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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/November 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
October/
November 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Euro-Debt Crisis: Greek Democracy A Threat to Western Civilization
By Carlos Arnade, Virginia
European finance ministers thought they had a deal. Billions of Euros in
new loans from 41 German banks and one anonymous French mattress company
would be extended to the Greek government, provided Greece implemented a
German designed austerity program. World Stock markets rose steeply for
two days in anticipation of the deal.
Then, the country Greece committed a horrific act which terrified the
world’s bankers, financial ministers, and German descended people
everywhere. Greece practiced democracy. That is, the Greek Government
asked the Greek people to vote on the deal. Banks were livid. Finance
ministers were livid.
Germans, everywhere, appeared to be aggressively constipated. The French
mattress company wanted its stuffing back. How dare Greece practice
democracy? Western civilization was at risk. Doesn’t Greece know that
banking and money is the foundation of western civilization, at least
for the rich?
The German government immediately attacked Greece by threatening to lend
it billions of dollars of new loans.
German newspaper editors demanded that the Greeks act like Spartans.
Bankers demanded that Greek rise to the Olympic challenge to their
economy.
Greek women demanded that their adult children and spouses leave the
house and show up at work.
In fact, the entire world—except Republican Congress in Washington
D.C.-- demanded the that Greek business establishment get serious and
pay taxes like everyone else; that is everyone else who is not head of a
multinational corporation.
Meanwhile, European Bankers demanded that Greek leaders give democracy
the javelin toss and start acting accountable and autocratic.
---Greece Hits Back From Below The Balkans---
Greek business leaders responded to the outcry, saying they would permit
German Banks to foreclose on 121 non-performing Greek ships. The Greek
navy offered to lend the banks two search and rescue boats, in order to
search the world’s ocean for the nonperforming ships, pick them up, and
if necessary, pay off Somali bribes.
Meanwhile, Greeks newspapers claimed that French and German banking
loans to their country were operating as a Trojan bull, which one night
would break open inside an Athens bank vault and let loose thousands of
laptop-carrying accountants, who would attack Greek democracy with
Microsoft spreadsheets and tyrannical MBA logic.
Thousands of demonstrators took to the streets of Athens and demanded
that Greek’s best islands leave the euro-zone—and move to the South
Atlantic.
Demonstrators spoke of a new Greek currency named the Demo—whose value
would be backed by polished sea-shells. Demonstrators said that in the
Demo-based economy, store prices would be abolished and replaced by
marathon arguments between buyers and sellers over the price of goods.
Spectators would then vote-in the price of the product. And millions of
Greek homeowners, who are currently under-water, particularly in the
ancient Greek province of Atlantis, could use sea-shells to pay off
their mortgage.
Germans responded by saying that a Demo-base economy would be
inefficient.
Greeks argued that Greek democracy was not meant be to efficient. And
they claimed that living in a chaotic democracy is better than barely
existing inside a banking theocracy.
The French-warned that they would not accept sea shells as payment for
their debt. French lenders said that no decent French person would
sleep, much less steal the afternoon away with a mistress, on a mattress
stuffed with hard sea-shells and prickly crustaceans.
The Greeks pointed that pocketing a few billion Euros was a small price
to pay for having given Greek democracy to the rest of Europe.
Bankers, everywhere, said they just want money; anybody’s.
A consortium of Somalia warlords complained that the 121 ships that they
“accidently found” do not run as smooth as a “German” Mercedes car.
Turkey complained that Greece frivolity was harming the ability of 2
million hard working German-Turks to convert themselves into
Euro-people.
The British Chancellor of the Exchequer pointed out, to anyone would may
not have noticed, that Britain had chosen not to join the Euro-zone.
Italians said that living in the Euro-zone, daily, and nightly, was
becoming more like living in the twilight zone.
The British Chancellor of the Exchequer said that the Italians had it
right; adding that the Pound-Sterling world would always be superior to
the Euro’s Rod Sterling world.
China finally weighed in with Asia’s only comment on the Greek currency
crisis. The Minister of Finance said that China, from Greece, had
learned the central lesson of western democracy which is:
Never loan money to any country that allows its citizens to vote.
www.bananaws.com
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 Market
Volatility: Investors at a Loss Where to Put Their Money
By
Carlos Arnade,
Virginia
As Europe’s debt
crisis deepens, as commodity and stock prices gyrate, as the U.S. budget
breakdown increases the risk of holding treasuries, the debate over
where investors should put their money has intensified.
Wall Street money-guru Greene Stockman told Bloomberg News:
“With growing volatility in every market, nowhere on the entire planet
is without excessive risk.”
Chicago economist Martin Twambles posted the following advice on his
financial website:
“Investor exposure to international shocks, and each other’s mistakes,
make it difficult to find a safe place to put your money.”
California-based market analyst Howard Wayne sent investors the
following advice:
“Given the sharp volatility of commodity prices, the best place to put
your money is in a white envelope marked with the label “beans”; placed
inside a desk drawer next to your bed. Assets markets have become so
precarious that a lower right side desk drawer is better suited for
money-investors than an upper left side one.”
