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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
February/ March 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
How To Survive With A BFA
By Monique Edwards, Virginia
Whatever you do, don’t panic, hold onto the edge of your seat, clench
your teeth, close your eyes, and tell yourself out loud, “Everything is
going to be all right.”
Of course, we all know everything isn’t going to be all right. In fact,
it’ll most likely be boring, occasionally painful, and most often
unsatisfying. However, it’s the art of self-deception that keeps our
mind from drowning in insanity. Upon from graduating college, where I
studied film and television screenwriting, I realized that returning to
my home with a Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) degree in a relatively rural,
small town, I was going to find it a little difficult.
The term “screenwriting” to most people in the area meant that I
actually, physically went to an art supply store, bought a screen,
possibly a window screen… and wrote on it. Having to explain the actual
meaning of screenwriting wasn’t much easier: um, come up with an idea…
type it on Microsoft Word… tab key a lot of it… some space bars… lots of
capital letters… action… oh and all of it has to be Courier New font…
and wallah! You have a new movie!”
So… most of the time I stick to their idea of what I went to school for
– just because it’s easier. Enough about me– this is about everyone who
for some reason in their life was blinded by the possibilities of a
truly, passionate artistic endeavor… only to find that the “real world”
wasn’t really that interested.
Here’s some things to think about for those of us, who despite reality’s
seeming disinterest, continue to pursue a life with a great, though
laughable BFA degree:
1. As I said before, don’t freak out. At least, not too much. But you
probably will anyway.
2. Find a use for you BFA diploma. Put in on a wall. Decorate it with
pasta shells and glitter. Maybe even fold it into an origami animal. Who
knows, maybe your first great work of art will be your diploma…
literally.
3. You have to get a real job. Remember when your parents nagged you
about the fact that you’ll never get a real job with a degree in
painting or acting? Well, it’s kind of true… that is, if you chose to
mention any trace of your ambition to a possible future employer. So
don’t say anything but: "Yes, I’d love to spend eight hours a day
restocking aisle five." Because the thing is: they don’t care.
4. Try to fit in your artistic talent as much as you can into your daily
schedule. So when you get a chance between drive-thru orders, scribble
pictures on a napkin. Maybe someone will take a second glance after they
use it to wipe up a coffee spill. Or if you have acting chops, put some
Shakespearian zest into your performance when kneeling to put a size
seven and a half sandal on an elderly woman’s left foot.
5. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU OR YOUR ART. Get over it.
6. It’s time for you to think about bills and taxes and health
insurance. That pile of white paper and envelopes building up on the
kitchen table now has your name on it… and lots of big numbers. Take a
seat. Push the chair in. Get a calculator. And start signing away your
soul.
7. Put a post-it note on your bathroom mirror that says, “Hey it was
only four years.” That way you can be reminded that even if it was a
waste of time: hey it was only four years. I mean, that’s like
kindergarten to third grade. A breeze.
8. Did I mention not to panic?
So most of this probably sounds like a downer, right? Well. That’s
because it is. Our society has always supported personal and individual
growth – I mean, anyone can be a superstar if they put their minds to
it. But you have to survive the pains of reality first, before the
amazing lifestyle, especially if you have particularly empty pockets.
Having a BFA is amazing, but it also really sucks. But that doesn’t mean
you push it away in a drawer and forget about it – it just means you
have to work harder… and increasingly become a cynical person. Struggle
builds character, doesn’t it? Well… I think it does… I guess, what I’m
trying to say is that for everyone like me – good luck. You’re really
really going to need it.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Football
Depression Syndrome
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota
Nacho crumbs have been vacuumed up by the dog. The last bottles of beer
have been tossed into the recycle bin. Women are once again watching
Lifetime and “Desperate Housewives and Dancing With the Stars.”
Still…a cloud hovers over many households.
Men across the country are rooted in front of their blank TV’s, wearing
their football team’s jersey, and clutching the remote.
My husband’s dull stare was no exception.
Super Bowl XLIII was over. Football season had ended weeks ago.
I tried everything to snap him out of it; a juicy steak, the History
Channel, and even the ‘Dance of the Seven Veils.’
He was beginning to depress me. Where was Dr. Phil when I needed him?
“Hey, pretty soon you’ll be out on the golf course, swinging those new
clubs you received for Christmas. You’ll be shanking it to the right
before you know it.”
I quickly sprang to the window, dropping the blinds before he could see
the two feet of snow piled against the window from the latest snow
storm.
“The ESPN commentator said that opening day of baseball season is almost
here. March madness is in full swing and there are a bunch of games on
this weekend.”
Should I feel for a pulse? Maybe I should nix the sports talk.
“Won’t be long before we open the pool and you’ll be riding the John
Deere smoking a cigar” I quipped cheerily.
