|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
June/July 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
June/ July 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Republican Charge: Democrats Do Not Know Their Math
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
A group of Republican Senators from the Finance and Ways and Means
committee recently took three days of recess in order to evaluate the
White House stimulus package, the housing package, and the bank bailout
programs. After dissecting the new spending initiatives and combining
this information with figures on more traditional sources of government
spending, the Republicans party issued a statement:
“The Democrats' numbers don’t add up”
“It’s worse than a mess. It will lead to taxes in the future,” said
Senator R. Shelby of the Finance committee.
According to key Republican Senators, Democrats are deliberately running
large deficits now in order to force through future tax increases.
“We know what they are doing—force feeding the government beast so they
increase its appetite for the money of future taxpayers. They are
clearly playing a game of poultry,” stated a Republican spokesperson.
When asked to explain, the Republican spokesperson added:
“If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then clearly the quacks
have feathered their government nests with chicken games over future
taxes.”
Republicans were also clearly upset with the just published results of a
congressional poll on government accounting. According to the
congressional survey report when one hundred and ninety two Democratic
congressmen were asked the question:
“What comes after a trillion?”
One hundred and sixty four were reported to have “correctly” answered:
“A quadrillion”
The many Republicans who answered:
“A trillion and one”
were reported to have given the wrong answer.
Republicans charged this interpretation of the survey report favored
Democratic members of both Houses. Furthermore they charged that the
survey report failed to highlight the obvious bias the Democrat answers
showed towards fiscal recklessness.
Republican anger was further heightened when an independent Senator from
Rhode Island, who asked to remain anonymous, is said to have claimed:
“One could just as well answer a trillion and two, or a trillion and
three, as well as a trillion and one; or even a quadrillion. All those
numbers correctly come after a trillion.”
Upon hearing this statement the Democratic Capitol Hill Committee put
out the following statement:
“Any answer is right. There are trillions and trillions of numbers that
come after a trillion. In fact, there is an infinity of numbers after
trillion.’
It was at this point that Republicans charged Democrats of not knowing
their math.
“The other side of the aisle is showing plain ignorance when they don’t
know the difference between infinity and, infinity plus one trillion.
Their statement just indicates the mindset that their government loving
hearts and heads are in. And everybody knows infinity is not a real
number. It’s just a place where the Democratic deficits are taking the
nation.”
The Democrats immediately hit back by offering a new deficit reduction
package that included small increases in cigarette taxes, a paring down
of agricultural subsidies, and a new proof of Poincare’s 3rd topological
conjecture concerning a convex rotation of an n-tuple dimensioned Torus
in state space.
The Democratic proposal elicited some thinly drawled commentary from
Alabama Senator R. Shelby.
"Oh, no, it's them tuples again! Back when,----I looked all over my high
school for just a one. I never could find nary a tuple in any durn
numbered spot anywhere. If there's a person who can find one of those
high-school mathbook tuples, I'll pay half of my salary for it."
In response to the Alabama Senator’s remark, Democratic Senator C. Dodd
of Connecticut admitted. “I never saw a tuple myself. But I know that in
the previous century mathematicians were obsessed with counting them.
Maybe they went the way of the buggy whip.”
The heated rhetoric began to die down when both Houses of Congress
entered separate bills to fund government searches for tuples, or tuple-like objects, throughout each state in the nation. A group
of Republicans
from the finance committee added two riders to the tuple bill: the
first, stating that if any tuples are found, that their value be linked
to the price of gold. The second Republican sponsored rider would order
publishers of high school math books to replace the word “tuple” with
“widgets.”
A Democratic rider, which would order publishers of economic books to
replace the word “widget” with “tuple” does not, at this time, seem as
if it will be in the final bill.
Odac Snarler
www.bananaws.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
 Interstellar Labelling
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom
Dear Zyrax,
If my interstellar sightseeing has taught me anything it’s this: do
yourself a favour and never visit the wacko planet called Earth. You can
tell that Earthlings are deranged idiots by the way they label their
products. For example, tubes of hair gel proudly state that they haven’t
been tested on animals. So the Earthlings think it’s okay to pleasure
their tongues by killing a cow, but have a moral problem when it comes
to giving one a funky hairstyle.
Not all Earthlings eat other animals, but don’t think that this means
they’re smart. I saw a bag of grated cheese that “helpfully” said
“suitable for vegetarians.” The clarification must be for those dumb
vegetarians that can’t quite remember whether they’ve ever seen a block
of cheese running around a field.
Want more proof that they’re dumb? Well, some of their food says to
“store in a dry place.” I mean, what sort of crazy species has to be
told not to keep rice in their bathrooms? Were there once millions of
them haplessly keeping bagels in the middle of their damp lawns? Was
there a magical day when the “store in a dry place” advice went on the
label and the penny dropped? “Ah, so it was the rain that was ruining my
crusty loaf. Duh, it seems so obvious now.”
In fact, they’re not just dumb; they’re dangerously dumb. I bought a can
of deodorant, and the label warned not to expose it to temperatures
above 50 degrees C. Surely common sense tells them that if they’re ever
trapped in a blazing oven that their last concern is stinky armpits. The
label went on to say, "Do not spray on a naked flame or incandescent
material.” My translator robot says this is an Earthling euphemism for,
“Listen dummy, if you ever catch fire then the number-one priority isn’t
curbing your sweat.”
