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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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Dec. 2007/ Jan. 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
December 2007/
January 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Grace Of The
Amazing Aging
By Jady Cody, Colorado
My parents are old.
Well, my dad is anyway. He is a senior, which is age 55 and older. He is
four years into his senior-ity at the ripe old age of 59.
My mother, spring chicken that she is, is a
tissue-tucked-into-the-arm-sleeve away at age 54. She too, though, will
soon be a senior.
It doesn’t seem like my parents should be seniors. They are now the same
age as my grandparents were when I was little. I feel like my perception
is viewed through one of those carnival mirrors that make you shorter,
taller and as nauseous as the Gravitron ride at the carnival after
eating cotton candy.
Sure, my dad makes that out-of-the-chair sound, “ooouuughh,” and my mom
hasn’t exactly won any recent marathons. But they are essentially up to
the same active mom and dad-type stuff as they ever were. Are they
really seniors?
Perhaps we could call them new-age fogeys. They’re the new face of the
senior. I think most baby boomers would agree with the new-age senior
phenomena, that today’s 55 year-old is younger than the 55 year-old of
20 or 30 years ago. Most seniors I know don’t feel the way they thought
their age would feel. But I think that may be true with any age.
People are living longer and are healthier, though. Advances in
healthcare, better living conditions and more health education has
increased the average life expectancy.
But I don’t want to hear “I’m in as good of shape as I ever was” from
seniors, because for the most part, 24 year-olds don’t make the
“ooouuughh” sound every time they get out of a chair.
As much as some 50 and 60 year-old people are in denial about getting
older, most 80- and 90-year-olds willingly tell everyone they meet, “I’m
older than Moses.” They know life is too short to worry about what
people think.
Of course, it’s easy for me to say this at 26 years-old. Wait until my
hair falls out in all the wrong places. Wait until my hips ache for no
reason at all. Wait until I can’t remember things like my wife’s name or
where my dog is, even though I don’t have a dog.
Someday I’ll know the sour connotation of words like senior and fogey.
Surely I’ll be sorry.
And I know there are some seniors in much better shape than I am. But
that’s not the point. There are apple pies in better shape than me.
When I imagine being retired, I see myself and my wife riding our
motorcycles cross country, touring the world and flying by the seat of
our pants. We will go from town to town, staying where we want and
enjoying life. That’s my plan. Realistically though, at best, we’ll go
on a few bicycle rides.
We’ll likely only make it down the block and have to turn back. My wife,
what’s her name, and I will have to get back home to feed the dog — if
we could just find him.
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 I
Sold My Soul To The Warehouse Store
By Gigi Harrell, North Carolina
Pick your poison, Sam's, BJ's, or Costco, they are all the same. They
sucker you in with milk at $2.99/gallon and the next thing you know
you’ve bought so much stuff that you have to strap your kid to the roof
just to fit everything in the car.
For my family, it has been a slow slip into the world of warehouse
stores. We didn't even join until our first child was born. Even then it
was out of "necessity." I honestly don't think I would have survived
this long as a parent if I couldn't purchase diapers by the gross. We
paid our $35 and never looked back. But, membership comes at a price.
The last time I was in our local store, I remembered I needed a little
toilet paper. But they don't sell just a few rolls, so I went on to
purchase 48 "super" size rolls of Charmin. Good news, if I need to use
the facilities. Bad news, if I want to put anything else in the closets
for the next six months. I now have toilet paper stashed all over the
house, I think I even stored some at the neighbors'.
My purchases may be large and out of control, but at least they are for
household staples. My husband, though technically a member, is banned
from the store. I am afraid he is going to come home with two gallons of
milk, a pack of diapers, and a dozen plasma TVs. You go in for a gallon
of milk (conveniently located in the very back corner of this monstrous
store) and you can pick up just about anything else along the way. Want
a 3-carat diamond ring? Grab one. Want a $200 pair of Seven Jeans? Grab
one. Want a dune buggy? Grab one. Somehow you go in planning to spend $3
on milk and you come out with a carload of junk and $300 Visa bill.