I was still met by an unblinking stare. Were his pupils still dilated in
the shape of footballs?
“There is always the “honey do list.” I said unrolling a paper accordion
in front of him.
No response.
Desperate, I glanced down at my wrist, noticing that I was wearing the
purple rubber band, from the head of broccoli I had cleaned that
morning. I swore I saw, “What would Madden do?” scrawled in bold white
letters.
Suddenly, it hit me like a Favre ‘Hail Mary’ pass into the end zone in
the last thirty seconds of the game.
I threw on a football jersey, stuffing my shoulders with every padded
bra I owned.
“Let’s get ready to rumble,” I screamed in my best Hulk Hogan
impersonation, while stamping my feet.
Was that a flicker of life that I saw in his eyes?
I hit the power button and ESPN purred to life. I jumped in front of the
big screen TV and whipped out my yellow highlighter. Frantically I began
drawing John Madden circles, quickly connecting them across the screen.
“If you sweep the garage, clean the basement and shovel up the dog land
mines think how good you’ll feel,” I said drawing a smiley face.
“For the love of half-time,” Howie Long shouted. “He has no pulse. We’re
losing him. Give this guy some hot wings, STAT!”
“Howie, go color-commentate, will you?” I said. Gripping my “honey do
list” like it was an NFL playbook, I had an inspiration.
"If you finish, we'll be able to watch college basketball and hockey all
weekend long. I'll make my famous chili so spicy hot, that it'll melt
all the snow and create a new Minnesota lake."
Suddenly, the color returned to his cheeks, as he spiked the remote and
did a ‘Lambau Leap’ over the couch.
“Yeah!” he said head butting the wall, pounded his chest and rumbled out
of the room.
I did it and with no bloodshed…yet.
Does anyone know how to get highlighter off of a big screen TV?
www.fabrizios.com/laurie
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Fractured
Facts "Pluck of the Irish"
By Ray Fitzgerald, Texas
You could inscribe on single leaf of a shamrock the positive
contributions of the Irish to the Industrial Revolution. With the
possible exception of John Dunlap of Belfast and his pneumatic tire,
there are not too many Gaelic giants in the Mechanical Inventions Hall
of Fame. That’s is not because of lack of effort, but simply due to a
lack of mechanical aptitude. Granted, thru the ages there been competent
Irish carpenters, carriage repair lads and other assorted talented
tradesmen, they are, however, in the minority.
For eons after eons, Irishmen have introduced a variety of mechanical
monstrosities, all doomed from outset to do little more than to gather
dust and rust. With consistency and saintly conviction, the sons of Eire
have paraded forth their mechanical misfits, claiming with certainty the
only flaw in their creations is that they are a wee bit ahead of their
time.
In language as glorious and grand as the shimmering green of the Emerald
Isle itself, Patrick McCaferty hailed his automatic potato harvester as
the greatest invention of the 19th century. In theory, Patrick’s
mechanical marvel did appear to merit some of his boastful claims, The
size of machine alone demanded attention.
The contraption was several feet wide and taller than a tinker on stilts
.Powered
by burning peat, a fuel in ample supply throughout Ireland’s bogs,
Patrick’s creation was a smoke belching giant. Supposedly, it was
capable of not only extracting the potatoes from the ground, but also
shearing the skins from the potatoes with surgeon like accuracy and
precision.
From a source, still unknown to this day, he easily and quickly acquired
sufficient funds to construct several machines. Marketing the machine
proved a major obstacle.
The majority of people in Ireland were poor. Some could not afford a
pair of shoes let alone the high cost of a machine to pick potatoes.
Undaunted, Patrick persevered. He devised a plan that would make his
machines available to the Irish community, prove the value of his
invention and hopefully generate an interest in the American market
place for his device.
It was a simple promotional scheme he titled “The Great Potato Harvest.”
He would donate all his machines to anyone who would use it. He was sure
this act of magnanimous charity would result in worldwide fame and
ultimately a financial fortune. Unfortunately, Patrick’s faith proved to
be more of misguided pride of authorship than mechanical and promotional
know how.
The Great Potato Harvest was a catastrophic failure. As a great many of
the poor farmers could not read, they could not even begin to understand
the ten volumes of elegantly written instruction and operation manuals
that came with each machine. The potato harvesting machines ran amok all
over Ireland. The result was total destruction of the Irish potato crop
and marked the beginning of the Great Irish Potato Famine.
Shamed and disgraced, Patrick snuck out of Ireland, managing to secure
passage on a tramp steamer to America. Instead of realizing his dream of
traveling to America first class, he had to settle for accommodations,
two levels below steerage.
