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Congratulations to all Finalists in our October/ November 2009 Humor Writing Contest!

(Listed alphabetically by author.)

Horticultural Crops Break Out Of Greenhouses
Rogue Plants Spreading Across the Planet -- EPA Official Says The Atmosphere Was Ripe For A Breakout
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia

As White House officials searched for carbon neutral transport to the Copenhagen Global Warming summit, Miami Police announced that 14 horticultural crops had escaped from their glass-enclosed greenhouse nurseries and are rapidly spreading across the landscapes of the earth. Ornamental flowers, once confined to Dade County greenhouses are reported to be spreading their alluring stems and overexcited pollen across Florida and have overrun Orlando parking lots, leading Disney officials to announce that the desperate search for a Disney World parking space would be converted into an exciting jungle and safari ride.

Meanwhile, Dutch officials reported tulips had broken out of Leiden City greenhouses, flooded that country’s lowlands with multi-colored bulbs and have left millions of Northern Europeans tiptoeing on millions of Tiny-Tim-like toes, to work, to school, and to ballet training centers. And, according to witnesses in Sacramento, California, millions of brussels sprout, snap bean, and Chinese flowering broccoli plants, overpowered their “earth box planters,” broke free of their greenhouse temperature controls and invaded thousands of acres of pristine deserts and mountain sides. The cash-strapped governor and budget-beam-balancing gymnast, Arnold Schwarzenegger, pleaded with state residents to “get in touch with” and “act out“ their “true inner feelings about broccoli,” particularly when inside the boundaries of a state park.

USDA soil scientist Dr. Harrison McDowell provided his analysis of the outbreak to the grassroots organization Grassroot Growers and Organizers:

“With a billion new people stomping carbon footprints into the earth’s soil, it is not surprising that greenhouse plants have proliferated like outdoor rabbits and indoor termites.”

EPA atmospheric scientist Dr. Hsiao Muzhu offered another view of the greenhouse plant breakout to the Unnatural Gas Producers and Transmitters Association:

”The USDA, once again, has researched its head into the ground. It is the spread of greenhouse gases into the upper atmosphere that has created the perfect atmospheric mixtures for greenhouse plants to thrive in the open air of the earth.”

The Mexican Minster of Air, Soil, Sun and Shade, Dr. Jaime Mudola, told reporters at his snap beans and flowering Chinese broccoli-covered estate, that the two squabbling American scientists were each entitled to their own facts. And he boasted that he was “Texas-style raring to go” to Copenhagen to sign a Cap and Shade agreement which would allow Mexico to triple its annual production of 24 inch sombrero brim hats.

Holland’s Chancellor of Environmental Debate Gas Emissions, Dr. Hecksen Mudmeyer, told the newly formed “Dutch Tipped Shoe Manufacturers Association” that “language mixups” could lead the Copenhagen summit to increase “world laughing gas emissions” nineteen-fold. And he said the summit’s priority should be to halt the proliferating mobs of ex-greenhouse tulips from overrunning Europe’s law-abiding cropland and creating speculative anti-bubbles which “may send tulip prices through the basement floor and perhaps into the soils of the earth itself.”

The Chinese Secretariat of Atmospheric Discipline and Outdoor Tai Chi Breathing, Dr.Huo Mu Mei Su Li, also known as Dr. “Don’t hold your Breath,” told Australian reporters that China would sign the "Captain Trade” agreement, provided Chinese ships could transport flowered Chinese broccoli to California state banks.

Meanwhile Disney World, bowing to changing world realities, and fantasies, announced plans to flood its “Future World” theme park with six feet of carbonated water and convert its jungle safari “hunt and parka” lots into an open air greenhouse nursery.

Holland’s Dr. Hecksen Mudmeyer told the newly formed Save The Wooden Shoe From Tree-Hugging Carbonists Association that it was important for environmental officials and leaders around the world to “keep moving the debate gas forward” and be prepared to cap any country’s Global Warming proposals and trade it for proposals from other countries.

