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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2009/January
2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
December 2009/
January 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Why I’d Like To Matrix-Pummel Kirk Cameron
By Gordon Chapman, Georgia
It’s not so much that I didn’t like his little tennie bopper sitcom
show, Groin Pains. And it’s not so much that I didn’t consider his
cutsie pictures anything but super adorable. I don’t think I’m jealous
of Kirk at all either. I am no stranger to the affect he had on women
worlwide. Even in the inbred country land of Alabama, up until I was 12,
my sister kept one of Dapper Kirk on her wall. Captain Kirk was wearing
some kind of hat that looked more like something a Chippendale Dancer
would wear than something a 16 year old
“you-cannot-have-sex-with-me-cause-I-am-too-young-due-to-state-laws”
idolized television star would wear. I endured, and even came to like,
the way she would rush outside to turn on the hijacked power so she
could get The Kirk-Kid Wonder at night.
I think the day that I suddenly realized I’d like to pummel Kirk Cameron
was until I was 30 years old. It was during Christmas holidays. I was
busy flipping around on cable television looking for something that
didn’t have any clothes on, and then….
“All of a sudden,
There rose such a clatter
I dropped my beer
To see what was the matter
There’s old Kirk
On religious TV
Hating the sinners
And loving the screen”
Yeah, I think that was when I started wanting to Matrix-Pummel Kirk
Cameron. The day he formed the Did-I-Tell-You-About-Hell Holy Spirit
Power Squad and found his way back into my television. I didn’t ask for
this! My fanny puckered more as I saw
Mr.-I-Don’t-Diet-Cause-I-Stay-A-Constant-150-Pounds-For-Life go
toe-to-toe with a man the size of 5 Russian gymnasts on the streets of
New Orleans over is it a sin to look at a woman.
Lucky for that man, he was born cross-eyed. He was able to carry on a
conversation with Captain Kirk Tickler while still winking at a few nice
ladies who were trying to figure out if Groin Pains was shooting a
reunion tour. He humored Luke Kirk-Walker by knodding his head, smiling,
and saying something only the redundantly retarded would assume was a
heart-felt answer.
Which, of course, the Kirk-man of Alcatraz did with each new stare into
the camera holding his jolly stick microphone shaped like a Freudian
sin-slip.
As I continued to hurl beer cans at the television set, you could almost
hear the following come forth from the big man as the gentle and sweet
Kirk pilfered him with pseudo love and his ever so flashy smile. The
large as a truck man was probably saying to himself …“Where the hell is
this cracker coming from? Telling me all this mess on such a damn fine
sunny day with all these honeys walking around, their legs shining like
a fresh batch of Butter-Me-Nots? Shouldn’t he be busy filming something
for Members Only Jackets?”
But, alas, I couldn’t do anything to help this poor man. I couldn’t Neo
myself into the television and pull a Mr. Anderson into the chest of
Captain Kirk Cameron. All I could do was drink beer, crush the cans, and
stare in utter amazement at what Kirkish had become.
A spokesman for Eternity.
As I grew older, my disdain for Kirk disappeared as he stayed out of the
spotlight more and more, apparently finding out that married life was
more demanding than Groin Pains had led him to think. Until he decided
it was time to take on something no one else had the foresight to
consider.
A spokesman for Family Values
I had no idea his movie Fireproof had anything to do with family values.
I love my family but you don’t have to go reminding me of it. Judging by
the cover, I thought my super sensitive eyes was picking up something
about a fireman falling in love, a story of love for the hardest
workingmen on the block. Nope, it’s Kirkish again, trying to each all of
us another lesson from his life lesson notebook again.
Maybe he’ll teach little kids how to take a poop at some point? Maybe he
calls it FirePoop?
Maybe as time goes on, my urge to
Matrix-pummel-with-my-fists-up-the-side-of-Kirk Cameron will dissipate.
I can only imagine that there’s someone else out there who’ll wear his
tiny ballet shoes one day, put their hair in curlers, and decide it’s
time to take a stand on the most silliest of propositions.....
What one believes.
It’s the only independence we have.
www.winadatewithrusschapman.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Humor
Basic
By David Crawford, British Columbia
“Drop and give me fifty punch lines!”