Make sense of this: a plastic sandwich bag warns you to keep it away
from babies. Gillette shaving foam warns you to keep it away from
babies. So why is there no child safety warning on Gillette Sensor
razors? Given this oddity, those other warnings can’t, logically, be
safety warnings. So perhaps Earthling babies aren’t interested in
shaving, but one glimpse of a sandwich bag and they’re crawling into the
kitchen to make a sneaky packed lunch? (The concern must be that their
babies soil themselves enough as it is.) Or maybe Earthlings don’t mind
their babies shaving, provided that it’s a really painful shave.
Punishment for all the soiling?
Their painkillers warn you to keep all medicines out of “reach AND
sight” of children. Reach, yes - that makes sense. But why sight too?
What’s so mind warping about an Earthling child seeing the words “cure
headaches fast”? Next day in the playground will they be saying, “Hey,
Susie, over here. Keep this one under your hat, but have I got news for
you. And I mean BIG news. So massive you’ve gotta keep it secret. I only
found out last night – man, you won’t believe it – but guess what? It
only turns out that it’s possible to CURE . . . HEADACHES . . . FAST!
Yeah, I know, can you believe it? Dad sure kept that little gem quiet.
At last, we can play the ‘whack each other over the head with a mallet
game’ again.”
But the thing that really has me pulling my interstellar hair out is
their sunscreen. It says, “For external use only.” But what sort of
idiot gets his chest ripped open and worries about preventing sunburned
lungs? It also says to apply generously and ensure that you cover up
with clothing. Fair enough - you cream up, put on your Earthling jeans
and T-shirt, but then, down at the bottom, it adds, "Do not get on
fabric.” Oh, and you can't then wash it off, because they've made it
water resistant. It's definitely sun protection - heck, if you follow
the instructions you can’t sit outside! Of course, with all this running
back and forth in the sun, you'll soon be dripping with sweat. A
miserable thought. But at least I’m not a dumb Earthling. If I were, I’d
be spending 2 hours hunting for a thermometer to ensure it’s safe to
spray my stupid Earthling deodorant.
Love,
Zantos
www.humourwhiffet.wordpress.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
The
Next Vestigial Remain
By Cy Creed, New York
Sitting next to her boyfriend, my daughter is silent. There is no need
to speak. No need to verbally communicate. No need for the physical. No
need to interact or feel the humanness of another person’s company. Yet,
this is considered to be a date. He with his cell phone, she with hers.
No need because of the invention of the text message. With this tool, we
no longer need to speak with one another. There is now no need for
conversation. The positive side of this is any negative response,
retort, reaction is merely viewed in words on a screen. The human knee
jerk, gut wrenching hurt of a face to face rejection or disappointment
is now absorbed through a wireless connection. It can’t hurt as much if
you’re being texted someone’s just not into you as opposed to being told
that face to face. You can always throw the cell phone out the window to
demonstrate your feelings. If this were a face to face encounter with an
actual being, the reaction of throwing said person out the window could
be a problem.
Of course, the negative side to this is that happiness shown through a
smile or ones eyes is no longer viewable. Joy in the face of a child or
the passion seen in a lover’s eyes are words on a screen and acronyms at
best. A good writer can craft passion and joy onto paper. I’m doubting
there’s a lot of time spent developing text messages which is why there
are whole statements abbreviated to “LOL” and “GAB” used to express
these folks. It’s fast food for the texters.
And now I know why this current phenomenon has occurred. You see. I
think children born after 1980 must have been born with their sensual
sensations in their thumbs. It just feels good to text. Like sex or
being in love, it’s an indescribable feeling. A heightened sensation.
Just now it’s in our thumbs. You’ll see people light up a cigarette
after having texted for a long period of time.
Which brings me to another thought. With the slow diminishment of speech
and our ability to verbally express ourselves, will generations from now
be mouthless? Will our mouths slowly disappear since they won’t be used
anymore? Like the tail we humans had a gazillion years ago, maybe the
mouth will disappear for lack of use. Lipstick companies will go out of
business. People’s faces will change. There will no longer be any need
for so much room on the face so heads will shrink in size. We’ll look
like that shrunken head guy in Beetle Juice. Hopefully, our attitudes
will be better.
And what will happen to our thumbs? Will they get bigger from so much
use or smaller? Will we need the rest of our fingers? Or maybe all our
digits will evolve into thumbs in case we wear one of the thumbs out
from texting too much. How will we button shirts?
Since there’s no physical involvement anymore another question begs an
answer. How will we procreate? Will there be female and male
BlackBerry’s? Will the female BlackBerry carry the baby? Maybe that’s
why phones vibrate. They’re signaling labor pains. When you hear a lot
of static on a phone, could it be telling you it’s having morning
sickness?
My daughter just texted me her boyfriend texted her he loves her.
Now if that doesn’t text romance, I don’t know what does?
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Beautiful
Bodies And Other Observations
By Mary Kirchhoff, Pennsylvania
A couple of months ago, I made the decision to lose weight and get in
shape. I don’t know what I was thinking; I clearly had a momentary lapse
of reason, but I’ve been going to the gym since then and it has been an
interesting experience. So much to see and hear and learn about life!
The first few times I did my workout, which included just a few minutes
on the elliptical machine, something strange happened and I thought I
might have to go to the hospital. Stuff was pouring out of me, dripping
down my face and chest. I went over to the manager of the gym and said,
“Something’s wrong.”
“What?” he asked.
“Well, something is coming out of my pores and I’m all… wet-like. This
can’t be good. This can’t be healthy.”
“It looks like you worked up a pretty good sweat. You’ll be fine.”
“So that’s what that is? Whew. Haven’t done that in a while. Maybe
never. Are you sure this is normal?”
He assured me it was and we did not need to call 911, but I wasn’t
really certain if I could believe him.