As the summit drew closer President Obama downplayed expectations for a “coherent” international declaration on Global Warming or the recent Greenhouse Vegetable Invasion of the earth’s surface and California’s monetary system.

The President told reporters, his staff had found two carbon-neutral travel options to Copenhagen’s Global Warming summit: telecommute or spend five days hitching a ride on a trading ship carrying flowering Chinese broccoli.

The President, reported to be deliberating over his Copenhagen travel options, told reporters that “not ever eating again” is not the appropriate way to express one’s true inner feeling about flowering Chinese broccoli, even if you are inside California, at a weight loss clinic.

www.bananaws.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Welcome Aboard Roulette Airlines!
By Ken Bobrosky, Canada

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Roulette Airlines -– where we believe you have a 1 in 36 chance of arriving safely at your destination. Our mission is to eliminate the boredom of airline travel and make flying fun!

Our low cost airline also believes in eliminating the unnecessary frills. On flights of less than three hours we have discontinued any food service, in-flight shopping and of course, washrooms. A good number of our pilots are flight school graduates and our navigators have all qualified for their Boy Scout Orienteering Badges.

Before we attempt to take off, we are obliged to provide a safety demonstration of our Sopwith-Camel biplane to you. Please note that there is no instruction card in the seat pocket in the back of the seat in front of you because there is no seat pocket. It is very difficult to attach pockets to the backs of lawn chairs. So please pay attention!

Only a few seats are equipped with seatbelts as many flyers have complained that they are often restrictive and binding. In the event of air turbulence, those of you without belts are instructed to grasp the armrests and hold on tight. Should you let go, you will probably zoom straight up and smack your head on the overhead bin. Any damages to the bin will be assessed to your credit card.
In a similar fashion, should the plane experience a sudden loss of air pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the compartment above your head. Of the dozens of masks you will find dangling and swaying violently in front of your face, only one in three actually provides oxygen. The other masks are just placebos to provide some mid-turbulence entertainment.

We won’t bother to instruct you to place a mask over your own face first, before tending to others, as your natural survival instinct will quickly kick in and make any traveling companions feel like orphans in a workhouse. Be sure not to pull the mask too hard as if it detaches from the ceiling you will be penalized and lose any accumulated frequent flyer miles you may have earned.

In keeping with our light-hearted attitude on Roulette Airlines, we have not placed any life jackets under your seats. Instead, we have slyly hidden them throughout the cabin. This will encourage social mingling and you will become better acquainted with your fellow travelers. If you should be lucky enough to find one of the life vests, make sure you first of all use the attached can of mace to spray those poor sports who might try to steal your jacket. Some people don’t react well to crises and always try to ruin the fun.

In the unlikely event of a successful emergency landing make your way to the nearest exit. You are cautioned that some of the designated “exits” are merely an artist’s rendition of an exit door. Some of the real exits are carefully disguised to add to the excitement.

Extra points will be awarded to any traveler who successfully dons their life jacket and makes it to a real exit before the plane touches the ground or water. This may require that passengers use the headrests as stepping-stones in order to make a rapid exit. We recommend that you keep an eye on our totally unprofessional cabin crew who will be attempting to exit the plane first.

Thank you for your undivided attention. The cabin doors have now been sealed with a time lock and will not open again until we reach our destination or our fuel gauges read zero!

In the meantime, sit back and pray. Once we are airborne we will all play bingo for the two parachutes that have been donated as souvenirs by our marketing department. And thank you again for flying Roulette Airlines, a charter member of the Misfortune 500 Companies.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Holiday Shopping Requires Referees
By Burton Cole, Ohio

Thanksgiving is leftovers, Christmas looms, and here in the middle, I see the shadows of shopping circling around me like vultures in gift wrap. Guys like me dread this time of year. Why? Because we hate full-contact sports for which we don’t understand the rules.

Football, I know. Boxing, I know. Wrestling, I know.

