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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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Feb./ March 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
February/ March 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Shoe Shopping
By Ken Bobrosky, Bahamas
Shopping for new shoes should be a joyful, carefree event. My last
experience almost evolved into a hostage taking and media frenzy!
My reliable old friends, a ten-year old pair of Florsheim dress shoes,
had expired. They had faithfully waltzed me through countless wedding
dances, shuffled me through dozens of funeral processions and were now
ready to retire. Their withered brown skin couldn’t be polished and
their shine was now only a dull luster. They had to be replaced.
A trip to the mall to find a new pair conjured up an adventure akin to
going to Disney World. With a light heart and an anticipation of
excitement, I entered Shoe World, the fantasy land for shoes.
Every kind of shoe imaginable could be found in Shoe World and I knew I
would find a replacement for my old Florsheim friends. During my search
I encountered running, walking, skateboarding, dancing, cross training
and baby shoes. Every color found in a flower garden glorified the
shelves of shoes and the air was electric with excitement.
I consulted the huge map of the shoe store’s interior to locate the
men’s dress shoe department. It was wedged into a back corner between
work boots and ballet slippers. After my long search wound through
aisles of socks, shoelaces, shoe polish, beach sandals, roller skates
and slippers, I found my target section. It was a lower shelf containing
ten pair of dusty black or brown oxfords. I was aghast! Where were the
racks of quality men’s shoes that I had expected to find? The
twelve-year old gum-chewing clerk, who happened to accidentally pass by,
said they were not a popular shoe type. She suggested that I try the
ones that flashed red lights from the heels when you walked on them.
Filled with disappointment, I selected a sad looking men’s size ten
dress shoe that was the pick of the litter. I slipped out of my old
friends, placed them under a little stool and squeezed into the new
shoes. They fit, but they did not bring any songs of joy to my feet or
to my heart.
Apparently, the new breed of shoe buyer does not care how the shoe
looks. I spent ten minutes wandering up and down each aisle, like a
slalom stalker, searching for a foot mirror. I finally ended up checking
my reflection in an aluminum garbage container. The new shoes were no
award winners but these are obviously Spartan times for a quality shoe
buyer.
I decided to buy them and returned to the site of my old Florsheims and
stopped dead in my tracks. My old friends were gone! They had been
stolen!
I was stunned. My favorite shoes had been kidnapped and I felt violated.
I raced to the front check out desk and informed the clerk. She looked
at me as if I was suffering from dementia. Of course there was nothing
she could do and she sent me to see the manager. The fifteen year old
manager was drinking a Slurpee and watching an MTV video at the back of
the store and slurping happily as she listened to my plight. She said
there ain’t nothing she could do and she was sorry. Sluuuuuuuurp!
They were not going to get away with this travesty. I sprinted to the
front door to inspect each potential thief’s face for a sign they had
stolen my shoes. I was anticipating barring and locking the doors, with
visions of Dog Day Afternoon racing through my brain. I would find the
shoe thief or die trying. Desperate times call for desperate measures!
With my back braced against the doors and my arms spread wide to prevent
any escape, I looked like a wild man suffering from Slurpee withdrawal.
No one was going to leave!
In my manic state, my eyes lighted for a moment on the Bargain Bin,
filled with out-of-style or discontinued shoes. Sitting, like austere
Buddhas on the top of the pile, were my beloved Florsheim friends. They
had been mistakenly picked up, probably by a prepubescent sales person,
and tossed recklessly onto the flotsam of faulty footwear.
I snapped them up, put them on and walked with a smile of immense
satisfaction out of the store. My Florsheims would live to waltz and
shuffle another day, before they were retired to the wasteland of old
fashion shoes. And damned if I’d buy a pair of shoes that flashed lights
like a pimp on a stroll!
www.itblowsmymind.blogspot.com
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 Being
Cleared Of Crime Never Felt So Bad
By Burton Cole, Ohio
It would be nice to be confused with a movie star. The only time I was
the subject of mistaken identity was when I was turned in as an armed
robber.
It was back when I was a reporter working the crime and courts beat, and
I was worn out after a long, long day. I filed my last story and dragged
myself to a fast-food restaurant to vegetate with some deep-fried
vegetables and a shallow book that wouldn’t endanger the one brain cell
that remained.
Strangely, three people worked on my order, taking care to make sure
everything was just right. I grunted a weary thanks and slunk off to the
booth in the far corner. I opened my book, scrunched behind it and began
munching fries.
A couple minutes later, I noticed a patrolman walking in one door.
Instead of ordering, he leaned against the wall and glanced about as if
waiting for someone. A few paragraphs later, I looked up to see a
sheriff’s deputy at the other door doing the same thing.
Odd.
As the watchful officers ignored each other, I ignored them and went
back to reading.
Then a packet of four people strode through the first doorway. I
recognized them as police and sheriff’s detectives I knew from my daily
rounds.