Folks used to sell your soul to the company store, but it turns out I
sold mine to the warehouse store. And when they ask me in February if I
want to renew my membership, you better believe I'll hold out that Visa
card, say yes. Then, I’ll load of the car, strap the kids to the roof,
and drive home with a smile on my face.
www.strollerlane.net
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Hiker's
Mirage
By Seth Holland, Oregon
During a long distance hike the body begins to crave certain things. The
obvious longings are hot showers, soft beds and fast food. However one
of the more understated desires is the need for human contact. Hikers
with significant others can resolve these wants with a phone call home
or a quick rendezvous off the trail, but unattached hikers don’t have
such luxuries. The key to a successful hike is not to let such vices
dissuade you from attaining your wilderness goal. The summer of 2002 I
struggled with this concept.
Six weeks into my hike I came across an alluring entry in the shelter’s
notebook journal: “Spent the morning picking dandelions around the
lake...getting a little lonely on the trail, sure would like some people
to hike with...” The entry was written in big loopy handwriting with
purple ink and was signed “Violet”. Instantly I was in love.
I read her journal entries at the following shelters; each time
picturing a tall blonde skinny hippie hiker girl. The more I read the
more I realize we were fated to be together. She likes to hike, I like
to hike. She wants a hiking partner, I want a hiking partner. It was as
if she was my romantic pen pal. All we had to now was meet. I would
catch up.
By the dates of her entries I could tell she was 2 days ahead of me.
Doing the math in my head I figured if I hiked 26 miles a day instead of
18 I would be able to meet up with her in four days. The next days I
hiked from sunrise well into sunset. At the start of the hike my goal
was Maine, now it was just to meet her. I missed a care package at the
Post Office when I came through town a day early on a Sunday. My father
worried when I missed a day calling home so as not to slack on miles.
But it didn’t matter, I had her journal entries to keep driving me
North. On Saturday she complained of running low on fruit, so I decided
to save my store bought apples and oranges for her. On Sunday she
dreamed of taking a hot bath. She didn’t know what that visual did to
me. On Monday she wrote she had contemplated quitting the trail because
“it’s not fun anymore.” I wanted to yell “Hold on, I’m coming!” but
instead I hiked five miles more that night.
On Tuesday afternoon her purple inked couldn’t have been 3 hours old. It
was Tuesday’s date and she planned on: “staying at the next shelter but
looking forward to making a crown of dandelions on the way there.”
‘That’s my girl’ I thought obsessively and raced down the trail. The
next six miles to the Apple Mountain shelter flew by as I kept running
through every scenario in my head. What would I do if we were alone?
What if the campsite was packed? How do you pick up girls in the
wilderness? I came to the intersection for the shelter and could see a
silhouette sitting down on the stoop of the shelter. I threw on the
clean shirt I was saving and coated my body in deodorant. It was game
time.
I realized we weren’t going to be alone when I saw the silhouette turned
out to be a bearded man in his forties whose skin was stained black with
dirt. He was sitting on the stoop picking some black junk out his big
toe with the toothpick end of his Swiss Army Knife. I asked him if he
saw a girl today hiking through. He grunted back in a voice encrusted
with years of cigarette smoke, “Naw just some goddamn mowsqeeters.”
He stuck out his hand for a shake and then that’s when I noticed a chain
of dandelions hanging from his backpack and purple pen folded in the
journal “The name’s Violet. You gonna eat that apple?”
I reached out to shake his hand realizing this rush of disappointment
was akin to when my mother told me the truth about Santa; absolutely
downtrodden. The only thing I hoped to conclude from the debacle was
that it was the last time in my life I would have a crush on a man who
looked like Willie Nelson.
© Copyright
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The
Long Ride To Empty Nest University
By Patty Kimerer, Ohio
You’re motoring along through life and then Boom! A blue pair of Hanes
underpants knocks you right on your bloomers.
Oh, right, an explanation.
It all started this past autumn when my friend Lynne took her daughter
to Kent State University to get her settled into college and my buddy
Denise transported her son to John Carrol University in preparation of
his first day of university life.
My pals seemed quite mopy and sad as they escorted their children to
their respective institutions of higher learning. And yet, as
sympathetic as I felt, I didn’t really get it.
“We spend all this time trying to prepare our children to move away from
home and yet no one thinks to brace the parents for what they’re going
to experience,” Denise said.
Lynne put on a brave face.
“Oh, it was fine. I was dancing in the streets when we got back home,”
she teased, though I could tell she was uncharacteristically glum.
