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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2008/ January 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our December
2008/ January
2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Grandpa Cole Ponders Life With Little One
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I am becoming a grandpa. Such a thing shouldn’t happen to a person as
youthful as I.
Grandpas are gray-bearded guys who reign from their recliners. They
peruse the daily newspaper through bifocals, prop up slippered feet and
cover their legs with a blanket.
I, on the other hand, uh ... Oh. Yeah.
Hey, at least MY blanket is imprinted with a really hip sketch of Mickey
Mouse playing old time rock ‘n’ roll on a guitar.
Wait. “Old time”?
My daughter called me a couple months ago: “Daddy, are you old enough to
be a grandpa?”
“No!” I yelped.
“Actually, you are,” she said.
This spring, I will be.
Old Age poked his head into the room and chortled, “Ready or not, here I
come!”
“Ah, stifle it, Edith,” I snapped.
Oh great, I’m using a 1970s reference that half of you won’t get. I AM
grandpa material.
Somehow, I didn’t expect to be this old until I was 70 or 75. And even
then, I’d be really groovy. We’d listen to my 45s of the Partridge
Family and Jackson Five. I’d impress them with my tales about the
Monkees concert. Maybe we’d collect pet rocks together.
I’d be that far-out, cool gramps that would make all my grandkids’
friends jealous.
But I’ll be only 50 this year, and I’m not ready yet. For example, will
the little guy call me grandpa?
In her article, “Choosing Your Grandfather Name” for About.com, Susan
Adcox said I need to pick from a bunch of options including Pop-Pop,
PawPaw, Papadaddy, Bompa, Lolo, Buddy, Chief and Peepaw. (That last one
bothers me. It sounds like a crack on a condition we mature guys can
suffer.)
Adcox further admonishes, “One disadvantage that grandfathers have is
that their names are easily modified into something less than
flattering. Gramps, for example, has been known to morph into Grumps,
whereas Poppy and Poopy are a little too close for comfort. When spoken
by an adoring grandchild, however, even such names have their charms.”
“Charms” aside, Grandpa Cole sounds just fine. Perhaps Old King Cole.
Let’s teach the little Poopy Popper a little respect for Pop-Pop before
Gramps becomes Grumps-Grumps.
The advice doesn’t stop there. Apparently, I also have to:
* Know how to take tons of pictures (I swore I wouldn’t be one of those
grandparents, but if it’s a federal law ... );
* Coach sports (It better be basketball because soccer wasn’t invented
when I was a kid);
* Help with homework (I thought I was done with that nightmare);
* Hand out money like candy (Where was that rule when I was the
grandkid?); and
* Teach family traditions (Ah ha! No handouts for you!).
Actually, teaching my rituals is the part of grandfatherhood for which I
am deeply qualified. I’ve already called Melissa back to ask how soon
after birth they can ship my grandson the 530 miles northwest so I can
get started.
After making Play-Doh snakes and drawing pictures of bears, he and I
will flop back together in the recliner, cover our legs with the Mickey
blanket, eat Pop-Tarts and watch classic Donald Duck, Yogi Bear and Top
Cat until we fall asleep with chocolate Kisses still smeared on our
cheeks.
Call it Grandpa Cole Camp.
www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 He's
Got The Personality Of A Spider
By Burton Cole, Ohio
I am Spider-Man. Personalitywise, anyway.
I've never climbed any walls, but mom used to tell me I was driving her
up one. I'm not sure if that counts, being the power behind
wall-crawling power, but my newfound insight into myself explains a lot.
As the new year begins, I've been taking stock of myself. When I ran
across a test titled ‘‘Which Superhero Are You?'' I knew I found exactly
what I had been seeking: a well-reasoned personality profile that would
dig deeply into my psyche and expose my raw strengths and weaknesses.
The Internet quiz led me through a bunch of insightful questions such as
‘‘Do you like redheads?'' and ‘‘Are you virtuous?'' I tried to answer as
truthfully and honestly as possible so as not to skew the calculations.
The scientific survey revealed that I was most like Spider-Man: ‘‘You
are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and
responsibility.''
Wow, did they nail me!
The next quiz had me rank a bunch of color boxes from favorite to least
favorite. Truthfully, I didn't care for any of the yellowish, orangish,
blackish-greenish, garish colors displayed, but since with great power
comes great responsibility, I gamely finished the task. The colors say I
am ‘‘Sensuous.'' I've never been accused of that before.
My problem, according to the ugly colors, is ‘‘anxiety and restless
dissatisfaction, either with circumstances or with unfulfilled emotional
requirements, have produced stress. He feels misunderstood, disoriented
and unsettled.''
I suppose that explains why I drove past my street the other day. I
thought I just wasn't paying attention. It turns out I was ‘‘disoriented
and unsettled.'' And I didn't understand that.
Personality settled, I decided to evaluate my IQ. Being intelligent and
a bit geeky like Spidey -- or possibly being filled with ‘‘restless
dissatisfaction'' -- I swung right into action.
I found a quiz that took me through a series of multiple-choice
questions that tested my guessing abilities. I mean, talents of
reasoning.