I was wiped out and didn’t feel like talking shop. I slunk a little
lower in the seat and hid behind my book.
Peering over the pages, I saw the lead guy, Detective Kenny, at the
counter. The restaurant manager, without looking at me, nodded in my
direction. Kenny turned around and glowered, his hand pressed to a
leather bulk on his hip.
Reluctantly, I raised my head from the book and gave a little wave.
Kenny’s eyes popped out. Then he burst out laughing hysterically.
“That,” he gasped to the manager, “that’s just Burt.”
“Man,” he said coming back to me with the other five lawmen in tow,
“they thought you were that gunman who’s been holding up all the drug
stores in town!”
“What?”
Wiping tears from his eyes, Detective Kenny said, “Yeah, ridiculous,
isn’t it?”
“OK,” I agreed.
“You’re wearing a blue parka like in the description. And I gotta say,
you look really awful, dude!”
“It’s been a long day,” I said.
“That’s about the only things that fit. The perp has a beard. The
scraggles on your chin barely count.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“And the robber is a tough guy. Muscular. A real man.”
“Yeah, that’s ... hey, wait a minute! And what did you mean by, ‘That’s
JUST Burt’?”
“I mean, we’re not talking some wimpy marshmallow who’d cower in a
corner behind some sissy book.”
“I have half a mind to slap you silly with my notebook right now.”
“What a hoot! You. A man of danger. Sheesh! See you around, Puffy.”
“Hey, I could be dangerous,” I spluttered to their backs. “I demand to
be taken in for questioning!”
“What a goofball,” Kenny chuckled as the posse chortled their way out
the door.
The manager came over to apologize. But I was too upset to let him off
the hook.
“You were right to be concerned, sir,” I said. “I can be vicious and
vile. Yeah, that’s right, I’m bad! Oh, here, you gave me a nickel too
much change.”
And then I walked out, leaving a dirty napkin on my table. It bothered
me to do so but sometimes you just have to prove to people that you’re
not someone to be trifled with.
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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CSI
Turns Into Horror Show When Scope's On You
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I used to enjoy all those crime scene investigations
shows. Then I got scared.
"What," I quaked, "would they find if they ever went
over my place with fine-toothed rubber gloves and those funky, blue
flashlights?"
It’s not that I have anything to hide. Well, actually, I
do. And that’s the problem.
On those shows, the vital clue to locate a missing
person is found in single snippet of fiber out of place on an otherwise
clean carpet.
I’ve looked at my carpet and there’s no way they would
know WHICH out-of-place fiber contained the clue. There are too many
out-of-place fibers, newspapers, candy wrappers, socks, automotive parts
and small, third-world countries already littered about my carpet. By
the time they found the clue, I would have starved to death.
How come TV homes provide such a perfect palette for
all-important clues? Could they find the evidence in my mess? Worse,
what will they find besides evidence?
I haven’t put laundry away in months. I simply dump the
dryer into my clothesbaskets, which I leave at the foot of my bed. When
company’s coming, part of "cleaning the house" is draping a comforter
I’ve yet to put away overtop the baskets.
But CSI guys would pull away the comforter, see the
unfolded laundry beneath and call my mom, who would swear she taught me
better than that.
In some shows, investigators tell how long a person’s
been gone by the dishes in the sink.
I live alone and don’t see the need to wash a single
table serving after every meal. This could give some misleading clues:
"Well, Joe, judging by the number of pans, plates and
glasses in the sink, I’d say he had a banquet just before he went
missing. Round up all the guests and see what they know."
By the time they figure out it was just me, the bad guys
will have gone.
I’ve also learned by watching detective shows not keep
any embarrassing magazines hidden beneath the mattress. After watching
CSI shows, I scoured all the hidey-holes in my house for fear of what
might be found and displayed to my horrified family in the case of my
untimely demise:
"I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but we found
these stashed behind the dresser in your dad’s bedroom."
"Gasp! Not ‘Scrapbook Monthly.’ And ‘Health Food
Journal’? No!"
"I’m afraid it gets worse, ma’am. We found these hidden
in the back of the closet."
"What! I’ve heard whisperings but I didn’t think it was
true. But here’s the evidence. Dad really DID wear traffic-light green
bell bottoms in high school! And he kept them!"
"But these are nice looking zebras and giraffes on this
polyester shirt your father stashed beneath the white shoes under the
bed sheets."
"Aurgh! If he weren’t already gone, I’d disown him!
Please, lieutenant, you must clear his name. No, wait, clear mine!"
In case something happens to me, I’d like to say right
now, I have no idea who broke into my house and sneaked those Yanni
albums into my collection.
http://www.tribune-chronicle.com
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She's
OK, But...
By Burton Cole, Ohio
You know it’s not going to be a good phone call when the
first words you hear -- even before "hello" -- are, "Your daughter is
OK, but..."
