now, or I won’t be
responsible for the bodily harm I’ll inflict on you… it won’t be
pretty!”
He still assumed the position. My chronic warning that he would become
sterile standing that close to the set was pointless. I swear I saw his
“Mini Me” alter ego, sitting on his shoulder having a one sided
discussion with him.
“She doesn’t really need your help, you’ll only interrupt her creative
process. Besides, you deserve to be able to relax and watch what you
want. You’re the man.”
If “Mini Me”, didn’t shut up, I’d turn him into a doggie chew toy.
He whispered something into my husband's ear and I heard him chuckle.
That was the final straw. I’d get even with the little squirt later.
I mumbled that I thought we could get buffalo hot wings for dinner if I
managed to finish all of the decorating. Suddenly, my husband sprang to
life and “Mini Me” flew off his shoulder as the channel changer flew in
the air. I deftly intercepted it and flipped to the ABC Family channel.
He was distracted as “visions of hot chicken wings danced in his head.”
“Mini Me” disappeared, but not before flipping me off. I was victorious
and I suddenly had a willing helper.
As I anticipated, they all appeared from nowhere as buffalo hot sauce
drifted through the house. The Holiday aroma of home baked cookies mixed
with hot wing sauce was indescribable.
“It looks so beautiful,” they all chimed in unison. “That took us no
time at all.”
Visions of throwing them all in the nearest snow bank, danced in my
head!
This weekend we will have our traditional family outing to purchase our
real Christmas tree. If “Mini Me” shows his snotty little face again, he
will be replacing the Christmas angel on top of the tree. I wonder how
he will feel having a 9’ Fraser Fur shoved up his… "
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
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Watch
Me!
By Mary Johnson, Mississippi
Ah! Summertime -- the joy of sitting and relaxing, curling up and
reading a book, taking a random nap whenever you choose. The joy of a
teacher’s being out of school. There’s nothing like it.
No, really … there’s nothing like it. It is nothing short of a mirage,
if that particular teacher has children. Sitting and relaxing? Ha!
Curling up and reading a book? Ha! Ha! Taking a nap? Only if one can
sleep through being poked in the ribs forty- seven times and answering
to “Momma, watch this!”
Unfortunately, I have not yet mastered this fine art. (Although there
were several times this past summer that I did manage to keep my eyes
closed for at least ten rib pokes.)
At the beginning of summer, I was a little upset with my youngest child,
who happens to be my son, for constantly interrupting my relaxation
time. I didn’t understand. For nine months of the year I listen to kids
whine from 7:20 to 3:30, so don’t I deserve some time off? According to
Sam- the rib poker -- I do not. The dreams I had entertained all school
year of sleeping till noon, relaxing, and just doing whatever I wanted
turned into vapor as quickly as the sound of the school bell was
replaced with, “Momma, watch me!!”
Initially, I was angry that my son seemed to need constant attention.
Didn’t he understand that I needed some time to myself? Didn’t he
realize that I didn’t have to watch everything he did?
The answer to these questions, I quickly realized, was no. It was after
only a week of my summer “vacation” had sped by resulting in no less
than 542 rib pokes and 847, “ Momma watch me’s,” that I began to analyze
the situation.
My daughter, although understandably older, did not require unnecessary
amounts of attention, so could it be an age issue? No, that couldn’t be
it. Even as a small child, she didn’t require as much, so was it a
gender issue? Hmmm… possible hypothesis, but what about proof? Research
would be needed, I deducted, but how will I have time? The rib poker
averages 4.7 seconds between “watch me’s,” and I do have to cook supper.
Then, as if being smiled upon by the gods, the evidence was presented to
me in a manner as indisputable as the question, “So, do you think
Britney Spears will be in the news this week?”
That evidence was my husband. As I was contemplating the Nobel Prize I
was sure to win once my research on the male species was finished, he
stuck his head in the door and yelled. “Hey, Mary, come watch this!”
“I don’t want to, I replied.”
“Please,” he whined. “I really want you to see it.”
“Show it to Sam,” I said. “Come on, Mary, it’s really cool. I promise
you will like it.”
After an entire day from the rib poker of “Momma, watch this!” “Momma,
come look at this!” “Momma, have you seen this?” “Momma look what I can
do!” the last thing I needed from my husband was the same thing.
