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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April/
May 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
From Parietal
to Plumper
By Mary Tompsett, Wisconsin
Woohooo! My sweaty fist holds a $600 tax rebate, thanks to (a) Uncle
Sam; (b) countries who passed the basket to lend us the moolah; and (c)
the kids who’ll inherit the debt. How lucky that I don’t need my rebate
for the mortgage or groceries, and can GO SHOPPING!
I could “green” the house for energy efficiency. Or upgrade my old
ten-speed with a Boomer-friendly model, and bike to work. Think:
Tricycle with padded tractor seat and “Born to be Wild” mudflaps.
Sensible, yet classy.
Sadly, I’m neither sensible nor classy, and I secretly want plastic
surgery. But so do millions of Americans! Okay, maybe not millions, but
a few shallow and insecure types like myself. What to get… Liposuction?
Collagen injections? Implants? Perhaps, a dimple transplant, harvested
from acreage on the lower back forty and sewn to one side of my
smile—masking a chronic facial tic.
Bye-bye, silicone! Doctors can now remove a patient’s cerebellum, divide
it in half and transplant the tissue to the upper chest area. So, fellow
cowgirls, y’all mosey on in for a Brain Allocation and Resection for
Buxom Infusion and Enhancement, or BARBIE. And guys, beef up your pecs
without exercise! Ask for a Kryptonite Enlargement for Nerds. That’s
right, the KEN.
Why the cerebellum? Turns out, it’s the portion of the female brain that
stores batting averages of all MLB players. And in males, the cerebellum
houses neurons that map the complexities of changing a roll of toilet
paper. Thus, our unused gray matter is an ideal donor site for achieving
the coveted looks of BARBIE and KEN.
Surgeons can also mine the brain’s parietal lobes and implant the tissue
in our lips. This exciting technique is known as the Glamour Upgrade for
Perpetual Pout in the Epidermis, or GUPPIE. To the modern woman,
“plumpers” aren’t just a brand of hotdogs – they’re the sexy “bee sting”
lips made popular by Angelina Jolie and Donald Duck.
Anyone besides me thinking of transgender surgery? There’s still time
before the big family reunion next month. You realize, heh heh, what a
hoot this will be.
On the other hand, postponing the gender adventure for a while may save
us a dime or two. For, in the realm of hormones and aging, Mother Nature
can be whimsically passive-aggressive, giving goatees to gals and
breasts to men—absolutely free! It’s The Crying Game, seniors’ version.
I previewed my own dismal fate while watching my grandmother age.
Famine, flood, and pestilence? Lo! I fear them not! But the coarse black
hairs sprouting from grannie’s chin, ears and out the top of her nose…?
FREAKED! ME! OUT! If her genes prevail, my golden years will be golden
retriever years. Dang, I really ought to invest in a decent pair of
tweezers.
So how much plastic surgery will $600 buy? Hopefully, enough to halt my
skin’s relentless sag toward the profile of a giant flying squirrel.
Yesterday I consulted a doctor handing out snacks in the produce aisle.
He was a strapping young lad in a white smock with MOOSE embroidered on
the pocket. An odd name for a surgeon. And he stood by a sign, “Mayo for
Sale.” Mayo?? Never knew the clinic was having problems. Anyway, I
arranged for Dr. Moose to Bissell my buttals and Hoover my hippers.
Don’t worry, I made him promise to use the crevice attachment in the
corners.
But, alas, $600 will only buy a nose freckle dermabrasion with a floor
sander. So, I’m calling my Avon lady.
You know the crescent cleavage shadows airbrushed onto photos of busty
babes? Well, I want those. Not bigger breasts, but the brown crescents
drawn between them. Oh, and a slimming vertical stripe down the outside
of each leg. I’ll look so mega hot. From a distance. Thank goodness, my
Avon rep gives discounts on body paint in bulk quantities.
With $600 to blow, I’m thinking 12-gallon drums.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Fee-quent
Flying
By Joel
Schwartzberg, New Jersey
In June, American Airlines began charging passengers $15 for the
first checked bag on domestic flights.
AA (which should stand for Antagonistic Airways) already has an unhappy
face in my book for their meals-for-money policy. It's bad enough that
they make you pay for food on a cross-country flight, but to make you
pay exorbitant prices for the same nuke-in-bag chicken sandwich you used
to get for free?
You might think it couldn't get any worse, but using my Law &
Order-taught investigative skills I've uncovered some yet-unannounced
charges and penalties coming soon to an unlocked tray table near you:
1) Penalty for not keeping your seat in a full, upright position when
asked: $5-per-incident.
(Seats that are found upright, but not full: $3 penalty)
2) Charges for use of front seat pouch items:
• Boring magazine: $7
• Interesting magazine: $10
• Emergency evacuation manual: $3
• Previous passenger's unfinished food items: $1.50
• Barf bag: $2
(Can be applied toward $10 barfing fee)
• Sky Mall: $5
(Can be a applied toward the purchase of a genuine replica Harry Potter
wand or ceramic backyard critter)
3) Seat Reclining Fees: $1 per inch
4) Pilot Humor Tax: $5 flat fee
5) Footwear Removal Fee: $10 per shoe
($5 no-sock penalty)
6) Flight Attendant "Emergency Exits" Performance Gesture Fee: $2
7) Overhead Storage Fee: $5-$15, depending on how much your item
"settled during flight."
