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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/July 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
June/ July 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
1995
By Dustin Brady, Ohio
1995 was the year I fell in love. I was nine.
It wasn’t like that third grade crush I had on Hannah Gnizak, and it for
sure wasn’t that weird knees-shaking-stomach-turning-to-jelly thing that
people always talk about. It was more like always being happy. And not
just any happiness, but the happiness you get when you look outside and
see everything covered by a foot of snow, and then find out school is
closed. Baseball made me that happy.
It didn’t happen all at once, but, by the end of the summer, I was
watching almost every Cleveland Indians game. Some of the between-inning
commercials are still ingrained in my head as love letters from the
past. “Get in the zone. AUTO ZONE!”
West Coast games started at 10 o’clock, and I always listened to them in
my bed. Old Herb Score would lull me to sleep, and then Tom Hamilton
would jolt me awake with his home run calls. “Awayyy back…GONE!!!” I
spent the summer with those two. Herb Score was my grandpa while Tom
Hamilton was my kid brother who forgot to take his Ritalin.
While Herb and Tom were family, the Indians players were my best
buddies. I looked up to those guys—Omar Vizquel at shortstop, Orel
Hersheiser on the mound, and Manny Ramierez in right field. But my
favorite, my bestest best friend in the whole world, was Kenny Lofton.
Kenny was quiet, but he sure was fast. He was so fast, in fact, that
when he would reach maximum speed, his hat stopped holding onto his head
and flew right off. All of his baseball cards went in hard plastic cases
instead of the cardboard box with everyone else’s.
Saturdays didn’t start until “This Week in Baseball” came on at 11 am.
After the show was over, I would eat a quick lunch then run back
downstairs for the Indians game. I always picked up a baseball after
games and hurled it against the backyard fence for hours. I was Orel
Hershieser throwing a thirty-five mph fastball and a very uncurvey
curveball.
My dream of becoming a Major League All-Star needed to be tweaked a
little bit when I tried out for pitcher on my Little League team. I
threw a fastball ten feet over my coach’s head on the first pitch.
Literally. Ten feet. I never pitched again.
I think the moment I truly fell in love, though, was when I attended my
first game at Jacob’s Field. I brought my glove, a Sharpie, and a
fistful of cards, convinced that I would get a foul ball and Kenny
Lofton’s autograph. Instead, I left with nacho cheese on my pants and a
signature from some benchwarmer named Ruben Amaro. I couldn’t fall
asleep that night, I was so happy.
The Indians loved me back and won over one hundred games that year. I
watched every postseason game with the biased television announcers
muted, and Herb and Tom on the radio. There was absolutely no way in my
mind that we could lose.
By the time we got all the way to the World Series, everybody in
Cleveland had Tribe fever. We had Indians dress-up day at school and
scheduled everything around games. After taking the World Series to six
games, the Indians found themselves losing 0-1 in the ninth inning. I
waited for one of my heroes to come through. Then, all of the sudden,
they didn’t.
I’m not going to lie to you, even though I probably would have back
then. I cried like a girl.
I loved, and we lost. But I would rather have my 1995 than never have
loved at all. I finally got over the loss, and my broken heart hardened
just a little bit. The next year, the Indians got to the playoffs again
and lost. The next year too. In fact, in the years following 1995, they
have never won a single World Series. I still love baseball, but
somehow, I always kind of expect to lose now.
The best part of going to games for me now is finding that little kid in
the stands who doesn’t expect to lose. I always smile when I see him.
He’s got a glove in one hand, a wad of baseball cards in the other, and
nacho cheese all over his pants.
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 Not
The Microwave!
By Peggy Brister, Mississippi
My sweet son has had a fascination with the toilet for ever so long,
when anything in the house went missing, the commode was the first place
we looked. In its watery recesses we discovered such items as the
cordless phone, the television remote, my darling daughter’s hairbrush
and numerous MATCHBOX cars. But, like all toddlers, he quickly tires of
such forms of entertainment and moves on to bigger and better things. To
my utter dismay, his attention is now firmly directed towards the
microwave.
When it first started it was actually kind of sweet. I had one of those
rice filled bags that you heat for a few minutes and then lay on
whichever part of your body is aching. For me, that’s usually my neck.
So, at anytime throughout the day that I dared to sit down, my precious
boy child would grab the rice bag and heat it up for mommy. I didn’t
mind that at all. In fact, thought it quite thoughtful of him. That was
until he nuked my home remedy into one big, foul smelling, gooey glob of
nastiness.
You can imagine how things progressed from there. He became totally
obsessed with transforming everything in the house into charred remnants
of its former self. There were exploding bananas, molten pools of
plastic utensils and meat that went in rosy pink and came out jerky
brown. My little Chef Boyardee has singed the fringe off my dish towels,
fried his father’s work socks and sautéed a Hot Wheels in a cup of milk,
with a little cat chow mixed in for good measure.
