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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August/September 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
August/
September 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Doll-Sized Economic Indicators
By Laura Bridgwater, Colorado
I was driving in my suburban neighborhood recently when I noticed some
red American Girl doll boxes in a few curbside recycling bins.
Apparently these wildly popular 18” inch dolls are continuing to sell in
this recession—even with their $100 price tags.
My two daughters play with these dolls and read their
historically-accurate books. My seven-year-old favors Kit Kittredge, the
plucky 1930s girl. When the girls play with Kit, they play a game they
made up called Let’s Pretend It’s the Great Depression.
It goes like this. I play Kit’s mother, Mrs. Kittredge, which is an
improvement over my usual role of Evil Stepmother. In imitating Mrs.
K.’s Depression-era survival tactics, I cut each slice of toast into
four triangles. This makes the bread look more bountiful on the plate. I
haven’t, however, figured out how to sew dresses out of chicken feed
bags.
In another scenario, when the Kittredge family takes in boarders to make
ends meet, Kit relinquishes her bedroom and moves into the attic. Her
new hang out has dormer windows and space for her twin bed, a desk, and
her trusty typewriter.
Our attic is not like Kit’s walk-in suite. It’s an insulation-filled
crawl space. We enter it through the ceiling in one of the closets. This
stumps my seven-year-old. Every so often she asks, “If we have to take
in boarders, will I have to move there?”
I assure her that she’d bunk with her sister or sleep in the basement
before relocating under the eaves.
But I have been thinking about her question these days with the state of
the economy. What can we do to modernize this game of pretending it’s
the Great Depression in the event that one day it’s no longer a game?
Now that our city council has approved a zoning amendment allowing urban
homeowners to keep six chickens in their backyard, we could sell eggs
like Kit. Instead of building our nest egg with a 401(k), we could
actually build a nest for our eggs.
We could plant a garden like Kit’s mother, but I gave up gardening a few
summers back at the peak of the West Nile virus.
Hoarding was popular during the last Depression, but I can’t remember
what people squirreled away. Was it money and milk? Lipstick and
pantyhose? Then again, we’re the outdoorsy types. Does that mean that
the new hoardables will be T-bills and microbrews? Or Chapstick and wool
socks?
But that’s all I can think of. Besides living vicariously through Kit
and recalling a story of my grandmother buying eggs one at a time, I
don’t have a framework of experience for the current state of affairs.
And if I don’t have a reference point, our children certainly don’t,
which is why this generation of girls needs a financially savvy role
model. As Kit is reminding us, history repeats itself.
So I have a request for Mattel, the company that makes American Girl
dolls and releases a new one each year. I would like the 2010 doll to
come with a budget, a savings account, and an economic stimulus in the
form of a $50 coupon. She could be named Penny Pincher or Polly Profit
and she could take a stand on universal health care and No Child Left
Behind in the Attic.
I’m sure my kids will agree that it is our patriotic duty to buy a new
toy even though I don’t understand how spending is going to get us out
of this mess. Maybe Penny or Polly will be able to explain it.
After our new purchase arrives, we’ll recycle the red box because as
long as the recycling bin is full, the economy can’t be that bad, right?
It’s when the bins are empty that we’ll know we need to build a chicken
run.
In the meantime, I’m mentally rearranging the furniture in the
basement—just don’t tell my seven-year-old.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
DMV: A Testimonial
By Jordan Butler, Maryland
Of all the requisite hells in this world, there is nothing quite like a
trip to Dante’s lowest level: the DMV. Dental examinations, traffic
court appearances and exploratory medical procedures with the dreaded
‘scopy’ suffix are all slight inconveniences when compared to the DMV.
There are certainties: surly dispositions, long lines, arguments. There
are uncertainties: Will I make someone cry? Will someone make me cry?
The sad thing about my most recent visit is that it was entirely
avoidable. I was the victim of the most ubiquitous of all afflictions:
procrastination. I’ve realized that the trouble with procrastination is
that somewhere along the way it morphs into negligence—at least in the
eyes of Johnny Law.
You see, I let my license expire—by over a year. When this happens in
Maryland, one’s required to take all of the tests again.
My companion—and I use that term loosely because I was required by law
to have a companion—was my seventeen-year-old sister.
My sister’s role—as a legally, licensed driver—was to drive my car to
the starting point of the driving course (if I passed the written exam)
and wait there until the examiner is ready to administer the test, at
which time my sis will relinquish the driver’s seat—of my @#$%ing
car—where I will begin the driving segment.
The trouble with the initial queue is that you are not waiting to get on
a roller-coaster, see a movie or anything else remotely rewarding;
you’re waiting—to wait.
While in line, a sheepish woman comes up to my sister and me and says
that she was in line but had to use the restroom. I swear the look in
her eyes was that of sheer terror as she waited for a response from the
jury. She suspected that if we thought her a liar and trying to cut in
line, the entire group would inflict grievous bodily harm upon her—which
was accurate.
While in line, I hear a parent whisper in their son’s ear, “This is why
you don’t want the government to run healthcare.” Everyone is miserable:
patrons, workers, companions—save for my sister who can’t stop giggling.
I can’t really blame her though. As with most comedy, the situation is
hilarious—unless you’re the one in the pickle.
After they examine the five forms of paperwork that proved my identity,
I was granted access to the waiting room.