The rules of engagement for Christmas shopping – no clue.

Store shelves are cluttered with all manner of talking whozits and whatzits, aisles are jammed with manic shoppers with a bloodlust for Hungry Hippos and Zhu Zhu Hamsters, and they’re all converging onto the exact spot from where I’m trying to escape.

Football was never like this. At least after the guy on top of you slugged you in the ribs once or twice, there were referees to pull everybody out of the pile and line us all back up again.

The number of bodies were limited and the pushing and shoving lasted no more than five or 10 seconds at a time. Then we all helped each other up and took a breather while a new play was called.

That’s because football is a much gentler, politer, more refined sport than Christmas shopping.

Football players are unarmed. Shoppers carry weapons. Shopping bags can be lethal, especially if said shopper just came from the power tools department. If you survive the thwacking from the loaded bag, the bruises last for weeks.

Shopping carts slammed into the back of one’s heel are particularly irksome. Probably two-thirds of all leg injuries treated in emergency rooms over the holidays are caused by shopping carts.

One of the newer innovations in the arsenal of torture is the cell phone. Cell phones do not leave many marks on the victim’s body but the psychological havoc they wreak is devastating.

Millions of shoppers fight their way through crowds, bellowing into cell phones or clumps of electronics apparently surgically attached to their ears. The conversations threaten to drown out the crying kids forced to sit on Santa’s lap and the thumpety-thump-thump of “Frosty the Snowman” over mall speakers:

“Whatchya doin’! I’m shopping! Hey, watch it, man, that’s mine! Nah, some fat guy in front of me found the T-shirt Jimmy wanted, so I snagged it from him! Dude, you ought to see him now! He just picked out the ugliest sweater in the world!”

So I put the sweater back and decided to get Mom a gift certificate instead.
These Twitter-and-talk shoppers also synchronize to hunt in packs at different stores:

“Yeah, it’s $39.95 here. What do you have there? $43.50. Ruby? $38.95? OK, Ruby gets three of those there. I get the carrying cases here for $2 less. Hey you with the ugly sweater, move it! OK, I’m back. Had to whack some amateur shopper out of the way with my cart.”

Here’s a suggestions to the commissioner of the National Holiday Shopping and National Defense Training Association:

Next year, stock all stores with NFL officials. If a shopper is whistled for clipping the heels with shopping cart, for example, he or she will have to put one toy back on the shelf and back up to the end of the aisle before shopping resumes.

Better yet, my buddy Tim suggests a little hockey justice. If a crazed shopper uses a roll of wrapping paper like a stick to swat away rivals, an NHL referee will place the thug in a penalty box, leaving her cart unattended for all other shoppers to pick through on their way past.

That way, guys like me would understand shopping and it would become as civilized as hockey.

http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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The Perfect Christmas Letter
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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A Playbook For Fatherhood
By Mary Frailey Calland, Pennsylvania

 From the chilly sidelines of a middle-school soccer game, I overheard two dads commiserating on how difficult it is to be a father. While their wives seemed to embrace motherhood, they felt ill-prepared for their parental role. If only, they lamented, fatherhood had rules – like sports. None of this “bonding” and “limits” mumbo jumbo contained in the parenting books, but actual rules set out in plain English. Better yet, in X’s and O’s. Why wasn’t there a playbook for being a good dad?

Why, indeed? I thought. Having observed my own ex-jock husband with our five children since his paternal rookie year, I realized a good father must possess many of the same “intangibles” required of a good athlete: desire, stamina, consistency, goals. Perhaps what was intimidating these two dads was not so much a matter of knowledge as of semantics.

So, here it is, for all you dads – the draft picks, the rookies, even the veterans – a Playbook for Fatherhood that will enable you to be on the same page as your wife, keep your head in the game, and put points on the board.

So, bring it in and listen up:

• Fatherhood is not a fantasy league. There’s no draft to get the players you want; no deadline to trade or bench the players you receive. The team you get is the team you play. Hoping for a girl and you got a boy; one baby, and you ended up with twins? Take it up with the big GM in the sky box. Your job is to help your players make the most of their unique talents. It will be the most challenging and rewarding job you will ever have.