I pleaded with my husband to rig the microwave with an alarm that would
alert me to my son’s misdeeds, but alas, he said it wasn’t possible. I
tried moving it around in the kitchen to higher and less accessible
areas but that too, failed. (He’d simply climb like the monkey he is
until he could reach it.) I went so far as to take it out of the kitchen
entirely, storing it in a closet beneath the staircase. But, the first
time my dear family cried, “Popcorn!”, I realized I’d still not found
the solution. (Don’t ask me to make popcorn the old fashion way; life is
too hard as it is.)
Finally, with no other choice left remaining, my sweet son had been
temporarily banned from the kitchen. Yes, you’ll often hear me screaming
his name at the top of my lungs, usually followed by “OUT.” And I’m
often seen running from room to room, assuring myself that he’s anywhere
but the kitchen. You might even catch me threatening him with a spatula,
but only if my “mommy voice” doesn’t get the results I’m looking for.
But, at least I’ll not have to explain to an insurance adjuster that my
two-year-old is an arsonist.
www.PeggyBrister.com
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Gifted
By Becky Cardwell, Canada
I am gifted.
According to the highly regarded, extremely technical test I completed
online (in record time, I might add), my intelligence quotient measures
132 points. 132 points! That is 32 points higher than the average adult,
and a measly 7 points below Mensa qualification. Not that I would want
to become a Mensa, mind you, those who host Friday night social events
like “Colloquium” or “Culturequest” are just asking to be mocked,
regardless of how intellectually superior they deem themselves to be.
I sit here in my privacy-deprived, barren, windowless jail cell
(politically-correct term being ‘office cubicle’) mentally cursing
myself for spending the last five years at a job I am 22 points
overqualified for. My current duties involve shuffling papers around my
desk at random intervals and answering the occasional phone call, while
sporting a microphone device reminiscent of a time when straight teeth
meant enduring years of unsightly head gear, guaranteed to attract
magnets and repel the opposite sex.
The following is the summary that accompanied my test results:
Anyone with a general IQ this high is considered to be gifted. You have
the ability to think critically, conceptualize ideas and form your own
conclusions. Your ability to think in patterns and produce order out of
chaos enables you to see logic in everything. Needless to say you have
the brains for all known occupations.
I guess it’s true, I always have had a tendency to think in patterns,
especially when I was a child. Many patterns, in fact. Multiple,
constant, monotonous, time consuming patterns. However, nowadays I think
we call it by its formal name, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
The rest of the analysis, though, is up for debate. I tend to break out
in hives when forced to think critically, I have trouble verbalizing
ideas let alone conceptualizing them, and every conclusion I come to is
based on a process similar to the lifelines offered on “Who Wants to be
a Millionaire”.
1) Ask the Audience: The contestant (me) asks the studio audience
(co-workers during office meeting) which answer they believe to be
correct. Members of the studio audience (co-workers) indicate their
preference using an audience response system (raising of hand in
agreement). This is a popular lifeline, known for its near-perfect
accuracy (depending on which co-workers show up for work that day).
2) Phone-A-Friend: Contestant (me) calls one (or 10) friends. The
contestant has thirty seconds (or two hours) to read the four (or
fifteen) choices to the friend(s), who must select an answer before the
time runs out (the cell battery dies). In the event that a contestant
has a disability (OCD and/or trust issues), the contestant will have the
option of having the host (another friend) read the question and answer
choices to the (first) friend, and obtain an answer from them (thereby
ensuring consistency).
3) Fifty-Fifty (50:50): The contestant (me) asks the host to have the
computer randomly eliminate two of the incorrect answer choices, leaving
the contestant with a choice between the correct answer and one
incorrect one.
Since I have trust issues when it comes to technology, I have yet to
take advantage of number three.
I also discovered that although I’m not quite up for Top Civil Servant
status, I am overqualified to work in Management (a topic I now refrain
from mentioning during annual performance reviews). And if I knew what a
Stenographer was, I am told I would do a stellar job of…well, whatever
it is that job would require me to do.
Now that I have concrete evidence supporting my intellect there’s no
telling what I am capable of.
So I guess the next question is…what happens now?
Well, to be honest, I will most likely continue to sit in my
privacy-deprived, barren, windowless jail cell, shuffling papers around
my desk while sporting this ridiculous hands-free device around my
skull. But I will now do so with pride, knowing had I not become
infatuated with Javier in Accounting--whose sexy Spanish accent and
tight white dress shirts clinging to every muscle on his torso make my
days worthwhile--my life would be moving in a completely different
direction right now.