Ah, the joys of parenthood!
In the 0.8 seconds it took for the word after "but" to
be uttered, Dear Ol’ Dad’s mind already had rounded up a bundle of
possibilities and was casting about for more.
Auto accident? No, I got that call two years ago. She
prefers variety with her excitement.
She fell at the Radio Shack she manages and was attacked
by the Robo Dog? No, that was a Christmas product. I think she sold out
of those.
Elephants escaped from the zoo and ran through her
living room? Martians invaded and she was all out of the Cheez-its they
demanded for her ransom?
Oh, no! Did Hillary and Barack showed up on her doorstep
and engage in fisticuffs when she said, "Who? No, we have enough
cookies."
Before I could drift from the realm of logic into some
really weird possibilities, the caller finished the sentence.
"… there’s a standoff at her apartment complex. It’s not
her building. But police have the whole complex sealed off and she and
everyone else are locked down."
OK, I didn’t see that one coming.
The other thing I hadn’t anticipated was that no matter
how old both you and they get, you always want to hear "Hello" as the
first word when you answer the phone. When the caller greets me with,
"Now, there’s no need to panic, but …," panic is the first thing I do.
Twenty-one years ago, the words following "but" were, "…
your daughter rolled off the bed and hit the carpet. She’s fine. She
thought it was funny. I’m a wreck!"
After ascertaining Melissa really was OK, I felt a great
sense of relief – because the baby rolled off the bed on her mom’s
watch, not mine! Imagine the grief a dad would be in from a mom if he’d
let the baby get away with diving lessons, giggling or not.
From there, we moved up to stomachaches, scraped knees,
front teeth, twisted ankles and the like. Whatever it was, I always
imagined worse before we rounded the corner after "but."
When Melissa moved 530 miles away to Virginia Beach, the
calls were harder because I couldn’t be right there. Also, she was
advancing beyond tripping over the dog in the living room.
"Your daughter’s OK but…"
Uh-oh.
"… she was just in a car accident. She and Joanie
thought they’d zip to Starbucks during class change at high school and
someone hit them."
And now we’ve come to this. Her mom – also unable to be
right there but at least in the same city – telling me, "There was a
shooting but it was in another building, a block and a half away in her
complex. But no one’s getting in and no one’s going out. The police have
it surrounded."
Next call: "YOUR daughter and her friends said they were
getting hungry while in lockdown, so the sneaked away to the 7-Eleven
for some food, then, after they were away from the danger, sneaked BACK
into the complex!"
About that fall off the bed 21 years ago…
When it was over and I had her on the phone, she merely
laughed and said, "He was after someone else, not me, so I wasn’t
worried. Can we hang up so I can go back to sleep now?"
My daughter’s OK but … her parents are nervous wrecks.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Dressed
To Kill
By Jennifer Graham, Ohio
When our phone rang last Wednesday night at 10:30, I felt the bottom
drop out of my stomach, a kind of Pavlovian response to the bell. After
all, when someone calls at that late hour, I pretty much assume there's
been a death in the family.
Thankfully, it wasn't a death, at least not the death of a person. No,
what had expired was the idea that my 16 year old daughter would have an
escort to her Homecoming, a mere two days away.
The date, let's call him Dick, cancelled out, his excuse being something
along the lines of, "My new girlfriend doesn't want me to go...I am a
spineless wimp...sorry I didn't call earlier, like a month ago, and I am
an idiot...OK, bye..." Whatever words he chose are not the point. He
left my daughter crushed, not to mention, high and dry for Homecoming
night. She went to bed crying, her gown hanging off the closet door,
still anticipating the big night.
This announcement did not go over well with the parental units. The time
and money already rendered toward the special event was one thing. But,
hurting my child...Let's just say that's a whole 'nother type of psychic
secretion Pavlov never witnessed.
We considered driving to the boy's house to beat his face to a bloody
pulp, but frankly, he wasn't worth the price of the gasoline. We opted,
instead, to create a poster, his face encircled with a big red line
through it, a "Just Say No To Losers," advertisement that was promptly
displayed on the outside of the bedroom door. Immature? Defintely.
Therapeutic? You betcha. My daughter loved it when I showed it to her.
My husband was beside himself with anger, running around the house in
his underwear yelling, "I'm going to hunt that boy down and make him
wear her dress!" I didn't find that extremely helpful, but we all deal
with things in our own special way. Imagine the headline: "Dressed to
Kill: Fuschia Forced on Deadbeat Date."
With just 48 hours to the Homecoming celebration, the only viable option
was to turn the matter over to the Sisterhood. The Sisterhood is a
conglomerate of smart and colorful women, women of courage armed with
attitude and cell phones. They are rather like the Mafia in high heels
and underwire. They serve to protect the weak, to aid the ally, to
console the comrade. They are women of action, prepared for estrogen
related crises at all times.