• When you have the open shot, take it. You may feel you lack the knowledge, experience, or energy to deal with your children, but don’t always pass off to your wife. If she’s the one home with the kids all day, she can get pretty tired of having to change the diapers, settle the disputes, and enforce the rules. Resist the urge to say, “Go ask your mother.” Take some responsibility and go to the hoop. (By the way, when it comes to changing those diapers, just remember: You can’t stop it; you can only hope to contain it.)

• Unlike volleyball, there are no do-overs. Childhood is short. If you spend it at the office, on the road, or in front of the TV set, you can’t get that time back. Spend time with your children now, while they’re young. You’ll be glad you did.

• But, you can take a mulligan. Accept that you will make mistakes. All dads do. The key is to admit those mistakes, and try to do better next time. In doing so, you will have taught your kids a valuable lesson – no one hits it straight down the middle every time. And when your kids make mistakes, have a short memory and prepare for next week.

• Raising children is like playing hockey. Every now and then, you’ve got to come off the ice. Being a parent is stressful. You and your wife should take frequent breaks, even if it’s just to walk around the block. An evening away is better; a weekend away, better yet. But a break of any kind can give you a chance to catch your breath, get your legs back, and be ready for the next shift.

• The referee’s decision is final. Never attempt to overrule your wife’s decision in front of the children. Kids quickly learn to divide and conquer. When faced with a difficult call, you and your wife need to huddle in private. Go upstairs for the review if you can; otherwise, go with whoever was in the closest position to make the call. Just know that, regardless of the decision, your children will consider it the worst call, EVER.

• It ain’t over ‘til it’s over. Actually, it’s never over. Sort of like a Little League baseball game. Your children, whether they’re two or fifty-two, are always your children, and you will always worry about them. It’s a parent’s curse, and blessing.

There you have it. Now, go out there and execute, turn up the intensity, make the second effort, and keep the drive alive. Remember, there’s no “I” in father. And, when the game is over, and your kids are standing in life’s winner’s circle, maybe, just maybe, they’ll look straight into the camera and mouth, “Hi, Dad!”

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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The Santa Claus Story: Lies, I Tell You! All Lies!
By David Goldstein, California

Even as a child I always had credibility issues with the Santa story. Some elements of it just don't make a lick of sense to me. Let's break it down:

SANTA'S AGE: Exactly how old is Santa??? Because it seems like he’s been around forever.  At least three hundred years.  Is that possible? With his high BMI?  And more importantly — why are we allowing our children to force a 300 year old man to travel across the globe in inclement weather to bring them toys for free?  Is this not a colossal example of bad, pass-the-buck-parenting on a worldwide scale?

HO HO HO: Santa is always laughing “Ho Ho Ho!” But really — what the hell is he laughing at?  Has Santa ever said “Ho Ho Ho” in response to something that was funny?  No.  This guy just laughs like an idiot, randomly, completely out of context. When Santa does it, apparently its charming.  If you did it, psychotropic drugs would be prescribed.

SANTA’S WORKSHOP: Apparently he has elves making toys.  Yet whenever I see actual kids opening presents on Christmas day, these “homemade” toys have labels on them such as Mattel, Hasbro, Little Tykes, Baby Einstein…  So I guess we’re all okay with the fact that Santa is up there at the North Pole, with his team of underpaid Holiday mutants,  making illegal, substandard, knock-off toys in some sort of merry, sing-along sweatshop.