My cousin, my next-door neighbor and another family friend all followed
suit. They gave me a collective, “Patty, enjoy these days with Kyle;
they go by so quickly” caution.
Oh, heck, what do they know? I’ve got 11 years before I need to worry
about that long ride to Empty Nest University.
I mean, second grade is not high school. I’m good.
Seriously, I’ve plenty of time.
It’s not like he’s even old enough to have his hand scanned for pass
code identification at the YMCA…though he will in a few months. And he
IS big enough for the activity room instead of the child watch area
there now.
Suddenly, I started to notice how quickly the past
seven-and-three-quarters years have zipped past.
From teething to toddler to tricycles to tying shoes and t-ball is
something of a fuzzy blur.
Hmm.
I was successfully squelching that icky feeling of Kyle growing up in a
hellfire hurry when it all came out in the wash. Literally.
As I was dumping the colors from washer to dryer recently, I noticed
that the household male underclothing supply had suddenly doubled.
“That’s funny,” I thought, “I don’t remember buying Kerry a new package
of underwear.”
And it was then that I got a stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach and
realized that I was having trouble distinguishing between my husband’s
clothes and my son’s.
And that, people, is when I finally started to understand what my
friends were talking about.
Just yesterday, Denise and Lynne were folding little shirts and pants
for their children and then POW! they are packing all of their kids'
worldly belongings in suitcases for the big move away from home – and
more importantly, away from their Moms.
People, I cannot even tell you how many counseling sessions I had to
undergo before I could put Kyle on a school bus for the first time last
year. The thought of him actually moving out of the house and living
away from me?
Yeah, I can see I’m going to need to pick up a third job to pay for THAT
therapy bill.
Kyle can’t move out.
If he does, who will tell me I’m beautiful with my Medusa hair spiraling
out of control on a humid day? Who will need me to come tuck him in
after a Harry Potter-themed nightmare? Who will use his light saber to
strike down anyone and everyone who looks cross-way in my direction --
in defense of my Mommy honor?
Nope, it’s settled. No empty nest for me. I’m going to hang onto these
elementary school days with a vice grip I found in the basement
yesterday.
And when it comes time for us to pack Kyle up and transfer him to the
university of his choice some 11 years from now; I’ll not cry or fuss.
Because I’ll be subleasing an apartment just down the road, off campus.
© Copyright
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Patriots
Apocalypse Now
By Daniel McGinley, Connecticut
I’ve been involved with the NFL for several years now, but I’ll never
forget that fateful night I was brought to New York for an important
“business dinner”.
Bob Smith* was seated there with several other player’s agents, and no
wives were present. There was a strange little foreign man** who watched
and listened carefully, occasionally attacking his steak tartare with
flashing knife strikes, like a cobra defending its nest.
Heavy rains pounded the windows as this strange little man pressed the
“play” button on a high-end cassette recorder.
The tape hissed and crackled, as a barely audible -- yet familiar --
voice filled the room.
“I once saw a snake,” it began, “crawling along the edge of a razor. “
I looked at Smith with horror. “My God,” I said, “it sounds like . . .”
He nodded. “Coach Bill Belichick. New England Patriots.”
Smith stood and walked to the window, as Bill’s eerie voice continued to
fill the room. “. . . and there was a pile of over-sized arms near the
fifty-yard line, where the defensive line had come through and was
willing to cut off the arm of every offensive player, and I cried, I
wept like a baby, but later I thought . . . the genius of that, to be
willing to dismember the offense in front of millions, so that a blitz
would be truly effective.”
I looked at these men in shock, as the recorder was paused.
“These transmissions were intercepted coming out of Foxboro,” Smith
said. “And here it gets much, much worse.”
“This next one is very hard to get through,” another agent added, taking
a long slug of his drink. “It was a post game press conference, just
before the Pats broke every known NFL record.”
Bill’s distinctive voice sent a chill up my spine. “We only take one
game at a time,” it began, as one of the agents gasped at the horror of
it. “We try to work as a complete unit, or team, and focus on the task
at hand. We can’t control people’s opinions or what the media says, so
we really just try to do our job, and win games. We serve humble pie
every day.”
The small foreign man stopped the tape, staring right through me.
“Obviously,” he rasped, “the coach has gone completely insane.”