8) Premium Service Add-ons:
• Ice: $2
• Full can of soda: $5
• Napkin: $2
• Pillow/blanket: $10 each
• Waking you up: $1
• Not waking you up: $5
• Smile: $2.50 per incident
9) Offspring Volume Penalty: $1 per decibel
10) Headphone Fees*:
• Rental fee: $5
• Adjustment fee: $2
• Activation fee: $2
• Excessive cerumen fee: $2
*All prices per ear.
11) Bathroom Fee: $2 per minute after the first minute
(No-flush penalty: $5)
12) Call-Button Fee: $1-$25, depending on level of request idiocy
(Maximum $25 fee for still not knowing how your seatbelt works)
13) Hijacking Fee: $1000 per passenger
14) "Divine Copilot Fee" for coincidental presence of clergy on flight:
$25
(Atheist discount: $5)
http://www.jesttokill.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Only
If You Can't Get Anyone Else
By
E. Mitchell,
Illinois
I am an unsuccessful slacker. I waste tremendous amounts of energy in
futile attempts to do nothing. At any meeting I’m always the one in the
back row with my head down, pretending to search for a pen while I’m
really planning to make a mad dash for the nearest exit before they can
ask for volunteers.
With all the effort I put into NOT volunteering you’d think I’d be a
little more successful at it. So how did I end up being a Scout Leader,
Kindergym Teacher, Great Books Instructor, Field Trip Chaperone, Party
Planner, Skate Night Supervisor, Muffin Maker, Cookie Baker, Halloween
Mummy Wrapper, Gingerbread House Builder, Food Drive Collector,
Christmas Stocking Stuffer, Easter Basket Stuffer, Basket Basket
Stuffer? (And those are just the glamour jobs.)
The first step on the road to involuntary volunteerism was simply
joining the PTA. I paid my dues. And then I really paid my dues.
The phone call came faster than the canceled check. “Would you be
willing to volunteer for a few activities?”
I heard myself uttering the catchphrase that would change my life: “Only
if you can’t get anyone else.”
After a chuckle that translated into ‘nice try’ the voice said dryly,
“We can’t get anyone else, that’s why we’re calling you.”
You mean I’m not the biggest slacker? I thought, with pride (I’m an
underachiever). Hook in place, they reeled me in as I asked naively,
“What do you need?”
They needed plenty and they’ve been getting it ever since.
The highlight from my volunteer blooper reel (aside from almost being
locked in a walk-in freezer, Lucy Ricardo style) was the eleventh hour
construction of not one, but two International Fair Booths at a school
my children no longer attended! The kicker of that extravaganza was
having a mother whose child DID attend the school but who DIDN’T
volunteer, critiquing my booths while giving me pointers on how I could
improve the presentation. Thanks for the tips, sister, but where’s YOUR
booth?!
After years of working like a happy mule, I’ve come to the conclusion
it’s probably much less dangerous to actually volunteer for something up
front. My advice to aspiring slackers: offer to donate paper plates and
then follow up with a typo in your phone number.
Recently, despite wearing dark glasses and running serpentine through
parking lots, I was (tackled) approached by some acquaintances trying to
launch a writing group to meet weekly and brainstorm ideas.
“I don’t have any ideas,” I pleaded when cornered. “Forget about
writing, I couldn’t even come up with a title.”
“But we need more people,” they begged. “Please, won’t you join us?”
And then I heard myself saying it: “Only if you can’t get anyone else.”
Needless to say I’m currently involuntary chairman of that group, but at
least the lousy catch-phrase finally ended up being useful for
something.
www.emitchellhumor.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Disconnected
By Linda R. Cook, Oregon
Years of living in an all male household can take a toll on a mom.
In the early years, you get through the belch battles, food fights, the
peeing contests, and protect the ants phase. You come up with your own
tricks to blend in and survive it all.
And in my efforts to bond with the boys, I learned to shoot a few hoops,
boot a soccer ball, and shag baseballs. I got really good at coaching
from the Little League stands until my husband not so nicely reminded me
that I was not the coach. I even got the hang of baiting my own fish
hook without hurling. Just because I pierced my hubby’s ear a time or
two with an out of control cast was no reason for them to sneak off
fishing without me.
I even survived my tour of duty with driving lessons. No police chases
or heart attacks. Though I did need blood pressure meds after they
became licensed drivers. And when the boys started dating? I was
thrilled to have a girl in the mix. When things didn’t work out, I only
cried a little after they told me, “Get over her, Mom.”
But this? I don’t see bonding in our future.
I admit it. I’m “technically challenged,” as my guys have graciously
dubbed me. So what if I have a little trouble with the digital camera or
am clueless about programming the VCR or operating the universal remote.
Who needs an ATM card? Sheesh, I mastered writing a check long ago. I’ve
gotten by.
I’m not sure about this though.
Husband and sons have invaded my writing space. My computer, at least I
think that’s what it is, is in pieces. The three of them surround my
desk like a pit crew at the Daytona 500.