I was in agony. The Drill Editor at Humor Basic Training had singled me
out for having mangled a particularly droll Robert Benchley line. I
began typing furiously while my nemesis continued barking orders…
“Right! Johnson! Take your squad and assault that boardroom with
one-liners. Make every rimshot count - make up your own ammo if you’re
running low”
“F” Troop! Your mission is to undermine the council meeting over there
with snide remarks during presentations, followed by a barrage of stupid
questions at the Q and A afterwards.”
“Can we use rapid fire?”
“Negative! Sniping only. And take no prisoners. Move out.”
Life at hoot camp was hell. It either made you funny, or left you
nothing but a useless humor analogy – a pair of shoes dangling from a
power line on the road to comedy glory.
Raw recruits, we were the class clowns and smart-alecks, the
wise-cracking fools who joined up for adventure or a possible freelance
gig.
Training was hard and we learned how to use all the weapons at our
disposal.
Weapons like Zinger missiles, which we’d fire indiscriminately into
meetings or crowds. Zingers were effective for close-in engagements, but
for larger battles of wits we’d call in heavy weapons from the First
Humored Division. The big hartillery: Euphemisms. Sarcasm. Irony.
Innuendo.
We found and used WMD’s - Weapons of Mass Distribution. Newspaper
columns. Long range blog posts. Wacky morning radio broadcasts.
We learned how to protect ourselves from vile puns, how to sneak terms
like ‘buttocks,’ ‘Governor’ or ‘dog scooties’ into our written material.
We set up titter ambushes at banquet-sized guffawltercations.
Sabotage techniques like the fake office memo were employed, or the
idiotic survey inserted into the new office training manual.
The hardest tests were reserved for those going for the elite of the
elite. The peak of the Hilarity Industrial Complex: The Special Har
Service Regiment.
SHS Selection began with dinner parties and social engagements.
Seemingly placid environments, in reality they were vicious humor
battlefields, filled with banter and sniping. Verbal minefields.
Brutally difficult, applicants were dismissed for the slightest
infraction. No quips, sloppy aim, ill-remembered lines from when SNL was
still funny – you name it. Anything could trip you up and send you back
to barracks, where so called ‘humor’ was limited to bodily function
jokes and making odd sounds with armpits. Foot-in-mouth casualties were
common.
The obstacle course was stained with the sweat of comrades whose
repartee was not quite as rapier-like as their opponents. More than one
hopeful had flunked for lack of a timely remark about the shape of his
cocktail weenie.
This was not the place for inter-office Top 10 Lists or viral emails.
This was serious funny business. This was whimsy on the front lines –
the pointy end of the wit stick.
“Company!” the Drill Editor bellowed, startling me out of my reverie.
“This morning we are honored by the presence of Colonel Popcorn of the
Benny Hill Battalion, whose lecture on Irony entitled ‘Editors Really
Are Improving Your Work’ will commence at 0900 hours, 0930 in
Newfoundland.”
“This will be followed by banana cream pies at 1200 hours, after which
you will pick up long boards and march comically to the lecture hall for
a video titled ‘Slapstick and Other Uses for Politicians’ until lights
out.”
“Tomorrow you will undergo a rigorous 10 minute stand-up routine in full
Groucho Marx kit with no twitching from the fuzzy moustache! Quit your
grumbling back there!”
“Fools Company! Dis-missed!”
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Dining
with Count Chocula -- Cereals Bowls Grace the Supper Table
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Cap’n Crunch and I are men ahead of our time. Or behind it. I’m not sure
which.
When I was a bachelor, I ate breakfast cereal for supper most nights. It
was fruity or crunchy or sugary delicious, involved very little
preparation time, and was an easy-chair-ready meal.
Last year, I got married. Suppers of cereal have ceased. My bride says
balanced diets of Alpha-Bits, Super Crisp or Strawberry Frosted Shredded
Wheat are so, well, bachelor-like.
Now instead of Corn Pops, supper consists of things like actual corn,
salads and liver.
Once again, she failed to realize my sheer brilliance, my superior
insight and my knack for avoiding unnecessary work. Cereal IS for supper
in these days of economic recession.
Despite the tough times, General Mills Inc. just posted a 50 percent
second-quarter profit, according to The Associated Press. The reasons
are simple. The cost of ingredients is plunging due to a poorer market,
and families facing cash crunches find that Raisin Bran Crunch is a
cheaper yet nutritious meal.