Patrick ultimately settled in Chicago. To hide his past, he changed his
name to O’Leary and married. He gave up inventing for over twenty years,
but in 1871, he returned to the work bench. Aggravated by his wife’s
constant nagging and complaints about milking the family cow, Sean
invented a candle powered , automatic milking machine.
A serious situation arose when the family cow, singed by the candle
flame, angrily kicked the milking machine into a nearby haystack and set
off a raging fire. After the Great Chicago Fire, Patrick gave up
inventing and permanently took up what he knew best which was writing
books in his native Gaelic tongue, books of which not a single copy was
ever sold.
The misfortunes that that shrouded Patrick’s career were minor, however,
compared to a contemporary, one Michael Doyle. Michael invented and
actually tried to patent the double barreled army rifle. Not side by
side barrels like today’s modern military rifle, but one barrel that
fired forward and another barrel that fired backwards.
Besieged by a volley of product liability suits by generals and army
widows alike, Michael was forced into bankruptcy. He vanished from the
inventing community.
With the Irish, “necessity is quite often the mother of the
unconventional”
http://www.shamrockandblarney.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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How
To Sleep With A Man... And Actually Get Some Rest
By Shelly Gates, Indiana
I want to teach a class on sleeping with
men, but it would not be about sex. It would be on how to fall asleep
crowded into a tiny corner of the bed, with no covers, while listening
to loud snoring.
Most women accomplish this feat through
sheer exhaustion, but there are better methods. Even though it sounds
like an impossible undertaking, there are ways to manage a sleeping man
that young women need to learn before they develop chronic back pain
from sleeping in awkward positions.
First, my qualifications for teaching such a class include being married
for 20 years to a man who outweighs me by sixty pounds and whose snores
rattle the walls. In addition, we spent the first 14 years of that
marriage sleeping on a full size mattress before buying up to a queen.
Now for a sample of some of the lessons that the class would include.
Lesson #1: Fork out the cash for a king size mattress. Go into debt if
necessary. Young couples are famous for going into credit card debt
anyway, it might as well be for something you spend a third of your life
using.
Lesson #2: If you don’t have a king size mattress yet, or if your
husband still crowds you into a small corner of it, there are ways to
move an unconscious man who is larger than you are. Simple shoving has
its uses, not the least of which is venting your own anger and
frustration. However, sometimes he wakes up enough to get angry, and
sometimes he doesn’t wake up enough to roll over.
If you combine gentle prodding with sexual caresses, you’ll have better
luck with getting him moving and keeping him happy. The secret is to not
overdo it to the point that he actually wakes up completely and expects
you to have sex with him. This is a technique that each woman must
master through trial and error.
Lesson #3: Getting the blankets back is a lot like getting your husband
back to his side of the bed. Yanking them from where they are tangled
around his limbs can work, but it might annoy him. Also, as above, if he
doesn’t wake up at all, it can be like trying to untangle the cords
under your computer desk…just when you think you have everything
straight, you realize all you’ve done is get it twisted up worse.
I recommend trying the simple yank first, but gently. If this fails,
caress any body part that is trapping the covers until he shifts enough
to dislodge them. If he takes this as a sexual advance and starts making
some advances of his own, immediately pull the newly freed covers over
yourself and feign sleep.
Lesson #4: There are no easy solutions for snoring. You can try nasal
strips. You can encourage your husband to lose weight if his snoring is
a byproduct of a weight problem. You might even send him off to a
surgeon to try and correct the problem. None of these is guaranteed to
work. I know someone who had this surgery twice, yet he still snores. If
you sleep with one of these problem snorers, the remaining options are
not attractive. You can wear earplugs, train yourself to sleep through
it (my method), use music to distract from it, or go to the extreme of
moving into the guest bedroom. One hopeful note is that often you can
temporarily stop the snoring if you can get him to change positions. See
Lesson #2 on how to accomplish this.
There are further lessons on dealing with bad breath, cold feet, and
fights over how high to set the thermostat, but those are for the
advanced class. I strongly recommend both classes before getting married
or divorced. My goal is to improve relationships, one good night’s sleep
at a time.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Diary
Of A Mad Car Strife
By Tom Luddecke, Connecticut
Cars, can’t live
with them, can’t blow them up in a public display of anger and
frustration.
The scenario is all too familiar. You get a new car, or a new used car
and most everything goes well for the honeymoon period. You’re best of
buds with your new set of wheels. Then something minor goes wrong and
just to be on the safe side, and just because your buddy’s been so good
to you and you don’t want to hurt it, you take it to the garage to
preserve the status quo of your wonderful relationship. Well, you know
what happens next.