The worst part of this leg is that I am allowed to contemplate the fact
that I might fail. If I do fail it will follow me around the rest of my
life. It will be brought up at every social gathering: college roommates
spending the night in the drunk-tank, a cousin who passed-out at his own
wedding, Jordan failing his driver’s test at the age of… Every now and
then my state of miserable meditation is broken by screams coming from
an irate patron. After all, it was only a matter of time.
Finally, three hours in, my number is called. When I tell the lady why I
am there she gives me a look of disgust, a look that only mothers give
when they're “not mad but just disappointed.” I realize that I have no
good excuse to offer and contemplate telling her I was in the Army,
thus, out of the country for two years. Who wouldn’t find that
sympathetic? I realize that would be sinking to a new level and don’t
want to mess with karma—that and I had no paperwork to corroborate my
story.
Luckily, I pass the written test with flying colors and am ready for the
driving exam.
I have my licensed driver—who’s still grinning—pull my car around to the
designated spot. We wait in line as a sixteen-year-old drives the course
with impeccable precision. Punk.
It is here that I meet a mythical creature. The examiner is one of the
most pleasant people I have ever met. I have heard rumors of their
existence but have never come across them. Perhaps they roam in far off
lands with the Yeti and the unicorn.
I find her disposition relaxing and it allows me to ace the course. My
sister and I go back inside where we wait some more and I am issued a
legal license. After this my sister takes her rightful spot—in the
passenger seat—and we drive off into the sunset.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Laundryville
... Where Life Lessons Are Free
By Vicky DeCoster, Nebraska
Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of coin after coin dropping
into a silver tray. I jerked awake expecting to find myself in a Las
Vegas casino, sitting next to a gray-haired lady with an unfiltered
cigarette dangling from her mouth who just happened to have a lucky
streak on the slot machine I had just left, but then I remembered … I
wasn’t anywhere that exciting. I slowly pushed myself up back into a
sitting position in the hard chair, wiped the drool off my chin, and
stared at my clothes as they spun round and round in a commercial
washer. The television blared in the background. Ah yes, just another
day in the Laundromat.
Lately I have been forced to utilize the services of my local
self-service Laundromat while I wait for a massive cleanup of my house
after my own washing machine dumped 50 gallons of water into my kitchen.
As I continue to wait for the repairs, I have been hauling load after
load of clothes into an establishment where others just like me must
also endure the humiliation of folding their underpants in front of
total strangers.
It was never more evident that I am a novice at Laundromat etiquette,
its unspoken rules, and secret tricks as it was the first day I took my
wash to Laundryville, a clean, no-frills establishment located just a
few minutes from my house. I desperately tried to look like I knew what
I was doing as I plunked quarter after quarter into the standard washing
machines, sorted my clothes, and poured laundry detergent—all while
secretly watching the other patrons like I was running my own covert CIA
operation. As each minute passed, it was becoming more obvious that
these regular Laundromat patrons were the experts and I was the nerdy
college intern who was majoring in Laundry and minoring in Stupidity,
but despite my palpable weaknesses, still needed a summer job. I looked
down at the brown paper that had once held my own stack of quarters and
gasped. All the quarters were gone and I hadn’t even dried my clothes
yet.
The lady who had just changed a ten for 40 quarters started plunking
them one-by-one into six dryers filled with her own clothes. She turned
to me and smiled as she provided advice that thankfully didn’t cost me
any more quarters, “Next time, you might want to try one of those larger
commercial washers,” she whispered, “You can wash four loads for only
$3.25.”
“Bless you,” I said as I bowed my head to her as if she were Laundromat
royalty. I walked over to the change machine and fed it a five dollar
bill. “Come on!” I yelled. “Mama needs a new pair of shoes!” Quarters
flew out of the machine. I jumped up and down and clapped my hands.
“Jackpot!” I shouted as I looked around. No one looked in my direction.
I sighed. I gathered my quarters and moved my unmentionables and clothes
from the washing machines to the dryers.
I squinted as I stared at the price to dry one load. “50 cents for 7
minutes?” I muttered, “What kind of racket is this?” I shoved two
quarters in a dryer, pushed start, and waited for the miracle. It didn’t
happen. Seven minutes seemed like five and in reality it was, because
three minutes of the seven were considered “cool down.” The queen of the
Laundromat smiled again at me and whispered in my ear, “It takes $1.25
to completely dry a load. Put all the quarters in at once and then sit
back and watch Judge Judy.”
“Can I vote for you in a General Election or something?” I asked,
“Because you are really smart!”
She grinned, “Been doing this a long time.” Without a second thought,
she folded her flowered panties in front of me while a bra hung off her
forearm and a baby doll nightie tumbled around in the dryer behind her.
In that moment, she became my hero for life.
My new washing machine was recently delivered and my life is back to
normal, but I’ll never forget what I learned at Laundryville.
It’s true that with every new experience comes a great memory because
now I can honestly say that I’ve learned to fold my underwear in front
of total strangers while watching Judge Judy. And that memory was
definitely worth all those rolls of quarters.
www.wackywomanhood.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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A
Dinosaur Named Who?
By Sue Anna Langenberg,
Illinois
A friend admitted that she had way too
much time at an airport recently. She had done her exercise walk and had
removed her terrorist gear from her eye shadow brush. So she moseyed
around to look in the shops with two “Ps” and an “E,” or quaint,
high-end shoppes.