Dr. Twambles disagreed by responding:
“The Greek debt crisis has spread to Italy. Across the Atlantic the U.S.
Congress refuses to bring budgets under control. Given the pressure this
puts on real interest rates, the best place to your money, is in a
shoebox in the bottom right -side of your favorite sock drawer. “
Dr. Twambles added:
“Do not put your money next to your underwear; unless Europe’s
inter-bank rates of interest fall below ten percent.”
Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke and Treasury Secretary Timothy
Geithner met to discuss ways to encourage investor confidence. Off the
record, Bernanke expressed concern that unscrupulous financial advisors
were pressuring Americans to mix money and “beans” and store their
savings, and vegetables, next to their bed. The Fed Chairman maintained
that the economy would be better served if people put their money in a
small satchel and deposited it on top shelf of their bedroom closet.
In contrast, Secretary Geithner argued that Americans should put their
money into water proof buckets; located under a bathroom sink. The
Treasury Secretary said that the America’s dismal saving rate would
improve if consumers were forced to crawl on their hands and knees next
to a stinking toilet when withdrawing money from their personal saving
bucket.
Stanford University economist John Taylor---a leading critic of Obama’s
stimulus package, weighed in with an “other-handed tweet”.
“To prevent the economy from overheating, both consumers and investors
must put their money inside a shoebox and place it in their hallway
closet, away from the home vacuum cleaner.”
IMF economists warned, through a series of peer reviewed tweets, that
emerging market growth and increased euro-zone tensions meant that
investor should be depositing more money in old soup cans, located
within twenty feet of a kitchen appliance.
IMF economists said that heat generated by the “home” appliances would
keep the money-cans warm enough to retain value should world asset
markets freeze up.
Under pressure from European banking officials, IMF economists admitted
that underlying market risk—might require that investors keep a few
rolled-up wads of paper bills---inside a crumpled, dirty, pants pocket,
placed beneath an unused mattress.
At an investment forum in Hong Kong Chinese banking officials took issue
with the Western advice. Speaking through interpreters, the Chinese
reiterated their belief that to keep the world economy expanding, both
consumer and investors should put their money in plastic piggy banks.
The Chinese recommended that piggy banks be stored—inside a rice basket
kept hidden under a bamboo mat, next to a used kitchen cooking pot.
Chinese banking officials also criticized Western financial advisors who
encourage investors to store “bean-labeled” envelopes of money next
their sleeping beds.
The Chinese said only beans should receive the bean rating and added
that mixing up money and beans could be inflationary; particularly if
exceptional weather increased next year’s soybean’s crop.
Furthermore, Chinese officials said that foreign investors—who have a
poor understanding of Wall Street English--- may be tempted to plow
their gardens and plant their bean-money envelopes. Chinese officials
said that they learned, during the Cultural Revolution, that planting
envelopes of fresh cash under the soil does not cause money to grow.
The G7 group of nations said they would discuss options for the
financial system at their upcoming meeting in Ontario, Canada.
Government economists, in general, recommended that investors diversify,
putting some of their money in their wallet, a portion in shoe box, and
perhaps, bury a few paper bills in their garden; next to a Chinese
watercress plant.
www.bananaws.com
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Disco
Balls
By Pete Ballard, Illinois
It was the same outfit John Travolta wore on the 1977 Saturday Night
Fever album. At $50, the white, wide-lapel suitcoat, the black rayon
shirt, and tight white trousers were a steal. But I am not one to part
with money on impulse. Am I bold? Yes. Decisive? A neighborhood garage
sale demands nothing less. But rash? I’m the ad man who just snared the
big skin care account. I am the hunter.
The woman standing behind the table of hand-me-down clothes and
picked-over tchotchkes looked weary. She lowered her offer to $40 when I
asked for her “friendliest price.” (The implication is that asking for
$50 was unfriendly. It’s an effective ploy with the feeble-minded.)
Still, I was able to wring another $10 from the price, insisting I had
only $30 on my person. It was awkward when the wad I pulled from my
Diesel jeans pocket included a one hundred dollar bill. She sighed and
took the $30. It was to her benefit. She had $30 she didn’t have before,
with which she could buy Meow Mix or yarn or whatever widowed pensioners
living with six cats in dilapidated Bungalows spend their money on. And
I was ready to strut.
Of course, strutting in those clothes is not something done more than
three decades past their time, and I don’t haggle with the elderly just
for sport. Wearing the outfit would test my mettle against a more
formidable opponent: me. I loathe to admit it, but on the rare occasion,
I struggle with confidence. Confidence is a muscle that atrophies if not
flexed. Lately, inexplicably, my confidence has ebbed. Thus it is time
for a confidence work-out. That’s why I set a goal of wearing the outfit
three different days in public within a year, in trials of escalating
social risk. To succeed, I will need to emerge from each event even more
confident, popular, and envied than I am now—a renewed alpha male, bad
to the bone.
The first of the three trials—Halloween—will be a warm-up to fortify me
for later tests. It takes no great courage to dress unusually when
unusual dress is the day’s raison d’ etre. Would a man wearing a
late-70s disco costume with his shirt unbuttoned to the abdomen be
conspicuous on October 31? Yes, I will be the sole reveler with a
hang-gliding collar and contoured pants among banal covens of witches
and rubber-fanged Draculas, and my panache will be lauded.