“I don’t want to,” I replied once more, becoming highly irritated. I
could care less how cool whatever his latest purchase was. I didn’t want
to see it. I just wanted to be left alone for a few minutes. Is that too
much to ask?
Then in mid-thought, as I heard him begin to plead once more, it hit me.
It was too much to ask. Just like the rib poker, my husband couldn’t
help it. The cause? Male genes. My research? Complete.
Elated with my discovery yet knowing that there would be no escaping
because there were now two of them in the house begging me, I succumbed
to defeat; after all, I was being double-teamed.
Was it fair? No. Was it life? Yes. Taking a few minutes to go “watch
this,” I concluded, would be much less painful than arguing. I did,
however, formulate another scientific theory which I posed as a question
to both my husband and son as I walked out of the door to witness a
fantastic display of paintball warfare. “If a male does something and
there is not a female there to see it, does it really happen? I asked,
looking into the smiling face of the rib poker.
His expression quickly became serious. “No ma’am, he replied, because
then there is nobody there to impress!”
Case closed!
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The
City That Never Greets
By Patty Kimerer, Ohio
Four years ago, I fell in love with New York City. Last November, I
broke it off.
You see, exactly one year ago, my husband ran the New York City
Marathon. My son Kyle and I were so determined to cheer on (in our
opinion, anyway) the 2006 race’s most important runner, that we braved a
sea of some two million spectators in our show of support.
I assumed my then six-year-old and I were about to embark on a similarly
grand time to one Kerry and I had in 2003.
I assumed incorrectly. While Daddy fought pre-race jitters, Kyle and I
fought the city, literally. In Kyle’s first authentic New York
experience, he and I entered a very crowded deli for some bagels. As we
sheepishly inched forward an elderly woman stepped in front of me.
“You in line?” she hissed.
“Um, yes,” I said, smiling nervously.
“Then move!” she spat back.
“Mom, she is NOT nice,” Kyle “whispered” in a tone audible enough for
the road workers on 72nd to hear over the sound of their jackhammers.
“Oh, kids!” I said, trying to slay her evil glare with a sword of
proverbial kindness. Instead, she bopped us with her tail, er, purse.
I began to see my boyfriend’s flaws.
Next we grabbed a taxi to try rendezvousing with Daddy at mile marker
16. I asked the driver if he could get us as close as possible to the
corner of 1st Avenue and - - um, sumthin’.
“Where you want to go?” he asked irritatedly.
“Uh, well, I’ve got a little map here,” I said, whipping out a diagram
I’d torn out of the Daily News. “See? It’s, um, here,” I said, using one
hand to try and pinpoint my desired destination and the other to fight
with a bored Kyle to keep hold of it.
“You don’t know name of other street?” he asked, clearly even more
agitated.
“Well, uh, not exactly, sorry,” I said, trying that kindness thing
again.
Dead silence was shattered only by ill-timed blunt first-grader honesty.
“Mommy, what is that thing on her head and why won’t she talk to us?”
came the quizzical comments about our decidedly male driver‘s turban.
I wasn’t surprised when our ride came to an abrupt halt a few blocks
sooner than necessary.
Hmph, I stopped taking my beau’s calls.
The nastiness at mile 16 was a mob scene: eight people deep and worse
than any mosh pit I could have imagined. Kyle was stepped on four times
in five seconds. Angry onlookers shoved incessantly, so I stood
squished, scared and tippy-toed for 95 minutes, swapping Kyle back and
forth on my hip.
After realizing we’d missed Daddy, we wiggled our way out like slowly
unscrewed wine corks -- but not before some guy screamed something at me
in French that I believe was not, “It was lovely to have met you.”
More defeat came as finishers got swallowed up into a Central Park crowd
of several hundred thousand.
Right then I threw a glass of water in the Big Apple’s face.
Finally reuniting with Daddy in our hotel, we shared a family hug -- and
stories about my former flame. I was miffed, though my boys were willing
to give him a second chance.
The next day, they took a celebratory trip to FAO Schwarz while I did my
own 10-miler in Central Park. “Man, even the birds have attitudes here,”
I thought after playing -- and losing -- a game of “Chicken” with a NYC
pigeon.
But, as I watched tiny gray squirrels frolicking, businesswomen
power-walking in eight-inch stilettos and dog-walkers chatting in
Portuguese, Italian, and Arabic, my cold shoulder warmed.