Oh, and I will keep taking these tests until I find one that qualifies
me for Mensa status. Like I said, I don’t actually want to become one of
those social rejects, I just want to know I have the option.
www.justmakingconvo.com
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Help!
I'm Surrounded By Barbie Dolls!
By Jeanne Kraus, Florida
OK, I admit it. Like a ripe cheese or a
really fine wine, I have aged. My teaching career has spanned over 30
years and is still going strong. But even though I love education and
the children I’m influencing, I feel like a dinosaur. My veteran
comrades have retired, enjoying life-after-work while I remain
faithfully involved in the precious lives of children.
A whole new generation of educators continues to grow and mushroom into
a complex tech-savvy society of dedicated professionals. I refer to them
as the Barbie Dolls, which has nothing to do with their incredible
teaching skills but everything to do with how they look. Barbie Dolls
wear adorable little dresses and teetery heels to teach. They have long
shiny hair and perfect white teeth. They sport tans and muscular legs
and arms. They know how to text-message, use iPhones, and turn on DVD
players. Most of them are in the boyfriend/fiancée/marriage/baby stage
of life; distant memories for me.
Their energy levels are high; they never stop moving. They make learning
exciting. They run, they jog, they could cartwheel all the way to lunch.
They teach dance and gymnastics in their spare time, they go to college
at night, and they have exciting and fulfilling social lives. They know
what bling is and they know how to use it. They demonstrate the latest
dances, wear fashionable clothes, and sparkle with enthusiasm and zest.
98% of the faculty at my school are Barbie Dolls. The other 2%, of which
I am a part, wear sensible sneakers for walking, because of lower back
pain and knee problems. We have had a variety of body replacements like
hips and knees, and I am researching TBA (total body replacement). We
are perplexed by the lumpy layer of fat that seems to have spread,
donut-like, around our abdomens and wonder if there is anything, other
than exercise, that we can do to eliminate that. In the meantime, we
conceal it with elastic waistbands and oversize shirts.
Unlike the Barbie Dolls, we do not sit down directly on the floor
cross-legged with the kids, unless we have two hefty adults on either
side to hoist us up again. We carry extra underwear in our purses in
case we hear a funny joke during the day. In addition, we sport little
battery-operated fans for entering hot flash territory.
If I leave the office at the same time as a younger Barbie Doll, she
gets to her room way faster than I do. Sometimes she even passes by me,
as she heads back to the office before I even get to my destination.
What’s up with that?
We eat lunch with the Barbie Dolls and marvel at their vegetable salads
with fresh lemon squeezed on the top, accompanied with bottles of water.
We take pleasure in our three cheese pizza, corn dogs, and chicken
fingers and fries with a non-diet soda on the side.
Despite these obvious differences, I never noticed much difference
between me and the Barbie Dolls until I found out one day that one of
the beginning teachers was younger than my two boys. That caused some
troubling thoughts:
She could be my daughter in law!
I could be her mother!
I am really old!
Soon after, a Barbie Doll came up to me and chatted with me about my
many years of experience. She asked me, “Tell me, do you ever feel like
a fish out of water here at school with all these young chicks around?”
Up till now, I had never been compared to any kind of sea animal. I
responded thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t till now. Thanks for getting me in
touch with my feelings.”
That was my first indicator that they realized how young they were, and
how old I was. In my mind and my heart, I felt young, which led me to
question my belief system.
Was I once a Barbie Doll?
If so, what happened?
Will all the Barbie Dolls eventually turn into me?
One can only hope.
www.jeannekraus.com
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How
To Make A Baby Upside Down
By
Susan Lesko,
New Mexico
My son has no idea what physical feats I
chose to endure to conceive him. Of course, my first husband and I both
worked at the baby-making process until it lost all its charm. I came to
the conclusion that my eggs must’ve been little cloaked prudes with
wings, always escaping their suitors.
Halfway through our first year of trying, my mind, body, and senses
increasingly demoted physical lovemaking from its mediocre passion
rating to one of menial labor, equivalent to fueling up my car. Luckily,
the physical task smelled better than the station’s pump fumes (most of
the time). Near the end of our regular ritual, Mr. Sperm Bank hardly
broke a sweat because, by that stage in our relationship, he’d needed
only fifty seven seconds to accomplish his manly breeding deed.
During the second year of repetitive and unproductive baby-making
attempts, I tried a new upside-down routine, literally. I inverted my
body so gravity would propel my husband’s sperm toward my eggs. Either
my eggs needed chasing down, or his sperm needed some guidance in
direction and a gravity boost, and I wasn’t sure which was the real
case.