It goes into the garage; let’s say to have a routine chiropractic
alignment of its tires, and while it’s there sitting around with all
those other sick-bay vehicles, a mechanical virus from one of the
afflicted autos worms its way into your car’s cooling or exhaust system,
and from there on end there’s little that can be done but await the next
ailment to appear. And appear it will, and with a frequency that’s
appalling. The car that had been so good now turns sour, and the great
sucking sound that is heard is the sudden vacuum of a depleted bank
account.
I bought my used 2004 car in April of 2007 (the make and model shall
remain anonymous to prevent undue buyer’s consternation). The first four
weeks were relatively trouble free with only two manufacture recall
visits for seat belt ends, body mounts, and catalytic converter
replacements. It was on the second visit that I believe the dreaded e-moola
virus first invaded my vehicle’s internal system. For what followed that
last visit was a six month scourge that included tie rods and alignment,
two new tires, outer CV boots, throttle position sensor, cleaning and
adjusting throttle plates, flushing the fuel injectors, front brakes
with pads and rotors, and rear shoes and drums. The grand total for this
health care was a few thousand dollars or a new side by side
refrigerator/freezer, a 32 inch HD television, and a state-of-the-art
electric range (all of which were to have replaced our art deco
artifacts). Buddy, oh, my buddy.
On my last visit to the garage, I had been experiencing a thumping sound
whenever the car ventured into a slow left-hand turn. My now estranged
friend, was hooked up to the omnipotent diagnostic computer for an hour
to determine the mysterious cause of the noise, and to devise the most
Rube Goldbergesque solution to assure the loudest sucking sound
possible. The computer finally spit out something about the CV shaft.
Yeah, I know, how appropriate. It probably stands for Customer’s Vile
shaft or something akin to that. Meanwhile, while on safari through
car’s under carriage, the cybermechanics discovered that the car
possessed a leaky transmission pan, a worn radiator hose, assorted
threadbare belts, and that when tickled under the front shocks the radio
would suddenly blare on, speaking in tongues.
I told them I would take the pan, hoses, and belts, but hold the CV
shaft. I said I would turn at dangerously high speeds to avoid the noise
and the cost of that repair. The net result of this last episode was
that for a few hundred more I had everything fixed but the problem I
brought the car in for originally.
As I was paying, I inquired if I qualified for any frequent driver miles
or something like that. I got a dry chuckle and a smug reminder that the
CV shaft would still need to be replaced. “The part alone,” the service
manager chided, “would cost over four hundred dollars.” The unspoken
meaning being that by the time my guys finished tinkering, the four
hundred dollars will look like the steal of the deal.
By this time I was numb and carelessly quipped, “Is that the best you
can do? Don’t you have anything in a gold or platinum with a laser
interfaced doohickey? Wait, I just remembered that I still have equity
on my lawn mower, let’s just plate the whole damn shaft with cubic
zirconias!” The service manager just smirked with nuance that said, “Be
sarcastic all you want, big boy, but we own you now.”
Sometimes I think it would have been best for all parties involved if I
had just left my car hooked up to the computer as its own life support
system. I would, of course, visit it on occasion just to maintain the
semblance of a relationship. When the cost of the hookup exceeded the
cost of the repairs, I would instruct my attorney to have the plug
pulled. Then, when the car finally collapses in its own oil pan, maybe I
could donate the remains to a mechanic training school for diagnosis and
dissection.
I would say that the only rationale for keeping the car running would be
until needed and suitable recipients could be found for the healthy
parts of the car, but based on the shop medical records, that would
include only the intermittent windshield wipers and cup holder.
Cars, can’t live with them, can’t push “em off a precipitous cliff with
a smirky service manager gagged and duct-taped to a state-of-the-art CV
shaft.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Minor
Details When Buying Real Estate
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
Here’s some pointers for purchasing a home in this struggling economy.
Despite rumors, they were gathered after several intensive interviews
with real estate experts, and years of research. Cats had nothing to do
with it:
Someone tapping Morse code from the septic tank is never good.
If your neighbor’s fence is actually crime scene tape, walk away.
Never buy sight unseen, especially if the Internet advertisement says,
“House may not resemble palace pictured above.” If a link opens to, “Go
Green! Adopt a Superfund site!” -- let me know immediately. I have to
renew a web contract.
If people shout ominous threats from passing cars, like, “I’ll never
forget what you did and death will come slowly,” reconsider.
If you’re inspecting the house, and a plane passes overhead, you may
want to inquire about the airport location. If there are silhouettes of
trees blasted into the ground from engine thrust, you may want to pass.
Buying foreclosed properties can be a smart economic move, but if the
agent happens to mention how the previous owner, “held-up well on that
old electric chair. Too bad his murderous twin sons are still at large,”
you may want to move on.
If you smell septic gas from the pool area, don’t change into trunks.