Then I clicked for my score. A box popped up: ‘‘Enter your credit card
number and for $9.95, we will send you your score.''
That proved I wasn't very smart. I didn't see that coming.
I looked for another IQ test, one that used the word ‘‘free.'' At the
end, a box popped up: ‘‘While we're calculating your score, click from
which of these sponsors you want more information.'' A series of 30 ads
popped up.
I clicked out of it. More came up. Click. More. Click. More and more.
I felt myself growing wiser by the second until finally, in a burst of
supreme sagacity, I yanked the plug out of the wall. We superheroes are
decisive like that.
Later, I discovered that both sites zapped me my scores anyway. The
first ranked me at 115 -- ‘‘superior intelligence,'' according to IQ
inventor Lewis Terman's original scale. The second rated me at 153 --
‘‘genius or near genius.''
Wow, did they nail me! What a difference an hour can make in one's
intellect. I wonder how much higher the score would have been had I
given up my credit card info.
But my anxiety is kicking in. Does this make me too smart to continue
being Spider-Man? Or will I slip to the Flash? Or Robin?
It's time to start looking up job aptitude tests to find out. I hope it
doesn't come up, "envelope stuffer" again. It's embarrassing for a
superhero to have papercuts.
www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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One
Finger Short Of Greatness
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Once again, it’s not your fault.
According to researchers at the University of Cambridge in England, the
length of a man’s ring finger may predict his success as a financial
trader.
See, you can’t help it that you’re lousy with money. Biology did you in.
That ring-to-index finger ratio previously has been linked to one’s
success in competitive sports, increased confidence, willingness to take
risks, persistence, vigilance and quickened reaction times, according to
the Associated Press.
It explains a lot in my life. I think.
Actually, this is the first time I noticed that my right ring finger is
a quarter inch longer than my left. I’m not sure what this means.
Perhaps, on the one hand, I have great potential, but on the other hand
it falls short?
I never hit a single shot I heaved toward the basket on the eighth-grade
team. I thought it was because I didn’t have talent for basketball. Now
I know it was because my right ring finger is too short.
I bet you flubbed a math test because of your stubby ring finger.
Hey, these are not excuses we are making here. It’s science.
A team led by physiologist John M. Coates reported in Proceedings of the
National Academy of Sciences earlier this month that the ratio between
ring and index finger length is determined before birth. The greater
exposure the fetus has to the male hormone androgen, the more the ring
finger grew, and the more aggressive -- and successful -- the
personality after birth.
In this case, Coates’ group studied 44 guys who were traders in the
London financial district over 20 months of high-finance dealings. The
ones with longer ring fingers compared to their index fingers made 11
times more money than those with the shortest ring fingers, according to
the study. Looking only at experienced traders, the long-ring-finger
folks earned 5 times more than those with short ring fingers, The
Associated Press reported.
All those years that our parents told us to try harder were wasted. All
along, it wasn’t effort, it was the size of our fingers.
It’s not the first time that science has ruined our best efforts.
Would you really have chosen that face for yourself given the
opportunity? Our parents stuck us with these mugs. With a lot of help
from our ancestors. That’s why there aren’t a lot more Brad Pitts and
Angelina Jolies running around adopting everything in sight.
Remember the 30-year study published in July 2007 in the New England
Journal of Medicine about heftiness? If your friends and family put on
weight, odds are, so will you.
“We were stunned to find that friends who are hundreds of miles away
have just as much impact on a person’s weight status as friends who are
right next door,” study co-author James Fowler of the University of
California, San Diego, told The Associated Press.
So my face is Mom and Dad’s fault. My fat is your fault. The reason I
can’t buy more Twinkies is the fault of my abbreviated finger.
There was some stuff sprinkled in the various studies about overcoming
genetic predispositions with hard work and conscious effort, but I
didn’t read that far. Short attention span.
I blame MTV.
The point is, we can flop in our La-Z-Boys guilt-free. And if you feel
better now, blame me.
www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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To
The Woman On Her Cell Phone In The Chinese Restaurant
By Lisa Kern, Pennsylvania
Yesterday was a lucky day for me because I had the good fortune to be
seated next to you in the Chinese restaurant where I'd met a friend for
lunch. It’s evident to me that you are quite popular because your cell
phone rang repeatedly the entire time that we were there. I'm glad that
you chose to set your ringer volume to the Obnoxiously Loud setting so
that all of us could enjoy that rousing version of "Who Let the Dogs
Out" over and over again. That song is such a classic, isn't it? Of
course, to not answer your phone would be rude, and you are clearly a
woman of class, so you answered every call.
Thank goodness the restaurant's host had the foresight to seat us near
your table. If he hadn't, I would have missed hearing all of those
fascinating details about your recent colonoscopy. It would have been a
shame to spend the entire meal simply eating lunch and visiting with my
friend. Bo-ring!
Everyone knows that nothing helps egg drop soup go down easier than a
lively discussion about bodily fluids and you did not disappoint.