“Yes,” I said. “Obviously.”
Smith turned from the rain-spattered window. “Owner Robert Kraft hired
Bill years ago to come in and do a job,” he said, looking off into
space. “But things seemed to get away from him. First he drafted an
entire tribe of Montagnard tribesmen, who never played a down of
football and had no concept of ego, greed, or proper representation.”
“They became fiercely loyal,” another agent added. “They recruited men
like Tedy Bruschi, who refuses to hire agents, or Tom Brady, who turns
down commercial offers. They keep winning and winning, putting football
ahead of player contracts. It never stops.”
“They speared a ref,” someone mumbled. “It was horrible.”
Smith produced a small, faded picture and slid it across the table. It
depicted a tall wide receiver with a scraggly beard and tightly braided
hair, towering above the Montagnards.
“Randy Moss,” Smith said. “Oakland sent this man to bring Bill home, but
Randy never made it back.”
Smith sighed. “Now he breaks records and has this selfless attitude. He
speaks of teamwork and humble pie and . . .”
“One game at a time,” an agent said, finishing the sentence. “One game
at a time.”
“You can’t sell three-hundred dollar sneakers to humble teenagers!” the
agent screamed. “You can’t sell flashy jackets to kids who want to help
others, and not promote a “me first” attitude!!!”
Another agent sobbed. “My boy was serving the homeless in a soup kitchen
last week!”
“There was hope,” Smith said. “We tried to nail Bill for filming the
Jet’s signals, but it hardly slowed the ensuing onslaught. He’s gaining
power.”
Smith leaned forward. “You have to stop him, with extreme prejudice.”
The small foreign man’s eyes flashed from across the table. “With . . .
extreme . . . prejudice.”
I had been waiting for a mission, and now that if finally came, I would
never want another.
Nor would I eat pastrami on rye before bed.
The horror . . . the horrorrrrrrrrrr . . .
* Certain names are fictional, including pets and various farm
implements
** Probably from Jersey
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No,
You're Stupid
By Yvonne Minassian, California
Sure plenty of people told me they'd
grow fast, but they also told me my GE 'fridge would become a classic.
Well, in the case of the kids, they did grow fast and I expect any day
now to see them on 'Fugitive Watch' for holding up a convience store.
No, really, they're still too young for that, I'm kidding. They're still
flinging water balloons at passing cars.
Now they've both entered the teen years that Dr. Erik
Erickson referred to as "Stage 5"; which starts with puberty and ends
around 18 or 20 years old. This could be shorter for some teens if their
grandparents have left them with a hearty inheritance in which case
enable parents of said teen, to be shipped off to Liberia. Dr. Erickson
describes the 'task' for adolescents in life is to 'achieve ego identity
and avoid role confusion".
No, I can't say the kids are confused, they seem quite
clear that they will act out each day as if they are screening for a
Jerry Springer episode.
Brother to Sister: "Hey loser, after my shower I'm going
to need the laptop, so you better log off of MySpace and be ready".
Sister to Brother: "You shower?" Not that you care, but
I'm doing Bio homework, cuz some of us care about our grades".
Brother to Sister: "Wow, you're a baby, you've been on
that since 3:00, I know you're just talking to your O.C.-wanna-be
friends"
Sister to Brother: "No, stoner, I'm actually doing
homework, which even as a senior, you still don't do, and by some
miracle of the prophets lined up in the East, you might graduate this
year".
Brother to Sister: "At least I have a life beyond books,
you recluse". (makes wah-face)
Sister to Brother: "That's right, you get out more than
I do since you do you're shitting in the yard" (snorts and throws a
pencil at him)
Brother to Sister: "Hey, crybaby, go tell mom your
subscription to Drama Queen has expired, and you need to be driven to
the mall to buy more lip potion for your fat face".
Sister to Brother: "Just wait while you're asleep you
Emo, I'm going to set fire to your little allergy-free comfortor until
your Emo haircut bursts into flames."
At this time, upon hearing of fires and other impending
violence, I make myself visible from my hiding place behind the
downstairs curtains, and let them know I won't tolerate disrespectful
language between them, remind them of how much their school is costing,
show them photos of starving people around the world, and basically
threaten them with promises of wearing my "Hooters" t-shirt to all their
school conferences in the upcoming year.