It so happens that airports know when unsuspecting hags might have time
to spare, so they place shoppes in strategic locations, like everywhere.
She had already bought me a charming purse, probably because she was
embarrassed to be seen at the opera with me carrying denim. Or another
one that collected cat hair that made everyone sneeze within a square
mile.
So she handed me a cute little white box when I picked her up from the
bus. It was a charming snow globe, not just any snow globe, one that had
the famous dinosaur named Sue.
Funny, I shook it and confetti from my shredder swirled in a blizzard of
pieces of my life, mostly bills. Once settled, I thought that I was
looking in the mirror. How clever of her to bring me something where I
resembled the famous largest and heaviest dinosaur unearthed on record.
The face glared at me with a row of teeth that had obviously been
flossed and brushed with great care. The mouth was completely open to
see such, but then it was probably always open in her time to yak about
the latest gossip concerning a sister-in-law’s Tyrannosaurus brother
whose sharp-toothed mother stomped off over a cliff after some other
saurus-in-law who wouldn’t stop…I guess dinosaurs had dysfunctional
families, also.
Her bones bore traces of aspirin or anti-inflammatory medication to ease
the pain of hillside exercise rituals, something that female dinosaurs
had to do to keep their tails svelte, also to keep their mates home from
roaming the countryside looking for like dinosaurs with lipstick and
flossed teeth.
The dinosaur was named after discoverer Sue, though no one actually
knows whether male or female. My marvelous little snow globe tells me
that she is obviously a female because her hips are large enough to
score a basketball hoop in one shot. With several hundred over-sized
eggs to process, her varicose veins still remain, at least in my snow
globe.
I peered into her face and, sure enough, there were several chins and
gray wrinkles. She must have already gone into dinosauri-pause with the
accompanying hot flashes to heat up an entire hillside with her
fire-breathing discomfort. It looks to me like she was crabby on a
regular basis, especially when a bone-scratching male dinosaur entered
the scene. Her lengthy tail seems extraordinary, like maybe she flipped
it around to warn others of her dinosauri-pause moods.
I was naturally inspired to look up this dinosaur named Sue to see how
her life was from day to day. My first discovery was that she
procrastinated most of her existence. Paleontologists would dispute this
but certain dinosaurs, especially the ones in snow globes, developed a
few words. One was “later” when it came to cleaning the saurus dwelling.
She complained bitterly about having to do everything while all the male
did was pick his teeth with tree branches.
She also seemed to have thrived in ages before luxurious digs with all
the creature comforts a dinosaur could want, like state-of-the-art
carnivorous kitchen tools to make instant meals fit for a queen.
My snow globe, however, indicates that she nested in a lap of comfort
with expensive wine, good books and flowers to admire while saying,
“later,” to responsible tasks.
www.thewritehag.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Spray
Bottles: Punishing Cats Since 1947
By
Weston Locher,
Florida
My girlfriend has a secret weapon in the
never-ending battle with our cats. It’s not catnip, it’s not a special
toy, and it’s not a harsh verbal projection that hits a specific
frequency in their hearing range causing them pain. It’s a simple spray
bottle.
As of late, the amount of plastic spray bottles in our apartment has
begun to rival the number of drinking glasses available. It’s not that
we have decided to take up collecting them as an offbeat hobby, or are
anticipating a world shortage, but rather we have been drafted as
soldiers in a war against our cats.
Lately, in addition to doing anything in their power to open closed
doors, one of the cats has also made it very clear that she despises the
Venetian window blinds. She likes to paw them out of the way so that she
can see out the outside world and it makes a large racket similar to
that of a drunk two year old wielding a chainsaw in a hen house. As with
most bad feline habits, her disdain is usually at its worst while we are
trying to sleep. It’s gotten to the point where as soon as the cat
starts to fuss with the window, my girlfriend, regardless of how deep
into her slumber she is, will sit up, grab the spray bottle and unleash
on the cat as if she were firing an AK-47. This sends the beast into a
rampage and she darts into the living room, destroying anything in her
path.
A few mornings ago I awoke for an early shift at work and noticed more
light than usual pouring in through the window. I pulled back the
curtain and was greeted by a set of maimed blinds. The slats were bent
and broken so I went about meagerly attempting to fix them. Unbeknownst
to me, the sound I generated while trying to situate them created a
noise eerily similar to that of the cat trying to paw its way to
freedom. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shape rise up from the bed
and before I knew it, a barrage of spray bottle fire was raining down
upon me.
In between ducking for cover and experiencing Vietnam-esque flashbacks
of water gun fights with my father, I realized how viable a weapon the
spray bottle truly was and as I rampaged through my home destroying
anything in my path I knew how the cat felt. There’s something
enlightening about an ice-cold spear striking you repeatedly that really
makes you consider all the things you’ve done wrong in your life.
I found myself hiding out under the coffee table until things calmed
down. The cat was also taking shelter there and as we made eye contact
she glared at me as if to say “Yeah, that pretty much sucks, huh?” I
returned to the bedroom in hopes of seeking an apology from the
girlfriend but found her fast asleep, likely unaware of the events which
had just occurred.
www.therandomgambit.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Cube
Farm Fever
By
Shane McAfee,
New York
Over the last 9 years, I have worked one
type of job or another that involved sitting at a desk within a cubicle.