Hearing about how the nasty beverage you were forced to consume the
night before caused you to have such gastric distress that you almost
didn't make it to the bathroom is an element of your story that I
wouldn't have wanted to pass up. I, for one, can never get enough of
hearing about bathroom near-misses while I'm eating my lunch.
Because of the fortunate location of my table, I was able to hear you
cautioning "Marcia" on the phone to only drink three quarters of the
Nasty Beverage when she prepares for her colonoscopy. Apparently, you
went to the bathroom so much the night before that parts of you were,
how shall I say this...abraded. I was able to enjoy my sashimi so much
more after hearing this enlightening tidbit.
If my meal wasn't already pleasant enough due to the geographic
placement of my table near yours, it was certainly enhanced by learning
all of the particulars of your allergic reaction to the general
anesthesia you were administered in the hospital. I'm sure that it's my
own personal character flaw, but hearing you describe how many times you
vomited after coming out of the anesthesia caused me to promptly lose my
appetite.
Thankfully, you relayed your entire colonoscopy experience loud enough
while on your cell phone so that even patrons at the farthest corner of
restaurant could benefit from your story. I would have felt selfish
being the only one able to share in your conversation. Your graphic
description of the polyps that were surgically removed from the walls of
your intestine was so vivid that I no longer felt the need to take my
uneaten Shrimp with Mushroom Sauce home. I know that you were only
trying to be considerate. You wanted to save the waiter the trouble of
having to bag it up for me, and you wanted to prevent me from being
tempted to eat it tomorrow. That was so helpful. How did you know that
I've been trying to lose weight?
The only thing that would have made your lunchtime dialogue even more
pleasurable would have been if you’d thought to bring photos. I do hope
that I will get to dine near you again sometime in the future. I can't
wait to hear all of the compelling minutiae about your most recent
pelvic exam or your appendectomy. Perhaps we can share that interchange
over some nice Mexican food.
See you then!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Oliver's
Date
By Jimmy Key, Alabama
The Date:
It happened unexpectedly. Oliver was talking with a group of his
classmates about the last lecture when a girl said she needed some help.
"Would you help me understand what I just heard?" She asked with a
smile. Now Oliver wasn't sure, but that smile seemed to mean a little
more than "our studious studies will benefit mankind". He was compelled
by brain number two to reply, "Yes I'd be happy to help. Do you want to
grab some dinner before we start?" She agreed by nodding her head and
asking, "Were do you want to eat?"
Oliver hadn't actually intended to ask her out. Not because she wasn't
attractive, she was....but because he was almost broke and had to save
what little he had until the end of the month. He had to think of
something fast and cheap. He remembered he had some hotdogs at home.
"Why don't we meet at the park. There's a grill there and we can cook
out. Around six?"
"OK, six o'clock at the park", she confirmed the date. Oliver wanted to
make a good impression even though it wasn't a formal date. It still was
a date plus she was cute.
Oliver had to get the supplies for the picnic. He rode his 1977 Honda
350CL back to his apartment. Weaving through traffic he was thinking how
thankful he was that she didn't ask him where he lived. It was an old
house of world war two vintage. It still had open coal fireplace for
heat. Long ago the owners did manage to put in a gas floor furnace.
Oliver learned to respect the beast when on one cold night he walked
barefoot across the animal. His feet retained the brand of grating for
two weeks. The air conditioning amounted to open windows and a fan.
The kitchen had one light bulb dangling from an outdated cord with no
shade. The floor had once been checker board tile but more than a few
squares were missing now. The sink was remarkably resilient only showing
30 years of wear. The water, although good to drink, came out extremely
slow due to the rust in the piping. The refrigerator wasn't much more
than an ice box. It featured a freezer within the refrigerator complete
with ice trays and it always needed defrosting.
Oliver opened the freezer to get the hotdogs. There were no
hotdogs....but there was a pound of hamburger. "Even better", he
thought..."Now for the buns and some paper plates, packets of ketchup
and mustard and I'll be all set." He gathered the supplies but couldn't
find hamburger buns. All he had were hotdog buns. "I hope she's not
picky" he said to himself.
Oliver had arrived at the park 30 minutes before the date. He started
preparing the grill next to the picnic table. It only took about 5
minutes to get it started but another 20 minutes for the coals to be
ready. "Might as well start cooking" he said to himself. The hamburger
had thawed out nicely and he began to make patties. Oliver then thought
about the hotdog buns. A stroke of genius hit him. "Hmmm...I'll just
roll the hamburger up like a hotdog and we'll have some hamdogs" he
chuckled. Oliver began rolling and putting the hamdogs on the grill.
Right on time, his date came walking across the park toward the picnic
table. They greeted each other with matching smiles. "Come have a seat,
the foods almost ready" he said showing her the picnic table he'd setup.
"The burgers smell wonderful", she replied.
Oliver grabbed a plate for the hamdogs. They were all done and he
stacked them on the plate. Moving to the table, Oliver set the plate
next to the buns. Oliver looked over at her only to see the most
disgusting look he'd ever seen. Oliver, looking back at the hamdogs,
immediately realized his mistake. The hamdogs had the texture, color,
and shape that made the main course look very similar to a pile of,
well…uh… turds?! Oliver tried to explain the hamdog idea but it was too
late. Fighting through a gag reflex she excused herself and left the way
she had come.