If you’re a man, and a sultry, sexy, underdressed woman gives you a solo
tour, leading you upstairs to where she promises to show you “the most
sensuous bedroom you’ve ever laid eyes on,” and she keeps mentioning how
uncomfortable her clothes are, and how she loves afternoon frolicking,
and oh look, the bed has just been made . . . you really need to call me
immediately, and tell her to wait, just wait a few minutes while your
handsome friend rushes over to see that very bedroom. Yes! And then, and
then, oh . . . sorry, I got off track there. Let’s move along!
If the place is cluttered with electronic devices, and the owner was
“really handy with homemade explosives,” leave carefully.
While touring a potential house purchase, I usually carry large handguns
and shoot any pests immediately. Even if you jump and shoot at the
corner, shouting “Got ‘em!” -- it should do the trick. This establishes
a kind of “alpha dog” pecking order with sales people, and gives you
serious leverage when negotiating price. I remember a real estate ad
that beckoned with, “Watch gentle deer grazing from your living room
window.” Ha! I learned quickly that they weren’t some kind of fake
mechanical robots just for show!
If the agent mentions how you would “never know it was a meth lab,” just
move along.
If the sunroom faces any kind of prehistoric land beyond time, you may
want to reconsider.
Never take home-buying advice from a humor piece, unless it’s written on
a bar napkin at closing time. That’s when the very best ideas come
around. Some day, if I ever attempt humor writing, I’m going to try
that. Now I’m just old and tired. Where were we? Oh yes, cats!
Never take home-buying advice from a cat. You may not know this, but
many of them aren’t even licensed!
Eighteen was the legal drinking age when I played hockey in Maine, which
reminds me of real estate.
If you ever come across a massive bookcase, start fiddling with the
books. Any student of Scooby cartoons knows that the bookcase will spin
you into a really cool secret room. Careful though, many cartoon dogs
aren’t even licensed!
Beautiful landscaping can add a lot to any home, but not if it’s hiding
carnivorous predators who outweigh you by several hundred pounds (see
“carry large handguns” above).
If you’re interested, I happen to have one of the few licensed real
estate cats in the business, and she will be happy to hear from you, and
perhaps meet in a discreet area, where she will direct you to show the
catnip, and back away. Don’t even think of calling the police, because
we all know handcuffs are useless on a cat, as the APB explains, but my
cat had nothing to do with that, and retains her real estate license,
which is legal in every state but Hawaii, because cats aren’t good
swimmers, and burn really easy.
That covers just about anything you need to know about buying real
estate in a down economy. And remember, it’s not called “real” estate
because it’s fake! Ha (meow)!
http://sites.google.com/site/thefieldbook/
© Copyright
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Notes
From Under the Bus
By Dan McGinley, Connecticut
I used to work with a bunch of guys who made ugly sport of throwing
people under the bus. Every article of clothing in my meager collection
has a huge pair of tire tracks crisscrossing the fabric. I would also
tell you that my face has a pair of tracks showing, but that’s just my
face.
After a while it got so bad, you couldn’t tell them a single thing about
your personal life, or they would twist it to make you look like a
complete idiot. It was that old school yard bully syndrome, mixed with
insecurity and some cocktail peanuts.
Example: The original ringleader was a spoiled, loudmouthed kid
suffering a Napoleon Complex, who wore the only pair of high-heeled work
boots available. He needed to reach six feet and be taller than our
manager, who he constantly threw under the bus.
Napoleon would see the manager and say, “Damn he’s short,” whereas I
would look down at his shoes and ask, “Do those come in strapless
nine-inch?”
My daughter was in day care for a couple of years, and I remember
rushing home to get her at 5 pm, before they closed. Napoleon used to
tell people he didn’t “buy my story” about daycare. He said I avoided
overtime, and now he had to come in at 5 am to get extra hours (instead
of punching a clock, we used an honor system on the computer).
One morning another worker spotted him coming in fifteen minutes before
the 7 am start time, then claim it was 5 am on his computer. When
someone started showing up at 5 am for real, Napoleon was furious
because his game was blown. He couldn’t say he worked longer hours
anymore, but he tried anyway.
When my wife and I bought our home, Napoleon had to see it on the sly.
He didn’t know I had finished work early, and was in the garage when he
rolled up, traveling miles out of his way to criticize the house. Did I
mention creepy?
His face was priceless when the garage door went up, but it didn’t stop
his hunt for dirt.
“You’re going to need a new roof,” he said, checking it out. “That’s
good for five years, tops.”
The roof was brand new, and that was seven years ago. Still looks new
today.
“That fence is crap,” he said. “Good for another year if you’re lucky.”
The fence encircles over half an acre; still holding strong.