The second trial, New Year’s Eve, will demand more nerve. It’s a night
of party clothes, and Travolta’s suit certainly qualifies. But it’s also
a night when contemporary style is an advantage in the evening’s mating
dance. (I must note that the risk of atypical dress would be more than
social ostracism; I have an active Streak of waking up next to
six-second soulmates every January 1 on the line.) Enigmatic would have
to be the play. “Is he being ironic or irreverent?” When you keep them
guessing, you have their attention—and are in control. A hallmark of
confidence is the will to be the master of other’s fate, not just one’s
own.
When would the third trial be? The outfit that sweats charisma on
December 31 is, on Thanksgiving, just a sugary morsel for kin whose
stomachs growl for gossip as much as candied yams. Christmas and the
pastel-clad Easter are candidates, but I’m surely on heavenly probation
for opting for poker night last week instead of Aunt Charlotte’s wake. I
have no desire to provoke Him further. April Fool’s Day may come to
mind, but is it plausible that I would be somehow duped into wearing a
white-hot tribute to the era of sequins and chest hair? It is not.
It would have to be an ordinary day. Not in the neighborhood, as I live
across from a playground. The clothes that once defined masculine
virility now insinuate “registered sex offender” in the vicinity of
children. Candidly, I’m not relishing wearing it to the office. The
thought of pitching ad campaigns to clients and senior partners amid
raised eyebrows and tittering secretaries—sorry, administrative
assistants—fills me with trepidation. But that, ultimately, is the
point. Projecting confidence anytime, anyplace, anywhere is born of
conquering fears, and I will. That’s why I will be hailed on Halloween,
The Streak will continue on New Year's Day, and the TV ad launch of the
new anti-wrinkle cream for house pets will rock the skin care world.
Confidence.
http://deadlychicken.wordpress.com
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Jeff
Who?
By Jeff Brown, Iowa
"Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.”
-- David Ogden Stiers
"Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, but someone might
have to make do on the couch."
-- Jeff Brown
Jeff Who?
I slept on the
couch last night. Now, before you go jumping to any conclusions, the
wife and I are getting along just fine, thank you. So don’t start any
rumors.
The skirmish which led to my rather uncomfortable trip to dreamland was
between our dog and one of the cats. Although I was only semi-conscious
at the time, (2:00 AM, to be exact) I’ve carefully reconstructed the
argument for you here in this transcript:
Lacy: (Jumps on the headboard.)
Arlo: (Jumps on Jeff’s face.) Bark, bark, bark.
Lacy: Hissssss.
Jeff’s Face: Knock it off you guys!
If you’re wondering how a spat between the dog and cat would lead to
innocent little ol’ me having to sleep on the lumpy sofa cushions, so
was I. So I asked my wife this morning as I rubbed my achy lower back,
“How come disagreements between the dog and cat always end up with
innocent little ol’ me having to sleep on the lumpy sofa cushions?”
“Because Lacy will follow you,” she replied matter-of-factly. “If I move
to the couch, Lacy and the dog will follow me. They’ll continue
antagonizing each other and I won’t get any sleep.”
It’s true. If I’m the one who takes the bullet, falls on his sword,
commits the selfless act of mercy, and sleeps on the couch, Lacy, my
sweet loyal Lacy, will actually follow me. She’ll then spend the rest of
the night in exile by my side or on my stomach (whichever she prefers).
Arlo, however, won’t follow me. He’ll stay in bed with my wife. This
arrangement, according to her, allows all four of us (if you count me,
the one on the lumpy couch) to get some sleep. If Vickie were to move to
the couch, the only one to get any sleep would be me, all alone in the
bedroom, with the whole bed to myself.
And we certainly couldn’t have that.
I consider Arlo to be a fair-weather friend. You know the type. He
reminds me of one of those friends from high school that would only talk
to me until someone better-looking, smarter, or, let’s face it, cooler
than me came around.
Cool Kid: Gag me with a spoon. I can’t believe you actually talk to that
Jeff guy.
Arlo: Well, (stammers nervously) he sits in front of me in biology class
and sometimes he lets me copy his homework.
Cool Kid: (Stares incredulously.)
Arlo: And Bacon. Sometimes he gives me bacon.
Yes, it appears I’m perfectly fine to hang out with, perfectly fine
until my wife gets home, then it’s, “Jeff who?”
Of course, this makes me feel bad. I mean, what am I? Chopped liver?
(Okay, I realize that I’m talking about a dog here and he would love
chopped liver as much as he loves bacon, but I’m too lazy to come up
with a better cliché. Besides, I don’t really think there’s a better one
because he’ll eat anything. Well, except his dry dog food. Okay, that’ll
work.)
What am I? Dry dog food?
Lacy, however, reminds me of the cool popular girl in high school that
would talk to everyone, even the nerdy folks like me. Ahh, I have a
crush on my sweet Lacy.
What does all this mean? I’ll tell you what it means: I’d better get
used to sleeping on the couch when the animals are misbehaving.