Oliver was quite embarrassed by the incident. He looked at the picnic
table spread. That was two days worth of food. "Oh well", he signed.
Oliver sat down and had himself a turd-dog and it was good.
+
Moral of the story:
Oliver learned that Food presentation is most important.
http://minterm.com/stories.html
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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All
In A Twitter
By
Sue Anna Langenberg,
Illinois
I was among friends the other night when
someone brought up the new tech term “twitter.”
I took aspirin from my purse, held my jam-packed head in my hand and
asked with faint brainwaves, “what on earth is that?” Not another
high-tech something-or-other, I thought, and was weakened trying to
comprehend.
Well, no one at the table knew, but all agreed that it was something.
This, as I was just getting a grip about “blogs, bloggers and blogettes.”
Blogs, of course, are the daily musings and additions to worldwide
communications where at any given nanosecond, one can enhance and
comprehend all information available out there. For instance, a daily
blog might be an educated take on the economy, political tidbits or what
Hollywood star just received a DUI. Or it might mean the current studies
about men who snore too much.
Here a blog, there a blog, everywhere someone’s blog. Once you read
anyone’s blog, then you are completely informed for that very
nanosecond. But five minutes from then, it could all change.
Everyone knows that.
The blogger, furthermore, is that qualified person who writes about the
stuff. He or she may not know what he or she is blogging about, but he
or she certainly knows technology beyond the simple buttons that turn on
computers. He or she knows the difference between Blackberries and
blueberry pies. He or she certainly knows how to send texts that say,
“where r u?” and respond, “buying T-paper, lol.”
Everyone knows that.
The blogette might be a Radio City Music Hall dancer in a chorus line.
Or maybe a French bread lavishly slathered with butter and garlic to
deliciously go with your New Year’s resolution of a high-fat diet. Or,
the blogette may be the slightly overweight person wearing pink.
So I certainly know all about blogs, feeling quite comfortable in my
cyber knowledge. But the twitter? I guess that I’ll have to look that
one up.
So I got out my handy-dandy 20 pound Webster’s Edition subtitled,
Everything-But-What-You-Look-Up. It takes at least a half hour because I
always get caught up on other interesting words like Timbuktu or
titmouse. Then, of course, I am all atwitter because I’ve forgotten what
to look up.
But, alas, the thing was published more than five minutes ago, so
“twitter” still means something about a chirping bird.
“Chirps, cheeps, peeps and wings a-flap,” are all related to the sounds
that some people make when they can’t seem to find their way in life.
Well, that makes sense. I feel that way every time I try to decide what
to do when I grow up. The older I get, the fewer choices there are. I
guess I should finally cut loose the ice skating Olympics goal or the
one about being a ballet dancer. But there might be careers in the
nursing home, after all.
I’ve also known lots of characters all atwitter about things. A friend’s
92-year-old mother gets in a twitter when she must make major decisions
like which way the mini-blinds should go. Or whether she should have
tuna or chicken salad for lunch.
So now I think that my new career goal will be an official bloghag
twitterer. It’s not listed in the dictionary yet, so I will define it
myself. The bloghag part must have at least three chins, wrinkles all
over and falling body parts. Twittering must reflect absolutely no
expertise, and be in constant confusion hour by hour. The computer
entries will be bits and pieces of a hag clutching her throat all in a
twitter.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Whining
in a Winter Wonderland
By Karrie McAllister, Ohio
It’s just one more reason in a
long list entitled “how I know I’m getting old.” Even though I promised
myself I would never do it, I have started comparing my childhood to my
children’s and saying things like “you don’t know just how good you have
it,” and “back in my day…” and other such nonsense that pushes me one
step closer to turning into my mother.
The latest cause for alarm is the wintery snow and cold that seems to
come as a surprise every year, even though we all know it’s coming. And
along with my proclamation of old age, I also find myself complaining
about the cold (which I swear is getting colder) and the snow (which I’m
sure is getting slipperier) and the winter in general (which I’m
positive is getting longer, grayer, and darker.)
But winter is winter, and as sure as you always end up following the
salt truck when you’re late for an appointment, kids are drawn to the
snow with unimaginable forces.
I know. I was one of them, way back when.
But now I find myself being a grumpy old mom.
Consider this recent turn of events…
The snow had just started to fall, and the muddy grass was just barely
covered. As the children sat pressed to the back door, staring at the
nearly winter wonderland, they began asking to go out and play in, and I
quote, “all the snow.”
(This is where I start getting old.) “Snow? You call this snow? Back in
my day, we measured snow in FEET, not millimeters. This is nothing. We
had trees that completely disappeared from December through March, and
sometimes small pets. One year I totally forgot about my swingset
because I didn’t see it for so long. That’s a snow. This is just cold
fuzz.”