Cereal is flying off the shelves faster than Sonny goes coo-coo for
Cocoa Puffs, and food banks are having trouble keeping the stuff in
stock.
“See,” I said to my wife while asking for Apple Jacks instead of
asparagus, “it’s the right thing to do.”
“No,” she said. “And don’t think I didn’t see that box of Reese’s Puffs
you stashed under the bed.”
“Well, at least consider Frosted Flakes. They’re gr-r-r-reat, you know.”
“In our wedding vows, I promised to care for you. Well, buster, that
means I’m making sure you are eating healthy meals now.”
“Hah!” I said. “Look, right here on this box of Fruity Pebbles: ‘Good
source of fiber; 10 essential vitamins and minerals.’ See, health, and
it tastes a whole lot better than that zucchini and cauliflower medley.”
“Why are you being so obstinate about your health? And you won’t be
feeling very healthy if I catch you throwing away the bags of lima beans
from the freezer again.”
“I’m just trying to do my patriotic duty in this recession.”
“Uh-huh. And how about when recessions make families cut back on paper
towels and other paper products? Particularly the others.”
“Um … well, we could, but stores put out fewer catalogs these days. We
have to stick to paper products.”
“And you can drink water instead of Coke.”
“Water has no nutritional value.”
“Nor calories, sugars and sodium. And don’t tell me about diet drinks
and all those chemicals.”
“But,” I started, “a bottle of water costs…”
“We’re in a recession,” she interrupted. “Take this bottle to work and
fill it at the water fountain. How’s that for cost savings so we can
afford carrots and broccoli? The water’s free and it won’t hurt you.”
“Yeah, but I’ll probably break a tooth chomping on raw vegetable stalks.
I’ve never heard of anyone breaking a tooth on Honey Combs.”
“Processed foods like cereal have all the health processed right out of
them.”
“Yeah, well my Rice Krispies are fortified. It says so on the box, which
tastes better than unprocessed broccoli, by the way. Plus, they Snap,
Crackle and Pop so I can have at least some intelligent conversation
around here.”
Yeah. I knew it before the words finished flying out of my mouth. I had
just made a tactical error, one that would keep me from performing my
patriotic duty for a long, long time.
So to my friends Toucan Sam, Lucky the Leprechaun and the Trix rabbit,
if you’re reading this, I’d like to invite you all over to supper. We’ll
be having chicken breast, raw spinach and chopped mushrooms.
It would be best not to ask for Honey Smacks for dessert, even if there
is a recession on.
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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Healthcare!
The Musical
By Christopher Hivner, Pennsylvania
President Barack Obama walks out to center stage, enters a single
spotlight and sings:
(sung to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star)
I am President O-ba-ma
I want health care for everyone
we have a bill that is 2000 pages long
it’s not perfect but it’s very strong
I am President O-ba-ma
I want healthcare for everyone
The spotlight moves stage right to a group of Republican leaders:
(sung to the tune of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas)
We’ll never
allow this to happen
we’ll lie and cheat and stall
we’ll make up stories about death panels
we’ll get Glen, Rush and Sean on the call
we’ll win
and let the democrats take the fall
The spotlight moves down to the floor to a group of uninsured Americans:
(sung to the tune of Over the Rainbow)
Somewhere out in the world
people have health care
it’s not me or anyone I know
this old world just isn’t fair
The spotlight moves stage left to a group of democratic leaders:
(sung to the tune of Another One Bites the Dust)
We wrote a bad bill, we know it
but we’re gonna to push it through
we’re doing it fast, not getting it right
gonna blow a lot of dough
are you ready, are you ready to pay
can you tell we don’t have a clue
we’re the United States Congress
we’re all smarter than you
We are filibuster proof
we have 60 votes
and another repub gone, and another repub gone
we have the votes we need
hey, we’re gonna jam it through
this bill’s all we’ve got
A harp trills in the background as the spotlight follows a newsie
holding up a newspaper:
Extra! Extra! Read all about it! House and Senate pass health care
reform bill! President Obama vows to sign the hell out of it!