THE SLED: Yes, it’s a big sled.  But is it that big?  Can it really carry enough toys for every child in the world?  Doesn’t it seem like maybe Santa just takes a token route down to Alaska, drops off a few Slinkies, and then farms out the rest of the gig to some other fat guy?  Or here’s a theory: maybe they’re dehydrated toys.  That way he can store millions of them in his giant sack.  He puts the little toy nubbin under the tree,  adds water, and the toy sprouts to full size by Christmas morning.  Sounds pretty stupid, right?  Fine.  But is it any stupider than flying reindeer?  Which leads to my next point:

SANTA’S REINDEER: Here’s an idea, Santa. Instead of wasting all your energy teaching a land animal to fly, use some birds.   Plus, keep this is mind:  Santa has a very long flight.  So let’s face it — at some point in your life one of Santa’s reindeer has crapped on your roof.  And that is just disgusting.  Because who ever goes up on your roof?  That reindeer turd is still there in July, baking in the hot sun.  Is that why Santa always brings a helper elf with him on his ride?  Santa delivers the presents.  The elf cleans up the petrified reindeer feces from last year.

MILK AND COOKIES: Every kid leaves them out for Santa. All night. My point being — every Christmas Eve Santa drinks thousands of gallons of improperly stored dairy. No wonder he takes the rest of the year off.  He’s in intensive care!

http://ourannoyingworld.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Acing The Interview
By Mary Kirchhoff, Pennsylvania

Job interviews have become extremely competitive in this tough economy, where college graduates are applying for entry-level jobs, jobs that I, less educated, would previously have snubbed my nose at. But you have to take what you can get, no matter how low-paying, how far away or how menial the tasks you will be performing.

My last job interview was interesting. This one company called and set up an interview for the next day, so I thought for sure they need someone desperately and soon, and the job was mine.

Employers like to make a twisted game out of interviewing pathetic unemployed people like me. As usual, this first interview was only round one in the boxing ring fighting to get a job. The recruiter told us how it would be:

“Today is the first round, and out of that group we will select those who will be brought back for a second interview. If that goes well, we’ll have a third interview, where we will interrogate you with a Tae Kwon Do master on hand. You will be hooked up to an electronic gadget and a lie detector test while you are tied to a chair with rope. At that point, we will determine if you are telling the truth about your previous employment and each time it doesn’t prove out, an electric shock will be sent to your brain, and our man will practice some torture methods on you.”

“Hmm,” I said, “You really are thorough in choosing an employee.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. You should see what happens if you make it to the fifth interview!”

And so it goes. Since I’d had other interviews where I followed the known advice to the letter as far as how to answer the interview questions, I decided this time I would answer the questions honestly, to see if I would fare any better.

It’s always the same redundant, predictable questions at an interview. The interview went something like this:

“What was something you didn’t like about one of your jobs, and how did you handle it?

“Well, I had this one boss, she was a real witch. I used to sit at my desk and dream up ways to kill her. One time, I gave her four flat tires and tried to run her over while she was getting help. Another time, I put this stuff in her coffee; she went home early but showed up for work the next day. I was quite surprised.”

There was a long pause as he gripped the phone in front of him tightly and his eyes darted over my head, gazing out the window, viewing the sane, employed people there, going about their tasks.

Then he kind of smirked, took his hand off the phone, and leaned back in his chair.

“Does that answer your question?” I asked, and gave him my million-dollar smile.


“Why did you apply for this position?”

“I applied for this position because I am a go-getter who has a sincere longing to line my pockets with change. Even though this position is paying well under what it should be for the work you are requiring, I spent hours getting primped so I could compete with the 118 other people in your lobby, and hoping I’ll impress you with my answers.”

“What motivates you?”

“I am motivated by a desire to eat, and not just at McDonalds, but places like Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse. Additionally, I’m currently two months behind on my cable and Internet bill and will really lose it if they shut it off.”

“How do you establish a working relationship with new people?”

“I like to establish relationships with others by letting them know right away I’m a prima donna. Things must be done my way. I don’t like to work too hard, because, let's face it, we all need to text and instant message while at work and I can’t let too much work get in the way of that.”

“How are your computer skills?”

“Hell, when I’m messaging someone online, I’m a pretty fast typist, especially if its someone I met on a dating site and we’re planning a date.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Oh that’s an easy one. In an insane asylum from having been abused and tortured by potential employers like you!”