The sisters came through within 12 hours, their task accomplished
largely through the efforts of Ellen, our Consigliere of Romance. Ellen
reminds me of Roma Downey in the old T.V. series "Touched By An Angel."
A soldier of the Lord, she will take you by the hands, look you square
in the eye and say things like, "Jesus cares about things like
Homecoming too." Honestly, she could bring you to tears and increase
your faith threefold in one fatal swoop. You want Ellen on your side.
Thursday night our phone rang again. It wasn't Dick; it was Bobby. He
asked if he might have the PRIVILEGE of escorting my daughter to her
Homecoming. Big points for Bobby, at least 100.
Bobby showed up Saturday night in a crisp gray suit. 50 points. He
presented my daughter with an expansive bouquet of flowers. 75 points.
He inquired about my husband's livelihood. 20 points. He opened doors
and pulled out chairs, add 60 more. They had the time of their lives.
120 points. He brought my daughter home safely (1000 points), and asked
her to his Homecoming in two weeks (300 points).
Final score: Dick: -25,575 Bobby: Bobby: +1,725
http://jpgraham.typepad.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Hair-Raising
Thoughts
By Jennifer Graham, Ohio
I love my esthetician.
I love just saying the word "esthetician."
Es-tha-tish-an. Pretty, isn't it? Mysterious, maybe even dangerous.
You can have a vocabulary of 200 words or less, but throw a word around
like "esthetician," and people are impressed. Try it out with your
pastor or your mailman, anytime a casual conversation arises.
"Hello, Rev. Brown. I'm just on my way to have all unwanted body hair
painfully removed by my esthetician! Have a great day!"
It's one thing to know what an esthetician is, another to say it
correctly. It often brings to mind for me, the word "anesthetist."
My husband is a nurse anesthetist, another tongue teaser that baffles
the great majority. I have been asked approximately 3056 times what an
anesthetist is and how it differs from an anesthesiologist. How often
I've attempted to set the record straight on this eighth world wonder.
"An anesthetist is a nurse who has an advanced degree in anesthesia. An
anesthesiologist is a medical doctor who specializes in anesthesia."
People remain confused.
After years of patient description, I have minimized my answer to, "He
gets paid for passing gas."
Somehow it works.
Oddly enough, about 75% of those who want to know what an anesthetist is
also want to master the pronunciation of the word itself. I find this
exercise particularly tortuous, watching the tongue reach up and out to
meet the teeth, over and over again.
"So, he's an a-neth-a-tist?" (Giggle, giggle, tee, how silly I sound).
"A-NES-the-tist," I repeat.
"Oh! A-NETH-a-tist."
"You got it." (Elmer Fudd would be proud).
But this essay isn't about my husband, it's about my esthetician. (That
isn't to say it wouldn't be helpful to have the benefit of anesthesia
when you utilize an esthetician).
My esthetician Rebecca is a depilatory goddess. She not only removes
unwanted body hair; she makes you darn proud that you even bothered to
grow it in the first place. Now THAT is a gift.
Bless her heart, Rebecca will hot wax and rip from the depths of your
pores, any hair, anywhere. She does it with gusto and pride, the kind of
overabundant vitality a dog exhibits when he attacks a groundhog.
I became acquainted with Rebecca after whispering to my beautician that
I might want to consider doing something about my ...ah...estrogen
related outcropping just below my nose.
"Oh! You want a lip wax!"
I was mortified. I had no idea I had hair on my lips!
But, it wasn't long before I caught onto the lingo; mustache=lip,
beard=sides of face, etc. Kind words to cover the shaggy truth. You got
a body part, they have a price. A lip wax will run you $8.50, a
Brazilian $25.50, a full leg $50.50.
In some ways this seems almost cruel. What if you're on a budget? Lose
the beard, keep the mustache? Do one leg and not the other?
The most confusing option is "Half arm, elbow down." I wonder who wants
that.
"Wax from the elbow down, honey, but make sure to leave it long and
thick on top."
If finances were an issue, I would go for one entire bare arm, and throw
a wrap over the other. Or take a seasonal approach, wooly in the winter,
smooth in the summer.
On the plus side, this segregation of hair makes gift giving a breeze.
I'm thinking about Mother's Day here. You know, it's right around the
corner. Try giving your mom a gift certificate for a whisker-ectomy. She
might love it.
My brothers and I are considering a consolidation of funds to cover the
cost of lip, brow, and one armpit for Mom.
It's a start. And, you gotta admit, it's a personalized and thoughtful
gift.
http://jpgraham.typepad.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
Great American Nap—How to Take It
By Joel Habush, Wisconsin
Why Great American? Because we
Americans have taken something people the world over indulge in, in some
form or another, and elevated it to an art form. While south of the
(so-called) border, some countries have institutionalized the siesta,
and while the English nod off in overstuffed chairs, and those in
drinking countries fall into stupors, let it be known if there is ever
an international competition, you can bet that the USA takes a back seat
to no one, and will not be caught, er...napping.