I suppose I’ll eventually get used to this arrangement, but it’s not
fair because in the event that my wife and I do have an argument (we’re
getting along just fine, thank you) we all know who’s going to be in the
dog house sleeping on the couch.
Innocent little ol’ me.
www.jeffmasterofnone.com
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I
NEED TO PEE
By
Richard Farnham,
Hawaii
As men get older, say older than 50, and
certainly older than 60, peeing can, more and more, become a case of
less and less. This is not to say that 60 is old. It’s just that when
you’re 60, or 64 say, anything less than 64 is by definition, younger,
and consequently 64 is by definition, older. But I digress. My point is
that I don’t pee like I used to. This is not to say that I pee less than
I used to, in fact I pee far more than I used to. It’s just that I pee
far less than I used to, on a per pee basis.
My doctor has explained that this is caused by a condition called Benign
Prostatic Hyperplasia or BPH. In layman’s terms, your prostate gland
swells up as if you had cancer, but you don’t; or you hope you don’t, it
can be hard to tell. They can do a test called the PSA test, or Prostate
Specific Antigen test, but it’s often inconclusive. And supposedly, even
if you do have prostate cancer but are old, which I am definitely not,
even if not definitely young, the cancer can grow so slowly that you
will probably die from something else first, a comforting thought. But
my point is that I don’t pee like I used to.
There was a time, granted many years ago, when I won peeing contests in
the boy’s room at Essex Junction Junior High. For those of you who may
not have been boys, or attended Junior High School, the classic contest
involved two or more boys peeing, starting out directly in front of a
urinal then moving slowly back, in sync, until one or more could no
longer “make the distance,” or ran out of pee. The last man (or in this
case, boy) standing (or in this case, peeing) and still making the
distance, was the winner. I’m proud to say (if a little embarrassed)
that I won far more often than not. But, of course, I don’t pee like I
used to.
Except on rare occasion. For some reason, every now and then, and I have
no idea why, I can pee like a fifth grader (or seventh grader, if you
need to be precise). The rare occasion is usually about 4:00 am, on my
third or fourth trip to the bathroom in any given night and it always
takes me by surprise. I’ll approach the John with the usual trepidation,
anticipating a hesitant start and paltry flow, only to be surprised by a
rapid commencement and flow approaching that of the good old days of
bathroom victories. I do not deny, these rare moments are cherished and
I must admit that at times, I may have reveled. Enjoying the easy and
powerful flow of days gone by and triumphs garnered, I might even have
succumb to the inclination that boys (and many men) have of talking to
their instruments of flow (and other pleasure). I might even had said
(or at least thought), “You go big guy, show ‘em how it’s done.”
http://poorrichardsramblings.blogspot.com
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Give
Me That Old Time Religion
By
Tom
Harris, Ohio
I am sitting here waiting for God to speak to me. He hasn't yet, and I'm
not sure why. I mean, I'm here every day, listening for his voice in my
head, or on the phone, maybe. I even cast a hopeful glance at my e-mail
now and then in case that's how God reaches people nowadays. How much
trouble would it be for him to call and say, "Just wanted to let you
know, Tom, that I love you and you're soooo, soooo special, and I have
endowed you with special powers of understanding, prophecy and insight"?
He's awfully busy, I know, assuring each of the Republican presidential
candidates that only he or she can save the country from perdition. But,
come on, he's God, isn't he? Surely there is an angel available to take
over pumping up the egos of the Republican hopefuls so the big guy can
take a moment or two to enhance my self-image? Besides, if he doesn’t
stop pumping up the Republicans soon, their heads are going to explode.
I know I won't be an easy case for the angels and archangels, the
cherubim and seraphim, and all the heavenly hosts. I've been a happy
heathen for decades, and it's been a while since my shadow darkened the
door to the sanctuary. So much has changed, and I'll require a
considerable amount of remedial work.
You see, as a lad I donned a white shirt, coat and tie each week for the
trek to Sunday school. And one Sunday a year was given over to a
discussion of the parable of the Pharisee and the publican. In that
story, the Pharisee stood in the middle of the temple and, with great
gusto, thanked God for making him wonderful and awe-inspiring. One of
the Pharisee's more notable gifts from God was a great set of lungs,
which he used to let the less blessed know how proud he was to be him.
Meanwhile, the publican sneaked into a broom closet, mumbled a humble
word or two and went on his way, stumbling and bumbling through life.
This annual lesson ended with the admonition to go forth and emulate the
publican.
Even to those of us who haven’t been paying close attention, it is
obvious theologians have had a change of heart. It is the Pharisees who
are favored by God. And if you don't believe me watch FOX News for a few
minutes. Everywhere you turn the modern Pharisees are ecstatic because
they're sure the voice they hear is the voice of God. And why does God
speak to them? There are seven billion people on the planet, and he
can't very well talk to everyone. He limits his conversations to those
who are well off, well groomed, well spoken and who have marvelously
self-satisfied smirks.
And there's that thing about the meek inheriting the earth. “So what?”
the 21st Century Pharisees say. “God loves those who love themselves.