He must have been impressed with my answers because he was nice enough to call another employee and security in to walk me out to my car.

I know I’ll get a job eventually. Somebody out there really needs me.

www.pittsburghdietdiaries.blogspot.com

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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20% Off With Their Heads!
By Barry Parham, South Carolina

Not long ago, I went on a bizarre safari with my parents, to one of those monstrous, membership-driven, continent-sized, discount shopping marts (I can’t spell out the name of the store, because I can spell “lawsuit”). Although I didn’t have a membership, my parents did, so I canceled my mail, got my entry visa stamped and stepped in.

The place was enormous: spacious enough to merit its own postal code, big enough to own its own military base and Congressman (of course, these days, you can buy a Congressman anywhere). As a single guy, I was staggered by the "bulk purchase" options. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, after taking the wrong pill.

Jars of mustard the size of lampshades. Bags of personal plastic cups, 850 per bag. 250 shrink-wrapped slices of American cheese. Rolls of tin foil you could use to re-roof a house. Pallets -- PALLETS -- of laundry detergent.

I saw a box of Wheat Thins you could stand on to paint the ceiling. An ark of animal crackers that no airline would accept as carry-on baggage. A hogshead of syrup that would send half of Hollywood spiraling into a sugar coma. A colossal container of liquid soap that I couldn’t use in three lifetimes – I would have to bequeath it in my will.

As a single guy, I can’t consume a bag of shredded lettuce before the looming expiration date. I end up prowling the pantry, looking for things to throw lettuce on, at, in or under, baking lettuce on toast, strewing lettuce in the yard for colon-conscious birds, offering cups of lettuce to my neighbors.

I saw 50-pound bags of sugar. In my fridge at home, I've had a 2-pound bag of sugar since, roughly, the Nixon administration. I noticed ... and it's probably not a coincidence ... that from a cloud-shrouded shelf high above the sugar bales, you can buy a full-sized couch.

While shopping, you can also snack on samples, which is a good idea, because shoppers have gone missing for days, and were semi-conscious and famished before finally being located by geo-positioning satellites. It’s just not temporally possible to get from one side of the store to the other in one lifetime. In one aisle, I saw an elderly gentleman embracing his grandchild, dispensing advice and pointing him to the next aisle. The patriarch handed his compass, staff and shopping list to the earnest child, tearfully surrendered his shopping cart, and then laid down and died. Four minutes later, he had been tagged “Marked Down!” and somebody bought him.

In this one building, you can find a realtor to find you a house, or hire a builder to construct one, furnish it, pick out tile, countertops & window treatments, buy a fridge, stock it, have your prescription filled and your eyes & ears checked, choose an entire fall wardrobe, and pick up a new pickup, with a spare set of tires, to drive all the loot home ... and fill up the truck with gas … all while waiting for your photos to be developed.

They also have their own liquor store, but next to, not in, the main bazaar. I don’t know why they segregated alcohol, but I’m guessing that Baptists were involved. Or maybe it’s for those in a hurry: those enterprising binge drinkers who miscalculated the rush hour traffic, ran dry in mid-road-rage, and need to pop by for a quick purchase, before weaving back into the middle of two lanes. Busy, busy, busy. I got things to do, places to go, people to hit.

For all I know, somewhere in the store’s distant back acreage there’s a full casino, complete with “personal massage therapists,” a surgical ward and Labor & Delivery unit, a full K-through-12 education system, a retirement community and a crematorium. I don’t know. Maybe that’s what I missed by not having a membership.

But at the end of day, using my parents’ credentials, I bought what, by my math, will be a 15-year supply of kitchen garbage bags. Cost me three bucks.

I'll be needing them when I toss out my 239 expired slices of cheese.

http://www.amazon.com/Why-Hate-Straws-offbeat-worldview/dp/1439254575

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Big Carl's Eventual Holiday
By Barry Parham, South Carolina

Here in my town of Creyer (pronounced "Cur"), there's lots to do this summer. And for me and my fellow citizens, that's welcome news indeed.