I have incorporated tips from renowned nappers into my own personal
experiences, and have come up with the following facts, some or which
are helpful and some of which are totally worthless. You’ll have to
figure out which are which...and then tell me.
First of all, the only nap that really counts is the Saturday Afternoon
Nap (SAN); the Sunday afternoon nap is a gimme, even people who don’t
normally nap, fall into a semi-coma on Sunday afternoons (unless it
happens to be football season), and if you’re napping during the week,
what the hell is wrong with you?--get back to work.
Now, the SAN seems to be a preponderantly male activity, or lack
thereof. But there are women who can tackle the nap with all the zest
and gusto that a man employs when about to embark on one. These are the
same women who don’t wait around indefinitely for someone to buy them a
drink, and indeed, who have been known to step up to the plate and buy a
round themselves. And they never feign not knowing how much to tip. One
of those women that you’d be darned lucky to marry. Now even if they
don’t often take a nap, these perfect women will indulge you in yours,
just pausing in the midst of their Saturday afternoon bustling around to
see you spread out on the couch, your mouth agape, emitting sounds not
from this Earth. She will smile fondly and then go back to whatever the
hell she does.
As for nap equipment, usually all you need is your favorite chair,
recliner, or couch (I cleverly refer to my own couch with its
accomodatingly sinking cushions as “Napa Valley.”
Some purists say that you are, under no circumstances, to go into your
bedroom and take off your clothes and get under the covers. That’s
called “sleeping.”
Some also people say that having the TV on with the volume turned down
appropriately is conducive to a satisfying nap. (I think most of the
newer remotes have a “drone“ button right above the “mute” button.)
Make sure you don’t have anything on the tube that would catch your
interest, thereby cheating you out of your, I’m sure, well-deserved,
nap.
I recommend a rousing golf tournament, amateur, if possible, so you
don’t keep straining to catch a glimpse of Tiger Woods. Trust me, if
he’s in a tournament, he’ll be shown within 20 sections of your tuning
in.
A nice baseball game has its own rhythm to it, one that can send you off
serenely.
If you can get a soccer game on, preferably with the commentary in a
foreign language, you have hit paydirt!
A couple more minor points to cover, and then I’ll let you get back to
your nap.
• COMPANY
If you have a favorite warm furry pet that is also allowed on the couch
(that restriction is treated with total contempt by cats), by all means
whistle him or her aboard.
Now, even if your wife is a good napper in her own right, never attempt
to nap with her. That could lead to other things, and...what am I, nuts?
You invite her to get right there beside you.
•Timing
Remember, we’re talking about the Saturday AFTERNOON nap. If you’re
napping in the morning, you’re over 80, and I’ve got nothing new to
teach you. Also, don’t get started on that nap too late. If you start it
at 5 and then you start stirring at 6ish-7ish, well, you’re done for the
night. Just get up, yawn, go brush your teeth and go to bed, yes,
without supper.
I’d advise you to start the nap somewhere between 2 and 3--if you’re
napping at 3, by the time you get up it’ll be too late to do any of that
yardwork you lied through your teeth about doing.
Finally...(Oh look, they’ve all drifted off.)
www.joelhabush.com
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Words
I Learned In High School
By Wendy Hand Tatum, Alabama
Like many children of the seventies
and eighties, I watched a lot, A LOT, of television. Way too often, TV
beat out any kind of reading, fort-building or dress-up. The daytime
reruns were my familiar playmates. I could smack my Charlie Chips, slurp
my Shasta and burp in front of them. The primetime shows were my older
role models. They were like babysitters who wore too much make-up and
had boobies.
But the late night sketch TV shows were my
idols. Theses were the cronies my parents didn’t approve of—making them
all the more exotic and alluring. At a very young age, I was sneaking
out of bed to watch The Carol Burnett Show with my ear pressed against
the TV speaker. In junior high, it was Saturday Night Live I cohorted
with on the weekends.
By the time I got my driver’s license, a boyfriend, and, coincidentally,
boobies, SNL was reduced to an anti-depressant on nights I was grounded.
(Carol didn’t make the cut.) One particular Saturday night while on
restriction, I watched a skit of the Church Lady while I talked on the
phone. A wigged Dana Carvey in support hose was chastising a guest about
something, I don’t remember what. And while I was quite good at
memorizing entire skits word-for-word (I was grounded quite a bit), the
only thing I took away from this particular one was a single word.
“Well, then,” the Church Lady said, “I suppose that leaves you plenty of
time to fornicate.” I didn’t catch exactly what they were
discussing, but what a totally awesome new word. FORNICATE. It was
unusual and had a kick to it. It sounded smart, yet it was easy to
pronounce. I instantly downloaded it to memory—all the while assuming it
meant to goof-off. I don’t have no idea why, I just did.