But still they begged and pleaded and eventually the snow continued to
fall and the temperatures dropped enough to freeze the underlying mud
and I caved. And thus began the long and arduous process of getting
dressed to go outside and play in January.
(Get ready—here I go again.) “When I was a kid, we didn’t have any of
this fancy Gortex, breatheable, poly-something-athene, highfalutin snow
clothes. Nope, we had to deal with what we had. We wore 4 pairs of
sweatpants that we tucked into our dad’s socks, and a super high
turtleneck to keep the steel-wool sweater from touching our skin. We’d
cover up in our one piece snowsuits that were at least seven inches
thick and I swear was made of absorbent sponge material. And there were
no lined and waterproof boots with traction. Nosiree. We put plastic
bread bags on our feet and slipped into our moon boots, which had
totally flat bottoms and were made out of that same sponge material,
which coincidentally also constructed our mittens. Yes, let me tell you,
those were the good old days.”
(And then I get a little nutty…) “And while I’m at it, if we wanted to
make a snowball, we actually had to pick up snow in our cold, wet hands
and pack it into a ball. There were no snowball-making apparatuses.
Packed it in tight as ice and made a real flying frozen weapon, not
these wimpy things you guys have today. And sleds? What you have is
outstanding, but they can’t beat the downhill fun that we had. We had
two sleds: a Flexible Flyer which was totally uncontrollable and whose
metal runners inevitably ripped your snowpants, and a garbage bag. That
was it. And we liked it.”
By the time I had finished my crotchety rant that made me long for TVs
with rabbit ears and rotary telephones, the kids were successfully
outside on their slick plastic sleds in their watertight and warm gear.
“These are their days,” I thought to myself. I just hope I’m around long
enough to hear how they whine to their own children when they
turn…into…me.
http://www.karriemcallister.blogspot.com
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Martha
Stewart Has Nothing To Fear
By Katie McCollow,
Minnesota
My turn. Finally.
After eight years of being a guest in someone else’s home, eight years
of pushing food around on a pilgrim-adorned paper plate, after eight
years of my aunt’s tongue-curling pumpkin pie and that colorless sludge
my mother-in-law calls gravy, I was hosting my first Thanksgiving
dinner.
My family was skeptical. Nervous, even.
Can we help? Would you like us to bring anything?
Pleeease. Don’t insult me with your insincere offers of assistance, I
can do it by myself. I’ve simply been waiting for my chance to show you
how well!
I cleaned the house for two days, made a fridge full of hors d’ouvres,
set my dining table with such care and attention I felt sure Martha
Stewart herself would weep with envy at its beauty, before wisely
forfeiting her empire to me. At eleven-thirty, I put the turkey in the
oven for a promised four o’clock feast.
When my guests arrived I kicked in to “perfect hostess” gear. I
graciously took coats, offered drinks, pretended not to notice Uncle
Fred’s wandering hands as I made sparkling small talk. I passed trays;
my crudités hinted at lemon and smugness.
“If Emily Post could see me today,” I thought, “ she’d be very glad
she’s dead.”
At three-thirty I opened the oven to check on the bird.
Hmm…doesn’t look real brown…hmmm…thermometer not up too high…little red
plug thingy isn’t showing any signs of popping up…say, who wants another
crab tartlet? Those are all gone? How about some, um, Wheat Thins?
What’s that? We’re all out of Wheat Thins? No more cheese, either?
Um…who wants some carrot sticks?
The little chart assured me it would take four-and-one-half hours to
cook. I checked it again at four o’clock. It was a slightly darker shade
of light beige.
Well Butterball can just go to hell, that’s what.
My sweat glands were now on full-tilt; if only I could’ve cooked that
turkey in my armpits, dinner would’ve been right on time. My
two-year-old daughter temporarily entertained my hungry guests by
putting a Tupperware bowl on her head and running into things, God bless
her. I cranked the heat on the oven, poured myself another glass of wine
and improvised.
All those carrots are gone? Oh…who wants some, um, Spaghettios? Lemme
just open this can…they’re really good on, uh… well. they’re just really
good all by themselves!
At four-forty-five the Spaghettios were all gone and I had a kitchen
full of people watching me mutter curse words and guzzle Chardonnay. The
potatoes were ready, the salad was tossed, the corn casserole was
congealed and the monster in the oven was still barking.
Finally the meat thermometer reached one hundred-seventy degrees, the
very minimum setting for poultry, and I pulled that sucker out and
instructed my husband to start carving.
“But honey,” he said to me, “I think we’re supposed to wait a few
minutes, like twenty minutes or so before we carve it. I remember my dad
waiting a few minutes.”
“It’s six o’clock and people want to go home. Start cutting,” I hissed.
I grabbed a knife and went after that bird like a madwoman. As I hacked,
my husband started pulling mysterious plastic bags of flotsam out of the
turkey’s nether regions.
Secret bags of turkey garbage…what? What? WHY?
“Didn’t you read the instructions?” Hubby asked, obviously at peace with
cementing his celibacy for the foreseeable future.
“Yes. No. I don’t know! It said four and a half hours, that’s all I
remember!” I could feel tears stinging my eyes. I could hear the ghost
of Emily Post laughing.