Puffing through the gorgeous maze of paths in The Ramble and seeing the
sun dance off The Reservoir’s placid surface, which was draped by the
majestic asphalt jungle, reminded me why I had originally fallen for the
city. Hmm.
Well, maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on New Yorkers; they’re probably just
cranky from paying $8.50 for a tiny latte that they waited six hours in
line to get.
With my heart melting, I stopped off for a final NYC soft pretzel.
“One please,” I smiled to the vendor, who replied, “You are so sweet;
too nice for the city.”
Realizing he was wrong, I plopped my “I heart NY” ball cap back on.
© Copyright
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Road
Warriors
By Don Lewis, Idaho
We live about a mile off the main road from Boondoggle to Fewmit here in
Northern Idaho. Whenever we want to go into town, we travel that mile on
a dirt road.
Actually there is very little dirt involved. The road was originally
constructed across a sheet lava flow by a logging company that shortly
thereafter went out of business. I believe their failure was due to
excessive tire damage and axle replacement costs.
Fortunately, over the years enough top soil has been blown in to soften
many of the rough spots. Actually, if caught in the right light (very
very early or very very late) it looks a lot like one of those charming
old cobblestone roads, except for the gullies and the knife-like edges
on many of the cobbles.
Heading out to the main road you pass a couple of homesteads and a farm.
The distinction between “homestead” and “farm” is actually quite simple.
It all depends on the speed in which the owner is going broke. Many
farms, like radioactive isotopes, have a half-life of about ten years.
Unless an outside economic energy force is applied, like an off-farm
job, the farm rapidly decays into a homestead.
Our road is named Cherry Pit Lane. ""The Pit"" as it's known by the
residents, is accessible all-year round, meaning that it remains more or
less in the same place no matter what the weather. And every year, just
after the snows finally melts, a curious malady strikes the male
residents of "The Pit."
Later, after the dust settles, the women folk will shake their heads and
exchange lists of their significant others’ faults, but I believe that
the women-folk share a large portion of the blame for the mayhem and
madness.
It begins with the simple sentence, usually made by the female half of
the partnership, who says, "This road is a mess. Somebody ought to do
something about it!"
How anyone can be so foolish as to utter words like these to real
country men is plain beyond me. After all, these are the kind of men
that still have their official "Dan'l Boone" coonskin caps secretly
buried beneath the "pants that may fit again some day" in the bottom
drawer. And every one of them owns some kind of equipment that is
theoretically capable of moving earth. The subsequent carnage is
terrible to behold.
My neighbor Murray, went out and bought a professional road grader,
fully capable of ripping huge chunks of basalt from the road bed at 20
miles per hour and leaving a wake of bathtub-sized potholes behind.
Fortunately, this is meat and potatoes for another neighbor of mine,
Harvey, whose specialty is filling potholes with road rock he gets
"cheap" from a local talc mining operation.
About the time that vehicles start sliding off the soapstone-filled
potholes, my friend Caleb begins his work. Caleb is between earth-movers
at the moment, so he works primarily in water, or specifically in the
re-direction thereof. Every evening, after the pothole manufacturer and
the grease pit installer call it a day, Caleb is out on the road with
his shovel, re-arranging water courses and drainage ditches to ensure
that runoff... doesn't.
I don't think that's his intention, of course. Caleb had a rather
limited educational experience in his youth due to a regrettably large
number of legal hunting days, and therefore missed out on some of the
finer points of scientific thought, like the fact that water runs
downhill. And erosion.
You might think that having this many people improving the road at the
same time might lead to friction (which might be an improvement for the
soapstone-filled potholes). But very little animosity occurs on "The
Pit.” Like an M.C. Escher drawing, each of our road warriors seems
oblivious to the work of the others, happily plucking or filling or
washing away each other's work for days on end, until the fishing or
boating or hunting seasons begin their seductive call.
Fortunately, the damage possible on "The Pit" is limited by the
kryptonite-like nature of the road bed itself. Come the late spring, the
road begins to dry and harden, and the rough spots, either natural or
man-made, begin to slowly fill with the remaining top-soil from an
adjacent "Homestead". And peace reigns again.
Until the next time someone says "This road is a mess, somebody ought to
do something about it!"
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This
Is What Happens When You Watch Too Many Episodes Of 24
By Jim Monti, Illinois
My second worst fear came true last week; a virus attacked my computer.
(If a virus that turned my files into images of and songs by David
Hasselhoff attacked my computer, my worst fear would’ve come true.)