The whole scene was like a surreal circus act. Once he’d finished his
role as the primary thruster, I dove into a full handstand against a
corner wall of our bedroom for as many minutes as I could handle. I felt
like an oddly-fashioned clown, one that lacked the bright makeup, big
red shoes, and rainbow-ruffled outfit. “Humble” understated my exposed
pale skin and bottom-up stance.
This post-ritual performance provided my pompous partner with a chance
for an occasional chat. He sipped iced tea and talked, his face aligned
with my thighs and nether regions, upturned. But his eyes mainly gazed
at my boobs. Maybe they looked better that way. If I looked up through
the center of my bobbles, our eyes didn’t connect. I didn’t want to
talk; I wanted to make my baby.
His voice fell distant into a mumble while I visualized swimming sperm,
anxiously awaiting eggs, babies, birth. I even pictured one of my high
school biology cartoon movie’s blue sperm character penetrating a pink
egg. At the end of the movie, everyone smiled with perfect teeth, even
the baby that suddenly popped up, an unwrinkled, chubby-pink bundle,
pre-clad in a white diaper.
The scene turned to hazy static as a blood flood throbbed inside my
forehead and behind my eyes, and I dropped down to wobble into the
bathroom to freshen up. When handstands didn’t work, I tried other
routines. A few times, I’d propped my bottom up on the highest possible
stack of soft, suede pillows until my chin met my chest; another time,
I’d hung face down off the back of the sofa with my white cheeks up in
the air; and, just once, I’d held my body in an almost bicycle-type
position, on my back with my hands holding my hips high into the air,
legs sprawled open and leaning down across my face.
Of course, we weren’t exempt from ridicule. When a couple has been
married for nine years and still don’t have children, people ask too
many questions.
Mothers and grandmothers prodded, “When are you going to have a baby?”
At a family reunion once I was sure someone whispered, “Maybe they don’t
know how to do it right.”
Of course, we understood the basic concept for making a baby; we’d been
practicing for years, and we charted out the best days to work on the
project together.
My by-law family, a large and fertile Catholic group with hundreds of
kin, didn’t hold back. One brother-in-law said, “Well, we know the
fertility problem doesn’t stem from our dudes!” Then he laughed out loud
alongside his fellow chimps.
That was it! My eggs weren’t prudes; it had to be that my husband’s
sperm were dimwitted and slow. It took a seriously ridiculous number of
unorthodox athletics before conception. But it proved that we were not
inept. A pregnancy test confirmed our success. My athletic feats must’ve
been my burden to bear because, to my surprise, Mother Morning Sickness
didn’t greet me.
My son has no idea what physical feats I had to endure to conceive him.
Someday, I’ll have to share my story with him, just so he can be grossed
out by the mere “visual feats” of it all.
© Copyright
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The
Answer To Toddler Tantrums?
By
Laurie Lichtenstein,
New York
Toddlers. Irrational. Explosive. Highly
energetic. And let us not forget dangerous. They can be pure charm, and
melt your heart as they pitter patter across the kitchen floor, lovey in
hand and plant a wet kiss on your cheek.
But the same little pitter patter can
land at your feet in a thump as your precious pint sized friend hurls
his body at the floor, and repeatedly slams his little fists down or
grabs your leg rendering you immobile until you succumb to his
unreasonable demand.
What parent of a toddler has not feared a
trip to the supermarket scheduled just a bit too close to nap time? Who
among us has not ducked out of the way as some object that has no
business flying is hurled in our direction? I’m on my third toddler, and
I seemed to have learned relatively no effective strategies for coping
with the most difficult moments with these most difficult of God’s
creatures. But I do believe my sister in law, unwittingly, may have
changed all that the other day, while playing with my young charge.
Namaste. She actually had my little guy- the tiny terror– doing yoga
with her.
Downward Dog, table top, child’s pose, Jesse was engaged in all. She
even had him sitting cross legged (“criss cross apple sauce” she called
it) doing the breathing with his small hands clasped together against
his chest. It was quite impressive and adorable to see his two year old
self, diaper peeking out from his jeans, contorted in my favorite yoga
positions, and even cuter to watch him repeat the breaths and bow his
head toward his Auntie.
So as I watched his happy face I had an epiphany. I do yoga for all the
physical and emotional benefits it allows me. Those fifteen minutes
after yoga class, nothing can bother me. House on Fire? Namaste.
Babysitter cancelling for the big night out? Namaste. Snarky eight year
old? Whiny five year old? Cranky two year old? Grouchy husband who had
to stay with kids while I went to yoga? Namaste, one and all! Now, if it
has this effect on me, it should have the same effect on Jesse.
6 AM:
Jesse: Mommy, I want cookie.
Me: No, it’s too early for a cookie.