The next Monday afternoon, I was manning my post in the Vice Principal’s
Office where I was an aid during sixth period. A woman and her daughter
walked in. The mother leaned over and signed in her daughter on the
sheet, writing Dentist Appt. in the rectangle titled Reason. “What class
are you headed to?” I asked reaching in my drawer for my powerful yellow
check-in pass pad.
“Mrs. Thomas’ geometry,” the girl answered.
Sophomore. I thought. How cute. I started to write out the pass, while
the girl and her mother stood waiting. I looked at the clock and smiled.
“I’ll write it for five extra minutes.” And then I said it. “That’ll
give you plenty of time to FORN-I-CATE.” With this, I proudly slid the
slip across the desk to the girl. I kept my head lowered while doing so
to give the two a moment to absorb my eloquence and me time to conceal
my gloat. But when I looked up, the ultra-impressed expression I’d
expected to see on the mother’s face was instead one of utter shock and
horror. She clapped her hands down onto her child’s shoulder, spun her
ninety degrees and shoved her out the door in one swift movement.
“That was weird,” I whispered to myself. “She’s never heard that word, I
guess. But what a rude reaction. Huh.”
After the bell rang and I headed for my seventh period English class, it
hit me. What if this lovely new word meant something else besides
goofing-off? My pace quickened in time with my heart rate. I made it to
Ms. Swindle’s class in seconds flat, skipping my locker stop. I
collapsed to my knees in front of the bookcase where she kept the
dictionaries. Fornicate. Fornicate. I ran my finger down the
Foible-to-Fox page until it stopped at the word. Fornicate-v: to commit
fornication. Not helping! Down a line more. Fornication-n: 1. To consort
with prostitutes. 2. Sex acts performed when unmarried.
The word I shouted out at that moment (one I’d heard on HBO that,
ironically, carried a very similar meaning) got me sent right back down
to the Vice Principal’s Office — knowing that this time I would not be
earning an elective.
http://www.wendytatum.com
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School's
Out, Fun's In
By David Jenkins, Montana
The day began like any other day. The
morning sun filtered through the kitchen window as I shuffled my way
toward that first cup of coffee. The cat rubbed against my leg while she
begged for her breakfast, the same way she does every morning. As I
poured my coffee, my free hand instinctively slid down the back of my
pajamas and began its involuntary sunrise scratching ritual.
But before I could take a sip, something tingled my
senses. I couldn't quite place it, but I was fairly certain it wasn't
good. I froze, coffee cup suspended inches from my lips, as I surveyed
my surroundings. Something was definitely different today.
And then I smelled it. I wasn't sure exactly where it
was, but I knew it was close. The unmistakable smell of teenagers.
I set my coffee on the counter and raced down the hall,
stopping when I reached a point where the odor became suffocating –
directly in front of my son's room. Taking one last long breath, I
buried my face in my sleeve and opened the door. On the bed, I saw my
son's lifeless - but certainly not odorless - body poking out amidst a
toxic pile of clothes and blankets. I immediately checked on the other
side of the hall and was treated to a similar scene in my daughter's
room. But why? Why weren't they in school?
And then it all came flooding back to me in a torrent of
tears. This wasn't a nightmare ripped from the merciless bowels of hell
itself. No, this was very real indeed - The First Day Of Summer
Vacation.
Okay, honestly? While this can be a national day of
mourning for some parents, I'm not one of them. At least not for a week
or so. After having them around for fifteen years or so, I kind of like
my kids and plan on keeping them for at least a little while longer.
Summers are a chance to get reacquainted, something every teen looks
forward to all school year long!
Sure, food and toilet paper will be scarce until next
fall, but that’s a small price to pay. I’ll admit, summers aren’t quite
as fun now that they’ve grown up to be angry teenagers who know
everything, but I still like having them around. My youngest son will do
his best to be on the computer twenty-seven hours a day while his twin
sister will whine and gripe about how this is ‘the most boring summer
ever’, but I still like having them around. For a week or so anyway.
One of the great things about the end of the school year
is the yearbook – the best part being all the strange and entertaining
messages their friends have scribbled throughout its pages. Now that my
kids are in high school, the autographed material is much better.
In middle school everyone wrote the same thing. "Have a
great summer. Call me." But in high school it gets good, complete with
lots of colorful language and interesting clues about possible crimes
your child may have been involved in.
"Hey, dude! This was a #%$@% awesome year! Math class
sucked, but at least we got back at that $#^%&$*# Mr. Hanson. Good thing
he's an idiot and will never figure out what happened to his #$^@*# car!
Man, that was sweet! Still don’t know how you got that fire going before
it sank. Let’s hang out this summer, dude!"
You get quite a mix of signatures, too.
From the redneck: "Hey, buddy! Let’s get together and
kill something this summer."
From the hippie: "Just ‘Be’, man. Just ‘Be’."