The spotlight moves stage right back to the republicans:
(sung to the tune of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot)
It’s over
we lost the battle
but we won’t give up on the war
it’s over
the vote is there’s
we just have to lie and cheat some more
The spotlight goes back to shine on President Obama:
(sung to the tune of the chorus of We Are the Champions)
I am the champion . . . my friends
and I got what I wanted in the end
I am the champion
I am the champion
no time for detractors
cause I am the champion . . . of health care reform!
The stage goes dark.
http://cosmicoverdrive.blogspot.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Is
It Just Me?
By Patty K.,
Ohio
Is it just me or are we a very angry lot
these days?
I mean, I know that January is a favorite month to very few of us and
the gloom of winter can be depressing, but seriously, people, what is up
with all the hostility?
For instance, on the way to my day job a few weeks ago, a Mack truck
nearly turned my SUV into a compact. I guess when merging, traffic laws
take a back seat to the Darwinian Theory or, as my Dad likes to frame
it, the edict of “Might makes right.”
Let’s just say I’m lucky I don’t look like a pancake after almost
getting sandwiched between the Mad Mack and an oncoming car.
Well, good morning to you, too, sir.
A friend of mine, Jamie, had an equally unpleasant auto experience
recently.
“I was backing out of my parking space when some woman just started
blaring her horn at me and yelling that I hurry up,” she recounted.
Yes, because having forced Jamie to “speed” out of that spot 2.2 seconds
faster than she would’ve otherwise probably meant the difference between
the gold and the silver at the 2010 Parking Garage Olympic Games for
Beepy Beeperson from Honkland.
Gosh, I hope she won!
So, is all the angst vehicle-related? Because, as Charleen from Trumbull
County has observed, even divine intervention cannot quell the road rage
of some.
“It always amazes me how people can have Holy Communion in their hands
one minute and then 30 seconds later be using them to shake fists at
their fellow parishioners,” she said of those who almost mow down
pedestrians in their quest to peel out of church parking lots on
Sundays.
Hmm.
Well, I have to admit, I HAVE seen a couple of folks playing “Fast &
Furious” the second they step out of God’s house and into their vehicles
some mornings. What is it about getting behind the wheel and then having
to wait for someone to yield that turns people into Jeff Gordon and
Jimmie Johnson --- on steroids?
Alas, it’s not always the evil car casting a mad spell. Sometimes,
people are just haters.
This was clear as cellophane to me a few mornings ago when I was working
out on a machine at the YMCA.
It only took about four hours of her toxic glare burrowing a hole
through my forehead before I figured it out that another member was
unhappy with my use of her favorite machine.
This she validated by hopping onto a treadmill next to me and proceeding
to call a friend –though I find it hard to believe she actually has
many- to complain of my sheer audacity in utilizing a piece of equipment
at the gym where I pay membership each month. I’m kind of crazy that
way.
Here’s what she had to say, though I cleaned it up a bit. This is a
family column.
“I’m so BLEEPed right now. This place BLEEPs. Every BLEEPITY BLEEP
machine I want is either broken or some idiot is hogging it,” she
snarled, hurling the lattermost portion of the complaint in my general
direction.
Now, I could be wrong, but I think the idiot in question may have been
me.
I was tempted to ask Miss Congeniality if she knows what the “C” stands
for in the acronym YMCA but stifled the urge for fear that direct eye
contact with her might provoke a shanking.
Instead, I just kept smiling and opted against my original plan to lift
weights that morning. Rather, I stayed on that machine for my entire
workout session.
And in a twist of true irony, I stepped off of it just as she was
dismounting her crummy second-choice stationary bicycle.
“Anyone need a great workout?” I asked, offering my newly vacated and
cleaned machine to everyone within earshot.
I believe Miss Congeniality’s head popped off at that very moment.
And so, let that be a lesson.
Having to re-grow your head can be a very tedious process, so let’s try
to be a little kinder and gentler toward one another in 2010, okay?
www.tribtoday.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Woman
Cooks After 12 Years
By Mary Kirchhoff,
Pennsylvania
MCKEESPORT Penn. - Reports have been
surfacing from a suburb of Pittsburgh, Penn., that a woman who was
cookless for 12 years, cooked dinner three nights ago. It was also
reported that her daughter has been hospitalized, not from eating her
mother’s cooking, but from going into shock at the sight of her mother
preparing food in the kitchen.