By the time we got the meat assembled on a tray, I was too frazzled to
eat and my two younger kids were sound asleep. Everyone else quickly ate
and even more quickly, left.
My husband started vomiting around ten o’clock that night. Soon after I
got him settled into bed, I went to tuck in my oldest child only to be
hosed down with the contents of her stomach.
I learned through several timid phone calls the next morning that my
entire extended family had also spent the night with their heads in
their toilets. Ahh, the holidays.
I still don’t understand how I could’ve blown it all so spectacularly,
but rest assured, I no longer grouse about watery gravy or anything
else. If other people are willing to have me in their homes, much less
feed me something other than a big helping of humble pie, I give much
thanks.
www.doesntanybodyknock.wordpress.com
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Perfect
Hair Day
By Annie B. McKee, Mississippi
It happened on Tuesday evening
– if you missed it, well, I’m so sorry, because, gosh knows when it will
happen again. Sort of like a leap year or a total eclipse of the Sun,
but when PERFECT HAIR DAY does happen, why it’s phenomenal.
There I sat at the Mexican place downing tacos and tamales with perfect
hair – trying to think up my next stop to show it off. Hated to waste
this gorgeous head of hair just on tacos. Hmm, not much happening on a
Tuesday night around town so just for the heck of it I drove over to
Wal-Mart, then around to the Dollar General (all three locations), next
it was to Winn Dixie and finally a stop to the bowling alley, and before
I was ready, the PERFECT HAIR DAY was all over. The next time, if there
is a next time, I plan to have my PERFECT HAIR DAY on a weekend.
I do this for all of the people, the hair needy people. I’m thinking
there will be more exposure on the weekends for “my public” to enjoy,
admire, and uphold the majesty of perfect hair, and I’ll take time for
questions from the squirrelly haired ones, the cow-licked ones, or the
got-my-finger-stuck-in-the-power-socket ones. Oh, they’re all out there;
bad hair-dos just waiting and hoping for help. I shall deliver my advice
of how to slick it up and puff it out, to brush and tease and so much
more, but I won’t entirely give out all of the perfect hair secrets, not
yet anyway.
I haven’t arrived to this moment in my life without many difficult and
creative endeavors with the hair-dos of the century. I made it through
the 1960’s sleek and bouffant styles inspired by Jackie O., and the
curly bubble, like teen star, Sandra Dee, the 1970’s Afro style, and the
Shag – then it was off to the 80’s with long straight locks and into the
90’s with the wedge cut, with bangs, or without bangs, whatever, and the
cut up over the ear. However my nerve did not allow me to try out the
super short cuts. I have always known that I need hair on my head –
please.
And the Toni Waves that my momma administered to my innocent ultra
straight hair – talk about agony. The skunk smell stayed with me for
weeks and weeks, but I had mighty fine do-do curls just like little
Shirley Temple. I wasn’t a Shirley, not then and not now.
All along my hair pathway, I have permed, bleached, frosted,
highlighted, and foiled – the whole gambit! I’ve learned that all who
want curls have the straightest of the straight and the ones yearning
for the straight locks, well of course, they have the spastic curly
curls. Go figure!
It goes like this: Week 1: Cut and style. Week 2: color and style. Week
3: perm or straighten, your preference. Now watch, it’s a-coming, it’s
on the way. PERFECT HAIR DAY! PERFECT HAIR DAY! Now look for something
great to do with the maximum of participants to admire your perfect
hair, because if you stutter, if you stammer, if you shuffle your feet,
if you stump your toe, and if you hesitate in any way, well you know,
PERFECT HAIR DAY waits for no woman. Be there and be hair-do prepared!
www.annebmckee.com
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The
Breakfast Table's Airports
By Ethan Pulliam, Texas
Being stuck in an airport or
on a plane for twelve hours straight isn’t a curse. It’s a test to see
just how easily entertained you are. How many obscure things do you
notice simply because you have nothing else better to do?
While on the plane everyone notices right away that infants and toddlers
are the real terrorists. The only difference between them and the real
thing is that sometimes the parents are willing to negotiate with them.
What do people do with their strollers? Maybe the stewardess is willing
to break the “one carry-on and one personal item bag” per person for
these people. But that can’t be the case. That nice fake smile
disappears real fast if your seat’s leaned back before takeoff or if you
have your tray down before takeoff or God forbid if you’re not wearing
your all-protecting seat belt.
At some point I just wonder what incentive a stewardess has for being
such a stickler. It’s not like somebody is going to complain because she
didn’t remind everybody that there’s no smoking on the plane. Even if
someone did I think she has pretty good job security. Her nearest boss
is 30,000 feet below. What’s the worst that could happen? And all that
exit row business that they give off isn’t saving anybody. Personally,
if I have to evacuate a plane I figure I’m going to die anyway so I’d
rather put me out of my own misery but how? All guns, sharp objects and
over three ounces of liquid (or poison in this case) aren’t allowed.