Meek means weak, and God doesn't like the wishy-washy, full-of-doubt
types. You chumps can have the earth; we’re going to heaven.” That's
what all the blessed and wonderful people say, and they know because God
told them they are blessed and wonderful.
But, wait a minute. If all the outrageously proud are going to spend
eternity at the right hand of God - and they are because that's what God
has told them - then inheriting the earth won't be such a bad deal. All
the swelled heads will make Heaven terribly overcrowded.
http://bulascribe.blogspot.com
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Morning
Radio
By
Kurt Isaacson,
Minnesota
Listener: Nothing like some music on the
way to work! {Turns car radio on}
Bob: Gooooooooood morning everybody! Welcome to the 96.5 Wakeup Show
with Bob and Kelly!! Today we’ll have contests, trivia, call-ins,
promotions, and...something else I’m forgetting right now. Hold on, it’s
on the tip of my tongue...
Kelly: Music!
Bob: {Snaps fingers} Right, music! Let’s start by looking at some news
headlines! A respected toothpaste company is being sued for accidentally
putting sugar in their toothpaste. There’ve been numerous complaints,
along with at least one report of an individual having all of their
teeth dissolve.
Kelly: How sad.
Bob: Indeed. There’s only one word to describe how I’m feeling.
Kelly: What’s that?
Bob: Crestfallen!
{Cymbal crash, followed by a minute of uncontrolled laughter}
Listener: {Groans}
Bob: Let’s move on to the 96.5 Trivia Challenge! Be caller 465, answer
the question, and become eligible to win our grand prize, which is a
coffee table we found in the dumpster out back! Here’s today’s question:
During the 1988 World Series, who hit the dramatic Game One winning
homerun?
Kelly: While we start taking calls, let’s go to a commercial break!
Listener: Stupid contest! I want music!
{Commercial}
Bob: Welcome back! We have caller 465 on the line! Hello, you’re on with
Bob and Kelly!
Caller: Hello?
Bob: You’re on with Bob and Kelly!
Caller: Bob and who?
Bob: Bob and Kelly, from the 96.5 Wakeup Show. You’re caller 465!
Caller: Dang, wrong number!
{Dial tone}
Bob: Odd. I guess we’ll have to try again. Be caller 465 to answer our
question! Let’s go to another break.
Listener: You’ve got to be kidding me! {Gets out phone}
{Commercial}
Kelly: Welcome back! We now have caller 465 on the line. What’s your
guess?
Listener: Kirk Gibson! Now play a song!
Bob: You’re correct, and maybe later! Stay on the line caller, while we
go to traffic with Reilly O’Reilly in the 96.5 Traffic Copter. Reilly?
Listener: Aaarrgghh!!!
Reilly: Well, things look pretty good out there this morning, although a
stray herd of goats have forced motorists to detour off of Highway 34.
Or are they cows? Heck, I can’t tell! We’ll try to get a little closer
to find out for sure. Bring it down, Joe! Whoa! Not that low! Pull up
you fool, pull up!!! IIIEEEEEEE!!!!!
Bob: Thanks Reilly! That was Reilly O’Reilly with traffic. Remember,
watch out for those goats! Or possibly cows! Ha ha! We’ll be right back!
Listener: But I won’t! {Switches station}
Jack: Welcome back to Jack and Christy in the morning! We’re going to
get to some music, but first we’d like to tell you about our Luxury
Cruise Getaway Sweepstakes! Register today for a small fee at your local
Sloppy’s Sloppy Joe and Baked Beans Eatery for your chance to win, or
register for free right now by being caller 678! We’ll be right back
with today's winner!
Listener: Of course. {Switches station}
Kelly: Welcome back! We know you’ve all been waiting for this a long
time, but don’t worry, your wait is over!!
Listener: Can it be?
Bob: Thaaaaat’s right! It’s time for another round of 'That’s Weird’,
where you tell us the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you!
Listener: {Bangs head on steering wheel numerous times}
Bob: Let’s see who we have on the line with us today. Hello, you’re on
‘That’s Weird’!
Susie: Like, hello! Like, one time my friend Mindy and I both went to
school wearing the exact same outfit! It was, like, so weird because we
didn’t even text each other or anything!
Bob: That's extremely weird! Thanks Susie! We now have the caller who
won our trivia challenge, back with us! What’s the weirdest thing that’s
ever happened to you?
Listener: One time I was listening to the radio in the morning, AND THEY
ACTUALLY PLAYED A SONG!!!!
Bob: Honestly, that’s not very weird. We’ll be right back with the
weather!
Listener: {Sobbing} One song! Is it too much to ask?!
{Commercial}
Bob: Welcome back, and now it’s time for Weather with Snowball Willis.
Snowball, what’s going on?
Snowball: Well, Bob, what we’ve got here is a high pressure system
coming in from the north and a low pressure system coming up from the
south. They’ll collide right above us, and frankly, I don’t think
anybody will survive.
Kelly: Thanks, Snowball!
Bob: OK folks, it’s time to start off of a Maximum Music Marathon of 50
minutes of uninterrupted music!