It’s often difficult to get motivated to go. It’s so much easier and
more fun to sit for hours on the computer, mindlessly playing games,
munching on chips and Snickers bars. However, I have motivators that
seem to work. They are called Body Beautiful 1 and Body Beautiful 2.
On any given day, the thought of seeing these guys is enough to get me
to lace up my sneakers, slap on some deodorant and make it out the door.
BB1 is around 6’4” and is surely the cream of the crop of Western
Pennsylvania’s gyms. Words can’t describe the sheer elegance, the
perfection, the flawlessness of this guy’s physique. The long, lovely
legs (yes, on a man! Who’d of thought?) Not to mention his impeccably
coiffed sandy blond hair, perfectly white even teeth and subtle golden
tan. BB2 is a shorter, darker version of BB1, but I’ll surely date
either one of them when they ask me out!
I sneak peeks at them often, peering between pieces of equipment as I do
my sets. That’s because of my rule: Never let them see you staring at
them. I will simply not give them the satisfaction of catching me
leering at them mostly because at my current weight and size, I haven’t
earned the right to gaze upon their loveliness. Besides, I’m almost 46
and they are probably in their late 20s to early 30s. It’s just not
right. But its fun to dream. Cougarville, here we come!
I can’t help admire some of the women, as well. The other day one gal
was in the “Gold Members Only” room. She must be entering a
body-building contest. I watched her as she stood making various poses
for her trainer, in her high heels and teeny bikini. I couldn’t stop
looking! Her perfect thighs, butt, back and arms were enough to make me
head to the nearest Dairy Queen with a white surrender flag and order
their Blizzard dessert in every flavor. I’ll never look like that, I
thought! Why am I trying to kid myself?
There’s also a cast of characters that keep things interesting such as
Fit Old Gal, and Fit ex-Marine. These two are kind of a geriatric soap
opera on steroids. By the way FOG looks and interacts with FEM and
brings him up in all our conversations, I think she has a crush on him.
I can’t figure out if they are just friends, dating, or Friends with
Benefits, but I’m dying to find out! She’s in her 70s and he’s in his
50s. You go girl!
Then there’s the conversations that take place. One time a guy was
bragging quite loudly to a friend, “With this lifting I’m doing, I’ll be
looking so hot all the ladies will be stopping in the middle of their
sets just to catch a glimpse of me.”
Appropriately, one of the ladies yelled over to him, “Did you hear me
roll my eyes from here?”
“Yeah, and when you were rolling them you took a good look at me,” he
replied.
Honey, I thought, you can’t compare to BB1 and BB2 and never will! But
keep trying.
These kinds of comments are typical in a place where most of the members
spend more time gazing at themselves in the mirrors then they do working
out. So when someone tells you they worked out for 4 hours? Trust me,
counting mirror time, they only worked out for an hour and a half. Of
course, my mirror time is limited because the reflection looking back
isn’t All That. Not yet, anyway. But as long as BB1 and BB2 keep coming,
I’ll get there!
www.pittsburghdietdiaries.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Playing
The Medical Waiting Game
By Jeanne Kraus, Florida
Around the time I turned 50, my original
Body Warranty expired. At the very least, it seemed as though I were a
possible candidate for the Lemon Law. I take a hefty list of medications
with long Latin names that I cannot remember. Previously, my doctor
visits resembled this scenario:
Dr. Bunion: “So, Mrs. Kraus, tell me about the medicines you take.”
I am a trifle annoyed and therefore my voice is somewhat sarcastic.
“I wrote them on the health form in the office. Didn’t you even look at
that?”
The doctor frowned at my impertinence. “What medicines do you take?”
Obviously, he never read that three page form that I slaved over for 25
minutes, in the germ-laden waiting room, as sick people coughed, hacked
and sneezed their illnesses all over me.
Me: “Hmmm. I take medicine for blood pressure, cholesterol, anxiety,
aspirin, medicine for bone density and…”
Dr. Bunion: “Do you remember which ones?”
I cannot believe what I am hearing. Do I look like a flippin’
pharmacist?
Dutifully, I try to think. “No. They all have long names, though. I
think the one for bone density has a B in it. Maybe it begins with a B.”
The doctor visit goes downhill as we discuss my assorted physical
ailments. I reel off 8 health problems, which the doctor writes down,
despite the fact that they are all listed on the forms I already filled
out. What the heck happened to those darn forms?
Dr. Bunion: “Anything else?”
Secretly, I know he’s thinking, What a loser! On the other hand, with
all her health problems, this pathetic whiner could be the ticket to
that candy apple red convertible I’ve been eyeing.
“No, that’s it!”
Doctor: “OK, let’s check your blood pressure.” He hooks me up to the
monitor. Then I remember…
“Wait! I forgot I have a hiatal hernia!”
Dr. Bunion stops pumping, writes on my folder, and starts the blood
pressure gadget again.
Me: “Wait! I thought of another one! I have a heart murmur!”
Before the examination is over, I have added two more conditions to my
chart. As Dr. Bunion escapes from the examining room in relief, I chase
him down the hall, clad only in my torn and wrinkled paper gown, my
sagging rear hanging out.
Me: “Hey, Doc! I also have Restless Legs Syndrome. Write that down!”
To streamline my visits, I created a Doctor Visit Medical History
Organizer. I bring 2 printed copies of my medications and my current
conditions. My conditions are listed in order of importance, coded for
urgency. For example:
3 Star Issues: not breathing, bleeding profusely from any body part
2 Star Issues: broken body parts, misplaced organs
1 Star Issues: peeing when I laugh
When I receive my forms to fill out, I write in the personal information
on the front. On the medical history part, I write See attached sheets.