For those who have never had to work indoors for the last 30 some odd
years, allow me to explain the cubicle. Most rooms in your house have
four sturdy walls and a door separating it from other rooms in the house
(as well as a ceiling). When you went to school, the principal's office
had four walls, a ceiling, and a door (don't even TRY to pretend you've
never been there). Cubicles are very similar to this except there are
only (at most) three walls, no door, and no ceiling. These walls are
also only about 2 inches thick. This was corporate America's way of
telling the employee that they do not deserve the investment of a
private office (neither does your boss). If you happened to be located
against a wall (i.e. an actual wall made of concrete, or stucco, or
whatever), the company can save even more money by providing one less
wall. Sometimes, there is no actual wall and the only thing separating
you from your co-workers is less than a foot of space.
This wonderful labyrinthine layout has lead to a new term of corporate
jargon: cube farm. This derives from the fact that the overhead layout
of the average company closely resembles that of an ant farm. I can see
the similarities between the two entities. Both contain a network of
workers doing their respective jobs in their respective area. The only
major difference is that I never have to worry about King Kong picking
up the building and shaking it.
However, life in the cube farm can also lead to a potentially critical
condition: Cube Farm Fever. Cube Farm Fever (or CFF) is brought on by
the fact that the relatively thin but sturdy cubicle walls create the
illusion of a separate work space. For example, I work for a company
that provides a wide variety of services to other companies. This means
you can stand in the aisle, turn your head from left to right at 18°
intervals and hear the following conversations:
"Thank you for calling StaticPhone Mobile. Can I get you started on a 7
year mobile phone contract today?"
"No, sir. You CANNOT give your computer better memory by coating it with
Gingko Biloba.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. We're taking a poll today. We'd like your
opinion on the President's proposed Fiber Stimulus Plan which provides
tax credits for adding shredded wheat to your diet."
"….and for signing up with RisqPul Insurance today, we'll send you a
free CD of the "Flaming DoorKnockers: Greatest Hits" which comes with
three free aromatherapy candles"
"Yes, according to the company dress code, the necktie should be no
higher (or lower) than 1 inch above the belt line. You'll have to clock
out and adjust your tie in the men's room"
These are all in addition to the phone call you are trying to conduct
with your customer while your co-workers are discussing the latest and
greatest way to clear Level 27 of the latest and greatest computer role
playing game. Symptoms of CFF include: a constant rubbing of the temples
and forehead, shaking of the head with the eyes closed, and breathing
through the teeth while the eyes are as big as the tires of a monster
truck.
The onset of CFF can be prevented by using a portable media player to
isolate yourself from outside noise or getting up and walking away from
the work area for two or three minutes every two hour (company policies
usually prohibit doing this for any longer than two or three minutes).
Failing to take these steps can result in a craving for extreme
isolation and repeated viewings of "Office Space".
Recently, I was working in my cubicle. I overheard a one-sided phone
conversation taking place on the other side of the wall. The lady on the
other side of the wall seemed to be having a normal conversation with a
customer. At some point the customer on the phone said something
hilariously funny. This caused the customer service representative to
laugh loudly. This wasn't so bad except that every four beats of
laughter was punctuated by a horrendous snort. This woman snorted so
loudly I thought she was going to pork loin through her nose. Then, just
as it seemed she had caught her breath and stopped, she started the
laugh 'n' snort shuffle again: "tee hee hee tee hee hee tee hee hee
SNORT." I started to find myself rubbing my temple and shaking my head
with my eyes closed. I looked at my watch and was rescued with relief.
It was quittin' time. I got up and clocked out. I also decided to hold
off on watching "Office Space" again.
http://bdgjm.blogspot.com
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But
Wait! There's More!!
By
Rose Mula,
Massachusetts
Okay, that’s it. My TV has to go. I can’t
afford to keep it. No, it’s not guzzling too much electricity. But
whenever I turn it on, an insidious infomercial is blaring; and unless
I’m suddenly struck deaf and blind, odds are it’s going to cost me—big
time. Sure enough, though I have vowed countless times never to watch
another persuasive product promo, I’m hooked before I can change the
channel.
For one thing, who can resist that featherweight vacuum cleaner that
sucks up everything from a grain of rice to handfuls of Fido’s fur
embedded in the fibers, with no effort whatsoever by the lovely lass
demonstrating the sweeper? Look, she’s picking it up with one finger!
She’s smiling broadly, obviously enjoying herself. I envy her. When did
I ever have fun—and look gorgeous—while vacuuming? Never, that’s when.
Hmmm.…Maybe I should buy…No!I don’t need another vacuum cleaner! I’m
changing the channel! But now the sweeper is annihilating a mountain of
nuts and bolts. This I must see. Surely, it will choke on them and die…
…It doesn’t even hiccup. Could my vacuum do that? I don’t know, and why
does it matter? I’ve never spilled a bucket of nuts and bolts on my
rugs. I don’t have any nuts and bolts in my tool box. In fact, I don’t
even own a tool box. Still...
This is getting dangerous. I definitely should switch the channel.