Jesse: (getting louder): But I want cookie! (This is his answer to
everything- I want, therefore I should have- all very logical in his
mind)
Me: Shhh, everyone is sleeping. (I point upstairs) You can’t have a
cookie. (At this point I often consider breaking down- what’s a little
early morning sugar compared to a full blown tantrum or my own nervous
breakdown?)
Jesse: (runs over to the pantry to take cookie anyway) Jesse get cookie!
Me: Namaste Jesse. Let’s do yoga underneath the rising sun! Quick grab
your mat and let’s get outside. Breathe. Let’s get into child’s pose.
Downward dog. Up into warrior one.
Jesse: Namaste
Early morning sugar fest crisis averted.
Sometime later that day when the silence is deafening…
Me: Jesse where are you? (I broke the simplest of all toddler
rules—never let them out of your sight)
Jesse: I up here mommy. I in the bathroom.
Me: (breaking the sound barrier to get upstairs and being greeted by my
son perched atop the bathroom counter with some sort of lotion spread
all over his clothes and exposed extremities) Jesse you need to get you
down from there. (I try to make sure my tone of voice is even and does
not belie the five alarm fire bell going through my head. Did he swallow
the lotion? Do I need to call poison control? How the hell did he manage
to get up there in the first place?)
Jesse: But I don’t want to get down. (Translation: It took a lot for me
to get up here, lady and if you think I am getting down because you
asked, or you decided you are in charge around here, forget it!)
Me: I understand you don’t want to get down, but it is dangerous to be
up there. Jesse, Mommy is going to take you down, and we are going to
take a bath. You need to get the lotion off.
Jesse: No! (A toddler’s favorite word, particularly if it is screeched)
No Bath! I need lotion. Like Mommy. (So now it’s my fault. A little
moisturizer to keep my wrinkles at bay, and he thinks he needs to adopt
my beauty regimen, but with A&D ointment and Neosporin.) I not come
down! (Stomping feet has commenced as he gets dangerously close to the
sink, where I imagine one wrong step and he will fall in, necessitating
a trip to the emergency room)
Me: Namaste, Jesse. Come down and we will do our breathing, okay? (I
approach gingerly, already taking breaths, and grab Jesse off of the
countertop) Take child’s pose Jesse. Take a deep cleansing breath.
Exhale. Good. When you are ready, we will meet in downward dog. Don’t
forget to breathe, Jesse. Good. Wouldn’t it be nice to do your yoga in
the bath, now?
Jesse: No! No bath! Jesse do yoga! Jesse breathe! Mommy breathe!
So if yoga is not the answer, what is? I have about eighteen months left
in captivity of a toddler to figure it out. Maybe I should have just
given him the cookie in the first place.
© Copyright
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The
Last R.N.
By
Susan M., Oregon
A meeting was held on the second floor,
On how to cut the costs just a little bit more,
Jack from accounting spoke about waste,
The R.N.s, he said, should be fired with haste,
No one will miss them, he said with a smile,
I have here the best of the personnel file,
Joe from laundry can give all the baths,
And Ed from pluming can change all the caths,
Sue from billing can give all the meds,
And Mack from maintenance can make all the beds,
Yes, they agreed, we'll save enough cash,
To throw an extravagant holiday bash,
A few months later while counting the money,
Jack laughed to himself as if it were funny,
We did it, he said, we're now in the black,
The nurses are gone and they'll never be back,
But wait, cried the voice of an overworked aid,
Somewhere in the plan a mistake has been made,
I've searched every wheelchair and hospital bed,
And every last patient, it seems is now dead.
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The
Peek
By
Tamara P.,
Washington
A few years back, a dear friend of mine
was feeling quite sad because the romance and intimacy she had once
shared with her husband had all but disappeared since the arrival of
their first child. The bouquets and moonlit walks that had always filled
earlier days were now replaced by diaper bags and sleepless nights. She
lamented spending many such nights yearning for the past and ultimately
made a promise to herself. Determined to rekindle the flame in her
marriage, she vowed to act on every romantic impulse or inspiration that
came her way. Her first opportunity presented itself a few days later
during what began as a rather ordinary family trip. The daring display
that transpired was so outrageous she and her husband would never forget
it.
At the time, the family was living in Colorado so one balmy summer
morning they decided to take a daytrip up Pikes Peak. Upon reaching the
top and after admiring the view, they made their way into the visitor’s
center along with dozens of other tourists. Inside the lobby but just
outside the gift shop, my friend spied a photo booth off to one side.
She chuckled at the memory of sitting in several such photo booths with
her husband as they posed for silly photos together during their
courtship. She was just about to point it out to him when inspiration
struck. She rapidly devised a plan to present her husband with surprise
photos of herself blowing kisses or whatever expression of love may
occur to her during the “photo shoot.” She felt giddy while discreetly
excusing herself as her husband strolled easily into the gift shop with
the baby, completely oblivious to her plan. She was certain that he had
not even noticed the photo booth. The stage was set.