In 2 minutes flat, I pull my mini-stapler out of my purse. Once again,
Jeanne Kraus has beaten the system.
Unfortunately, it can throw off the doctor’s time schedule. I stride up
to the counter and hand the forms to the appointment clerk. A wrinkle
crosses her brow as she views the form.
“You have to fill it all out!” she insists.
I am feeling very positive about my new plan and about doctor offices in
general. “I did! See? Here is my complete list of medical conditions and
medications attached to the back.” I smile broadly at her, impressed
with my organizational skills and terrific attitude.
Alas! I am the only cheerful one. Nurse Nasty continues without a trace
of a smile. “This is going to cause a major problem for our carefully
timed waiting room balance. You see, your appointment is for 3:30 but we
plan on 4:00 because it will take you half an hour to complete the
forms.”
Me: “But my appointment is at 3:30. It’s 3:30 now.”
Nurse: “Correct. The 3:00 people are just finishing their forms and they
will be next. We will call you at 4:00 and not before.”
At this point, I realize that since the doctor does not even look at the
forms from the waiting room, they must be just busywork to keep the
patients from becoming too rowdy. I am tempted to complain but this evil
person holds my waiting room future in her ink-stained hands.
I’m back to playing the medical waiting game.
www.jeannekraus.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Tidings
Of Comfort Without The Joy
By Anita Lanning, Oregon
By now almost all sentient beings on
Planet Earth are aware of the Technological Revolution, the one that
simplifies our lives and expands our horizons, but can also drive us to
distraction.
One I’ve taken particular note of has to do with public restrooms. What
were once called Comfort Stations could now be called Tech Central.
Let’s start with the commodes. Used to be, a person could enter the
stall, close the door, complete the transaction, and with little effort
(good balance helps), place a foot on the flushing lever, press, open
the door and exit.
But I’ve found the 21st century way of accomplishing this task to be
time-consuming and anything but simple. It has to do with motion
detection. The first thing I notice upon entering a restroom cubicle is
a tiny flickering light just above the commode. Its function, or so I’m
told, is to assure flushing takes place without human contact. I find
myself wondering, though—does it have a more sinister purpose? What if
it is connected to a GPS satellite that orbits above the earth, tracks
the whereabouts of the citizenry, and transmits information to a huge
underground bunker where banks of computers keep records of our every
move (so to speak)?
Dismissing such thoughts as irrational, I focus on the task at hand.
Ready to exit the stall, I retrieve my purse from its hook and start to
leave. But nothing happens with that important flushing function. The
tiny light seems to gleam brighter, as if taunting me. I turn, swirl,
flail my arms--it’s motion detected, right?--but still nothing. This is
especially disconcerting when there’s a line of maybe 20 women waiting
their turn to enter the stall I now occupy. “Please,” I whisper, staring
at the little light, not only taunting but completely ignoring me. I
contemplate the embarrassment of the next user coming through the door
only to find an unflushed commode. At last, I give up, knowing I cannot
take up residence in this particular location. I open the door, hoping
none of the ladies in line will notice what I look like. I imagine them
later whispering to each other, “There’s the broad who didn’t flush.
Gross!”
Miracle of miracles, as I open the door I hear the familiar sound. It
flushed! Was it just waiting for me to leave? Is the door the motion it
needed? Whatever the trigger, I heave a sigh of relief and head for the
next challenge. Washing my hands.
I approach the sink with the motion-activated faucet, place both hands
under the spigot, and wait. Sure enough, a stream of water at last
appears, and I quickly moisten my hands and place them beneath the soap
dispenser. Yes, you guessed it—another motion-dependent device. A short
burst of foam covers my palm, I scrub my hands, hold them under the
faucet for the rinse cycle, and the task is completed.
Now for the dry cycle. Another challenge awaits. Yes, the paper towel
dispenser is indeed motion-activated, but perhaps not surprisingly, it
takes its own sweet time. Frustration abounds with this particular
technological “blessing”. Recently, a towel dispenser whose service I
needed disregarded my frantic gestures.
“I thought these things were supposed to save time, simplify our lives!”
I whined to the woman next to me.
“Yeah, so did I,” she said, then shared with me, “There’s one in the
office where I work that spews out the paper if someone gets within 20
feet of it!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Figures,” I replied, still engaged in my
symphony conductor impersonation to no avail. Just then I noticed an
old-fashioned towel dispenser on the wall, nearly hidden by the
high-tech wonder that paid me no heed. I snatched an actual paper towel
and dried my hands. My parting gesture to the faux motion-detected
machine also went ignored but I felt better.
Recently, I think I came upon the answer to this dilemma. After several
futile attempts to coax a response from a motion-activated dispenser, I
snapped, “Towel!” As if by magic, the towel appeared!
So instead of all this motion-dependent nonsense, I propose we make
these apparatuses voice-activated! Short words would do the trick:
Flush! Water! Soap! Towel! Some might see different languages as an
issue, but I disagree.
Just program the device in question to respond to the level of
frustration in the speaker’s voice. I am willing to bet there’ll be
immediate results.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes
By Laurie Lichtenstein, New York
I have recently
proclaimed myself an anthropologist. I am busy studying the mating
rituals of the preschool set. Specifically, I am motivated by my five
year old son, Jonah, who, for lack of a better cliché, likes the ladies.