I have a very limited amount of computer repair knowledge. (If it can’t
be fixed with a hammer I’m not your guy.)
Luckily, my girlfriend’s brother- Kilton, is a computer programmer. I
explained my situation to him and he said it wouldn’t be a problem to
vanquish the virus, and that he could walk me through it over the phone.
However, he said I will need some software and that he would put it on a
CD for me; the only problem we had was figuring out a way to exchange
the CD.
Kilton and I work relatively close to each other in Chicago. He works
next to Chicago’s Union Station, and I pass through there on my way to
and fro work every day. However, due to different schedules, we couldn’t
figure out a good time to meet. Therefore, we decided on the simplest
solution, create a drop point where Kilton would leave the CD to be
picked up by me later on in the day.
Kilton drew up the plan, which went as follows. Before leaving work,
Kilton would bring the CD to a franchised coffee shop in Union Station.
(For confidentiality’s sake, let’s call the coffee shop “Moose Mocha;”
that could represent any large coffee franchise really…). Once inside,
he would tape the CD case to the bottom of the garbage can in the men’s
restroom. Then, on my way home from work, I would stop into the coffee
shop and pick up the CD.
As the time to execute the plan neared, I felt the adrenaline building
up inside me. While riding the bus I take to get to Union Station, I
constantly replayed the plan in my head, and thought of anything that
may thwart me. Before I knew it, the bus came to a stop and the façade
of the Moose Mocha in Union Station was staring me dead in the eye. It
was go time.
I entered the complex through the front and took notice of my
surroundings. I saw that there was only one other patron in the shop.
This was good because if I had to kill everyone in the building to cover
my exit, casualties would be minimal.
I approached the counter and purchased a bottle of orange juice. I
figured that if I bought something I would look less suspicious. I
decided on orange juice because it was and pre-made, whereas any other
coffee drink would have to mocha’d or frap-a-fied.
After paying for my orange juice, I asked the employee where the
bathroom was. When I tell this story, many people hear this part and
believe it was a folly because the clerk then knows where I’m going and
where to find me. However, I did this so the man specifically knows I
intend to go to the bathroom, and I would have to be in there a while
before he got suspicious. (Of course, I’m assuming he’s operating under
the common belief that people use the bathroom to relieve themselves
rather than pick up a disc like a secret agent.)
I entered the drop location, confirmed no one else was in the bathroom
and immediately locked the door. Keeping my head constantly tilted
towards the floor in order to avoid view of the cameras, I knelt down
and reached under the cylindrical garbage can, felt the CD case, and
ripped the tape off of it.
Now that I had the package, I placed it in my bag, exited the bathroom
and walked straight out the back door of the Moose Mocha, disappearing
amongst the mass of commuters heading home.
To confirm receipt of the package I text messaged my contact on the
other end with the code, “The eagle is in the nest. Talk to you at
2100.”
He then acknowledged that the package had been successfully passed off
with his reply, “Roger that, blue squirrel.”
It was only later that evening we discovered we didn’t need the CD at
all, but Kilton and I didn’t get discouraged since we knew this was good
practice for future computer virus fighting espionage across the city of
Chicago.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Christmas
Tree Follies
By Cheryl O'Donovan, Illinois
Exasperated, he calls. The box will not fit inside his car. This is a
van-sized mission. I must meet him in the parking lot of Home Depot.
I turn off the JFK special on the History Channel. Yep. That’s a
surefire holiday rouser, watching a bitter assassin stalk a president.
Meanwhile, I hear Kirby, our dog, pawing at the back door and let him
in. While I’m in the bathroom, the doorbell rings. I yell for my
children. They’re playing computer games.
“ANN-SWERRR THE DOOR!” Jane Wyatt never screamed like this in the 1950’s
TV classic “Father Knows Best,” but this is “Mother Knows Mess.”
Some kid is leaning against our doorbell like he wants to fuse with the
aluminum siding. The moment my kids’ friends see pink terrycloth and my
white calves hit the carpeted stairs, they scatter like Japanese
scientists when Godzilla approaches.
Eventually, I locate clothes, two mismatched socks and Nikes. The clock
is ticking. Never have I been more aware of the risk, the danger. My
husband’s alone on that parking lot, and might be have to be civil to
someone.