Once inside the photo booth, my friend felt even more inspired. It may
have been the mountain air or perhaps the white knuckle drive to the top
of the peak but whatever the reason, she decided to be daring. After
brief consideration and an attempt to more securely close the curtains,
she took a deep breath and then removed both her shirt and her bra.
Scanning her own reflection in the glass in front of her, she decided to
adjust her hair and put on some lipstick. She was shaking with the
thrill of her secret endeavor. She was confident that the risqué photos
would astonish and delight her husband, sparking conversation at the
very least.
Just as she was about to start the camera, she heard her
husband’s voice outside the booth. “Honey, we need to leave now.”
Slightly annoyed that he had discovered her there and determined to
finish the deed, she tried to brush him off. “Just a minute.” she called
back through the thick curtain. In a more authoritative tone, she heard
his voice again “No. We have to leave right now.” Thoroughly
disappointed and a little worried about the reason for his persistence
she dressed and then stepped out of the booth. Upon emerging from the
booth, she searched his face but he did not offer any explanation. He
simply took her hand, leading her directly to the car where they made a
quick departure.
As soon as they exited the parking lot, he began to explain. He told her
that shortly after she left the gift shop, a commotion developed in the
lobby. Curious, he joined the crowd and made his way through to see what
was drawing so much attention. As heads moved and people shifted he
began to notice a large video screen placed prominently in the lobby of
visitor’s center. On the screen, he was surprised to see a
larger-than-life image of his wife sitting topless in a small, dark
room. He was alarmed that she seemed so completely at ease as she fixed
her hair and applied lipstick. “That’s when I realized what must be
happening and went to find you.” he explained.
Confused at first, my
friend slowly began to realize that the photo booth had a video link to
the big screen in the lobby so other visitors could be entertained by
the antics of photo booth customers during photo sessions. Gasping, my
friend said, “I was just trying to do something to surprise you.” At
that, her husband flashed his warmest smile and as they both burst out
laughing, he said affectionately, “That you did my dear!”
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We're
Learning CURSIVE Writing...
By
Debbie Patrick,
Pennsylvania
Yesterday was the last full day of school
here in Oregon. The second grade classes went up to the third grade wing
to visit the third/fourth grade classrooms.
One of the third grade teachers gave a wonderful speech about what the
kids could expect in third grade.
"Boys and girls, you will learn a LOT about cursive writing in third
grade.”
A second grader turned to his friend and said, “WOW! I can’t WAIT to
learn how to write all those bad words!!”
And with that, they gave each other a HUGE high five....
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A
Laundress's Buried Treasure
By
Kelly Smith,
New York
Mothers everywhere can attest to the fact
that laundry is a mind-numbing, labor intensive, necessary job. Between
trying to get the whitest whites and keeping colors bright, a mother
could lose her marbles! And if you have kids, well, fuggedaboutit!!!
When my kids were little, I did laundry constantly. Between the spit up,
poop, food and drool, miss one load and you’re a goner. It’s not the act
itself that takes so much out of me, it’s the duration of the job and
kids bring a whole new dimension to the laundry process.
It’s not so much the clothing, although I learned never to buy our kids
white anything, it’s the treasure trove of items that I have washed and
dried, and continue to wash and dry, in any given load.
Our thirteen year old, Angst, isn’t too bad about the stuff he leaves in
his pockets. Candy wrappers, bits of papers and the odd tissue are
usually what I find. Regrettably, I usually only find them when I open
the dryer and a cloud of bits of paper, minute pieces of tissue and
Downey soft candy wrappers come tumbling out.
No, the real culprit is our youngest son, Forgetful. From his laundry I
have washed: food, crayons, pencils, pens, rocks, little plastic toy
men, and enough Lego’s to build the Empire State Building.
I remember fondly the day I threw a load of Forgetful’s wash into the
dryer, started it up and about five minutes later heard a “Slam! Slam!
noise coming from said dryer. Thinking something was going horribly
wrong with the dryer, I raced downstairs, flung the door open and…no
sound. I reached in, felt around and my hand closed on a suspicious
bulge in some jeans. I pulled them out and discovered a rock
approximately the size of an ostrich egg in the pocket. How I missed
this during the prep phase I do not know.
Forgetful and I have actually started placing bets on how long it will
be before I wash the latest little toy that he’s acquired. One day he
came home with a cool pen from his school supply store. After agreeing
that it was indeed cool, I asked him how long he thought it would be
before I washed it. After thinking for a minute he replied “Probably two
days,” and went outside to play. It was three.