We're just like you. We're all waist-deep in it, buffeted by a besieged economy. Proud Americans, not supported by (and not supporting) government bailouts, hand-outs, and cop-outs. Everybody is looking for ways to save a little money. Nobody can afford fancy vacations, unless they're actually employed by Social Security. So this year, we're spending our holidays at home. Just like you.

And just like you, our summer's highlight is Independence Day. This year, though, we didn't get around to it until a week later, because our Mayor, Carl "Big Carl" Sweeney, owner of Big Carl's Funeral Parlor And Fireworks Emporium, couldn't afford to give out calendars, so we all forgot.

But our Tenth of July celebration was mighty fine.

Over at Wiener World, nobody was surprised when Curlene Getwilder, Otto and Candy's distinctive daughter, won the hot-dog-eating contest again. There was the usual, petty bickering about Curlene's having that handy third arm – as if it was her fault Otto raised his family on that land out by the nuclear reactor. But all the smart money's still on Curlene for this fall's Quilting Bee.

Cotton Mather Elementary's K-3 choir, the "Chaste Cherubs," held an evening concert featuring a cute original piece, "Rap Songs That Momma Allows," which lasted about 8 seconds. Sadly, they were out-shrieked by used car dealers, up and down the Creyer Auto Strip, taping once-in-a-lifetime discounts for their twice-weekly TV ads.

Big Carl's twin girls, Euphoria and Carl's Junior, subjected us to a public reading of their 248 "Why I Love Sweet Tea" haiku poems. Yep, all 248. (It's never a good idea to rile up Big Carl)

Line dancing, performed by Our Ladies Of Perpetual Gastritis, began nicely. But then somebody spiked the cider, and the good sisters got absolutely looped. Police suspected Tommy "Towhead" Grimes, who runs "Grimes of Passion," that little novelty boutique out by the landfill. In any case, Towhead got hauled in later in the day, after getting caught lobbying his own version of the stimulus bill to Big Carl's twins. In an unrelated story, the entire Creyer Anti-Marijuana League was arrested when their meth lab was raided.

The Charismatic Serpentarium's Anti-Liberal Society hit a homer with their "Pin the Tail on the Democrat" contest. And this year, nobody was injured during the annual Running of the Pit Bulls, although Tookey Ankle, night manager at Pawpaw's Fine Jewelry And Bait Shop, did gore a dog.

Tyrell's Pole Dancing And Lunch Buffet sponsored the Creyer Member-Guest Pig Pull. In my town, a pig pull is not a barbecue. We just round up some friends and pull on a pig. Been doing it for untold years. No winner, no prize. We're just that way: we hold with tradition.

As always, the Summer Solstice Double-Wide Parade And Free Paternity Test drew huge crowds, and settled several domestic disputes. The Creyer High School Marching Band, the "Tubers," got everyone going with their "Lee Greenwood's Greatest Hit" tribute. But stealing the show was the wildly popular Fork-Lift Precision Drill Team, sponsored again this year by Cecil's Trough 'N Lube.

Big Carl carted the Parade Queen, Dentitia "Eveready" Devereax, down the main paved road in his 415ci extended Crew Cab, a die-cast SOHC 5.7L reverse osmosis HEMI Magnum V-8 Splash with dueling overhead cameras, sautéed-steel bi-valve inserts, and the optional 'All-Weather Abattoir' custom bed liner. The parade did get stalled for a spell when somebody yelled, "Get a REAL truck!" and a fist-fight broke out between passionate Chevy and Ford owners.

America. You gotta love it. In fact, here in my town, it's the law.

http://www.amazon.com/Why-Hate-Straws-offbeat-worldview/dp/1439254575

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Musings: The Office Holiday Luncheon
By Ebony Robinson, Texas

For reasons Celeste cannot understand, she has again agreed to organize the holiday luncheon. As always, the firm will supply the turkey and dressing. The employees are expected to bring the side dishes. Celeste has painstakingly crafted the perfect email to get everyone in the holiday spirit. She takes a deep breath and hits the send button. Then she waits. And she waits...