Listener: {Arrives at work}.
http://fromthedeskofcurly.blogspot.com
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No
Thanks To Christmas
By Kurt Isaacson, Minnesota
It was no surprise to me when I heard Christmas music playing in Target
on November 5th, since the retail Christmas season seems to begin
earlier each year. My initial impulse was to scream out to anybody that
would listen that it is NOT, in fact, beginning to look a lot like
Christmas, judging by the absence of snow and the lack of the word
"December" on the calendars. I passed on this urge, however, because you
can’t stop commercialism, plus bizarre public ranting should be saved
for Wal-Mart.
This got me to thinking, however, about Thanksgiving, and how it’s been
completely trampled by the ever-extending shadow of commercialized
Christmas. Think about it, what’s the most identifiable part of
Thanksgiving? Black Friday, which is typically associated with Christmas
shopping!
It’s not like Thanksgiving doesn’t have anything to offer, either. The
entire idea is to sit around, gorge yourself, and watch football. That’s
about as American as it gets, yet it’s still being constantly
overshadowed by Christmas. It’s as if Thanksgiving is a pushover with
low self-esteem, just trying to make everybody happy:
Christmas: Hey, Thanksgiving, you got a minute?
Thanksgiving: Wow! You wanna talk to me?
Christmas: Yeah! We’re best buddies, remember?
Thanksgiving: We are? Then why don’t you invite me to any of your
parties?
Christmas: What do you mean? I always do!
Thanksgiving: Really?
Christmas: Of course! The invitations must keep getting lost in the mail
or something.
Thanksgiving: Really? Wow! Sorry I doubted you! I’ll have to talk to the
post office about that! Now, what’s on your mind?
Christmas: It’s simple. I’ve been thinking that I haven’t yet maximized
my true potential as a holiday.
Thanksgiving: That’s terrible! Is there anything I can do?
Christmas: As a matter of fact, there is. I want to use your Friday and
turn it into the biggest shopping day of the year. It would go a long
way in giving me some much needed additional exposure.
Thanksgiving: I don’t know. Shouldn’t that be a day for families to
spend quality time together and be thankful for what they have, instead
of trying to accumulate more material possessions?
Christmas: That’s what Thursday’s for! Plus, family togetherness won’t
bring in any cash! You gotta look at the bottom line! We’re businesses
here!
Thanksgiving: But it seems like that would infringe on the spirit of who
I am!
Christmas: Spirit of who you are? Really? C’mon, buddy, just do me a
solid, huh? Maybe then I’ll introduce you to some other holidays at one
of those parties. You’d like to get to meet...oh I don’t
know...Valentine’s Day, wouldn’t you?
Thanksgiving: Valentine’s Day?! You’d do that for me?
Christmas: For sure!
Thanksgiving: Then I’m in!
Christmas: Thanks, pal! Oh, and one more thing, advertising for me is
gonna start as soon as Halloween’s done.
Thanksgiving: What?! Won’t people forget about me completely?
Christmas: Vaaalentine's Daaaaaay...
Thanksgiving: Well...can kids still at least make hand turkeys in school
for art projects?
Christmas: I don’t know. That’s a big sacrifice on my part. They could
be making snowmen out of marshmallows or something.
Thanksgiving: I guess I see where you’re coming from. Well, how about
you just promise me that you’ll think about it?
Christmas: All right. I’ll think about it, but no guarantees.
Thanksgiving: Gee whiz, that’s great news! Thursday's all yours! Now,
when’s the next party?
Christmas: I’ll get back to you on that.
What is comes down to is Thanksgiving needs to grow a spine and stand up
for itself, not to mention adopt a new, slick marketing campaign, since
you can only fight commercialism with more commercialism. It could start
with Thanksgiving carols. Here are a few titles I’ve come up with that I
think have the potential to become future classics:
“(Judging By The Massive Amount Of Food Being Cooked) It’s Beginning To
Look A Lot Like Thanksgiving”
“Thomas The Red-Beaked Turkey”
“Roly-Poly Thanksgiving”
“Have Yourself A Caloric-Filled Little Thanksgiving”
Not bad, huh? Throw in a couple of TV specials, I’m thinking along the
lines of a crime-fighting Turkey who saves Thanksgiving from the Evil
Dr. Kringle, and we’re in business!
Once this movement begins to gain momentum, it’ll be pretty easy to
measure its progress. All you’ll need to do is check Target anytime
during November. If you hear “It’s An Even Wonderfuller Time Of The
Year”, then Thanksgiving is most definitely on its way.
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To
Our Very Dearest Friends at Christmas
By K.J. Leisering, West Virginia
Dearest _________________:
It’s been quite a year for the Looney clan. Roger lost his job at the
Diatomaceous Earth Institute due to a pervasive soil glut and an
over-extended janitorial bonus budget, but after forty-eight weeks of
unemployment, he still can’t find gainful employment in the earth
industry.
Oh, yes, there are
the minimum wage Bunsen burner entry level types, but with Roger’s
life-long experience with dirt, he’s not about to “settle.” He still has
another fifty-six weeks of benefits, so I guess we’ll muddle through. If
anyone knows of anything in soil, keep it to yourself. Ha! Ha!