Instead I watch, mesmerized, as the operator presses a button and the
handle of the sweeper bends and glides smoothly under beds, sofas, and
even two small children playing on the floor. Ooops! They’re spilling
their gooey, half-melted chocolates all over the rug! No problem. The
magic sweeper inhales, and the mess is gone!
I search frantically for my credit card as I start to dial the 800
number now flashing on the screen. I must order within the next twenty
minutes to also receive a small cordless hand vacuum cleaner absolutely
free! All I'll pay is additional shipping costs. I hesitate. I’m no
dummy. I realize the shipping fee is probably higher than the value of
the “free” vacuum.
Feeling very smart, I put my credit card away and pick up the remote to
turn off the TV—until I hear,
“BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!!”
If I’m one of the first 500 callers, in addition to the magic sweeper
and the cordless hand vac, I’ll also receive, at no additional charge
(except for shipping and handling) not one, but two cordless hand vacs—
“ONE FOR THOSE SMALL SPILLS AT HOME AND ONE FOR YOUR CAR!”
Great! My car is a mess. But I remember my vow not to succumb to TV
temptation. I won't do it! It feels good to be strong.
“AND THAT’S NOT ALL!”
The announcer interrupts my self-admiration.
“YOU’LL ALSO RECEIVE—ABSOLUTELY FREE!—A TWO-YEAR SUPPLY OF …”
I don’t even wait to hear the rest before I start dialing. A free
two-year supply of anything has got to be a deal! That’s right, I’m so
suckered in, I’ve forgotten about that shipping fee. Now, where did I
put my credit card…?
I’m such an easy target. Before I can turn off the TV, another beautiful
spokeswoman grabs me. She says she’s seventy years old. My hearing must
really be going. She looks seventeen. “You heard me!” she says, reading
my mind over the airwaves. “And I owe it all to this amazing, priceless
beauty cream that eradicates wrinkles overnight!”
Unfortunately, the “priceless” beauty cream isn’t. Actually, its cost is
astronomical (plus shipping and handling); but can you really put a
price on eternal youth? Besides, you can choose three easy payments!
“AND IF YOU PICK UP YOUR PHONE AND ORDER RIGHT NOW…”
Okay, so maybe I’m not so naïve as to believe the beauty cream pitch,
but what about all those wonderful exercise machines that will give me
the body of a super model without even breaking a sweat…the fabulous
cookware that will enable me to prepare gourmet meals before I can say
“Rachael Ray”…the keyboard (complete with simple instructions) that will
have the Carnegie Hall booking agents knocking down my door…the courses
in real estate that will bring Donald Trump to his knees, begging me to
choose him as my apprentice…
They all sound so good! This is bad. I need help. My TV is heavy. I
can’t toss it out the window by myself.
© Copyright
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How
To Get Ripped Off
By
Saralee Perel,
Massachusetts
I’ve allowed myself to become too
dependent on my husband, Bob. So last week I decided to be in charge of
buying new tires for our truck. A bit anxious, we went to a tire place.
I said, “Stay behind me. And don’t say anything unless I ask.”
A man came over who reminded me of a slime ball attorney I see on TV who
advertises that no matter what, he’ll get you all the money you deserve
whether your doctor did anything wrong or not.
“My name is Jim. Can I help you?”
A panic attack was beginning. I froze. Bob whispered, “Tell him what you
want.”
“Um, yes.” He was a nice looking guy who was bald. I pointed out the
window toward our truck, then looked at our tires, looked back at him
and blurted out, “You’re bald. NO! They’re bald! You’re not. I mean, you
are, but that’s not what why I’m here . . . of course.” I started
giggling uncontrollably. “Why would I come here just because you’re
bald?”
Bob, shuffling his feet in embarrassment said, “She doesn’t get out
much.” Then he motioned for me to speak.
“I’d like 4 tires please.”
“What kind?” he said. I turned to Bob. He mouthed the words, “You can do
this.”
“Black.” Oh I was so proud of myself.
Jim showed us a set of his most expensive tires plus a set that was
hundreds of dollars cheaper.
“We’d like those.” I pointed to the cheaper ones.
“You seem like nice people. Can I tell you something about those tires
you picked?”
“Of course.” I was so honored that he thought we were nice.
“I would never let anyone in my family drive a vehicle with those
tires.”
“Thank you so much for sharing.” I was incredibly touched by his
concern.
He put his arm around my shoulders and spoke softly so only Bob and I
could hear. “I’ll sell you the better ones with a discount of $75.”
“You’d do that for us?” I couldn’t believe it.
Bob was shaking his head as he walked off to the men’s room.
I heard my cell phone ring. “Hello?”
“Don’t say it’s me,” Bob said from his own cell phone. “Just thank the
guy and walk out. I’ll meet you at the truck.” He hung up.
“Thank you, Jim. Bob wants to meet at our truck.”
“Great. I’ll give you a free evaluation of the tires you’re currently
driving on.”
“Oh man, you have got to be kidding me! You are amazing!” Jim and I saw
Bob sitting in the driver’s seat. When Bob saw us, it appeared that he
was smashing his head on the steering wheel.
Jim took out a small metal gauge and measured the tread on our tires.
Bob got out of the truck.
“My good friends,” Jim said. “Your truck wouldn’t pass inspection with
tires like this.”
“It just did this morning,” Bob pointed to the sticker.
“Tell you what. I’m going to sell you those top-of-the-line tires at my
cost.”