And so it went, twisting things to throw me under, but that’s okay. He
ended up building a house three times more expensive to beat the
Joneses, and could barely make mortgage payments. The way things are
going, he’s probably out of luck. Hard to believe, since the land was a
gift, and he had a large insurance settlement. Hey, Did I just throw him
under? Nice.
So without further ado, here’s some steadfast advice on personal
information you should never disclose, when the big yellow bus is
coming:
1) Never describe the details of a silicone butt implant. It’s just
asking for trouble.
2) Never tell the group you’re going through a messy divorce. People who
throw you under love to hear stuff like that. Tell them you’re cheating
like crazy, and watch the fireworks when they give your ex an FYI phone
call. This is called a “two for one sale”, or “extreme sports”.
3) Never tell them you go to the Caymans every so often and, “withdraw
some drug money I made with Pablo Escobar in the eighties.”
4) Never, ever tell them you nail-gunned your hand to the top of a
chicken house, while balanced on the top step of an aluminum ladder,
with a lightening-hail storm coming, and a radio blasting so neighbors
couldn’t hear you screaming, with a cell phone just out of reach. Never
do that, because it actually happened, and it was the department
manager. I cannot make this stuff up. He was suffering for over two
hours. The big yellow bus is still parked on him.
5) Never tell them a fox got your chicken, and you tried tracking it
through the woods, all day long (same manager; yes, he had a loaded
shotgun; yes, he’s a partner in the company). Bus still parked; company
struggling.
6) Never tell them you wrote about it in an international humor contest,
unless you don’t work there anymore. Hey wait! Nice pattern!
http://sites.google.com/site/thefieldbook/
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60
- The New Coming Of Age?
By Sandra Seitz, New York
When I think of the phrase, "coming of age," I've decided it fits where
I am right now. Sixty.
Yes, I am 60. In my opinion, I am "coming of age" and my so-called Tween
years are between "responsible, contributing to society" adult and "wise
old woman." You know what I mean. The outspoken,
been-there-done-that-have-a-teeshirt-as-proof kind of grey-haired granny
full of profound one-liners that inspire and educate youth.
O.k., so I don't have grey hair. And my one-liners borderline on
sarcastic. And when I speak, jaws don't drop in awe and wonder.
This coming of age stuff is a process, I've decided. Yes, I'm still
trying to figure it out. To be perfectly honest, I expected something
different than what I got. Respect, for one thing. After all, I survived
59 years of marriage, divorce, child birth, diapers, teething and surly
teenagers.
I paid my dues as a soccer/softball/tai kwon do/cheerleader mom. I admit
not your stereotype "sports mom" - more or less the passive/agressive,
twitch-jerky one who grudgingly buys ALL the chicken dinner fundraiser
tickets herself.
At 60, I admit I expected the entire world to "stand up and give me a
seat on the bus" (as an analogy). Nobody stood up.
How does one BE 60? Since I've never BEEN 60 before, I don't know. My
mother never seemed to be 60 as far as I remember. She was 45, then 73,
and then GONE. Am I just going through my "pre-gone" phase? Am I "tween"
59 and...? Gone?
I wonder...when do I get the burning desire to buy a red hat? (I LOVE
those Red Hat Ladies!) Do I wake up one morning and decide that today is
THE day that I MUST have a red hat? Or, does an invitation come in the
mail like that AARP card appeared the moment I hit 50?
Now that I'm 60, do I have an option which path to take as far as
choosing between the big wide brimmed hat "garden lady" or the Bingo
lady or the walk the wheezy arthritic dog lady? Does one choose to
become a social activist?
Yes, this coming of age is, indeed, a process. I am most definitely "tween"
because (1) I'm still "carded" to prove I deserve a senior discount
(it's not an automatic: senior? oh, duh! yet), but (2) when I contact my
doctor about nausea, he doesn't suggest a pregnancy test.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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What
Does The Future Hold?
By Johnny Townsend, North Carolina
This is an uncertain time. America has just elected a new president.
Some people are worried about what the future will hold. Fear not, for I
have just discovered that I have the ability to tell what exactly will
happen 5-10 years from now. I must share this gift.
*Barack Obama will win a second term, only to have everyone get angry at
him and scream for change. This will lead to a republican president,
only to have the cycle repeat itself.
*Britney Spears will make yet another comeback, this time doing a duet
album with Michael Jackson where she will dress sexy, but he will ignore
her whenever her young son is around.
*McDonalds will bring back the McRib fourteen more times.
*Lindsay Lohan will turn straight, only to turn gay again once people
start to not pay her any attention.
*Jessica Simpson will attempt rap, thus making her officially failing at
every genre of music.
*The NFL will eventually quit playing real live football games, and will
instead have a representative of each team play each other in a game of
Madden.
*George Lucas will re-re-release yet another special edition of Star
Wars, this one including the infamous lost footage of Jabba the Hutt
making out with Jar Jar Binks.