Megan Kirchhoff, 23, is said to be in stable condition after the
cooking-induced state of shock she went into upon entering the kitchen.
“I couldn’t believe it when I walked into the apartment,” Megan said
from her hospital bed. I could smell vaguely familiar scents… I had
flashbacks to my childhood when my mom used to cook dinner every night.”
Mary Kirchhoff, 46, swore off cooking 12 years ago and has been
surviving on McDonalds, M&M’s, Dorito’s, and cans of tomato soup.
Unfamiliar with grocery shopping for dinner items and fearing she would
not be able to pull off cooking a meal after so long, she consulted her
psychiatrist.
After a lengthy meeting, Mary said, “He encouraged me and told me I
could get through it… that if I did if before I could do it again. I had
a lot of issues with the whole cooking thing, particularly with the mess
it makes. Towards the end of my old cooking days, the dishes just got
thrown in the bathtub or tossed out.”
So just what was it that prompted Mary to finally cook again?
“Well, I have a new kitten. She likes to hang out in the refrigerator,
among other places. She doesn’t realize its cold in there, I guess.
Recently she snuck in and was there for probably about 15 minutes when I
heard her crying. I rushed to get her out. I was petting her and
comforting her and saying to her, “Refrigerators aren’t for kitties,
they’re for food. You wouldn’t want someone to mistake you for a piece
of meat and cook you, would you?” I said to her.
“All of a sudden I had memories of me standing over the stove, stirring
things and using an oven and adding spices to stuff. It was cathartic.”
Mary says at that moment she decided it was time to cook a meal for her
and her daughter, no matter how difficult, how expensive and how
inconvenient.
“You know, I just can’t believe people do this every night,” Mary said.
“There’s just so much to do and think about. I had to clear my entire
day; I took the day off work, took my phone off the hook and made sure
my laundry was done. I told my friends and family what I was doing ahead
of time, in case something went wrong. I mean, you're talking about
putting an oven on at 350 degrees. My God, anything can happen!”
Mary says the supermarket part of it was very difficult. Not having been
in a store to purchase dinner food items for many years, she was
astonished at the prices of meat, breadcrumbs and eggs, and the
overwhelming amounts of brands to choose from.
“How do people do it?” Mary asked. “And why would they want to do it
every night? I mean, you have to go out and get all these special
ingredients, stuff like Italian seasoning and mozzarella cheese. Is it
really worth all that? It’s so much easier to get a Big Mac extra value
meal, and there’s never any waste.”
Mary said she cooked chicken cutlet Parmesan, and that particular meal
was no coincidence. She says her brother Kevin regularly cooks it at
family gatherings and she wanted to prove she could make it just as good
as him.
So how did it come out?
“It was great,” Mary said, “Very tasty, but I don’t know if it was as
good as Kevin’s. We will have to have a cook-off in a few years.”
It wasn’t without its problems though, she said. Halfway through dipping
the chicken into the eggs, her hands covered in a raw egg and breadcrumb
mixture, someone showed up buzzing at her apartment door.
“I freaked. That was not part of the plan. I needed my complete
attention focused on the task. I grabbed the chef’s knife on the counter
I’d been using and stormed out to the door. It was the UPS guy.”
“Get out of here!” I screamed, wielding the knife. “Can’t you see I’m
cooking!!!”
“I guess he got the message because he left in a hurry. He didn’t even
bother to drop off the package. Maybe I should have saved him a piece of
chicken…” Mary said.
The police did arrive at Mary’s residence, but after speaking with her
and tasting her meal, no charges were filed for the UPS/knife incident.
Mary is said to be taking a break from cooking again for a while.
www.pittsburghdietdiaries.blogspot.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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I
Love Telemarketing
By Jeanne Kraus,
Florida
A TV
infomercial…
Magical Hair Removal Cream.
NO FUSS! NO MESS! A LIFETIME OF HAIRLESS BLISS!
Order within 12 hours - receive two tubes of cream for the price of one!
It was too good to pass up. I ordered and impatiently awaited my
package, preserving my current crop of leg and armpit hair for the new
product’s expertise.
It removed hair, also epidermal skin cells. I itched. I scratched.
Refund information was scanty. Apparently, it was mailed from a storage
locker in rural Kentucky. Nonetheless, I persevered, returning it with a
strongly-worded refund request. After nine years, I still dog the
mailbox, hoping for my money, compounded with interest, of course. I
reverted to shaving my legs and armpits, and none too soon.