12 Days Until the Luncheon
From: Celeste
To: Group

Dear All:

As I mentioned in my previous email, our holiday luncheon is coming up fast. Please stop by to sign up for your dish or shoot me an email. Thank yous. –Celeste

Maggie: I’ll bring coleslaw.

Celeste: Technically that is a salad. We need sides, like mashed potatoes, corn, stuff like that.

Maggie: But I don’t make stuff like that.

Celeste: Perhaps you could buy it from a restaurant.

Maggie: You can’t buy food for a potluck.

Celeste: We don’t need salad.

Maggie: Coleslaw.

Celeste: Whatever.

Maggie: Did you know you typed “thank yous”? Don’t even try to recall your message. It’s too late.

7 Days Until the Luncheon
From: Celeste
To: Group

Dear All:

While I was away from my desk, several of you signed up on the side dish sheet. While cow ball stew, chicken lip rolls, and vegan casserole with beef tips are all quite amusing, we really need people to sign up with legitimate dishes.

Jeremy: Cow ball stew. LOL. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

Maggie: You know what goes good with chicken lip rolls?

Jeremy: What?

Maggie: Coleslaw.

Celeste: This is not funny.

Maggie: Did you know you spelled “legitimate” wrong?

Celeste: No I didn’t.

Maggie: Made you look.

2 Day Until the Luncheon
From: Celeste
To: Group

Dear All:

Since no one has signed up to bring a side dish, I will be accepting cash donations until the end of the day. I will purchase the food and have it delivered.

Maggie: You can’t buy food for a potluck.

Matthew: Isn’t the point of a potluck for everyone to bring a little bit of home into the office? Celeste you are really losing sight of what is important.

Celeste: Matthew, what can I put you down for?

Matthew: Cow ball stew.

Luncheon Day
From: Jeremy
To: Group

Dear All:

Has anyone seen Celeste today?

Matthew: She called in sick.

Jeremy: There’s nothing but turkey and dressing in the conference room. There’s no mashed potatoes, corn, or stuff like that.

Carole: That’s disappointing.

Jeremy: I can’t eat dressing without corn. That’s just how I roll.

Carole: This was not very well organized.

Jeremy: Thanks a lot Celeste.

Maggie: I brought coleslaw.

© Copyright by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.

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Menopause Barbie
By Katherine Turski, Texas

 It’s been fifty years since the debut of Barbie, the original “fashion doll.” You’d think something made of plastic wouldn’t have changed much—sort of like Cher—but you’d be wrong.

Malibu Barbie is now Menopause Barbie. She's given Ken a black eye for hanging around the Bratz dolls too long. She's even dumping him for GI Joe. Maybe because Joe's a real action figure, while Ken's always been just a boy-toy for her.

Let's face it, while Barbie's had numerous careers, from glamorous fashion model to astronaut, veterinarian, even mermaid, Ken's done little save escort Barbie places so she can show off her wardrobe du jour. I wonder if, on the back shelves of toy stores, there are dusty boxes of "Store Greeter Kens," or "You Want Fries With That?" Kens.

I can get that Barbie needs to work hard to keep up her Malibu Dream House and continuous wardrobe supply. Surely Ken needs money to escort his date around. Evidently it's not enough, which is probably why Barbie's leaving him for Joe. Considering her age, she probably wants more money now for the plastic surgeon.

Not that she's concerned with wrinkles and sagging. If she's with a real action figure like GI Joe, with articulated joints and everything, I'm betting she's finally going to realize her dream of becoming anatomically correct. The next time Joe sees her, she'll probably have nipples. Extra money can buy that.

Unless, of course, her Malibu Dream House is foreclosed upon by angry, Real-Estate Ken.

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