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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/July 2010
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
June/July 2010 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Plan B: President Obama Orders Auto Companies to Build a Car That
Runs on Raw Oil and Salt-Water
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
Frustrated by the Government’s inability to prevent leaks under
conditions of intense pressure, the President admitted that oil cleanup
information will continue to spill out of the White House and tar ball
his energy policy. The President therefore took the bold step of
bypassing the leaks and announcing Plan B:
a six billion dollar subsidy to three American auto companies and one
aquarium to develop a car engine that runs on raw saltwater and
unrefined oil.
Scientists at MIT's "Ocean Productivity Improvement Lab" predicted that
it will take two years, six thousand packs of Morton Salt, and eight
cost overruns to develop an internal combustion engine that runs on
petrol-covered brine. Scientists say that further advances in component
materials will be required to prevent salt-water engines from quickly
corroding from the inside out and diminishing the sea-horse power of the
new engines. Furthermore, MIT scientists warn that the first generation
of saltwater powered cars could experience random bursts of "unintended
acceleration" from episodes of uncontrolled "engine sneezing".
White House leaks indicated that once the saltwater car engine is “up”
and “running”, the Government will lease out thousands of "floating
gallons" of the Gulf of Mexico. According to leaks, bidding companies
will be required to demonstrate that they can "skim" oil off undulating
waves of salt water, and can withstand the smell of shipping petro-salted
brine to market.
Rumor of the Government's plan pushed the BP oil company to put forward
their own U-Skim plan which would be modeled after agricultural U-pick
operations. BP officials promised that any person or mechanical entity
that skimmed a thousand barrels, or more, of excess oil out of the Gulf
of Mexico would be allowed to skim off the top ten percent of BP's tax
breaks and thus, skip out on paying government taxes. BP promised that
successful U-skimmers would receive other "state of the art" oil company
privileges.
However, BP denied rumors that it was planning to compensate skimmers
who come up empty handed, with a "souvenir" barrel of BP brine, complete
with a pinhole sized leak and a tar ball sealing kit.
Alternative Solutions Dissolve in the Gulf Water Debate
Meanwhile, scientists at the Boston Aquarium were said to be furiously
working on a new breed of tropical plankton that will be able to digest
oil and excrete premium gasoline. Aquarium officials denied that they
were working against MIT's saltwater engine project. Rather, aquarium
scientists said that a biological solution to the BP oil spill would
prove to be more "holistic, appropriate and earth loving" than a
salt-sucking engine built by a nerd-centric university; so dominated by
computer-geeks that students are assigned Sudoku puzzle books for
literature class.
Marine Scientist Jeffrey Fishstein, better known as "Stein," summed up
the view of the Boston aquarium scientists:
"We have tremendous respect for the abilities of MIT scientists. But
face it, a MIT brain will look at a problem and build some confabulated
mechanical device that can’t replace itself, or reproduce, after it
wears out. If you don't believe me, just ask the wife or girlfriend
about the dating skills of anyone working in an MIT lab.
The sustainable solution to this oil spill has to be biological since it
was ancient plants and animals that were crushed to make oil in the
first place.”
MIT scientists hit back saying that millions of years of geological
“pressure” and “physical heat” created oil and that a biological
solution to the Gulf Cleanup was as dead as the plants that long ago had
been crushed into oil by the “more relevant, powerful, and universal”
physical forces that MIT scientists study.
The White House ordered engineers and biologists to quit squabbling and
said the core problem was neither mechanical nor biological but
"economic." The White House backed up its point by saying that hundreds
of hours of intense public pressure and media heat had crushed BP
profits -- and White House political ratings -- into a dead inorganic
brine which could prove to be combustible later in the year.
Meanwhile additional White House leaks indicated that scientists and
ministers at Baton Rouge Bible Academy had secretly had begun working on
plan C; which would:
Use Powerful Barge Hoses and House Prayer to direct the Gulf Stream
current to carry Gulf oil plumes across the Atlantic Ocean so that oil
and sticky tar balls “righteously” plop up on the shores of British
beaches.
www.bananaws.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Lazy
Susan
By Lena C., Washington
(Author's
last name withheld by request.)