Back at the airport it’s a horse of a different color. There’s a lot
more people and a lot more observations to be made. I don’t believe that
everybody just sits around and watches other people like I do so I tried
to figure out what the most common activity is. Judging by the amount of
newsstands and Starbucks, people buy something to read and some coffee
and they tend to read, drink and sometimes listen to music all at the
same time. I can multitask too. I can watch them and mind my own
business at the same time.
It seems like every five minutes in an airport there is some guy running
to catch his plane. It’s never a full sprint. That would be
embarrassing. Then everyone would know he’s running late. It’s that
little half jog that’s just enough to tell him that he is attempting to
be on time. I say ‘guy’ because it is hardly ever a woman. I don’t know
if women are superior planners or they just think the flight will wait
on them but I do know that some women on a day where they will have to
walk what probably amounts to miles are crazy enough to wear heels.
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Resistance
Lingerie
By Laura Snyder, North Carolina
The Law of Gravity ought to be
repealed. Yeah, I know it keeps things attached to solid ground so we’re
not all flailing fruitlessly in space, but other than that, gravity
serves no useful purpose at all.
Gravity is a woman’s worst enemy, unless you count a bag of Oreos.
Around middle age, everything starts sagging like a slow-moving
mudslide. We know that eventually our breasts are going to blend into
our stomachs and no one will know whether we are coming or going unless
we are wearing a belt buckle. It’s like the grill on the front of a Mack
truck.
It’s hard to face it, but in middle age, the hair on our heads starts to
evacuate like there’s been a fire drill and relocates itself onto our
faces. Never before has an item been so constantly our companion as our
tweezers.
Sagging hairy jowls, grandma’s mustache, and a jutting unibrow; we have
all the markings of a Neanderthal. It’s no wonder that the beauty
industry is thriving. We are desperate to reclaim the face and body we
know we already had somewhere. It’s there; we just have to find it.
Where is it? Gravity claimed it. Oh gravity, thou art a heartless witch!
I was shopping for a suit for a special occasion recently. Everything I
tried on looked as though it belonged on someone much taller and 60
pounds lighter. I looked like a Weeble.
I thought, “Where is that fabulous rack I used to have twenty years ago?
The suit looked like I had swallowed a throw pillow and it got stuck
halfway down.
As I wandered around the store bemoaning my dumpy state and wishing
gravity would go find another planet to live on, I came across the
lingerie department. The undergarments I was forced to consider bore no
resemblance whatsoever to what I had always thought was lingerie.
These were what my mother calls “foundation.” Well, I thought, I suppose
if you want to build a brick house, you have to start with a good
foundation. They were made of whalebone, titanium and, I suspected, a
material that might be used in the after-burners of the space shuttle.
These hearty undergarments could squeeze and tuck twenty years off my
frame if I could just get into one. Ladders should be installed in the
changing rooms so that you can simply leap into them.
The first one I tried on winded me with the effort and then I couldn’t
suck in enough air to keep me from falling into a dead faint. Perhaps I
was a little too optimistic on the size.
The second one I tried on made me sigh in relief. There’s that rack! I
knew it was there somewhere! Welcome home old friend! The only problem
was that now my breasts looked like they were equipped with nuclear
warheads: Like Madonna in her cone costume. Hmm. Nope. I don’t think so.
The third one was little more subtle in the warhead area but was
completely see-through. It was like it was saying: “I may be something
your grandmother would wear, but I’ve got sex-appeal!” That’s what I
like: Undergarments with attitude…as if I would ever let anyone see me
in that.
Liposuction, Botox, collagen injections, anti-wrinkle lotions, cellulite
zappers, and underwear that finds your twenty-year old body; I may not
be able to fight gravity alone, but at least the “The Resistance” is on
my side.
www.LauraOnLife.com
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The
Philpott Diet
By Jerrel Swingle, Missouri
PHILPOTT DIETARY CLINIC
Dr. Philip Philpott, MD, Director
PROTOCOL: Philpott’s Experimental Diet Plan
CASE STUDY NO. 1:
Subject: R. S.
Gender: Female
Age: 35
Height: 5’2”
Weight: 192 lbs.
Prior Medical History: History is unremarkable except for morbid
obesity.
(See attachments.)
Initial examination indicates present physical condition within
acceptable parameters for
application of diet protocol.
APRIL 1
Subject’s initial visit. Asked her how she had heard of this program.
Reminded me that her husband is a member of my research team and that we
had met at a cocktail party two weeks ago. Oh. Subject emotionally
distraught, near tears. Said she had gained so much weight over the past
year or so that her husband was ignoring her physically, although
professing continuing affection. Thought their marital relationship had
deteriorated to an emotional low and blamed it on her obesity. Subject
sobbing. Had to remind her that I’m not that Dr. Phil.
Explained the experimental nature of the protocol and that there was no
guarantee of success. Subject agrees to participate anyway. Says she is
desperate, promises not to sue. Agrees to begin program this afternoon
and will report back in one week for evaluation.