This concludes my description of my two teens. I hate to
cut it short, but they need the laptop.
write2laugh.blogspot.com
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Attention:
Bra Rage Strikes Nerve
By Kathleen Norton, New York
Crucial Boomer Gal Alert: Bra Rage is even more widespread than
originally feared.
Since I wrote I will attend a “Bra-fitting Event’’ only after men get
invited to “Boxers and Briefs Events,’’ other boomer gals have declared
they feel the same way.
And evidently, Bra Rage goes far beyond my modest rants.
These boomer gals also demand to know why bras cost so much when they
involve so little.
Men want to know, too. First in line: my husband.
A bra I got last year cost nearly twice what he paid for his first car.
When I brought it home, he just sat in the chair, staring. He was either
fondly remembering that $25, broken down, 1965 aqua Malibu with the
leaky windshield, or he couldn’t get over the bra price tag.
With this much turmoil over bras, who knows what could happen?
Riot? Revolt? Or, dare I suggest, a coup d’cup?
God help us all.
I do not mean to stir the masses further, but an alarming update must be
reported.
Just hours after the first bra column was published, a postcard arrived
selling cream to invigorate and revive the skin of my “decollete’’ area.
(Please imagine me saying that while holding my nose and doing a bad
French accent.)
I never took French in high school because I needed a free period while
boys were doing laps on the outside track.
I stood guard at the windows with my Catholic school accomplice and
constant companion, Mary-Something, whom you met previously and will
meet again.
But after years of reading bad romance novels, I know the “decollete’’
has to do with the place between your neck and your bust.
More research (12 seconds on Google) reveals you can buy “decollete
pads’’ you tape on your chest at night to pull the skin tight and cure
wrinkles.
“The aging process stops now!’’ one proclaims.
Yeah. Right.
How good is the “decollete’’ area going to look when you roll over
wearing a sticky pad and a blanket gets stuck on your chest?
Anyway, the postcard for the cream showed a young woman and her
cleavage.
Neither were a day over 19.
This was obvious, even without my reading glasses. And the teenager
looked familiar. She models every Mother-of-the-Bride outfit in every
bridal magazine on Earth.
The cream, her sales pitch went, was the “decollete’’ fountain of youth.
Here is a Boomer Gal bulletin for the cream and pad people: I have not
spent a fortune on scarves, turtlenecks and big necklaces to ditch them
for some stupid stuff that won’t work anyway.
Besides, my lower “decollete’’ hasn’t revealed itself in public lately
and won’t anytime soon.
So my devoted Bra Ragers, take heart.
I remain committed to equality in marketing.
I will not use these products until we see miracle creams and pads for a
middle-aged man’s slighty saggy “decollete.’’
www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/boomergal
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Ed
Norton Was NOT My Father
By Kathleen Norton, New York
When the Ed Norton t-shirt first went over my head, a cold sweat rolled
down my neck. The second time, the ear ringing let up. The third time,
the room stopped spinning altogether.
Finally. My Inner Norton was healed.
Go ahead. Test me. Ask me if Ed Norton is my father. Ask me the way that
snotty, horrible Brian What’s-his-name did for 213 days straight in
third grade.
While you’re at it, inquire about Trixie. Ask if she’s my mother, or if
Ralph Kramden lives downstairs. Ask over and over, like “The
Honeymooners’’ reruns that plagued my boomer childhood.
It’s OK. I am beyond the pain.
There are no more nightmares of fat men in bus uniforms chasing me while
I yell: “Heey, Ralphie Boy!’’
And I am over the trauma of repeating day in and day out:
“Ed Norton is NOT my father. Trixie is NOT my mother. I’ve NEVER been in
the sewer.’’ I said those words more than the Pledge of Allegiance or my
secret daily prayer: “Dear God, please give me a dad with a name like
Ricky Ricardo or even Soupy Sales. As long as he works aboveground.’’
No answer. No new name. We stayed Nortons. Like the guy in the sewer.
I’m better now. Really. Though I cannot speak for my sister Tricia. She
was called “Trixie’’ every single day of her life.
Oh, she laughed with her classmates. But she could never explain how her
yearbook was mysteriously run over with a car or why it had slash marks.
Later, she met a guy whose last name trips you up with three “R’s’’
among its seven letters.