The smell from the turkey and stuffing should have immediately sent the
three of us into a euphoric state. Any normal family would have picked
up their plates and started eating Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, my
brother, David, and I stood in the kitchen next to the glorious spread
of food that was getting cold while my mother paced figure eights in the
living room. We could hear her mumbling something about needing to fix
her lazy Susan. As if on cue, my brother and I simultaneously uttered
under our breath, “Who is Susan?”
Ever since our father’s death, my mother could talk for 30 minutes about
the differences between Home Depot and Lowes and would scrunch up her
nose to make a ‘yucky’ face when we suggested she go out on a date with
a man. David and I were becoming suspicious she was becoming a lesbian.
Standing in the kitchen, David shot me a look of concern that this 'lazy
Susan" might just be her first take at an unmotivated lesbian lover. Our
suspicions were squashed as our mother explained that ‘lazy Susan’ was a
pantry area with a spinning shelf that had broken moments earlier while
cooking.
We looked at each other with dread. We would have preferred to have an
unmotivated lesbian joining us for dinner. Knowing our mother, we would
not be eating anytime soon.
She suddenly disappeared into the garage and returned with a bucket of
tools.
“What’s the chainsaw for, mom?”
Ignoring us, her eyes narrowed and she said with determination, “I can
fix this.”
We watched as she knelt down on the floor and began tugging, pulling and
drilling. Determined to fix everything around the house by herself, she
huffed and wrestled without asking for help. With steam coming off her
back she cursed and shouted, “You sure are lazy, Susan!”
Between drill noises and grunts she would make sure we understood the
dangerous choices she was in the process of making. "Hand me my glasses
so I don’t get metal in my eye, please!” It was after she said, “Scaa..ary”
in a sing-song voice that David and I finally offered to help. Upon her
refusal, and tired of listening to her struggle, I cautiously suggested,
“Everybody raise your hand who is open to calling for professional
help”. With my arm raised high in the air, the noise of the drill
penetrating metal was the only response I received.
I had to hand it to my mother. Since becoming a woman living on her own,
she had taken full control over all the things in her life she used to
leave for a man. When she needed a pine tree cut down in the backyard,
she did it herself with a manual saw and hauled it into the living room
for the holidays. She would head upstairs in the middle of a dinner
party to caulk a tub. If she discovered a clogged sink, her pupils would
get very small and with serious conviction she would say, “Let me get my
tools.”
She took her role as an independent woman to new heights, including
dangerous ones that should not be attempted unsupervised. I had to
relax into the idea of my 60-year old mother on a ladder in the garage,
hanging heavy patio furniture to hooks on the ceiling or repairing
electrical equipment with no training.
Of course, when this behavior first began, I did my best to stop her.
With fear and adrenaline, I would stand between her and her next project
with my arms open wide, my feet wide apart with my weight quickly
shifting from side to side as if I were a point guard in the last 10
seconds in an NBA finals game. It wasn’t until that point in my life
that I realized my mother had the agility and speed of a thirteen-year
old boy. As it turned out, she even knew how to fake left then go right.
I didn’t stand a chance. My mother needed to conquer these things on her
own. She needed to conquer all the things she hadn’t done in married
life. These were her decisions to make and her items to fix, not mine.
It was clear I would need to get used to hearing her say, “I think I may
have done something to my arms. The doctor wants me to sleep with my
arms in slings for the next two months. Maybe it’s from playing tennis
once a week?”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Why
Men Like Explosions In Movies
By Diana Estill, Texas
Several friends and I recently discussed the differences between men’s
and women’s tastes in movies. I’m talking, of course, about action
adventures compared to life dramas that deal with more realistic
subjects, such as finding a soul mate via time travel.
Guys want the movies they watch to be packed with astonishing
pyrotechnics that deliver excessive jolts of adrenaline.
“If something doesn’t blow up in the first 15 minutes,” my friend’s
spouse confessed, “I’m out of there.”
The other men seated at our restaurant table nodded in agreement.
We ladies shared a knowing laugh.
Right then, one of the kitchen’s wait staff dropped what sounded like a
four-piece serving for 50. The gentleman seated next to me expressed his
concerns by applauding.
Why are men so enamored with things that go “BANG?” I wondered.
Perhaps the male of our species welcomes anything that interrupts
otherwise constant thoughts of sex.
Nah, that can’t be it. Nothing could be that jarring.
When it comes to movies, men are attracted to explosions and fires and
guns because viewing these images of power helps satisfy their urges to
destroy opposition.