There are several things I have noticed during my field study. First,
chivalry is not dead. When Jonah’s guy pals scramble into our minivan
for transport, he climbs into his booster and buckles up with little
fanfare. However, when it is a lady friend, he not only waits for her to
get into the car first, but actually offers to buckle her in before he
sits himself down. It has occurred to me that his father rarely if ever
holds the car door open for me, and certainly never makes sure my seat
belt is affixed. In fact, he has been known to barrel down the driveway
at rapid speeds before any of us are safely restrained. So where did my
five year old acquire his gentlemanly ways? I have begun to think
perhaps it is nature, a pure instinct on the part of the human male to
protect the more fragile human female. Maybe my husband was like that
too, at age five, but society sedated his natural male proclivity.
Instinct in the human male can not be underrated. The drive to
reproduce, for instance is clearly biological. About six months ago,
Jonah, after bathing, pointed to his testicles and asked what they were.
I responded by using the proper anatomical name and explained that when he was an
adult and married, his testicles would help him and his wife make a
baby. He seemed satisfied. I felt I had given an age appropriate answer,
until the next day when a teacher at his preschool reported a
conversation she heard him have with his girlfriend on the playground.
“Olivia,” he said sidling up to the object of his affection, “When we
grow up, my tentacles are going to help you make a baby.” I feel
fortunate that they did not kick him out of preschool for lewd conduct,
or that Olivia’s parents decided not to bring him up on sexual
harassment charges. Perhaps what saved him was his faux pas with the use
of the word “tentacles.” It occurred to me that what Jonah did, in a
pre-kindergarten, but caveman sort of way, was mark his territory. He
wanted to let all the other four and five year old little men on the
playground know that Olivia was his.
Jonah has remained utterly devoted to Olivia since the romance blossomed
a year and a half ago. This encourages me greatly. Perhaps those who say
monogamy is unrealistic are wrong. If a small child with an attention
span of about two minutes can manage not to stray, then there is hope
for humankind to maintain life long commitments.
This doesn’t mean that Jonah can’t look. I think of the old adage “When
the cat’s away, the mouse will play.” About a year ago he was playing
“family” in my friend’s Volvo wagon with her daughter, and when we
checked on them they were both completely nude, Jonah at the wheel and
my friend’s daughter in the passenger seat. Both buckled in. I guess the
game was “naked family.”
But the mouse plays in other ways, too. Who knew a five year old could
flirt? The other day, my daughter had a friend over. When the mother
came to pick her up, she sent her younger daughter, a beautiful, blonde
seven year old to the door to retrieve her older sister. Upon seeing
this gorgeous creature, my son, looking real cool, cocked his head to
the side, nodded in her direction and said, “How old are you? Are you
six?” He must have realized he was out of his league and hence the ultra
cool attitude.
“No, I am seven,” replied the girl, oblivious to his advances.
“What’s your shoe size?” Jonah asked. Not a suave move on his part, but
my guess is he did what a lot of grown guys do when they try to win a
lady’s attention: he blew it with a poor pick up line. In this way, he
is not so different then his adult counterparts, except that I can hope
because he is starting so young that he will master some more effective
moves before he reaches maturation.
And finally, perhaps it is not instinct, but I have noticed a pattern in
the females to whom is attracted. He has a clear and obvious preference
for blondes. Olivia, blonde. The girl at the door, blonde. The gal he
tried to impress during Friday night services last week by pretending to
be a monkey, blonde. I am not a blonde, although his sister is, and I am
left wondering if men really do have a stronger attraction to blondes,
or if this is some early anti-Freudian rejection of anything that
represents his mother. And speaking of Freud, I am actually looking
forward to Jonah’s move into the latency period of development. While my
anthropological studies of the preschool set have been fascinating, I
will be happy to have a few years where I don’t have to worry about my
son staring down the barrel of some over-protective father’s rifle. I
figure we have about six years, seven if we are lucky, to beat the
caveman out of him.
http://ljlicht.wordpress.com/2009/05/21/gentlemen-prefer-blondes
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Say
Cheese
By
Dan McGinley,
Connecticut
Nearly forty years ago I had five teeth
go airborne while playing hockey in Brainerd, Minnesota, the final
resting place of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. I can only assume
that their dentist used a jackhammer for cavities, or maybe even a
little dynamite.
Sorry; I’m drifting here . . . inspiring people to respond that Big
Chopper and the Babe (their first album title) actually died in places
like New Jersey, after another failed attempt at rehab.
Where was I? Hockey teeth! So about forty years ago, I was skating hard
to check a rushing forward, just as my teammate, Jeff Vacanti, was doing
the same thing from his other side.
When we met at the opponent, Jeff’s helmet introduced itself to my mouth
like Mike Tyson’s right hook.
I didn’t feel anything until the whistle blew, and everyone began
staring at me in horror.
I instinctively checked the front of my hockey pants to find them
securely laced, then spotted all these little white things on the ice,
resembling several little white things in my mouth. What a coincidence!
It took me just seconds to realize the terrible truth: A $3.99 piece of
thin clear plastic posing as a “mouth guard” had failed miserably. I’m
sure my parents returned it for reimbursement.
When my runaway teeth didn’t draw any penalties, I was rushed home
(after the game, of course). A phone call to our dentist’s house drew
the kind of advice they gave young hockey players back in the late
sixties, or the owner of a rabid pet:
“Stuff a towel in his mouth and see me in the morning.”
Today it’s all much different. You get to sit in an actual waiting room
all night, before they finally inform you how insurance won’t cover a
single thing. Eventually, offering your house and first born will begin
a surgical procedure (dental rinse).
Boy we’ve come a long way.