My next internet buying experience had a loftier purpose than body hair.
I wanted to get my hands on this product before the purchasing public
stampeded and bought out all the copies of The Nifty Guide to Wealth by
Dr. Stan. This resource guide and DVD guaranteed lifetime financial
success.
I dialed frantically. At Wealth, Inc., Dana took my information.
Dana: “How fortunate! We’re offering free express shipping today.”
Me: “ Wow! Thanks, Dana.”
Dana was pumped. “Hold On! Another irresistible offer. Dr. Stan
personally invites you to try his just- upgraded program for only 15.00
more. It’s so chock-full of information it will take the better part of
an hour to explain the benefits. Here we go!”
I was appalled. “Uh, Dana, why didn’t they upgrade the original? Tell me
it isn’t so. I don’t have it yet and it needs upgrading?”
Dana did not respond, then proceeded to maneuver me back onto
Information Highway 101.
I started to get sleepy during her monologue. Occasional “um-hms”
slumbered from my end of the connection.
Dana started coughing and she took a breather, slowing down her word
avalanche. “This is usually 150.00 but today it is only 29.95!” She
paused for my gasp of wonderment.
I was adamant: “No thanks. I only want the now out-of-date DVD.”
Dana: “Well, dear, this is a one time thing. You’ll make your money back
the first week. Cancel it after 60 days if you’re dissatisfied.”
I stuck to my
guns. “I’m dissatisfied already. Just the DVD. Nothing else. ”
Dana wasn’t through. “OK. I can offer you a FREE membership to Discount
Dave’s. For 30 days, buy whatever you like. If you continue the
membership, which is a no-brainer, of course you will, it’s only 49.95 a
month. It includes a 50 dollar gift card to your favorite restaurant.
Shall I rush that gift card to you?”
I was a rock. “Not if it comes with a trial membership. Remember I only
want the original DVD.”
Girl: “But what about the gift card?”
She was whining.
Me: “No, I really only want that DVD.”
Dana had reloaded. “How about this? Choose four free magazines. Your
four subscriptions come with a $30.00 gift card. Now what magazines
would you like?”
Me: “Dana, I don’t want any stupid magazines. I JUST WANT MY DVD.”
Dana Girl didn’t miss a beat. “ Listen to this! You’ve been selected as
a lucky winner of a free trip for purchasing our DVD. I’ll connect you
to our travel agent.”
It was my opportunity to escape. The order was done. There was no need
for me to stay entrapped on the line. But I stayed, a captive audience.
Was I a victim of Stockholm Syndrome?
A last word from Dana: “Ma’am. Shall I connect you to the travel agent?”
I was tired. “Yes,” I mumbled.
The travel agent picked on my second ring. I suspected her desk was
right next to Dana’s. She inherited the holdouts.
She described my prize….six days and seven nights at a luxurious
hotel/spa with a golf course and various other amenities too numerous to
mention, but she described them all anyway. In painstaking detail. My
ear was numb.
“…and these wonderful days and nights are yours, for planning two trips
with our agency during the year.”
My free vacation spiraled away out of my reach. Once again, I said
firmly….”No thank you. I only wanted that DVD, whatever it was.“ And
then I hung up.
Six weeks later, the DVD is still sitting on my desk untouched. I am
wondering if there is something else I need to do with it to become
wealthy. I wonder if I should get that upgrade…
www.jeannekraus.com
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Driving
Miss Conception
By
Barry Parham,
South Carolina
While attending a realtor's open house, I
overheard a conversation, which often happens when I stand right behind
a person, lean back, and listen to what they're saying. And I heard some
guy respond to a remark as follows: "I'm not a bachelor; I'm single."
Point taken. As a Career Unmarried Person myself, I savvy. 'Bachelor'
and 'Single Guy' are not synonymous.
True, they do share a trait: they're not married. But, apparently,
neither was Bill Clinton. Nor are children, some priests, many convicted
felons, and most fish. But that doesn't make Bill Clinton a felon. Okay,
bad example.
Bachelors and Single Guys lead different lives, have different annoying
habits, use different courtroom tactics to avoid becoming a convicted
felon. They may both act like animals, but they're not the same animal.