Before I can embark on my journey, the trunk must be clean. I raise the
trunk door. My heart sinks. The kazoo from “The Sanford and Son” song
begins to play.
Straining every muscle, I hoist a box containing about two thousand
reams of paper. The Egyptians would have never needed to invent papyrus
if they’d had me and this box around. We could have kept those
half-naked scribes hopping for at least twenty dynasties.
After popping two Aleves and swigging some eggnog, I see the next item
to remove: a garbage bag straining with hangers that I intend on
recycling. Several sharp metallic angles threaten to poke through the
bag. It may burst at the slightest jarring. I reach for the eggnog
again.
Now I hear a whimper. Kirby paw-signs P-O-T-T-Y. I let him back out.
By the time I drive into the Home Depot parking lot, I’ve got a hanger
around my ankle, terrycloth wisps in my hair and my right eye twitches.
Other shoppers are loading items into their vehicles, the blush of
holiday cheer pinking their cheeks.
My eyes scan toward the left. One lone figure glares from underneath a
street lamp, clenching and un-clenching his hands. Pulling the van along
side him, I begin to hum: “Oh, the husband outside is frightful…”
He greets me by pointing at his watch. “We live five minutes away, and
it takes you a half hour to get here.”
I now feel compelled to render testimony, a la the Warren Commission, as
to why I couldn’t beam myself there the moment he called.
A blaze of labels adorns the box, which is the size of Rockefeller
Plaza. “HASSLE-FREE! PRE-LIT!”
Assembled, this thing wouldn’t clear a cathedral ceiling. My theory: men
buy giant Christmas trees so they can recreate Sherwood Forest in their
living rooms. It’s some lumberjack manifesto. O Tannen-bomb. My eyebrows
are raised.
“The mayor coming over for a lighting ceremony?”
He heaves the gigantic rectangular box into the van. “I could be dying
on some road,” he mumbles. “And you’d be late, because you had to let
THE DOG OUT.”
“No, out of fear for my personal safety, I’d have the dog call Highway
Patrol to come and get you. C’mon. Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“With the woman who ran over my foot with her cart.”
Most six-foot-three grouches respond to hugs, so I give him one.
“Crowded in there?”
“No stores for me. I’m buying gift cards from Walgreen’s check-out.”
Great. Another iPod songs gift card and I don’t even own one.
“Well, Santa’s helper, you’ve got an even more life-risking task ahead,
more daunting than crowds, buying a tree or dodging carts.”
He looks at me.
“Hanging the Christmas lights.”
www.cherylodonovan.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Chew
Chew: The Train Wreck Express
By Randy Richardson, Illinois
All aboard the Train Wreck Express, a trip that begins with the twinkle
in a three-year-old boys' eyes. If you're a parent, you've surely ridden
this runaway train before.
Usually the object that has enchanted the child is a toy. He wants it
more than anything in the world. That is until the next toy comes along
and grabs his attention.
Sometimes you tell him no, he cannot have it. You don't want to spoil
him and he's already got too many toys. But more often than you like to
admit, you cave in. You buy the toy, because, well, it's hard to say no
to a child. Because it's only ten or twenty or thirty bucks, and what
price is not worth keeping that child from pitching a fit and turning
you, the parent, into a toy-depriving monster.
Even as you're taking that toy off the shelf, you see the disaster that
will ensue. Either you will find your child melting down while you cut
your path through the labyrinth of wires that strap the toy in. Or you
will spend hours late into the night mumbling profanities into the air
while piecing together hundreds of little parts. All so that your child
can play with the toy that will keep his attention for maybe a day or a
week or a month before it is cast aside into the overpopulated Island of
Unwanted Toys that is the child's closet.
This time, however, the twinkle in the three-year-old boys' eyes was due
not to a toy but to a gingerbread train. More precisely, it was the
picture of a gingerbread train on a box. A box that contained a kit to
build a two-car gingerbread train.
Upon seeing that gleam in his boys' eyes, Daddy made a deal that he will
forever live to regret. The boy could have the gingerbread train but it
would mean that he would not get the toy promised him.
"You understand, right?" Daddy asked, bending down on one knee to look
his boy in those eyes. The boy nods.
Daddy wants more of an assurance. A three-year-olds' promise means less
than that of a used-car dealer. "If we get you this, you don't get a
toy? You're okay with that?"
Again, the boy nods.