From the sappy buddy: "I love you, man! You are without
a doubt the best bud a guy could ever have! You move me, man! You are my
brother, my rock! Buddies for life, okay?"
From the sappy girl: "OMG! We actually made it, didn’t
we?!?!? You have become, like, my best friend in the whole universe!!! I
don’t know how I could have faced each day without seeing you in the
halls those four seconds every morning to pull me through! I discovered
who I really am this year, and I totally have you to thank!!! Even
though I only saw you for, like, four seconds every morning, and never
said anything more than ‘Hi’, I will always remember your guiding
presence in my four years here in this totally awesome home away from
home! I don’t know how I can possibly go on now that school is over
FOREVER!!!!!! Always know that you hold a totally special place in my
heart and that I’ll totally name my son after you one day. By the way,
what is your name?"
From the goth: "Well, we made it through this hell. I
hope you don’t die this summer, but if you do, I hope it’s as
pleasurable as mine will be. Call me."
Most kids won't let you anywhere near their yearbook. If
that's the case, just tell them you'll all be spending the summer
getting reacquainted if they don't hand it over. That usually does the
trick.
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Home
Remedy Makes One Hot Mama
By Lesley Marijke McCandless
By my own admission, I am a dabbler
in life, filled with pseudo expertise, while totally lacking common
sense. In college, I changed my major eleven times, until it dawned on
me that honor grades alone would not produce a diploma. Now, as a
married woman, raising kids and operating my own business, I still
dilly-dally, vacillating from meditation to mediation to legal research
to alternative health. The result is, I often know a little about a lot,
which sometimes gets me into trouble.
On the fated day, I talked to gynecologists, herb
specialists, even Harborview Burn Center, all of whom admitted they had
never faced such a problem. "You did what?!!" "Oh you poor thing," they
all whispered under their breath, while trying desperately not to say
"how could you do something so stupid!" But there I was in excruciating,
yes, worse than child-bearing, pain. What had I done? It was simple
enough. I tried to treat a vaginal yeast infection, by a rather
non-traditional method.
I had taken a class a few years back, you see, called
"Herbs for the Immune System." The teacher, I recalled, had espoused the
marvelous benefits of a product called grapefruit seed extract. "Would
kill anything," he said, including, you guessed it, yeast infections. We
happened to have some of this marvelous product in the house. (It really
does tame a sore throat if you gargle with a few drops diluted in
water—tastes like soap and makes you gag, but it works.)
Anyway, I failed to read over my notes, which would have
reminded me to use the product in a suppository form. I also failed to
read the warning label on the bottle: "Avoid contact with eyes or skin
at 100% full strength. Use sparingly due to extreme potency. Do not
exceed three drops per usage." Instead, I relied on my own expertise and
inserted two droppers of the stuff. That ought to kill it, I thought.
After a while, I felt some tingling down below. Great, I
thought, it’s working. But it wasn’t long afterwards, the tingling
increased in intensity. Soon I was in screaming agony. Nothing I did
stopped the burning. It started to blister. I bathed in baking soda,
douched with Acidophilus, applied ice. My husband and I huddled on the
couch trying not to think of our future nights together.
After all known home remedies to stop the burning
failed, my husband took me to Virginia Mason Emergency.
"What’s the problem, honey?" the receptionist asked
sweetly as my husband wheeled me to the front desk.
"I think I burned myself."
"Okay. What happened?"
"Well, it was, um, from an herbal product," I flushed,
trying to avoid telling her the whole truth.
"An herbal product? And, where is the burn?" she asked
peering over the counter curiously.
I gave up and told her the whole story. She listened
intently, trying not to react, but I noticed she crossed her legs and
wouldn’t look me in the eye after that.
Several other hospital staff members somehow found
reason to come check on me. I figured I was the latest coffee break
story and they were all trying to get the facts straight. I remember one
no nonsense nurse who came in to jot down a host of miscellaneous
information. She hadn’t been briefed yet.
"Have you had any medication today, deary," she asked
taking notes.
"I’ve had two Percocets and a Tylenol with codeine," I
slurred.
"Now, why have you had so much pain medication?" she
challenged, mistaking me for a druggy.
"Because I burned my vagina," I said, by now enjoying
the shock value and her momentary lack of composure.
She gave a little "oh-my-poor-dear" gasp and hurried out
of the room.
Eventually, a female doctor examined me and deduced in
hushed tones and a sympathetic voice that I had suffered second degree
burns. She prescribed a soothing ointment and more pain pills, but
explained the best help would be time.
Whether this incident has curbed my dabbling streak, I
can’t be sure. I am happy to report, however, that vaginal tissue has a
remarkable ability to heal itself. My only remaining scar is a bruised
ego and my mother’s words haunting me: "How can you be so smart and so
dumb . . ?" which reminds me of the time when I was seven and tried to
see if electric scissors, famed for being able to cut anything, would
cut my tongue .. but that’s another story .. .