“I’ll take it,’’ she said without skipping a beat and marched down the
aisle.
She’s never confronted her Norton-ness. Never been able to buy a t-shirt
like mine.
That shirt shows the outer world that my Inner Norton is no longer
afraid of hearing, “First you address the ball. Hello, ball!’’
I found the Ed Norton shirt on a tacky vendor cart in Las Vegas. (You
were expecting Paris?)
A whisper filled the crisp night air inside the convention center.
“To the moon!’’ the demons said.
But I fought back. I got the shirt and in time, Ed and I could go out in
public.
Just recently, my daughter saw the shirt for the first time. For all she
knew, Ed Norton was just another “unusual’’ relative.
“Who IS that?’’ she asked.
I explained the Ed Norton thing and she looked at me like I was nuts.
It’s OK. My Inner Norton can take it. I still can’t cross a street near
a manhole.
But I’m getting there.
www.poughkeepsiejournal.com/boomergal
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The
Blind Date
By Linda Rhodes, New York
He said he was tall, worked out every day,
had curly brown hair on his head.
But my blind date had altered the truth-
THESE were the things he should've said.
Instead of being a cross between "Bronson and Michael Landon,"
he resembled much more Fat Albert and Bozo-
this one I'd like to abandon!
The curly brown hair he spoke of, was curly all right, have no fear.
But the fact he neglected to tell me
was that it only existed BELOW his ears.
Lifting a loaf of garlic bread
does not a work out make
and having multiple stomachs
was a fact I found heavy to take.
This guy was quite the opposite
this thing had gone too far.
They're called blind dates, I think because
they don't see themselves for who they are.
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A
Man's Home Is His Kid's Castle
By Randy Richardson, Illinois
There was a time, I am told, when a man's home was his castle. But I'm
pretty sure that is the stuff of legends and fables, passed on over the
years, from one generation to the next, by men who would not understand
the virtues of modern fatherhood.
There are castles in my home, that much is true. Three of them at last
count. One is made by Playmobil, another by Little People and yet
another by Imaginext. I wouldn't be surprised to find another one
popping up in my living room within the next day or two. They sprout up
as fast as the condos in the town that surrounds my home, and they have
begun to crowd me out of my own house. It bothers me that they don't pay
rent for the space they occupy.
Knights also have taken up refuge in my home. Lots of them. Hundreds
maybe. I’ve never been able to count them all, but I find them all the
time. They hide behind cushions, ready to ambush me whenever I try to
put my head down for a nap. At night, they creep out from their hiding
places and lie on the floor, waiting for me, ever so patiently. When I
get up out of bed and make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen,
they see vulnerability in my bare feet. “Ouch!” Another one got me. They
strike at all hours, seemingly from out of nowhere. You always have to
be on your guard.
Then there's the squire, the knight-in-training who stands all of three
and a half feet but packs enough energy and enthusiasm into his
four-year-old body to topple an empire. Always, he keeps me on my toes,
and, always, I am in awe of him. He is the heir to the throne, and a
more worthy successor I cannot imagine.
My home is not my castle, it is his. He has made it this way because
that's the way he likes it. Unlike me, he doesn't mind stepping on toys
and he doesn't get all in a lather if his castle isn't the most tidy.
After all, he points out to me regularly, knights didn't lead the most
hygienic lives. They ate with their hands, rarely bathed and pooped into
a pit. The knight-to-be in our family has adopted some of these Medieval
practices. He shuns food utensils and prefers grime over cleanliness,
but, thankfully, he at least seems to appreciate flushable toilets.
Although the would-be knight has acknowledged the benefits of modern
plumbing, he has yet to accept that when one sits on the throne, it is
supposed to be a sacrosanct place inside the castle where a great ruler
can have the privacy he needs to think great thoughts – and read the
sports pages.
It is daybreak, and the little squire sits on the hard, cold tile floor,
still in his pajamas. Meanwhile, I sit, with pants pushed down to my
knees, on my own hard, cold seat, this one ovate to fit to the contour
of my bare bum.
My son's head pushes up between my knees. I look down at him and he
bends his head back and looks up at me.
"You aren't going to move, are you?" I ask.
The heir to the throne doesn't respond, and he doesn't budge.