There are unspoken house rules. I'm sure the arrangements are slightly
different in all houses, but they exist in some form or another in just
about all households. In our house, the unspoken rule is that Daddy
doesn't do craft projects. This is in the best interests of the child.
Because you don't want to see a craft project turn ugly, and you don't
want to expose a child to the words that might make their way out of
Daddy's mouth when it inevitably does turn ugly.
So when Daddy put that gingerbread train kit in the cart, he did so
thinking two things: (1) it was a craft project; and (2) house rules
apply. That house rule derailed because Mommy had to cook -- and the boy
wanted his gingerbread train.
Any box that has the words "easy assembly" or "build it in minutes" on
it is a box that you will wish you'd never opened. After a quick review
of the directions, however, I had actually deluded myself into thinking
that this might just be a project that I could do without letting loose
an unguided F-bomb within earshot of my three-year-old. The gingerbread
was pre-baked. There was an "E-Z Build Tray for quick assembly." The
rest would just be icing on, well, the gingerbread.
From the first simple instruction where I cut off way more of the icing
pack tip than prescribed, I knew that I'd bitten off way more than I
could chew. The boy who wanted nothing more than to help his Daddy did
nothing more than make his Daddy jittery. The more the boy leaned on
Daddy the more mistakes Daddy made.
Sensing the looming disaster, the boy cries, "Mommy, help Daddy." Just
as the gingerbread train is about to run away and its conductor is about
to lose it, it somehow magically finds its way back onto that "E-Z Build
Tray."
Finally, the boy gets to join in the fun. Little candies spill all over
the floor. Some make their way into the boy's mouth. A few even find
their way to the proper places, on the gingerbread train. When it's all
done, Daddy looks at the picture on the box and then at what he and his
son have created.
The Train Wreck Express is by no means of work of art. But it has its
charms. Its days, of course, are numbered. Because not long from now, it
will disappear with the chant of "Chew! Chew!"
www.lostintheivy.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Happy
Tofurkey Day
By Rich Van Saders, New Jersey
Thanksgiving Day is upon us. For many this day has become less about
giving thanks and more about the food itself.
The talk leading up to the holiday is usually about pumpkin pie,
cranberry sauce, and of course, the bird. In fact, it is common to hear
people refer to Thanksgiving as Turkey Day.
But what about America's vegetarian population? There are people who
will refuse to eat a turkey. Some have chosen to be vegetarians for
health reasons, but most do so because they do not want to see animals
killed.
Sure, they might mention the poor conditions the birds face on factory
farms or the painful way in which many birds are slaughtered. But if you
offered to apply a local anaesthetic to the neck of a free range turkey
before cutting its head off, I am sure that most vegetarians would still
not want any part of it. They simply find the act of killing another
animal for food barbaric. Some will go so far as to say, “Meat is
murder.”
So, what do these people eat on Thanksgiving? Many will dine on a
soy-based meat substitute such as Tofurkey. Tofurkey, and other similar
products, are meatless alternatives designed to have the same texture
and taste as a real bird.
Some describe this as a "cruelty-free" way to enjoy a turkey dinner.
While such products may be tasty and heart healthy, is it really the
best way to show respect for your feathered friends? Molding tofu into
the shape of a bird and eating it seems an awful lot like hanging
someone in effigy. Sure you’re using a body double, but in both these
cases, imitation is not a very sincere form of flattery. Let’s face it.
Most of us would never dream of eating a fellow human. And not just
because it would involve murder. Decent folks are disgusted at the mere
thought of cannibalism.
So what would happen if someone came out with a meatless product that
had the flavor and texture of human flesh? You could call it Tofuman.
Let's be honest. I can't really say with any certainty that it wouldn't
taste good. Maybe people are tasty. Who knows (and who wants to know
anyone who knows)?
Would Americans buy such a product? Probably not. Because if meat is
murder, wouldn’t simulated meat be simulated murder?
Granted, half of all prime time television shows begin with someone
stumbling across a murdered corpse. And some people pay good money to
attend a dinner theater where the main attraction of the evening is a
simulated murder. But these types of shows are popular because people
like to try and solve a “whodunit” type mystery. I am pretty sure that
none of the actors on the Murder Train are going to get up and say,
“Someone shot the butler. Grab your forks and dig in!”
Which brings me back to our Tofurkey-eating friends. If you really love
your feathered friends, quit trying to copy us carnivores and get
yourself a nice mushroom pizza this Thanksgiving.
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