Think you won that last argument with your man? Nope. He obliterated
your score while watching Transformers. You just didn’t know it.
Gals, here’s the deal: Men are wired to want something to erupt—loudly.
This clearly works to their advantage. As long as there’s plenty of
noise, they can avoid listening to us talk.
Furthermore, car explosions and artillery bombs and asteroid collisions
boost men’s confidence because they’re always looking for an equalizer
to prove size really doesn’t matter. Uh-huh. They’ve never been fully
convinced.
The metaphorical links between explosions and heated desires have been
well established. Items that can be detonated are dangerous, and danger,
as everyone knows, is an aphrodisiac. This explains why many men say
they’re “looking for fireworks in the bedroom.”
Explosives are naturally arousing. Good grief, the word “combustible”
even includes the word “bust”.
To a guy, there’s nothing more thrilling than giant fireballs spewing
debris and carnage. Don’t ask them to watch a movie that has a dramatic
plot, one with actual dialogue and fully clothed stars. That would
require too much cerebral effort for anything that lacks a powerful
climax.
However, when I’m watching a movie, if something blows up during the
first 15 minutes, then I expect whatever follows to be a two-hour waste.
Unless, of course, that is the inciting incident that sends the heroine
on a journey of self-discovery that takes her to some exotic locale,
wherein she meets some gorgeous hunk of hormones who is suffering from
some tragic loss, and they fall in love, drift apart, and then, through
some chance event, reunite and eventually marry and live harmoniously
ever after, despite having four children, three dogs, two cats, one
iguana and a mother-in-law sharing their quarters.
See, women are just more realistic when it comes to what they expect
from movies.
www.TotallySkewed.com
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Spam
Warfare
By Laurie Fabrizio, Minnesota
I am not quite 50, yet am constantly informed that I am almost “over the
hill” as the greeting card industry takes great pleasure in reminding
me. My television is bombarded with AARP and incontinence ads, while
Alex Trebek is trying to sell me more life insurance. I am instructed to
buy emergency alert buttons in case I fall and can’t get up. However the
ones that irritate me the most are the Cialis and Viagra ads. The Cialis
commercial with the two bathtubs is my favorite. It still baffles me how
a couple can be in two separate bathtubs and still get the job done. Let
alone, how romantic is that? Perhaps they are in dire need of couples
counseling.
I can overlook the fact that our media is trying to make money off of a
captive audience, but when they start messing with my email…it means
war! The other morning I checked email, only to discover I had over 300
spam mails. Curious, I opened up the file to see who was the culprit.
Apparently, the pharmaceutical industry had begun a campaign to barrage
me with annoying emails. I was their latest victim and didn’t even
suffer from Erectile Dysfunction (ED). Hello…I am a female! This is what
I received:
Become Iron Man in bed, spend endless night of pleasure, secrets to sexy
bedtimes, be beloved by her tonight, and my all time favorite…much
bigger than you used to have it. Every email was sent in quadruplicate.
As humorist, I began thinking about what my response should be. It was
time for ‘Operation Shock and Awe.’
Dear Spammer,
I saw your email that you sent me, the first time. I am afflicted with
Dyslexia, not Dementia. You obviously have nothing better to do than
bother me with repetitive emails. Perhaps you should look for a real
job, or deal with your own sexual frustration.
For the record, my husband and I make love 3-4 times a day, seven days a
week, double time on holidays. He is an animal in bed and has more
staying power than my great uncle’s bull, Hercules. Quite frankly, the
use of your product would either cause chaffing or kill us both. We
already attend weekly couples Botox sessions to decrease some of the
smile lines caused from receiving constant pleasure. Please move on to
some other unsuspecting soul who really has issues in the bedroom.
Do yourselves a favor and get rid of the bathtub ad. As the person who
has to scrub our tub, two is not a turn on. One is much more romantic
and there is less to clean.