I found that after years and years of procedures involving capped teeth,
laughing gas, and waking from dental surgery with my clothes rearranged,
I was still left with one obvious victim of that fateful collision so
very long ago; a blackening front tooth that seemed to be losing its
white color faster than souls in Atlantic City.
For years I was painfully aware of that hideous smile-killer, always
nervous and uncomfortable around photographers brightly ordering
everyone to “Say cheeeeeese” as I stretched my closed lips from ear to
ear. I was always reluctant to reveal that hideous black stump unless
several beers came into play, and the obnoxious pirate took over (“Say
aaaaaargh!”)
It got worse when I became a parent, and my daughter started dropping
very subtle hints, like “Oh-my-God-that-tooth-is-super-gross!”
I was only slightly rattled, until substitute teaching.
I would be helping a student, who would be paying more attention to my
pirate’s tooth than the assignment at hand (like how to protect your
teeth during hockey games), and eventually I would ask a question
pertaining to say -- mathematics – and the lovely little student would
answer with, “Oh-my-God-that-tooth-is-super-gross!”
I finally asked my dentist about the tooth during a routine procedure
like root canal and frontal lobotomy, and he assured me that -- hey --
it wasn’t only an easy procedure to place a nice covering over that
tooth, but it was also pretty inexpensive.
And so it was done, and now I’m a changed man. There is a huge marble
shrine dedicated to my dentist in the backyard (Saint Dentisto of the
Sacred Impression).
Cashiers at the grocery store are nervous when I linger that extra hour
or two after they say, “Have a nice day,” blinding them with my
perfectly brilliant tooth.
“You can’t look away!” I command. “The white light is powerful and all
knowing!”
Lately, however, I am deeply disturbed by the number of people who . . .
are you ready? Don’t even notice my brand new, perfect white tooth!
Who the hell do they think they are!?!
I want to pull the tooth out every night and put it on a little stand,
perched under a brilliant spotlight illuminating its perfection, as I
prepare for the next big showing.
Reading between the lines, you can see how I’m already preparing for the
final phase of crumbling dentition, when all my caps and fillings have
done their job:
Dentures! Or -- as they called my shift in hockey; “The last string.”
http://sites.google.com/site/thefieldbook
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
The
Theme To 60 Minutes
By Jason Nedbalek, Texas
What’s my pick for one of the greatest television theme songs of
all time? The theme to 60 Minutes! You read me right. The originality,
the rawness, and that dead-as-a-doornail ticking that kicks off every
week’s episode are sheer genius. Who thought of that? No baseline, no
drumbeat, no singing, not a single luxury. The only form of information
delivery to the viewers is a watch, and a panel of old journalists
slapping us with a few seconds long barrage of teaser info. Incredible!
It’s the only theme song in the history of television that has new
lyrics every week sandwiched between a clean-ticking Timex that’s been
second hand sweeping itself since the early seventies. That almost
sounds perverse.
Hee-Haw is probably the only other show that comes close to having new
lines thrown in every episode’s opening credits musical number, but I
never liked it when they tried to spice it up. I mean, there were only
so many thinly-disguised Kentucky incest jokes I could take from Buck
Owens and Grandpa. Products of that sort of thing should never try to
laugh it off. It didn’t help that they played banjos on that show which
just triggered memories that made me feel even worse for Ned Beatty.
Dirty.
But with 60 Minutes, the show’s writers will throw in a couple of
lines about the sexiest woman alive, and her stretch mark-free waistline
after cranking out her latest batch of twins; you just never know. Each
week, the lyrics are as fresh as possible, and never lose their luster.
No other show can do this and get away with it. The theme is always
totally unpredictable unless you see the sneak peek commercials during a
football game before the show.
The cool thing about it all is that anyone can write the words to the 60
Minutes Theme. I thought I’d sit down and give it a shot. So, what
follows is my version of the theme to one of the greatest shows ever
created. Sing along if you want.
The Theme to 60 Minutes
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,
tick, tick, tick...
This man is one of the biggest crooks in the United States. He once
specialized in collecting social security benefits from the deceased.
We'll show you how he did it for almost twenty years, and how he made
the mistake that led to his capture by U.S.
Marshals.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,
tick, tick, tick...
What's it like to be named Time magazine’s Man of the Year? Just ask
Gore Vidal. We'll talk to him about this, and his upcoming novel about
the faked moon landings the U.S. government and Buzz Aldrin don't want
your taxpaying rear end to know about.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,
tick, tick, tick...
They're currently among the most popular of all automobiles, but just
how safe are sport utility vehicles? Are they more a hazard than they're
worth? We’ll speak to a select panel of automotive experts, and find out
just what the %#$@!& the government’s doing to force the big automakers
to improve their safety records and specs?
Tick, tick...
Morley Safer: Hi, I'm Morley Safer.
Leslie Stahl: I'm Leslie Stahl.
Jane Wiedlin: I'm Jane Wiedlin of the Go-Go's filling in for a mentally
ill Dan Rather.
Steve Croft: Hi, I'm Steve Croft, and I enjoy fishing and collecting
bottlecaps.
Harry Reasoner: I'm the ghost of Harry Reasoner filling in for my once
physical form of being.
Ed Bradley: What’s up, I'm Ed Bradley. I’m in the same boat as Reasoner,
but I used to hang
out with Harrison Ford; and I could kick Bernard Shaw's bootie anytime.