My mouth dropped. He said, “I’ll just write up the slip. You don’t like
what you see? We’ll tear it up. Got a deal?” He reached his hand out to
both of us. I took his hand with both of mine and shook wholeheartedly,
“You’ve got a deal!”
Bob groaned.
Jim looked at me. “Want ‘em mounted?”
“Mounted?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll mount them on the rims and put those babies right on
your truck for you.”
“Wow!”
“Is that extra?” Bob said.
“Only fifty dollars.”
I said, “You don’t have to put them on. Could you just wrap them up?
We’ll have them to go.”
By the time Jim was through typing, he had added $350 in charges.
Bob looked at one of the charges. “Your ad says ‘Free Alignment.’”
“Actually it says ‘Free Front Wheel Alignment.’ This charge is for rear
wheel alignment.”
He quickly moved on. “With just a $75 deposit, I’ll hold this deal just
for you for one month.”
By now I had finally caught on. I took Bob’s arm. “Sorry, Jim. You’ve
lost a sale.” We walked out.
On our ride home Bob said, “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks sweets. I’d rather not be as dependent as I’ve become. In fact,
I’ve been keeping a surprise from you for a while.”
With a huge grin and an expression showing appreciation and respect, he
asked what I had done.
“Well, this charming investment guy called me and I gave him all of our
savings. His name’s Bernie something.”
Oddly, he started smashing his head on the steering wheel again.
www.saraleeperel.com
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Men
And Aging
By
Caroline Reid,
California
An article online caught my eye the other
day. It was a list of ways that women could look 20 years younger. I
gave up when I read the first one that said, “Weigh the same as you did
when you were 18.” For pity sake, when I was 18 I hadn’t eaten 5,000
doughnuts and 55 Thanksgiving dinners, to say nothing of attended 200
Christmas parties and gone to a million wine tasting parties! And had a
couple of children along the way! Give me a break!
In the same article were a bunch of hints for men on how to look 20
years younger. I decided to entertain myself with that.
One of the topics for men was “How to Live to 90 and Die Having Sex.” I
find that absolutely hysterical and I’d like to hear from the wives out
there who agree with me. In fact, I am betting there are some husbands
out there who agree with me. I didn’t read that any further. I decided
that was a bad idea. Ninety sounds like a great age but to die at 90
having sex sounds like something out of a bad “R” rated murder mystery.
There was another one that was called “Body Oddities Explained.” It
talked about hair standing on end, brain freezes, earwax and toe jam.
Doesn’t that sound just like something a bunch of men would sit around
and talk about while downing a six-pack? I didn’t learn much from that
section – nothing that I didn’t already know.
I learned in this article that the most common cosmetic enhancement men
have is botox! Botox! I am impressed. No wonder some of the men I meet
look like they have a frozen face. Is frozen face and botox related to
brain freeze? Do frozen faces make old men look younger?
Men also have face-lifts. Yes, they really do! And if you’ve ever seen a
man who has had a face-lift you are going to know that he has had a
face-lift. He looks at you and doesn’t blink. His eyebrows never move
and his nostrils don’t twitch. His chin stays in the same place when he
talks and if you say something funny to him, he doesn’t laugh.
There was a whole section on the torso. The thing that really got my
goat about this section was that it did not advise men to weigh what
they did when they were 18! Instead it suggested to men that they could
“Feel as fit as you did in your 20s—even if you've done a lot of sitting
around since then.” Now doesn’t that just frost you! Supposedly if a man
embarks on a 5-day-a-week cardiovascular workout for 6 months he can
reach the cardiovascular fitness level he had when he was tested 30
years earlier. To be honest, I do not know a man on the face of this
earth who has a clue what his cardiovascular fitness level was 30 years
earlier. And I don’t know a man on the face of this earth who would
embark on a five-day-a-week cardiovascular workout for six months –
unless he was out of work, recently divorced or suffering from an
overactive thyroid.
I guess one of the main problems men face as they age is either going
bald or gray. A couple of over the counter drugs that stimulate hair
growth were mentioned and one of them was said to work 50% of the time.
There’s another one that men can get by prescription only that works by
blocking a certain hormone that causes hair loss in men. I say if your
dad was bald, plan on being bald. Men are also encouraged to color their
hair, if they have any and it’s gray.
All in all, the craziest idea was to eat more vegetables, beans and
olive oil. The article claimed that elderly men whose lifetime diets
were rich in these foods had fewer wrinkles than men who ate a lot of
meat, butter and other dairy products. Frankly, I’d rather hang around
an old guy who didn’t eat all that much in the way of beans and so
forth, even if it means looking at a few wrinkles. It reminds me of the
“poem” my grandson so proudly recites…….beans, beans, musical
fruit…………..
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Pocketbook
Parameters
By
Diane R.,
New Hampshire
(Author's last name withheld by
request.)
Having five sisters does present some
additional hurdles in life; more long distance phone calls, extra
company on the weekends, and a myriad of relationship triangles,
however, you do have access to more advice than someone from a family
with the national average of only 1.3 children. So, I had plenty of help
when I finally decided to buy a new pocketbook.