They view life through differing filters.
Bachelors own sports jackets; single guys own sweaters. Bachelors buy
magazines; single guys buy books. (If a bachelor does own any books,
he'll arrange them by color.)
Single guys clean; bachelors clean up. Both may own a bike, but the
bachelor has an aerodynamic helmet raked with lightning bolts. Both may
own lots of music, but the single guy would never buy a 'greatest hits'
album.
The bachelor has a portable digital device with a full keyboard, large
screen, memory options, built-in camera and music player, and on-board
applications. The single guy has a cellphone. Online, a bachelor will
create an alluring avatar, with a tweaked photo and a moniker like 'Thundar.'
A single guy settles for a boring name, like, say, his name.
The bachelor has never slept in his own guest room. The single guy has
never slept in his own shrubbery.
"Which Are You?" Quiz #1
You're shopping for Mother's Day, assisted by an attractive clerk, and
you buy a blouse. What do you say to the clerk?
A: Can I get this gift-wrapped?
B: You remind me of my mother.
C: So what time do you get off?
Bachelors have matching dishes. Single guys have matching deck
furniture. Neither have matching bath towels.
The bachelor has a dog, for protection. The single guy has a cat, for
company. The dog is kept indoors, to protect the bachelor. The cat is
kept indoors, to protect the cat.
A single guy has a backup roll of paper towels; a bachelor has a backup
bottle of Scotch. A bachelor knows a joke when he hears one; a single
guy, when he sees one. Single guys have gay friends; bachelors know two
gay guys. Neither has a callow clue about women, but the single guy
knows it.
Bachelors never have pictures of more than one woman on the fridge.
Single guys never have more than one suit in the closet.
"Which Are You?" Quiz #2
You witness a violent crime and can identify the attractive shooter.
What do you say to the police?
A: Officer, I saw the whole thing.
B: I can't say for sure.
C: She's with me.
Both throw a great party, but the single guy remembers it the next day.
Single guys host; bachelors star. Bachelors are the life of the party;
single guys are in the pro-life party. A single guy believes in God and
America; a bachelor believes he'll have another Scotch.
A bachelor can't understand why women don't appreciate him; a single guy
can't understand why women would even bother. Bachelors distrust women
after meeting them; single guys distrust women until meeting them.
Summing up: the bachelor tries to be what he thinks others want him to
be. The single guy tries to be what he thinks he ought to be. Neither
are very good at it. And neither was Bill Clinton.
And neither am I.
http://www.pmWebs.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Don't
Judge Mom By Her Fridge
By Martha Peebles, Illinois
Growing up in a 1960’s world of TV role model mothers like June Cleaver
gave many young girls the ambition to be a Perfect American Mom . Mrs.
Cleaver kept an immaculate house, wore dresses and pearls as everyday
attire and had a formal dinner every evening with her husband and two
children. She never seemed to have a bad hair day, PMS or have the need
to go outside of her spotless home. America loved the clever way she
could always see right through Eddie Haskell’s schmoozing politeness.
Wouldn’t it have been fun to see inside of her refrigerator? You can bet
her fridge was well stocked and well organized. She always had homemade
cookies, cake and fresh milk waiting for the boys after school. No green
fuzzy leftover casserole or old flat half-empty cans of soda could
possibly have been lurking there.
As it turned out, we all had to live in the real world and kiss June
Cleaver goodbye. A more up to date and realistic version of the Perfect
American Mom is the exhausted woman with unshaven legs wearing broken
flip flops who is pushing an overloaded grocery cart with a wilted
lettuce leaf stuck to one stubborn wheel. Meanwhile, her children are
throwing coupons out of her purse and have opened a box of cereal.
For most mothers, their work outside the home may be much easier than
what is always waiting for them when they step through their back door.
Mothers have to be janitors (How did this barf get under the bed?),
cooks (The steak taste like braunsweiger because it’s a new gourmet
steak called “liver.”), tutors (Just because your teacher eats chalk
doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay attention!), inventors (I wonder if
coffee filters could be used as toilet paper?), nurses (Did I take a
rectal temperature on the dog with that thermometer that’s in your
mouth?) and counselors (Tell me again why you felt the need to pierce
your lip?) all in one perfect little package.