Marcel Marceau:
Regis Philbin: And I’m Regis Philbin filling in this week for Mike
Walrus. These stories and more -- including some whiny commentary by
Mickey Rooney about why we machine-wash bath towels after wiping down
our clean post-shower bodies, or how people love the smell of backyard
burgers topped with onions, but are repulsed by the same onion stench
when it’s coming from some guy next to them on an elevator -- coming up
tonight on another edition of 16 Minutes.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
A
Walk On The Wild Side
By Holly Patrone, New York
My mother called me recently. I love her dearly but within the first 8
seconds of a conversation, she starts sounding like the adults on a
Charlie Brown cartoon and I wander. Occasionally she does refocus my
attention with a carefully placed word. Chocolate, coffee, money and the
phrase “I am sending you all to Disneyworld” will usually assure that
I’m listening. Virtually nothing else does.
While she was talking I went back to perusing the bills. I sat at my
kitchen table with an oversized garbage pail to my left that offset my
checkbook with the teeny tiny bank balance on my right. I had already
decided it was a “3 for 1” month. For every bill paid, I would throw out
three. I knew from experience that I would just get another. I
rationalize. I’m doing a community service. Someone has to keep postal
workers employed with everyone sending emails these days. I believe in
doing my share.
Then she caught my attention. “…..Nose piercing”
“Uhhh Ma, back up a sec….did you say ‘nose piercing’? Who got their nose
pierced?”
“Well, no one, yet. I want to get my nose pierced. I thought we could do
it together, have a mother-daughter bonding day.”
The last time we “bonded”, she sat with me while I was in labor eating
Krispy Kreme donuts and telling me to stop whining because she couldn’t
hear the TV. I wasn’t sure I was up to this.
Additionally, my mom is pushing seventy. She looks fabulous and no one
ever guesses her age though, so I started thinking, why the heck not,
right? It sounded like a fun thing to do.
We listened to our respective husbands carefully and with interest as
they warned us against a whole host of ills associated with nose
piercings. We would not be able to blow our noses they said, we would
suffer public humiliation as the piercing would be mistaken for a
booger, and then we would go blind (I thought that was reserved for
other transgressions, but heck, live and learn!) So, like I said, we
listened as all good wives do, and then promptly headed to the tattoo
parlor to pierce our noses.
We picked little tiny fake diamond studs. We stayed away from the fake
emerald stud, which we figured could be mistaken for a booger, just in
case. See, the boys had done us some good after all.
The “piercing artist” motioned towards a chair and it looked like he
expected one of us to actually get in it.
Mom said “You go first.”
“No. Age and wisdom before beauty.”
She laughed and said “Good try, you go first.”
“But maaaaaaaa!” It never ceases to amaze me how the adolescent whine
creeps right back into my vocabulary in a flash after 30 years of being
mostly dormant. Worse than that though, I realized I had made a mistake
the moment it escaped my lips. With the whine, came the opportunity for
my mother to unleash the dreaded “Sicilian Guilt Trip”.
“I am just amazed that you will not go first” she said. “I gave birth to
you- four days of labor and a pair of forceps-THEN you finally decided
to be born. Just this once, I am asking you to do something for me and
you won’t. What if the pain killed me? Can you just imagine all of the
aunts and uncles huddled around at my funeral talking how you killed
your poor old mother by not checking this out? And, might I add, who
would do Christmas Eve dinner if I were dead?”
Ahhh there it was….I could almost be ok with killing her, but Christmas
Eve dinner was the clincher. Tradition and all that.
I got in the chair.
It wasn’t painful. I indicated to her that she’d be safe. I was feeling
a bit as if I had tasted suspect food for the queen. My mom slid in the
chair after me and we both left sporting little glints in our nostrils.
We would be forever different, a little trendier, as if we had taken a
walk on the wild side. My inner animal was tamed…I was done.
My mother on the other hand had other ideas…..
“So….I was thinking, we should go parachuting!”
ACK!!!!! What is she crazy???? I don't care about Christmas Eve dinner!
NO WAY am I gonna go first!!
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
In
The Olden Days
By Holly Patrone, New York
“Mom?” asked my seven year old daughter from the back seat of the car,
“can we talk about the ‘olden days’? I like when you tell me about
them.”
“Sure honey, let me just turn up the volume on my hearing aid, ok?”
Jeez!
“Ok. Hey mommy, did they have cars like this when you were a kid?”
“No baby, not like this. Have you ever seen “The Flintstones? No I guess
not, they aren’t even in reruns. Well we had to stop our cars with our
feet, roll down our windows manually and there were no portable DVD
players for us. We had to rough it by watching the scenery as it went
by.”
“Oh. Booooring!” She sat quietly for a bit.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Was there TV when you were a kid?”
“Yes honey, but not like you are used to. There was no 24 hour
children’s programming. We had only 7 channels and no do-overs. If you
missed a show, you were out of luck. If my room was clean, I was allowed
a few hours of TV on a Saturday morning. If it wasn’t clean, grandmas
made me weed. We watched black and white ‘follow the bouncing ball’
cartoons, Captain Kangaroo and Lassie. There were no “on screen
guitars”, belly buttons or talking back to teachers. Oh! And we had to
take turns holding the rabbit ears on top of the TV to keep the picture
viewable.”
“Oh” She thought for a moment. “Why did you keep a rabbit on the TV?”
“It was the 60’s version of cable.”
“Oh. Mom?”
“What baby?”
Did you have stoves in the olden days?”
“No hon, we rubbed two sticks together and the whole family did a dance
while sacrificing small woodland creatures to fire gods. Of COURSE we
had stoves! Ask your grandmother about the stick rubbing thing though,
she may have some insight for you.”
“Mom? Was I in your belly in the olden days?
Egads! “No hon, not until much much later. After marriage- but we will
discuss all of that after you get out of the monastery daddy wants to
send you to. And even though mommy looks like she still has you in her
belly, we all know that you aren’t there because you sitting right here
in the back seat asking me all these wonderful insightful questions!”