I had had it with the breezy, open style with no pockets, snaps or
zippers. Every attempt to retrieve something was like a “feely” box game
from first grade. The classy black leather, narrower-at-the-top style
was even worse. I was the monkey grasping the banana bait deep down in
the trap jar. Once I grabbed a hold of what I wanted, I just couldn’t
get it up through the opening. Yes, it was definitely time for a new
pocketbook.
Not a purse. A purse is much too small. Sister number five, who is tall,
willowy and took modeling lessons when she was young carries a purse, a
tiny affair on a long cord. My mother who has moved on to a fanny pack
to match each pair of shoes insists, after all her years of experience,
that smaller is better for the back and neck over the long haul of life.
She is certain that everything from being hunchback to having muscle
spasms is caused by carrying those heavy plastic shopping bags swinging
from each arm for “all those years”. However, I could tell that the
smaller scale was all wrong for me when I carelessly slung sister number
five’s purse over my shoulder and it looked like Barbie’s gold evening
bag. And I didn’t even give a moment’s consideration to the clutch purse
suggested by sister number one. The thought of my entire financial DNA
imprinted on those plastic cards stacked neatly inside a purse without
any handle was too frightening to contemplate.
Sister number two solicitously took me under her wing. She had been
where I was now and knew what to do. As I followed her purposeful step
into a local store, I thought wistfully of an avant-garde young woman
from my teen years who refused to carry any handbag, preferring the
large pockets in her overalls to carry her necessities and I wondered
idly. Where she is today. If only I had the courage to be
unconventional. Sister number two’s resolute voice brought me back to
present. After wrestling with this critical issue for years she
definitely advised a large bag; she herself now carries one that can
easily accommodate a file folder. Aghast, I inquired whatever for. She
fixed a pitying gaze on my incredulous face and proceeded to explain
that she needed this wonderful feature when she went to use the library
computer for her schoolwork and when she took her children to the
doctor’s office.
Nervously, my mind raced to an old friend who grew up in a less
privileged country than the United States. She carried a pocketbook the
size of an overnight bag and anything left unclaimed on the floor went
into that bag all year long until she eventually emptied it onto her
dining room table. And what about my girlfriend who now works nights,
and thinks she needs a bag large enough to conceal Mace and a handgun as
well as the usual items? I could see now that this could get out of hand
and there was simply no use blaming the problem on a male dominated
society or the evil marketing ploys of capitalist companies. I had to
act quickly. I made my moderate selection of a straw pocketbook with a
cell phone pocket and we headed out for lunch to celebrate our find.
A few happy months later, I was
contentedly registering children for our summer vacation Bible school,
my new pocketbook down at my side, when a friend of very slight
proportions carrying a handbag big enough to hold all the records from
the state department of transportation, moved off to the side of the
registration table and began rummaging distractedly through her bag.
After a few minutes of frantic searching she looked up despairingly and
announced, “It’s not in here.” So it is true. There simply is no limit
to the possible size of a woman’s handbag except maybe the amount of
weight she can bench press.
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Airlines
Stop Providing Seats On Domestic Flights
By
Scott Sleek,
Maryland
News from the Future
In their latest effort to trim operating costs, both AmeriUnited
Airlines and Continental Airlines announced yesterday that they will no
longer provide seating for coach passengers on domestic flights.
“Because of escalating costs and continued net losses, we have been
forced to remove all the passenger seats from our fleet and sell them on
eBay to generate revenue,” said AmeriUnited Chief Executive Officer
Rob M. Blynde. “Seating will still be available in our first class
cabins, but passengers riding in coach will have to stand and hang onto
whatever they can find during takeoffs and landings.”
AmeriUnited and Continental executives said the Federal Aviation
Administration agreed to allow the removal of the seats since planes are
now equipped with side airbags throughout the cabins, making seats and
seat belts less of a safety need. (Both airlines installed the airbags
throughout their fleets in 2024.)
The Air Travelers Association, a group that advocates for the rights of
airline passengers, called the move yet another inconvenience for
travelers who pay good money to fly, and another effort to cram as many
passengers as possible onto flights. ATA adds that other airlines are
sure to follow suit.
“First we had to start paying extra for meals,” said Ann Greerider, the
group’s president. “Then it was paying to check luggage, then a charge
for using the lavatory and now this.
“What happens when we hit turbulence,” Greerider asked. “Passengers are
going to be bouncing all over that cabin like ping-pong balls.”
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My
Neighborhood Bank
By
Ann Thomas,
California
I’ve noticed, as I’ve grown Unmistakably
Old, that everything seems to be changing. Yesterday morning was a
perfect example. It was my day for banking. Every week I make a deposit,
and then cash a small check. Since this is not what anyone would call
living on the edge, there was no way I could have predicted a problem.
Walking in the bank’s door, I noticed something was different. The
tellers were all young and unfamiliar, and it wasn’t Take Your Child To
Work day.
A boy with a shaved head and an eyebrow ring, who was having difficulty
with eye contact, waited on me. His nametag said Kevin.
I handed him my deposit, waited for a receipt, then gave him my $20
check, made out to cash—the same procedure I’ve done for the past five
years.
Kevin stood, looking at the check with all the intensity of one
examining a ransom note, and then looked up at me, focusing somewhere
near my left ear. “Do you have any identification?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have any identification?” His look shifted to my right ear.
“I noticed you’ve looked carefully at my check.”
He glanced at it again.