APRIL 8
R.S. reports to my office on time and in a somewhat better state of
mind. Weigh-in shows a net weight loss of 15 lbs. Thorough examination
indicates normal body
functions not affected. Subject says that the only unusual symptom
occurs when her husband enters her room. Says she gets tingly all over.
Cannot determine whether symptom is due to diet regimen or suppressed
libido.
APRIL 15
Subject has lost another 20 lbs. and still retains complete physical
integrity. However, she complains of unusual symptoms whenever in close
contact with husband. Says he kissed her on the cheek and her face began
swelling. Held hands with him and noticed appearance of an itchy rash on
her skin. Has had to tell him to keep his hands to himself. She seems to
be developing symptoms of depression although she is pleased with the
improvement in her appearance and general health.
APRIL 22
Subject reports for weekly examination in a very disturbed emotional
state. She has lost another 19 lbs. but complains that her husband
slapped her bottom this morning, being playful, and it has stung and
burned ever since. An examination by my colleague, Dr. Erma Makepeace,
confirms that there is indeed a large severe red rash on subject’s left
buttock in the shape of a human hand. Prescribe application of a
medicated dermal lotion as needed.
APRIL 29
Dietary protocol appears to be working beyond expectations. R.S. has
reduced weight by another 20 lbs. and has elicited very positive
comments from some of my younger male colleagues, all agreeing that she
is now “hot.” Such judgments are, of course, subjective and not
clinically acceptable as science.
She has, however, become an emotional wreck, crying openly during our
weekly evaluation. Explains that her husband has become a monster at
home due to the fact that (1) he can’t touch her without causing
unsightly skin eruptions, and (2) she has to go shopping almost every
day for a new wardrobe due to her weight loss. It appears obvious that
she has developed a serious allergy to her husband, and is plunging into
debt due to manic shopping sprees, neither condition, in my judgment,
conducive to domestic harmony.
MAY 6
R.S. and her husband appear in my office at her regular appointment
time. He is wearing surgical gloves and she is covered in winter
clothing. He is extremely angry, indeed furious. Threatens my well-being
and informs me that he is taking her off the diet
whether I like it or not. Says that he would rather have a fat little
wife than a sexpot he can’t touch. He loudly suggests what I can do with
my diet. I don’t think it is physically feasible, but may have to
undertake a new study.
STUDY CONCLUSION AND SUMMATION:
Diet protocol developed by this office exceeds all expectations, but
appears to cause unfortunate side effects. Therefore, in the national
interest, will not allow it to move into the commercial market.
Dr. Philip Philpott, Director
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What
Not To Do On A Snow Day
By Judi Veoukas, Illinois
I looked at our recent
record-breaking snow day from two views. The first featured the pristine
forest our house overlooks — well, pristine if you focused on the
unpolluted whiteness now covering the ugly winter-naked trees.
Pristine because the wind-blown garbage that always landed exclusively
in our yard had been rendered invisible by the snow.
Pristine because the trail behind the house was yet unmolested by
snowmobilers.
It was all so awe-inspiring, I wrote an ode to its beauty. Ahem:
Oh untainted forest
With trees so tall
Your winter beauty
Does enthrall
And makes me mindful of
What we got
When we paid top dollar
For this lot.
But then I had to stop gawking at the snow and drive in it. Thus the
second view.
This view came courtesy of an unplowed main artery. As I inched along at
20 miles per hour, sometimes less, I found this whole scene had a
game-show quality to it. It was called: “Try to guess where the lanes
are!” No one could, but I fared far worse than the rest.
Failing to see the snow-covered raised median strip in front of the
mall, I turned left, onto it. And there I sat, in my Ford Contour the
color of a matador’s cape, the car straddling the strip on high. Other
drivers eager to get to the mall mouthed what looked like expletives at
me, or did worse. Some, like bulls drawn to red, seemed to take direct
aim at my car. As I waited for the tow truck, I composed another ode,
those cursing me might write:
Oh husband of woman
On the median strip
Your dear wife’s head
Needs a microchip
So it can keep her
From being diverted
Please see that this chip
Is quickly inserted.
I didn’t say I was a good at ode writing, but I had some time on my
hands and it could prove no worse than my driving.
The tow-truck operator at last arrived and assured me I was lucky as he
towed my car into the mall’s parking lot. “You could have driven into
the retention pond,” he said.
Yes, it’s my good fortune only to have driven onto a median strip and
possibly wrecked the undercarriage of my car.
After my mall visit, which I'd deemed necessary because I hadn’t been
there in a day and a half, I still had to drive home. The snow had
stopped, but the road maintained its ice-rinkish quality. My hands were
so glued to the steering wheel and my eyes to the tracks of the car in
front of me I forgot to breathe. When the car I followed abruptly
skidded sideways, I huffed out a sound. It wasn’t breathing. It was more
like “Oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-die.”
I didn’t die. I made it home where, after my husband pried my hands off
the steering wheel, I sat next to the window overlooking the forest.
Even though I was tired and uninspired, I wrote a short ode:
Oh lovely spring
With Midwest rains
That gives me such
Arthritis pains
Until the robin’s
First sweet peep,
I’m going to stay in bed,
Asleep.
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