Signed,
More than satisfied
I have since sent all of these spam emails into the cyber trashcan. I
apologize in advance if they inadvertently make it into your email. They
are like a new Internet STD that has been unleashed. Opening my email
every morning has almost become comical, as I hold my breath waiting to
see how many more there will be. I just have one question…Do they sell
computer prophylactics?
http://lauriefabrizio.squarespace.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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How
to Communicate with Your Spouse when His/Her Significant Other is
Politics
By Margie Finn,
California
I've been studying America's pesky
divorce rate for half an hour now and I believe I've made an important
discovery. As a concerned citizen, then, it's my patriotic duty to share
this landmark finding immediately because the government is obviously
suppressing the information. It's Political Bickering Syndrome (PBS),
and it strikes suddenly just prior to political elections. However,
caution is needed, as PBS must not be confused with other marital
conflicts like: "How Can You Wear White Sweatsocks and Sneakers with A
Navy Blue Suit?" or "Isn't it Time You Remembered to Put The Toilet Seat
Down, Now That We're Married 23 Years?"
PBS hits with the realization that, though we cherish our spouses, we're
never going to change their--and I say this with the utmost
respect--bonehead opinions about anything. Especially politics. Without
delay, PBS victims thrash their arms and yell violently. You've probably
seen them at the mall. Couples who once chatted quietly about this
candidate or that, now drop F- bombs, shout expletives regarding
conservativism versus liberalism, and hurl the baby's dirty diapers at
each other, right there in front of Ralph ("Cowboy") Lauren's pristeen
polo pony mannequins. It's enough to ruin anyone's shopping experience,
especially having to witness their pulsating faces (the couples', not
the ponies') erupting into Day-Glo shades of Radioactive Purple and
Nuclear Orange. Let's be honest: they're unattractive--especially those
wearing executive-length argyle socks, plaid shorts, and pith helmets.
And those are the women.
Well, I refuse to let this straw break the matrimonial camel's back,
only to blight our great country, with its purple and amber majesty
sprouting fruit all over the plains. Diligent research has concluded
that the two fundamental causes of political discord are that: 1) one's
mate disagrees with one's opinions, or 2) some other reason. Thus,
because marriage is the backbone--not to mention the gastrointestinal
system--of our country, couples must avoid, at all costs, political
discussions with any persons, living or dead, regardless of race,
religion, or tendency to trim toenails while driving on slow-moving
freeways. Moreover, two highly respected journals (American
Psychological Association and Kumquat Growers Monthly), warn couples to
cease exchanging provocative comments such as: "take a flying leap" and
"you're full of it," as these may cause unnecessary homicides and other
inconveniences.
With regard to empirical evidence, if you were to spy on several couples
that I know personally--and I'm not for a moment suggesting that you
should--you'd learn that constant political bickering can exacerbate not
only high blood pressure, but incontinence and an insatiable desire for
stewed prunes. And these are not just couples who live in retirement
homes.
Thus, to restore marital calm within our nation of amber waves of purple
majesty, citizens must improve spousal communication immediately. That's
right. Even if Simon Cowell called you personally to announce that
you're needed immediately because you're the next American Idol winner,
you must say: "I can't talk now, Si. I'm pulling my wife and myself up
by our non-political matrimonial bootstraps. Call me tomorrow after
lunch."
Thus, we see that avoiding political discussions is vital to preventing
divorce. The two examples below utilize the psychotherapeutic technique
known as "DEFUSING," which can assist in calming an angry mate in subtle
ways.
ANGRY SPOUSE: Dammit, the only way to win this war is to bomb the hell
out of all of 'em!
RECOMMENDED DEFUSER: Honey, what d'ya say we go out and have some pina
coladas? My treat!
ANGRY SPOUSE: Politicians are all crooks. Throw them all out!
RECOMMENDED DEFUSER: Say dear, did you know that if we cut the tips off
of rubber gloves and put them on our kitchen chair legs, we can prevent
scratching our floor?
And so, we see that committing to eliminating PBS is the kind of
commitment that has made America--with her amber waves of purple
mountains--great. But just in case defusing doesn't work, it's probably
wise to keep your toilet seat down, anyway.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Evaluating
God or, “Is It Hot In Here Or Is It Just Me?”
By Debra Joy Hart,
Illinois
Being a minister and a nurse has afforded
me the opportunity to be around a lot of small talk regarding the
Almighty. Usually people just whisper their displeasure. Some folks I
run into are denying the existence of a mighty powerful figure aka G -O
–D. The Jews write it G-D, as to not really mention the whole name for
fear of upsetting a certain supreme being.
Others ask,” Why isn’t God paying me a higher salary? Or,”Why is God
giving me an outdated disease?” Mostly it comes in the form of an Anglo
Saxon curse. I don’t mean to spread any rumors or get into gossip. I am
just questioning if there is any truth to what I heard.