“Man, this thing must have moved like a slug,” says Son#1, “How could
she stand it?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna have it cruising with this new processor,” chimes in
Son#2.
“Once we replace the mother board, increase her memory to two GIGS, this
baby will sing,” hubby pipes up.
“And don’t forget we need to flash the BIOS, install the stealth fan.”
Mother Board? Stealth Fan? Flash the BIOS? I envision a board of
directors headed by mothers armed with aprons. Stealth fan? Is this
anything like the Stealth Bomber? Flash the BIOS? Hey, no streaking
allowed!
I don’t think this is what they have in mind.
I zone out, catching bits and pieces of their techno speak “Increase her
memory, audio codecs, e-mail program, manage her identities, switch and
log off.”
Increase my memory, switch identities? I perk up at the sounds of that.
I definitely need more memory and have many days when I’d like to switch
identities.
The guys pull me into their huddle.
“Hey Mom, you’re gonna love this upgrade. You’ll be surfing the net
faster than Bill Gates can make money.”
“Yeah Mom, and guess what else? Check it out. We all chipped in. Your
new cell phone. It’s equipped with a 2 Megapixel camera, video capture,
MP3 player, appointment calendar, and Bluetooth. You can text us and
...”
“Mom?”
“Hon?”
“Mom? What’s the matter? Can you hear me...?
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Half
An Hour, Tops
By Mary Tompsett, Wisconsin
This story was inspired by the home repair adventures of
two friends – average folks – who shall remain anonymous.* For ease in
reading, I offer a glossary of official repair acronyms:
RATS = Race Across Town to the Store
INEPT = Icky New Evidence of Pure Trouble
AARGH = Assail Arby’s Restroom and Go Home
PANIC = Pray And New Insight Cometh
I pause while sanding the stairway, and hurry in to use the only john in
the house. Honey, the toilet’s sluggish. No problem, a few corroded
parts need replacing. A half-hour task.
RATS. Seems the old parts are no longer made. PANIC. We buy a new toilet
– a turbo-charged, power-flush model. AARGH. The new tank is too wide to
fit against the old vanity. We pull out the vanity and discover a hole
in the wall. INEPT. PANIC. Honey, do we have any wall compound?
RATS! Buy compound. Again, AARGH. We patch the hole and need to paint
the area. What luck – there’s extra paint in the cellar. Uh-oh. The can
is drier than King Tut’s dandruff. INEPT. More luck, the custom color
number is on the lid!
RATS. A cheery clerk says our color was discontinued. PANIC. Select a
new color. And yes, AARGH. Repaint the entire bathroom. Jockey toilet
into place. Pipes and holes don’t match up. RATS. Yadda yadda. More
INEPT, PANIC, RATS and AARGH. Toilet done!
The bathroom still needs a sink. Next morning in the shower, no hot
water! To check the pilot light, we wade through knee-deep mud in the
cellar. INEPT. Gallons of water that formerly hung out inside the water
heater are now real chummy with the dirt floor. PANIC! Bail the cellar.
RATS! Buy a new water heater, haul it home, roll it up the driveway,
heave it into the house and slide it down rickety cellar steps. Honey,
does the new one look taller to you? INEPT and PANIC. We realign the
hookups and forget to shut off the water. INEPT again as we survive a
second cold shower. Water has pooled between the liner and the shell of
the old heater. Blah blah blah, and a brown gunky river whooshes over
our shoes. INEPT. Bail the cellar again, and light new pilot. Finally,
hot water!! Good for scrubbing the filthy trail we made through the
house while dragging out the old heater. Shampoo rest of carpet to match
the clean path.
Bathroom still needs a damn sink. RATS. We install a lovely pedestal
sink. The old wall cabinet looks shabby by comparison. RATS. Discover
our new cabinet doesn’t fit the old holes in the wall. Honey, where’s
the stud finder? PANIC. To save time, we locate the studs by drilling
holes. Many holes. INEPT. Scrap the cabinet. RATS! Buy a small wicker
basket to set on the toilet. Spackle holes, repaint wall.
Hmm, the tub tiles clash with the new wall color. RATS. Our fancy new
tiles are beautiful, but a teeny bit large and don’t fit around the tub.
INEPT. With a mallet and chisel, we whack out crumbly mortar and old
tiles. Oops! In our zeal we punch a hole in the wall. INEPT. Is that the
basement we smell? While we’re sniffing, our cat darts through the hole.
PANIC. Clutching handfuls of tuna treats, we wiggle through the crawl
space in the cellar and collide with spiders the size of rabbits. PANIC!
No, not the acronym, real panic!! Forget the damn cat.
Hole patched, tiles laid. Wow, bathroom done!!?? Back to the original
stairway project. We paw through piles of stuff looking for the sander.
Honey, did you notice our front door isn’t square? Hand me a
screwdriver. This’ll take a half-hour, tops.
* I lied. Ruth and Vaughan are Mensans with more degrees than a
thermometer. They’ve agreed to help me rip out a kitchen wall and are
absolutely sure it’s not load-bearing.
Pretty sure.
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