In hindsight, the moat option around the master bathroom would have been
a good investment.
www.lostintheivy.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Guide To American Accents
By Curt Smothers, Colorado
American English as spoken in the USA has many regional variations. From
northern Maine to southern Mississippi, natives speak differently. This
article is a handy guide for visitors, American English students, and
for us Midwesterners (who, as everyone in the Midwest knows, actually
have no accent). This article will, I hope, help the ESL learner in
deciphering the bewildering variations in accents and pronunciation
quirks they will undoubtedly encounter as they travel our country.
The Northeastern "Pahty-Gouhs."
In the sentence, "I pahked my cah and went to the pahty," the speaker is
describing what action he took with his vehicle before he departed for a
celebratory event. An exact, unaccented translation would be, "I parked
my car and went to the party." The speaker could be a man named "Cahl,"
"Mahvin," or "Rahbut" (Carl, Marvin, or Robert). His girlfriend could be
"Shahlut" or "Rahbutah." He might also be a "Bahstun Red Sokes" fan.
(You get the gist by now, I think.)
The main distinction in our Northeastern accent, among other foibles, is
the absence of the broad American "r" sound. North easterners threw away
the "r" and substituted it with the sound "ah." Also, those folks speak
without the aid of any nasality whatsoever, which explains how "New
York" can become "Noo Yahk." That pronunciation could not survive
adenoidal reverberation.
The Southern "Wretched Balks Steal-uhs"
Here's a southern sentence: "Mahmuh, Wretched stowl mah balks." To
unravel the confusion this statement might cause the outsider, I shall
parse that sentence: "Mahmuh" is the speaker's mother (or, in southern
lexicon, the "speakhuh's muthah"). "Wretched" is the speaker's brother.
Other famous "Wretcheds" were "Wretched Nixon, Wretched Burton," and the
Shakespeare character "Wretched III" (of "Mah keengdum foah a hoahs!"
fame).
Lastly, the term "balks" refers to a container, as in "mayutch balks,"
where one would find implements to light fires. In the rural South they
use "mayutches" in lieu of Zippo "lahtuhs."
When listening for the southerners' accent and speech patterns, be
especially aware of their tendency to make two-syllable words out of
one-syllable words. Examples would be "way-ul" (well), "hee-yit" (hit),
and "ay-yunt" (aunt). Also, note that like Northeasterners, Southerners
have jettisoned everyone else's "r" sound; only they prefer to pronounce
it "uh." Thus, they might say, "Wretched Nixon stowl a lahtuh from the
Whaht Hahs."
California's "Irritable Vowel" Sufferers
Yes, Californians do have an accent, and no, it is nothing like Gov.
Schwartzenegger. Listen carefully and you will detect a few odd
Californian pronunciations of common English words. For example,
Californians would say, "I will yild my shild if I can build my fild on
Shilds Avenue." That would translate back East as "I will yield my
shield if I can build my field on Shields Avenue." (Of course, that
sentence doesn't really make sense unless you're a retiring police
officer in Fresno negotiating a real estate deal.)
There are other differences in the way those folks out west speak our
language, but it is not so much an issue of accent as it is a question
of strange usage and syntax. I am referring of course, to the famous
"Valley Girl" jabber one might hear in a San Fernando mall: "Eww, lahk,
I went Get yew!' And he goes Yeh, I like to play, you know, the fild.'"
The Midwestern "Hoarse Horse"
I said at the beginning of this article that we Midwesterners don't have
an accent; everybody else does. I need to make two exceptions to that
claim:
1. People from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota, are more
linguistically related to Canadians. We Missourians, for example, don't
recognize those folks as Midwesterners. This, of course, was not widely
recognized until the release of the movie "Fargo." Those who have seen
the movie and were embarrassed by the script, acting, and accents will
understand how we feel.
2. However, we Midwesterners do pride ourselves in our distinctive
pronunciation of the following words: horse and hoarse. The latter
(hoarse) is pronounced "hoers"; the former (horse) is pronounced "hahrse."
So, if you want to find out if someone is a Midwesterner, ask him or her
how the hoarse horse is doing. (Good luck on working that sentence into
a conversation. You might try showing an old episode of Mr. Ed.)
There are, of course many other regional variations of American accents.
For example, I did not cover Maine, Texas, and the Northwest. In my
research for this article, however, people I contacted from those areas
claim they don't have an accent.
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