*Atheists will lose when the announcer’s next command is “those who
believe in something please step forward.”
*High School Musical 7 will be released, ushering forth three more years
kids breaking into song in public schools all across the nation.
*Saw XIX will also be released, proving that you can run out of ways to
kill people.
And now I shall reveal to you the horoscopes for the next 10 years.
ARIES: You will go through your life believing there is still some good
in humanity, only to have that belief come crashing down upon you after
all your friends give you Nickelback CD’s for Christmas.
TAURUS: You will go to the movies expecting to see the next Batman
movie. Soon you realize that you went into the wrong theater and must
sit through the sequel to Mama Mia.
GEMINI: You will full fill your destiny of disappointing your parents
when you bring someone from another religion home with you.
CANCER: You will finally be able to give up drugs when you discover that
sniffing Kool-Aid powder gives you much more of a high.
LEO: You will shoot Santa Claus late one Christmas Eve after you mistake
him for a burglar. You then become the most hated person in the entire
world. Your shins will never recover from all the kicking the kids of
the world will give you.
VIRGO: You will win 100 dollars. This is significant because it will be
the last time you have any money.
LIBRA: All those hours of doing nothing but playing video games will
come in handy when you save the world when a combination of aliens,
Nazis, and four floating different colored ghosts attack. You will also
grab the bouncing banana, giving you 10,000 bonus points.
SCORPIO: Your journey as a vegetarian will end after you discover that
animals taste really, really good.
SAGITTARIUS: You will become the most unimportant person in the world.
I’d tell you why, but you really don‘t matter.
CAPRICORN: Your life will come to an abrupt end after you and some
friends decide to check out the old abandoned house at the end of the
road. You will become the first to die, surprising the whole group
considering you aren’t African American nor the comedic relief.
AQUARIUS: You will become famous and well liked for the things you
write. Your humor and wit and charisma will be known in all points of
the earth. Then you will wake up from that dream and be welcomed back to
your reality of Chef Boyardee and empty pizza boxes.
PISCES: You will find the cure to what makes Michael Jackson the way he
is. Your life will then be set.
There you have it. All these things are in our future. I have foreseen
it!
http://johnnyism.wordpress.com/
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I
Think I'll Sleep On It: A Love Story
By Katheryn Wilson, Ontario
My back ached - especially in the morning.
“Replace your old mattress,” advises friend Judith.
“And what about those dust mites everyone’s discussing at the gym?” she
adds.
“You’re right” I exclaim, accidentally poking myself in the eye trying
to get at a sudden itch. “And I'm sneezing all night long.”
It’s probably my cat Lola but I was on a roll.
“I’m buying a new mattress today,” I announce with the indignation of a
fairytale princess whose sensibilities have been bruised by a pea.
“Research” warns Judith. ‘There are more choices now.”
Good advice but she’s no help.
Judith considers a good night’s rest essential- right after Godiva
chocolate and Lorazapan-but she still sleeps in a twenty year old
waterbed. Occasionally she discovers her husband Al snoozing between the
bladder and the frame. He complains of a sore neck -she sleeps like a
baby.
I believe she’s considered replacing him but not the bed.
Cousins Linda and Bob rave about their Tempur-Pedic Bed with the only
mattress recognized by NASA and certified by the Space Foundation.
“Worth the price,” declares Bob. “Restorative rest improves the quality
of life.”
“Hmm” warns Linda: “Exiting can be a challenge. It’s kind of a lift,
roll and stick the landing move. Makes those mid-night bathroom runs a
bit awkward.”
Who’d care!
I’m imagining the free astronaut who comes with the package.
Googling reveals that hundreds-make that thousands-of the classic ‘coil
& spring’ mattresses are manufactured with as many labels and prices.
The only way to ensure 'a good fit’ states ConsumerReports.org is 'to
test-drive’.
Oh goodie! Napping as a spectator sport at Mattress Warehouse.
“Maybe you should just check out that family furniture store downtown,”
suggests my Uncle Wilbur. “And make sure you find somebody clean-with a
tie.”
And that is where I found Marty.
Marty …of the pressed chinos, crisp button down shirt, spit-polished
loafers and turquoise eyes.
“Help!” I beg. “There are too many choices.”
“Let’s get some personal information first.” he says.
“Could you sleep comfortably on a carpet over hardwood?’
"Not since the days in the dorm in‘94.” I answer.
He smiles.
It’s dazzling. I’m picking up whitening strips on the way home.
“Then I’d recommend a plus 6 comfort level. That would eliminate over
half of the choices on the floor.”
I’m abit disappointed-I’d begun to think long-term shopping.