I have found a small perk in doing laundry. I find money in the washer
and dryer. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I’m the one waiting for
the rinse cycle, any money I find is totally mine.
Anyway, there have been times I’ve been able to supplement the amount of
money I have in my wallet with the money the dryer coughs up. Take the
90 degree day I could not bear the thought of cooking and I was short
about $3.50 for the pizza man. I ran downstairs and Ta-Da! The dryer
coughed up $3.75! Of course, the pizza delivery guy was not too
impressed with a twenty-five cent tip. Picture an incredibly disgusted
look, tires laying rubber and a finger not-so-discreetly flung out the
car window as he peeled out of the driveway. Needless to say we don’t
order from that place anymore.
Another phenomenon anyone who does laundry as a second job is familiar
with is the missing sock phenomenon. It really is true that socks
disappear in the laundry. It wouldn’t be so bad if both socks
disappeared but why only one?? And where do they go? Do they get up and
walk away? Do they hide and make their get-away while my back is turned?
I imagine a parallel universe somewhere where all the single socks are.
They sit around having cocktails, regaling each other with stories about
us poor laundresses pawing through our wash loads in a frenzy wondering
why we put six pairs of socks in the washer but only six singles came
out. I don’t get that upset anymore because I came up with a perfect
solution and you’re welcome to use it. I add the washed and dried single
socks to the rest of the folded wash and figure that eventually there
will be enough single socks to make up pairs of socks.
My saving grace is that, to my knowledge, I have never washed and/or
dried a live animal. Hmm…I have spent way too much time thinking about
this. Maybe the bleach is getting to me.
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The
Perfect Smile
By
Ellie Spence,
California
Ever since I was a child, I wanted my own
set of false teeth. Even before my permanent molars arrived, I suffered
drillings and fillings on my teeth, which seemed to disintegrate as soon
as they emerged above the gum line. How much easier, I thought, to have
removable teeth that I could put in a container like Aunt Tess did. When
she spent the night in the twin bed in my room, I was comforted to see
her disconnected smile beaming at me from the glass on the night stand.
Throughout the years, I’ve provided fodder for the tooth fairy as my
teeth crumbled, rotted or broke. I had my front teeth capped while I was
still in my 30’s when the enamel started to wear off, causing blights
that looked like small liver spots. About ten years later, I received
the happy news that it was time to replace my missing teeth with a
bridge.
I loved my bridgework. I never had to worry about a small flag of
spinach salad waving from my front teeth, since I could hose off my
choppers after every meal. Sometimes, when the clasps became loose, my
fake teeth would rise out of my mouth, adhering to whatever food I was
eating, such as corn on the cob (on the top) or a piece of caramel candy
(on the bottom); however, this was a small price to pay for a perfect
smile.
For the past twenty years Dr. Armstrong has been my judge as well as my
dentist. Every time he looked at my eroding molars he would sigh and
say, “You couldn’t possibly be flossing your teeth.”
When I broke a cap on my front tooth while eating a frozen Milky Way,
his comment was, “Well, with your teeth, you shouldn’t be eating things
like that anyway.” Since I thrive on guilt, his statements always
furnished me with a fresh supply.
Several years ago, Dr. Armstrong declared that trying to save the few
upper teeth I had left was a hopeless task. As a result, fourteen
porcelain pearls embedded in a substance the color of bubble gum cover
my whole upper palate.
I’ve never been happier. Thanks to my dentures, I can change my identity
at will. In fact, I’m already planning next year’s Halloween costume.
Experimenting in the mirror after I docked my teeth for the night, I
discovered that I can almost touch the bottom of my nose with my lower
lip. All I need is a pipe and a sailor suit to become a classic Popeye.
Although every bridge wearer attending a dinner party dreads the rye
bread seed that sneaks up between the teeth and gums causing
excruciating pain, this was not a problem for me once I had full upper
dentures. Since they slid out much more smoothly than partials, I became
a master of the sleigh-of-hand required to put my napkin to my lips,
slip out my teeth, remove the offending seed, replace my choppers, and
smile comfortably at my fellow dinner guests.
I am involved in an amateur theater group; however, it is difficult for
me to find a role appropriate to my age. I can hardly wait to remove my
teeth so that I can play a crone in Zorba the Greek. I am already
rehearsing in my mind the scene where I become a toothless hag who
invades the death bed of a dying woman, hoping to carry away her
treasures. I can imagine myself descending like a raven as I flap my
voluminous black sleeves. Hysterical cackles fly from my mouth as I
display my naked, pink gums.