At one point in my life I decided, “If there wasn’t a God, I would
create one.” Why should I bear the entire blame of anything when I can
pass the proverbial” buck” to a Higher Power? Either way, Deity worship
was already created bazillion years ago. My mission is no longer to
question God’s existence. I only have to question The Dude in Heaven's (TDIH's)
job performance skill here on earth. Don’t you ever question a
Boss??????
The most recent and obvious” chit chat” on the block is: God has
Narcissistic Personality Disorder. (DSM-IV-TR 301.81).
The professional and or impromptu counselor in you might be thinking:
Really, you think so? You have to have at least 5 out of 9 basic
criteria or symptoms to really have this disorder. Everyone knows that.
Consider the words of the Old and New Testament:
• So God Created humankind in his image (This is a no brainer. Can
anyone get any more conceited and puffed up than to do something like
that???)
• I am the Lord your God, a jealous God. (Gosh, God is even admitting
jealousy and implying envy)
• For our God is greater than other Gods (This shows certain arrogance
and haughtiness... I bet you have a family member just like this, on
your wife’s side?)
• Our God is the God of Salvation (Once again... thinks he/she is the
ONLY one who can rescue you from your problems...talk about
co-dependence….)
• You cannot serve God and wealth (This truly is an unreasonable
expectation and lacks empathy for us poor suckers. Of course you can do
both…look at TV Evangelists)
• No one is good but God Alone (Interpersonally exploitive, do you
think?!? If we are to believe this, there certainly is an over the top
grandiose sense of self importance.)
• Do not follow other Gods (Helloooo? Do I smell “Requiring excessive
admiration?”?)
Well, there are 6 symptoms right here in 7 examples. Does anyone else
see a problem?
And what about the cautionary words “Do not test the Lord our God...”
If we are children of God, isn’t that the worst thing you can say to a
kid. Especial those of the adolescent mind like me. Of course I am going
to test God… isn’t that what parents are for? Hasn’t God heard about
reverse psychology? If you tell a kid NOT to do something… it’s a
guarantee he or she will do exactly the opposite. Gee, how stupid can a
deity get?
Combining different religions into one stew pot, “New Ager’s” often come
up with “We are one with everything.” I imagine that if a 473-lb. man
sat on a $55 IKEA chair… the chair and I would both be having
excruciating pressure, pain and hemorrhoids. I have never seen a chair
with hemorrhoids, but it can’t be pretty.
Consider when people swear. If we are truly “One with the father” then I
might as well take my own name in vain such as “ Deb Dammit” when I
forget to pluck my single nose hair or back into my friend’s car parked
in the driveway.
Then there is the matter of “going to hell.” People, who talk about
others going to hell, obviously have never experienced menopause. The
only exception would be the men that have lived with a woman during this
time in her life. He has felt the wrath, the fury and the heat. These
men get special dispensation.
Thanks to all who read this and let me vent. Really vent, because it
seems that it is a little hotter than usual sitting in my chair and
lightening just struck the tree outside. Just missed me, too. Hmmm?
www.debrajoyhart.com
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Buying
A Bathing Suit
By Amanda Hayes-Spencer, Kentucky
Buying a bathing suit is sort of like
buying a car. It’s exciting, depressing and tiring. And like any
purchase, you have to test drive 200 different kinds to find the one you
love.
Women look for a lot of the same features in swim apparel that they do
in their rides. We want something that is sleek and fabulous. It needs
to transform us into enviable beauties, the likes of which even those
ladies in Sports Illustrated are jealous of.
It’s also a plus if we can find one with a very secure, very stable
convertible top. And naturally, seating that doesn’t cause constant
wedgies.
I was shopping for a new suit the other
day and I noticed some things that left me quite disturbed. To be
honest, the whole experience has left me a little bit shaken.
The first store I went to had all kinds of different options. The
problem with this was, I didn’t see anything that I couldn’t make by
myself at home. All I would need is a package of dental floss, tic-tacs,
some glue and a few gum wrappers. It will come as no surprise to anyone
that I ran out of there screaming.