“The check has the same number on it as this deposit receipt. The one
you just gave me,” I added, in case he hadn’t been paying attention. ”If
I were a crook, do you think I would deposit $500 in order to withdraw
$20?”
He looked confused, but repeated, “Do you have any identification?”
“Kevin,” I said, hoping that patience and logic could sort this out, “Do
you see my check is printed by your bank, and says that I’m a valued
customer?”
He squinted, then looked back toward my chin. “I don’t know you, so I
need some identification.”
“Yes,” I responded, “we don’t know each other, and perhaps we never
will, but since I’ve been here since 1980, a year that occurred before
you were born, that means you are the new person. Since I’ve been giving
you money, perhaps I should ask you for some identification.”
Kevin turned to call for the manager, who arrived and listened as Kevin
explained the problem. Unlike Kevin, she did make eye contact, but her
eyes were not friendly.
“It’s a policy designed to protect you.” Her words were measured-
perhaps she thought I might be a bit slow. “We need to see some
identification before we give your money away.”
I thought I’d try a different approach. “What have you done with the
bank’s staff?” I asked. “They’re obviously missing.”
“We are the staff,” she answered in a strained voice. “If you’ll show us
some identification, we can give you your money. There are people in
line behind you.”
I knew what she wanted was a picture ID, but I wasn’t giving in that
easily. Instead, I pulled up my sweater sleeve.
“All right,” I said in my best-resigned voice. “Here is my birthmark. No
one else has one exactly like it.”
By now Kevin was trying not to laugh, and I thought I might grow to like
him. After all, hair will grow back, and a person can learn eye contact.
I was pretty sure, however, that Ms. Manager and I would never become
friends.
“A birth mark is not a proper form of identification,” she said.
“Of course it is,” I responded. “The police use it all the time. I’ve
seen it on television. Birth marks and dental records are standard ways
of identification.” By now Kevin was nodding in an affirming manner.
Ms. Manager sighed. “What about a PIN number? We could identify you that
way.”
“Are you trying to trick an old lady?” I asked, my voice rising just
slightly. “I think you may have the real bank staff locked up in the
vault, and now you want my PIN number! Absolutely not! Maybe you should
just give me back my deposit.”
Ms. Manager took one final look at my account on the computer, then said
to Kevin, “Give her the $20.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Will you be here from now on so that you’ll be
able to identify me?”
She was walking away at that point, but I swear I heard her mutter, “I
hope not.”
www.dr-annthomas.com
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Man
For All Seasons, Woman Of All Fashions
By
Katherine Turski,
Texas
The Man For All Seasons
There are men who want us to believe they’re like an SUV. They’re
rugged, and can travel any terrain. They’re impervious to mud, rain,
sleet, and broiling temperatures.
These are the guys who, in hundred degree heat, walk calmly through an
asphalt parking lot amid shimmering heat waves, in three-piece suits. No
sweat shines on their craggy brows, no complaints issue from their lips.
Strong guys like them don’t notice such minor things like the weather.
In the dead of winter, when you could skate to work, they’ll run to the
store in their cutoff jeans, a worn tee shirt and thong sandals. Oh, and
white socks, because after all, it is winter. They walk blithely past
women who wear enough to outfit an Eskimo family, and behave as though
they’re surrounded by a personal climate control field.
The strong, silent guy undergoes a change when he returns to his domain.
Upon checking the thermostat, complaints issue from those previously
closed lips.
“When did you put this on seventy degrees?” he demands. “It feels like a
blast furnace.”
His wife grimaces. “Last summer it was on seventy-two and you said it
was freezing”
“That was different. I’m putting it on fifty. If you’re cold, wear more
clothes.”
“I’m already wearing so many layers the dog attacked me. He thought I
was a burglar stealing the laundry.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, he only got to the third sweater.”
“See, those layers are good for something. Why don’t you just snuggle
into that overstuffed chair and I’ll bring you some cocoa.”
“That overstuffed chair is your sister. I loaned her what’s left of my
wardrobe.”
“Okay, okay. Look, let’s watch TV. It’ll take your mind off the
weather.” He grabs the remote and stretches onto the couch, propping his
bare legs on the coffee table.
The first channel is showing a special on the Donner Party. The next one
is about ice mummies. The wife worries about those lumps in the back of
her freezer.
“Anyone want ice cream?” the husband asks.
The Man for All Seasons is, however, counterbalanced by the Woman of All
Fashions. While this woman is aware of the changing seasons, to her it
means a new reason to shop. Whatever the new fashions for spring,
summer, fall, or winter, she’s ready to buy. Her greatest attributes,
according to the stores, are expensive taste and low sales resistance.
If the newest trend is two hundred dollar mongoose fur socks, she’ll be
the first to own them. The Woman of All Fashions will never be caught
dead near the clearance rack, where the mongoose socks hang a month
after their debut. (I bought a pair for five dollars. My cat is on
intimate terms with them.)
The Woman of All Fashions will dress for the climate, but only at the
dictate of current trends. You will see her in the sleet covered parking
lot, tottering in stiletto-heeled cowboy boots. Her full length sable
coat covers the traffic-cone orange suit she ‘just threw on’ to go get
some bread.
As she heads to her car, she passes a man in faded cutoffs and a tee
shirt worn nearly transparent. Both shake their heads as they move on.
Some people just don’t know how to dress.
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