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Clean
Genes
By Joan McKinley, Indiana
If cleaning house were a matter of life or death
my husband would be comatose and my children with foster parents while I
wrote my plea for forgiveness in the piano’s dust. If cleanliness is
next to Godliness, I know where I’m going in a handbasket.
I am convinced that
“genetics” is the only possible explanation for women being able to keep
their house looking like a commercial for HGTV. They have been encoded
with the “clean” gene from birth. People born with the “I’d rather read
a book, go hiking or have a root canal” gene are cursed with dust balls
and guilt.
The times I have lifted a mop and slaved away to clean the drops from a
month of menus, I am allowed only a moment of satisfaction. Once the
floor is dry and the instruments of torture removed, I look down to see
someone has christened the clean floor with pop droppings from the
refrigerator to the sink then allowed the mess to clone freely in
another direction. I see that my efforts are futile, and all motivation
to keep a clean house recedes into my Godless recessive clean gene. The
dishes and dust collect, the sweeper is in clean-saver mode and the
kitchen floor begins to look like something Jackson Pollock would love.
It is when my house looks at its worst that a neighbor has to use the
phone. What I wouldn’t give to be Samantha. With a twitch and a snap the
mess would be gone. I pray the neighbor has blinders and seeks only to
find my phone. I pray they see my mess as a poignant backdrop for their
misery. I pray they have the same recessive gene.
Once they depart, I become consumed by guilt over the state of the
household. I begin the thankless job of cleaning, mopping and wishing
that JUST ONCE these efforts would be appreciated by a neighbor in
need-preferably one who has slipped on a floor only rodents could love.
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Christmas
at Contessa's
By Danielle Schaaf, Texas
The television was tuned into a rerun of the The Waltons, that
fantasy show where a passel of kids lived happily ever after on a
mountain during the Great Depression. They roomed five-to-a-bedroom in a
house with their parents and grandparents, adding spouses, their own
kids, a couple of stray dogs, an occasional vagrant and the neighbor’s
still as the series wore on.
One of the older boys, Ben, had just brought home his
new bride. The couple oohed and aahed over the bounty family members
showered upon them. There was a jar of honey from Mary-Ellen,
handcrafted needlework from grandma, and a matching tub and toilet from
Jim-Bob. Jim-Bob must’ve tired of standing in the line at the outhouse.
Wet-eyed wifey sobbed that the best part to receiving
all those gifts was that they came from the heart. That could’ve been a
scene right out of Christmas at Contessa’s. Yeah, right. A tub AND a
toilet when The Big Guy’s got enough duct tape to reconstruct a house?
Don’t misunderstand. The Big Guy has lavished many
spectacular gifts on the Contessa, including designer perfume and fine
jewelry. But, for every diamond necklace, there’s been a household
labor-saving device. One Christmas morning several years ago, The Big
Guy directed me to an oversized package that looked an awful lot like a
gift-wrapped vacuum cleaner. Nothing spreads holiday cheer quite like an
Oreck sucking up dead Christmas tree needles.
Another year, any hopes I had for a laptop were dashed
when The Big Guy handed me a huge present and told me to open it first.
Any gift pushed to the front of the line was either alive or needed to
be used right away. There were no pets that year but The Big Guy ate
pancakes hot off a new griddle.
Gotta hand it to The Big Guy when it comes to buying me
clothes. He must still think I'm the 27-year-old 100-pound slip of a
girl he married. One year he brought home a matching sweatshirt and
sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret. They're modern-day lounging pajamas -
I don't think anyone would wear them in public. Naturally, they came
with the store’s signature plunging neckline but everything else was
standard - fleece, hooded, warm and cozy.
Almost everything. It was hot pink. Middle-of-a-steak
pink. Blush on Pinot & Grigio’s-cheeks pink when they caught sight of me
in leather pants a few pounds, er, years, ago. Breaking up that sea of
pink was a silver-studded backside, spelling out P-I-N-K. I guess that’s
for the benefit of color-blind people. At least it wasn’t in Braille.
Worse yet, a studded dog design graced the upper-left chest, like some
sort of logo. Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated! I looked
like a groupie at a Laverne & Shirley convention.
This year, I thought I’d make it easy for The Big Guy.
"You can get me an iPhone," I suggested.
"Why do you need that? You’ve got a phone. You punch in
a number, it dials, it rings, you talk. And you can get calls, too," he
explained while cleaning his $700 set of golf clubs. "That’s all you
need."
"Oh, I get it. It’s just like those $79.99 clubs at
Sears. You hold a club, you swing it, you hit the ball and the ball
moves forward. After seven or eight whacks, a trip through the woods and
time spent wading in the pond, your ball ends up in the hole.
"That’s all you need."
There’s a gift under the tree with my name on it that’s
just about the size of an iPhone. Or a muzzle.
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