Roger gave me the most divine anniversary present this year: a diamond
studded sweater shaver. When he says, “You have everything,” now it’s
really true! Whenever I’m stressed, I just shave away. Don’t know which
calms me more, shaving the cashmere or staring at the diamonds (1.5 TCW,
F-G/VVS1-2). It’s easy to buy for him. Another Rolex or Patek, I guess.
Thank heaven for all those government checks, eh?
As for me, I enjoy staying home. After thirty years in the pickle
industry, I deserve it. Besides, Roger says I’ve been pickled enough.
It’s humor like that that keeps a marriage fresh. I keep busy making and
donating fashion jewelry for earthquake victims. My drusy quartz line is
the most popular. Seems to provide some cheer until the Red Cross trucks
arrive. I get lots of ideas from those sultry Southern hosts of JTV’s
Jewel School. Those gals are gems in my book! :-)
Thirty-two-year-old son Bruce lives with us and loves all things artsy,
especially ballet, painting, interior design, and hairdressing. This
year we let him do over our living room in art deco. Up went the Erté
prints, and down went the deco doilies. Quite the showplace now. He’s
giving me a new “do” for new year’s, a little something he created
himself called the “Rotogravure.” He’s entering it in the “Coif of the
Year” contest held annually in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. If he wins, he gets
a free trip there. His painting,“Mulch at Midnight,” won second place in
Hoboken’s Bold New Artist series. All we really want is to find our
Brucey a nice girl and get him married off. Seems to have plenty of male
friends, just no “Ms. Right” yet. Any suggestions out there?
After his tent leaked and his king-sized air mattress imploded at Occupy
Hoboken, our twenty-five-year-old, Dustin Jr. (Roger wanted a “junior,”
then forgot when Bruce came along) headed to a Lady Gaga concert. In the
parking lot, not the arena. Couldn’t get a ticket, so the enterprising
young man stood outside with a lampshade down his skivvies yelling,
“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.” It’s the ADHD. Dustin’s had it since he was ten
months. Couldn’t keep his mind on his Gerber’s, and we’ve lived with the
surprises and turmoil ever since. Baby Cyndee celebrated her third
birthday in October (Boy! Was she a surprise! One of the consequences of
marrying at fifteen, I guess). My! The list of gifts she wanted -- and
got! Her favorites were the electric car, the Wii, the iPhone, and the
diamond tennis bracelet with the Justin Bieber carved cameo head charm.
Gee! I remember when all I wanted was a doll. How enlightened and
progressive we’ve become!
Today’s stuff is so much more stimulating for the developing young mind.
Due to Roger's job situation, (and the fact that you can't leave the
country for extended periods if you’re collecting unemployment), we had
to cut our usual six week European jaunt short this summer. Had only a
long weekend so were able to visit only London, Paris, Rome, Madrid,
Berlin, Copenhagen, and Athens. It was fun, but I hope next year will
allow us our full six weeks. All I can say is, we cut back, now it’s
time for Washington to do the same, eh?
Here’s hoping you, the_____________ ,our very closest and dearest
friend(s), have a great holiday season. Come see us whenever you’re in
the trendy Fontenay section of Hoboken. We’ll loll by the indoor heated
pool sipping Tanqueray and tonics even in winter. :-)
Kissy, kissy,
Antoinette, Roger,
Jamie, Dustin,Jr.,
Cyndee, and
Pooch Parker
P.S. Pooch Parker (our Great Dane baby boy) posed for the 2011 Dogs of
Distinction calendar. He was Mr. August and now he gets fan mail for
heaven’s sake! I think it was the Speedo swimsuit which showed his
attributes to the max. BTW, it looks much better on Parker than
Roger.:-)
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Scenes
From A Maul
By Barry Parham, South Carolina
(Full-contact shopping, American style)
Last weekend, I went to a hockey game and a Black Friday sale broke out.
Ah, Christmas. That magical time of year when we exchange gifts, visit
family and friends, and blast defenseless toy store shoppers in the face
with pepper spray.
What in the world is going on with these discount-stalking holiday
shoppers? These Black Friday blackguards? I’ve seen better-behaved
people at a Hannibal Lector reunion.
Now, to be sure, we should've seen it coming. Slowly, inexorably,
retailers have reinforced the idea: if you’re not out there shopping on
Black Friday, you are an ice troll who makes children drink schnapps and
doesn’t love house pets.
Shame on you! Good people – decent, patriotic people – they get out
there on Black Friday in support of truth, justice and Early Bird
discounts.
And this year, the Greed That Stole Christmas couldn’t even wait till
Friday morning to lay lures; couldn’t wait till Black Friday to do Black
Friday. Stores started teasing us for 6am, then 4am, 1am, midnight …
ultimately, we had Friday on Thursday.
Hang on. At this rate, next year we’ll have Black June.
If we can wait till June.
By the way – the pepper spray attack? That actually happened, at a West
Coast mega-store. Some dedicated shoppinista, working on reliable intel
from her forward reconnaissance patrol, identified and vectored a
high-value target – a shrink-wrapped pallet of undefended Nintendo Wii.
(or Wee, or Whee, or Huiee, or however you correctly misspell it)
Sergeant Majorette accepted her mission. She knew the score, she knew
the cost. Collateral damage was acceptable. She bivouacked, waiting,
silently intoning her mission:
Purchase, with extreme prejudice.