The second store I went to had a few different selections, but only one
that stood out. I was examining it when this lady, whose age was
somewhere in the upper 90s-ish, came up and told me that she had just
bought that exact suit a week ago. Again, I had to leave. I may be
getting older, but I just can’t be running around in the AARP Haute’
Couture Swimsuit Line.
The third store I went in had a plethora of things to look at. There
were tankinis, bikinis, one pieces and some with names that I hadn’t yet
heard of before. I was thrilled. I thought if I couldn’t find something
here, I was just too picky.
I dove in head first, ready to find what would make me the Spandex queen
I’d always known myself to be.
I flitted around the store, yanking one suit after the other off of
their racks. I had accumulated about 10 or so when I decided it was time
to try them on. So, with my bundle of rainbow colored clothing, off I
went.
A couple of them made me look a little bit like a watermelon shoved into
a straw. I don’t know if you’re orchestrating a mental picture of this
in your head or not, but let me assure you, it’s an ugly picture. I’ve
been having night terrors about it.
One of the suits was actually really cute. It had intricate straps and
pretty adornments. The problem was, once I got it off of the hanger, I
couldn’t figure out how to arrange the straps back to normal. I lost
circulation in my hands once when I got a couple of the strings tangled
around my wrists.
On a high note, I’m pretty sure I invented a few new Yoga positions
during the ordeal.
Department store changing rooms are made completely wrong for the
purpose they serve. They need to straighten out some of the kinks in
their design. I have a few complaints that I think will change them for
the better.
First, they’re so small I can barely fit my elbow in them, let alone
flail around while trying on clothes. We need room to move and mirrors
on each wall that allow us a good look at our hind quarters without
having to crane our necks. How can you expect a woman to buy something
when her rear end might look big?
I don’t even know where to start with the lighting. I’ve never been in
one, but I bet I’d look sexier shrouded in the light of a morgue lamp.
If you have any kind of bump, lump or scar, they brighten up like glow
sticks. It doesn’t do much for a girl’s self esteem.
So, to all you clothing stores out there, give a girl a break will ya?
I did finally come across something that was satisfactory. I dropped a
few pounds and pulled a few muscles, but I succeeded.
I’m not going to be receiving jealously fueled hate mail from Cindy
Crawford anytime soon. But, I’m pleased enough that I will allow myself
to be seen in public while wearing it. I guess that’s all a girl can ask
for.
© Copyright
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Abandon
All Hope, All Ye That Denture Here
By Karla Telega, South Carolina
At the risk of sounding like a dental hygienic goober, I have to admit
that unless there’s an 8 oz. chunk of sirloin caught between my teeth,
I’m not likely to floss this week. Those of you who floss daily are
delivering a well deserved, “ewww.” The rest of us are saying, “Yeah.
What’s your point?”
Here’s my problem with flossing. You are taking a mini garrote and
wrapping it around two fingers. Then you are jamming a string with the
tensile strength of concertina wire between your teeth with enough force
to send it directly into your gums. You know you’re doing it right if
your fingertips are purple and your gums are bleeding. Under no
circumstances is purple a good color for skin. I feel sorry for the
hygienist who is trying to sell you on the idea of periodontal pain
every day. “It may seem like cruel and unusual punishment,” she says
brightly, “but it’s not like I’m asking you to listen to country music
every day.”
I used to need valium, laughing gas and restraints to sit still in the
dentist’s chair. I’ve matured way past the need to be strapped down, and
since my current dentist is old school, I don't get the benefit of
recreational drugs. He just has you bite down on a bullet while he’s
administering the novocaine: the man can find a nerve ending with
pinpoint accuracy. Most of my dental work now consists of damage control
on old fillings, and new damage to my bank account.
My parents didn’t make me brush when I was a kid, and I’m not sure that
dental floss was invented back then. Naturally, I got a lot of cavities.
We went to Dr. M. because he had an easy payment plan. He also had a
limited supply of Novocain, a diesel powered drill, and hands that
smelled of cigar smoke. People didn’t wear rubber gloves back then
unless they were cleaning toilets, so I got the full experience of
second hand cigar spittle sliding down my throat and a eau de stogie
wafting up my nose.
Since my teeth and fillings are marching to the tune of different
drummers in the department of wear and tear, the sins of my youth have
come back to bite me in the butt. I have one implant to replace a crown
that developed a fatal attraction to caramels. The dentist had an actual
ratchet to screw my new tooth into my jaw. The parts aren’t cheap, but
it's the labor that will kill you.