One of the most exciting things about having dentures is the fact that
they can be a source of identification. On the underside of my
chopper’s, “spence.e” is imprinted in tiny blue letters. Dr. Armstrong
told me that this is required by law, since dental records are an
important key in identifying missing persons. Therefore, should I be a
passenger on an airline that goes down in the Pacific Ocean, I must
remember to keep my mouth tightly shut as I zoom to my death, lest my
teeth, loosened from their mooring by the impact, float to the shore of
some tropical island, leaving me forever unidentified.
My dentures have become by best friends. I never leave home unless they
accompany me. Without them, I would be reduced to soaking my toast in
milk in order to eat it. Because they are so much a part of me, removing
my choppers at night becomes a little like cutting out my heart.
However, I am comforted by the fact that they bathe each night in their
own little white plastic tub, floating in an Aegean-blue water solution
.
As I drift into toothless slumber, I like to imagine that my dentures
are taking nocturnal dream trips to the Greek islands biting into
succulent slices of spinakoptica or absorbing the creosote taste of
ouzo.
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Philpott
Dietary Clinic
By
Jerrel Swingle,
Missouri
PHILPOTT DIETARY CLINIC
Dr. Philip Philpott, MD, Director
PROTOCOL: Philpott’s Experimental Diet Plan
CASE STUDY NO. 1:
Subject: R. S.
Gender: Female
Age: 35
Height: 5’2”
Weight: 192 lbs.
Prior Medical History: History is unremarkable except for morbid
obesity.
(See attachments.)
Initial examination indicates present physical condition within
acceptable parameters for application of diet protocol.
APRIL 1
Subject’s initial visit. Asked her how she had heard of this program.
Reminded me that her husband is a member of my research team and that we
had met at a cocktail party two weeks ago. Oh. Subject emotionally
distraught, near tears. Said she had gained so much weight over the past
year or so that her husband was ignoring her physically, although
professing continuing affection. Thought their marital relationship had
deteriorated to an emotional low and blamed it on her obesity. Subject
sobbing. Had to remind her that I’m not that Dr. Phil.
Explained the experimental nature of the protocol and that there was no
guarantee of success. Subject agrees to participate anyway. Says she is
desperate, promises not to sue. Agrees to begin program this afternoon
and will report back in one week for evaluation.
APRIL 8
R.S. reports to my office on time and in a somewhat better state of
mind. Weigh-in shows a net weight loss of 15 lbs. Thorough examination
indicates normal body
functions not affected. Subject says that the only unusual symptom
occurs when her husband enters her room. Says she gets tingly all over.
Cannot determine whether symptom is due to diet regimen or suppressed
libido.
APRIL 15
Subject has lost another 20 lbs. and still retains complete physical
integrity. However, she complains of unusual symptoms whenever in close
contact with husband. Says he kissed her on the cheek and her face began
swelling. Held hands with him and noticed appearance of an itchy rash on
her skin. Has had to tell him to keep his hands to himself. She seems to
be developing symptoms of depression although she is pleased with the
improvement in her appearance and general health.
APRIL 22
Subject reports for weekly examination in a very disturbed emotional
state. She has lost another 19 lbs. but complains that her husband
slapped her bottom this morning, being playful, and it has stung and
burned ever since. An examination by my colleague, Dr. Erma Makepeace,
confirms that there is indeed a large severe red rash on subject’s left
buttock in the shape of a human hand. Prescribe application of a
medicated dermal lotion as needed.
APRIL 29
Dietary protocol appears to be working beyond expectations. R.S. has
reduced weight by another 20 lbs. and has elicited very positive
comments from some of my younger male colleagues, all agreeing that she
is now “hot.” Such judgments are, of course, subjective and not
clinically acceptable as science.
She has, however, become an emotional wreck, crying openly during our
weekly evaluation. Explains that her husband has become a monster at
home due to the fact that (1) he can’t touch her without causing
unsightly skin eruptions, and (2) she has to go shopping almost every
day for a new wardrobe due to her weight loss. It appears obvious that
she has developed a serious allergy to her husband, and is plunging into
debt due to manic shopping sprees, neither condition, in my judgment,
conducive to domestic harmony.
MAY 6
R.S. and her husband appear in my office at her regular appointment
time. He is wearing surgical gloves and she is covered in winter
clothing. He is extremely angry, indeed furious. Threatens my well-being
and informs me that he is taking her off the diet whether I like it or
not. Says that he would rather have a fat little wife than a sexpot he
can’t touch. He loudly suggests what I can do with my diet. I don’t
think it is physically feasible, but may have to undertake a new study.
STUDY CONCLUSION AND SUMMATION:
Diet protocol developed by this office exceeds all expectations, but
appears to cause unfortunate side effects. Therefore, in the national
interest, will not allow it to move into the commercial market.
Dr. Philip Philpott, Director
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