He moves to a refrigerator sized plastic case stuffed with foam and
cotton and points out how each layer contributes to a good night’s sleep
gesticulating the whole time like Vanna White.
Actually he might be prettier than Vanna- especially around the
cheekbones.
“You know the coils are the backbone of the mattress. I think we can
eliminate anything under a 390 count.”
Whatever! I’m having trouble focusing. It might be the way he pronounces
backbone or how his turquoise eyes shimmer like the surface of the pool
at Sandals, St. Lucia. I’m guessing they have spring specials.
“Let’s try out some units” he suggests.
“Is this when I don my jammies?” I blurt.
He laughs. It’s sparkly-like a tall, cool Caribbean Rum Cooler.
“You know it’s important to consider your sleeping partner’s needs.” he
adds as we walk towards the displays.
“Well, I sleep solo right now,” I say. “Perhaps we should pro-rate the
weight of any future partners?”
He guffaws.
I’m in love.
I roll around a lot, shift side-to-side, even sit on the side pretending
to tighten my shoe laces before committing.
I overspend and purchase a top-of-the-line ecru fleur-de-lis set with
plush pillow-top.
When I stretch out, head softly pillowed, I’m floating in cashmere.
My back is cured. And if it wasn’t I have a 30 day return clause.
I assiduously review the warranty.
If I respect my mattress, we will have a long and happy relationship.
I do not plan to bend, fold, stand or jump on it.
But here’s the kicker.
To provide even, uniform wear, I must rotate it end to end and over side
to side every two weeks for three months, then monthly for a year, and
then every 90 days for life.
Don’t ever do this alone it warns in larger print as it could cause
injury.
Sadly, Marty of the pressed chinos, button down shirt and turquoise eyes
is happily partnered.
I had no choice.
I registered for internet dating.
SWF seeking sleeping partner every 14th
night for 3 months and then once every 90
days. Must be able to lift 80 lbs.
I await my first hit.
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Genesis,
With A Twist
By John Z., Illinois
(Author's last name withheld by request.)
In the beginning, God decided he was lonely and wanted a friend capable
of carrying on an intelligent conversation. He created man and he
introduced himself as Adam and they got along famously. Soon, though,
God saw that this guy had special needs and after creating every
conceivable creature for his special need He finally settled on woman,
albeit with grave misgivings.
Sure enough God’s fears were realized when the woman decided that what
she had wasn’t enough and set her sights on the one tree in the place
that she didn’t own. Unlike a lot of men today Adam actually had some
cojones and told the woman the game was today and he wasn’t arguing with
God over one stupid tree. The woman was mad but there WAS this authority
thing going on between Adam and God and so she wandered off to look at
her heart’s desire while Adam and God watched the kick off.
The woman was pining away when the snake dropped by and said "Why the
long face?” She told him the prob and the snake suggested that God was
being a bit heavy handed about this particular dietary requirement. The
snake said he heard from a friend of his cousin’s that if Eve ate the
apple God knew she would have THE POWER to make Adam’s life a living
hell and that God was really just molly coddling the boy. Eve ripped off
an apple and took a bite. She saw that indeed she felt more powerful.
The snake suggested that if Adam were to have a bite it would have the
opposite effect on him and Eve, thinking Adam could be helping around
the house a little more anyway, went to get him.
The snake bade her to hurry, as halftime was coming and he had special
plans for the show. Eve found Adam in front of the TV and (while God was
in the kitchen whippin up wings for the second half) said she had
something special to show him. He told her he had already seen it and
couldn’t it wait until after the game? She checked her anger and said no
it wasn’t that, it would just take a minute and he wouldn’t miss any of
the game (check’s in the mail). Adam decided he didn’t want to see Janet
and Justin anyway and so he followed her to the tree.
She asked him to eat the fruit and he said are you nuts? (Rhetorical
question) But the snake had taught Eve a new tactic called nagging and
as the second half kickoff drew closer Adam ate just to shut her up.
God roared from the kitchen when he ran out of Frank’s but Adam and Eve
thought that He was mad about the apple and so they hid. When the kick
off came and Adam was nowhere in sight, God went to find him and saw
that he was now dressed. God said, "What’s the deal Adam? I told you
this weekend was casual.” Adam said that his wife dressed him this
morning. God turned to Eve and she pointed at the snake and said “he
told me where to shop. The snake, who had been whistling and casually
sliding by in an attempt to leave the garden, was suddenly stopped when
he felt God’s foot on his tail. He looked up and God said, I told you
T.J. Maxx sucked. But since you think you know high fashion, you’ll view
it from a low position from now on.
So God kicked them all out of the garden knowing full well he had missed
the second half. Adam and eve stopped and looked back to see two massive
angels with fierce looking swords guarding the entrance.
Eve looked at Adam and said, “This is all your fault.”
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