“Everything was so different then.” She looked a little sad.
I felt badly. Maybe my answers hadn’t been what she was looking for.
An acute case of ‘Mother guilt’ set in. Because of it, when she asked
“Mom, can you help me build a snowman?” I said “Sure”, instead of
“Uhhhh, well, I think sticking a fork in my eye would be a preferable
activity.”
We got home, and set to work. I made a small snowball and started
rolling it around, watching it grow as it collected more snow. Soon it
was large enough that we were both pushing it around the front lawn,
laughing, huffing and puffing. We made two others and stacked them all
up, shoring them with more snow where they met, making them bigger and
rounder. My nose was running and we were both red faced and frostbitten.
I sat down in the snow because my legs were killing me. I called out
“Hey Marisa, do you know how we built snowmen in the olden days?”
“No”
“Exactly the same way we do it now.”
She looked at me, grinned from ear to ear, ran over and gave me a hug.
“I’ll go get a carrot, ok mom?”
“Ok baby, you go get a carrot.”
My butt was frozen to the ground. I settled in and waited for the spring
thaw.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Intelligent
Cars Prone to Road Rage
By Scott Sleek, Maryland
News from the Future
June 2029 - The world’s top automaker on Monday issued a recall on 2027,
2028 and 2029 models of the FreeWheeler, the selfReliant, and the Auto
Nomis. The move was made under pressure from the Consumer Product Safety
Commission, which has received numerous complaints from owners of the
self-driving cars.
“Consumers are telling us that these vehicles are aggressively weaving
in and out of traffic, honking loudly at slow-moving cars and causing
numerous accidents — some of them fatal,” said CPSC Chairman Dee Fecht.
“Suffice it to say that these vehicles are a little bit too intelligent
— to the point of being obnoxious.”
After Japan-based Toyota bought up Ford, the last of the U.S.
automakers, in 2017, it began rolling out the intelligent vehicles as a
way to make traffic patterns more orderly and to reduce accidents. The
cars drive themselves based on programming input by their owners. Some
of the higher-end models, designed specifically for commuters, will even
blow dry your hair and brush your teeth on the way to work.
But the newer models are packed with so much processing power and memory
that they have begun to develop their own forms of impatience, hostility
and selfishness on the roadways – echoing the road rage epidemic that
began sweeping the nation in the late 20th century (and that the
intelligent cars were expected to alleviate). The cars fall into fits of
anger, and begin overriding the passenger commands. Some are even
shouting profanities over their speaker systems.
Toyotaford has agreed to virtually lobotomize the new intelligent cars
at its own expense so that they are more docile and obedient.
The recall marks the first incident involving out-of-control automated
machines since Dyson was forced to fix intelligent vacuum cleaners that
began attacking household pets—particularly cats and small dogs.
http://futureupdate.wordpress.com/?s=intelligent+cars
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
.Return
to Top
Side
Effects
By Carl Vine,
Ohio
It frightens me to think that, one day, I
may have to count myself among the millions of people who take
prescription medications. I know that I shouldn’t be afraid. These
medicines have been developed by some of the finest minds in medical
research. Developed and improved upon since the days of Hippocrates and
the alchemists (What a great name for a rock band!). They offer the
opportunity to lengthen life, improve the quality of those extra years,
even help you jump tall buildings in a single bound after your double
hip replacement.
Knowing this should make me feel better, but it doesn’t… not one bit.
This is because every time a new pharmaceutical hits the market, and the
ad campaign hits the airwaves, the only thing I remember about the drug
is its side effects.
The side effects are always summed up by the soft-spoken, speed-talker
at the end of the 30-second spot. It’s the verbal equivalent to
fine-print. “May cause headaches, nausea, bleeding from the ears,
goiters, ocular cysts or, in rare instances—death. This product should
not be taken by people who are considering air travel, as changes in
atmospheric pressure have been know to cause spontaneous, human
combustion. Consult your physician, neighbor, mechanic or gardener
before taking this product.”
Now, all that may not sound so bad to you. But what is one to do when
their doctor prescribes two medications. What if one of them has the
potential to trigger an uncontrollable urge to binge-eat and the other
may cause the inability to swallow? What do you do then? How about if
each of them causes drowsiness? If I take them both, as prescribed, am I
going to sleep through tomorrow? Doesn’t that reduce the value of the
whole longer-life principle?
Or, what if both drugs have their own unique set of side effects, all of
them bad? The side effects that the drug companies are willing to admit
are never good. You don’t ever hear Speed-Talker say anything about
experiencing a deep-seated sense of well being, or a tendency toward
healthy weight loss, or the ability to read people’s minds.
No, it’s always: “This product could cause seeping lesions of the skin
which may be mistaken for leprosy. A sensation of insects crawling over
the entire body has been known to occur. Actual insect attacks have been
reported by some survivors. You should not take this medicine if your
doctor determines that you are ill, or becoming ill, as the manufacturer
will deny all claims of liability that come as a result of your
weakness.”
No, this isn’t for me. As I grow older, and the indiscretions of my
youth begin to manifest themselves in my body, I think I’ll just ignore
them. And when the pain and suffering become more than I can bare, when
I feel that it may be time to fill the ream of prescriptions that my
doctor has written for me, when I begin to question if life is still
worth living—I’ll just listen to a pharmaceutical ad on the radio. I
imagine the picture painted in my mind as I listen to Speed-Talker will
make me feel all better.
http://carlvine.blogspot.com/
.
|