The rest was reflex. When the indigenous military began to unwra … um …
when the store’s staff began to unwrap the goods, the alleged lunatic
allegedly whirled around, whipped out her handy Girl-on-the-Go-sized
pepper spray, and wasted the other Wii hopefuls. Then she escaped into
the crowd and, later, annexed Poland.
In another ugly incident, a Customer Service clerk was attacked. A
dissatisfied patron had just purchased a new smartphone app, the iSleep
3000, offering a library of sounds guaranteed to help battle insomnia
(you know - taped loops of rain, waves, chirping birds, Al Gore
speeches). Apparently, the patron went into a blind rage after
discovering that the “Sound of Cicadas” option was only available every
17 years.
Of course, I wasn’t there. I heard about all the consumer violence from
the newspaper, the TV news Hair Helmets, and eye-witness accounts from
recovering survivors. I personally didn’t shop on Black Friday because,
well, because I’m scared. And there is no product on this planet for
which I am willing to lose actual body parts.
I’m not unreasonably spineless, mind you. When I go shopping, I expect a
bit of inconvenience, an acceptable level of violence. For example, I’m
as prepared as any other grown man to get chewing gum stuck to my shoe.
I am NOT ready to get mace-blinded by some quarter-ton, high-torque,
eight-jelly-sandwich-eating Aunt wearing purple-and-peach-striped
spandex and sequined flip-flops, all over a $2 DVD of “Star Wars – The
Musical.”
And I’m not even talking about the check-out line, where one expects a
few bruises, some insults, and 68 magazines dedicated to weddings and
weight loss. I’m talking about violence out in the product aisles.
Basically, I like my violence at arm’s length (and I wouldn’t mind
having longer arms). I prefer manageable mayhem, like “New Release” day
at a trailer park video store, or the all-you-can-shovel-down Chinese
buffet just after Sunday church in a Southern town.
It may be coincidence, but the vast majority of these “Customer Slays
Nine” headlines seem to originate inside huge box stores with names like
Sprawl-Mart, Worst Imaginable Buy, and Pan-Asian Slave Labor Sweatshop
Outlet-R-Us. I have no empirical evidence of any causal relationship
between crazed zombie-like violence and Montana-sized enclosures full of
substandard, imported lead-laced teething rings. I’m just saying.
And, as with any psychotic episode worth its prescription
hallucinogenics, there were the odd some who didn’t fit the mold. In one
TV ad, I saw a nice, relaxed lady shopping in some department store. She
calmly approached her desired item, lifted it from the shelf, placed it
in her shopping cart, and calmly moved on.
Why no victory shriek? Why didn’t she sprint madly to the next item on
her list? Why was she not hobbling nearby shoppers with a modified price
labeling gun?
Obviously, this woman doesn’t love her family.
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Race
Results
By Lloyd S., New York
(Last name withheld by request.)
RESULTS OF RACES NOW IN
LATEST FROM DERBY DOWNS
Hopeless Junction; by Betsy Uppington
The Derby Downs Race Track here in Hopeless Junction was the scene of
this year’s Hopeless Fifty MCRS race. Each year the Motor Cart Racing
Society descends upon the town of Hopeless for its 50 mile race. The
race is open to all power chairs, motorized scooters and shopping carts.
Derby Downs is located on the site of the old Hopeless Glass Factory on
the shore of the Big Stink River. The winding one mile course is
patterned after the Indianapolis Speedway. Few have completed the full
50 laps, but this will change after this years race.
Controversy reigned early on race day when Elwood Lloyd attempted to
enter a modified gasoline riding lawnmower. Heated arguments went back
and forth right up to 17 minutes before scheduled start time. The last
vote of the judges was 5 to 4 to disqualify.
The race began right on schedule at 9: 37 am o’clock this morning. 36
entrants roared off the line in front of 613 spectators. Cynthia
Braskowitz was first in the lead with a power chair modified with duel
full horse split capacitor motors. She kept the lead for 30 laps. Right
on her back bumper was Larry Eagleton with another power chair on 13
inch tires. Eagleton kept up for 21 laps before battery charge waned.
Next in the lead was Nelson Edwards on a scooter who was passed by the
scooter of Chow Lin within a lap. Edwards and Chow dueled for the lead
for 6 laps before being passed by a motorized shopping cart driven by
Constance “Grandma” Crabb. Mrs. Crabb adapted her cart with 4 12 volt
deep discharge batteries connected in a parallel circuit. This ingenuity
took Mrs. Crabb to the winners circle and the coveted wreath of ten $50
bills.
One exciting moment happened when Carlton Fredricks driving a scooter
passed 6 other contestants dragging his charging cord. As Fredricks
pulled in front of the overtaken, they became entangled, mangled, upset
and had to quit the race. Other than that, there were the usual minor
miss-haps; side swipes, bumper kissing and loss of control.
The big news this year are the modifications. Unless there are rule
changes requiring the vehicles to remain stock or only allowing approved
mods, next years race could be total chaos.
www.lloydsbridges.com
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