At what point are you missing enough teeth to consider dentures? My
husband had to get a tooth pulled, and the dentist has targeted two more
for oral elimination. If three implants cost the same as a full set of
dentures, his teeth will be sleeping in a cup on the bedside table from
now on.
Cervantes said that a man’s teeth are as valuable as diamonds. Mine may
be as expensive as diamonds, but I’m still not likely to floss today.
Basically, I’ve learned nothing.
http://www.telegatales.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Campbell Syndrome
By Mary Tompsett, Wisconsin
Along with millions of other workers, I’m flailing through a life change
known as the Campbell Syndrome.
I was canned.
Initially, my family and friends gushed sympathy and clamored for the
gory details. But after my third recitation of events, some checked
their watches and hurried off. A few more rehashings, and they glanced
at bare wrists and mumbled about taking the noontime slaughterhouse
tour. Yesterday the mailman saw me coming and faked a seizure.
But, here YOU are, eager for a fascinating, unbiased account of my
Campbellation, and how damn sorry those bastards will…What? This is a NO
WHINING zone?!? Aw, man. Okay, relax, keep reading and I promise you
won’t need a barf bag. Such a crude term. How ’bout a courtesy gastric
offloading pouch?
I found oodles of online interviewing tips. WHO WRITES THIS CRAP??? For
example, at lunch interviews, we should avoid messy or “suggestive”
foods. Wrong! It’s critical to show we can “think outside the box”!! My
advice? If you grew up watching Bonanza, eat what you want, because your
“suggestive” capabilities are toast. But if you’re young, hip and sexy,
use a water glass to smash those BBQ ribs to an orange paste. And then,
I say liiiiiick the goup off that glass, babycakes, and more power to
ye!
Yes, some foods are suggestive. That’s the friggin’ point! Only an
unpatriotic socialist (gasp!) would disdain “real” American food, such
as popsicles, corn dogs, and spray cheese.
No rice cakes. They’re dessicated socialist gruel that disintegrate upon
contact and will cling like crunchy maggots to a power-colored suit. And
what gets into your mouth will sit there like styrofoam. Thank God,
social anxiety makes me drool like a Saint Bernard.
Be prepared. When asked why you’re the best candidate, say “I’m a
hopeless workaholic with an insatiable need for approval.” If they offer
to spring for rehab, insist that good pay and vacations are but the wily
snares of Satan.
To demonstrate flexibility, pepper your remarks with “Whatever.”
Employers also value initiative and persistence, so pester the waiter
for crayons and don’t leave the restaurant until you finish coloring the
Shrek placemat.
If your current workplace gets dicey and a meeting is held to “hear your
side,” remember the importance of chair height. In my case, the boss
quickly ascended the lifeguard throne while the Human Resources guy
fiddled with the tension on the rack. Normally I prefer the dunking
chair but, hell, I was basking in a rare “good hair” day! So I wriggled
into the iron maiden—hey, is that my lost earring in here?? The door
shut upon my screams. Not from the spikes impaling me, but…yuck! All
those gum wads inside!! Housekeeping should really be notified.
While packing up your stuff, sing your loopy lungs out! I launched into
“Climb Every Mountain” as I gathered my rubber insects, Lone Ranger
lunchbox, cobra doorstop, and “eyeball” hard candies. Then I belted out
“Chain of Fools” while deflating the look-alike dummy that sat in for me
at staff meetings. And as the HR dude carried out my set of Dilbert
Guides to Workplace Etiquette, I threw sanity to the wind and ripped
into Clapton’s “Cocaine.”
But, be careful. Our own subconscious will punk on us, just for grins. I
once had a boss (call her Alpha Bitch) who abhorred my countenance, and
I, hers. But we agreed to keep me chained to the oar until I could
properly jump ship. A unit manager (call him Beta Boy) shared her
opinions and…Eeeeeuuuw…her bed. One day when my brain had already left
the building, I held up a length of pipe and (true story) I called out,
“Hey Marty, where do you want me to stick this?!?”
A final caveat: Employment upheaval may elicit a strong urge to change
something, anything, just to feel in control. Like, for instance,
grabbing the hedge trimmer this morning and chopping on my hair. Not
that I did…just saying…jeez, where’s a hat when you need one?
www.marytompsett.com
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