I wonder what type of person Sigmund Freud’s mother was. As he grew
older she probably had to be really careful what she said in his
presence for fear of being psychoanalyzed and blamed for everything that
was wrong in his life. I bet she spent a lot of time on the couch. What
about Albert Einstein’s mother? She probably nagged him continuously to
do something with that hair and for his unkempt room filled with little
pieces of scrap paper written in code like E=mc2 that she couldn’t
decipher. Ben Franklin’s mother most likely feared threatening weather,
knowing good and well he would sneak out to fly that dang kite again!
Now, as an empty nester I look in my own refrigerator opening lids and
dumping moldy food. I find an old half-eaten chocolate Easter bunny, a
sweet reminder of days gone by. Obviously, a June Cleaver I was not, but
in the big picture being a good mother is not about refrigerators, it’s
all about love. It’s about having the ability to see your heart walk
around outside of your body and there’s no doubt that Eddie Haskell’s
mother felt the same way.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Cougars
By
Ann Thomas,
California
Have you heard about the new dating
trend? Younger men and older women are hooking up. The women are called
“Cougars” although someone told me that situation used to be called
“Tadpole Fishing.” As someone who is Unmistakably Older and therefore
potentially a candidate for one of these younger men, I decided the
topic merited some thought. After all, if the opportunity presents
itself, I don’t want to stammer around, unsure of what I want to say.
To begin with, I think it is important to understand the motivation of
the individual young man who comes calling. Some are probably looking
for a mother. If that is the situation, then one needs to take seriously
whether teaching another male how to pick up their dirty socks, put the
toilet seat down when finished, and wipe their feet before coming inside
is really worth whatever benefits may come from the relationship. Some
of my friends say they are up for this challenge, but most of us have
raised enough children and husbands to satisfy that need.
While motivation isn’t always easy to detect, I’ve discovered it becomes
clearer if I utilize minimal conversation and maximum observation. An
example would be “Please be sure and put the toilet seat down so I don’t
fall-in some dark night and break my hip.” That should be said only
once, after which you observe to see if A) he listens and B) he
remembers. Listening and remembering are key motivation ingredients and
a clear pattern seldom develops before a month. If, after watching for
that amount of time you see that he has flunked, you are right in the
middle of the “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times”
syndrome, which we all recognize as mothering. The only remaining
question at that point is “How do you feel about a broken hip?”
It’s also important to discover if he likes to cook. Some women I’ve
talked with are delighted to find a new partner who is kitchen adverse
or even incompetent, because they now have someone to cook for. I, on
the other hand, believe that the good Lord assigns to every woman at
birth a maximum number of dinners they must prepare for others, and I
reached my quota several years ago. Oh sure, I enjoy the occasional
dinner party or holiday festivities, but a hungry, helpless person
sitting nightly at my kitchen table would not only starve, but would
definitely get on my nerves.
Then there is the issue of whose friends the two of you hang out with.
If yours, there is the definite advantage that many of your cohorts will
become inhibited and stop talking about their colons and gall bladders.
That alone may make everything worthwhile.
On the other hand, if you hang out with his friends, interesting as they
may be, there is the difference in energy level that comes with age. Now
certainly the initial flush of a new relationship allows one to
experience an amazing surge of energy, but trust me, it doesn’t last.
When that surge has passed, you are faced with the fact that your
partner may like to dance or drink or party half the night, while you
are yawning and nodding off, wishing for a soft bed. Compromise here is
difficult. Clearly it would be embarrassing to show up in pajamas and
cold cream.
In-laws are also a factor to consider. Things can get sticky when your
new partner is younger than your youngest child, and your new
mother-in-law doesn’t yet need to color her hair. Those extended-family
get-togethers may begin to take on the characteristics of an evening
from Comedy Central.
On the other hand, there is the issue of sex. A new, younger partner is
often very sexy, and given the fact that males peak earlier than
females, that can be a real recommendation.
This whole idea of the older woman and the younger man is a relatively
new phenomenon in our society, although we’ve always seen the reverse
where older men seek out younger women. That’s not called being a cougar
or tadpoling however. My friend Gladys, whose husband Ted divorced her
for his young secretary, told me the term that’s used to describe this
behavior in men is “Old Fool.” I don’t know if she’s right or not.
www.dr-annthomas.com
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