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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/November 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
October/November 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Weight Room
Complaints
By Eric Charbonnel, Pennsylvania
1. People Grunting and making various obnoxious noises --
Yes I see that you are holding sixty pound weights in your hands. Yes
that is quite impressive that you can curl that much weight. No you are
not allowed to scream and moan like a group of oxen being mutilated. I
don’t care how strong someone is, there is no excuse for them to make a
scene by screaming and grunting. Yes you are strong, but your
masculinity was just brought down several notches by the fact that you
are screeching as if your crotch region was housing a catheter.
2. People listening to metal music --
I will admit I am sometimes guilty of busting out the occasional air
drum solo whilst in the gymnasium. I will also admit that occasionally I
rock my head back and forth whilst listening to Slipknot or Korn,
however I am never guilty of making a complete ass out of myself by
turning into a heavy metal rockstar mid-lifting session. I don’t care
how much that Metallica solo rocks, it is no excuse to punch the wall
and slap yourself in the face in rage. Guys will not be afraid of you,
and girls will not think you are a tough bad boy with no regard for the
rules. Everyone will just think you’re a complete goon. And if your pump
up routine involves repeatedly punching yourself in the groin, you
probably have some issues to deal with.
3. People whose New Years resolution is to go to the gym more often --
It’s too crowded, give up.
4. People who talk way too much --
It’s okay to chit chat a little in the gym. Greet a friend, maybe
introduce yourself to a lovely lady. But no the gym is not the ideal
place to discuss multicolored yo-yos, or why you will never eat another
McRib in your life. Another thing about gym chatting is you have to be
careful where you decide to do it. Though two guys giggling in the
corner may seem a little flaky, it is definitely a better location then
directly in front of the weight rack. Cause if I’m hauling my big ass
dumbbells back to the rack and two guys are standing in front of it and
discussing last night’s episode of Glee I will not hesitate to drop the
weights directly on their Croc-wearing toes.
5. People who bother you about the machine you are using --
Now it’s not a sin to ask someone if they’re almost done on a machine.
However if the person tells you they just got on the given machine and
still have three sets left then don’t roll your eyes and let out a
disappointed, “ughhhhh!” Then some people have the nerve to stand
directly over you waiting as you lift to the point where you can feel
their breath in your nostrils. Or even worse they stand in some corner
of the gym gazing at you from afar and every once in a while your
peripherals catch a glance of them standing there, like an angry bison
on the prowl. When people do crap like this to me I take as long as
humanly possible on the machine. Hell I even take a couple minutes to
send out some texts, find that perfect song on my I-Pod, or even peruse
Quiznos’s website to check if gorgonzola cheese is being rightly
represented on their menu.
6. People who wear jeans to the gym --
You look like a geek.
7. People who legitimately think they are boxers --
Now it’s okay to use the punching bag. It’s good cardio and a good way
to let off some steam. However if you stare the bag down for two minutes
in rage, pretending it just robbed your uncle’s vacation home in Sweden,
and then proceed to give it an extremely uncoordinated beat down, you
should probably think twice. Everyone can hit a punching bag. The fact
that you’re able to physically touch a sack of leather with your fist
doesn’t make you Mike Tyson. And if you’re motioning people aside while
you charge the bag in preparation of your famous
hidden-mantis-flying-spin-kick, you should probably just stick to zumba.
8. People who bring live iguanas to the gym and let them loose --
You’re rude.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Day It Rained $100 Bills
By Tara Cole, Wisconsin
It was a simple plan that got complicated quickly.
I was road-tripping with my family up north to Escanaba, MI to purchase
a new vehicle. After three hours on the road, we took a pit-stop in a
small Wisconsin town. While everyone was loading back into the suburban,
I announced I had to run the restroom and would be right back. My
husband, Bob, was already sweating at the mere thought of waiting in a
hot vehicle with no A/C.
“Well,” he said as I ran inside, “I’ll drive around to cool off and be
right back.”
I hurried inside and was out a few minutes later, scanning the parking
lot for a familiar black suburban that wasn’t there. I wasn’t worried
and sat down on the sidewalk, awaiting my knight to return.
I waited…5 minutes.
Ten minutes.
The sun was getting hot and I was getting hotter.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then thirty.
My emotions were on a pendulum, swinging between fear and fury. What if
something happened to them? Then it was, Where in the world is that man?
After FIFTY minutes of sitting outside the restaurant, I finally saw
that old faithful burban round the corner and pull into the parking lot.
After quickly observing the vehicle, my husband and all the children
were safe and sound, the pendulum of emotions stuck on one side: FURY.
I slid into my seat, staring straight ahead as we pulled back onto the
highway. “I hope you have a REALLY good explanation for why you left me
there for so long.” It was then I noticed Bob was white as a ghost and
drenched in sweat, weird I thought…but I’m still TICKED!
Bob replied, “I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“SO! What’s the explanation?”
“We almost had to go home. I almost lost $3,000.”
I felt my heart skip a beat, “Okay. I’m listening!”
Bob told me the story.
He decided to cruise the highway for a few miles to catch enough wind to
cool off, intending to be back in five minutes to pick me up (or so he
claimed, ha ha!) when something very unexpected happened.
Earlier that day, on our way out of town, we had swung by the bank and
withdrew $3,000 in cash to buy the vehicle in Escanaba. Bob had slid the
envelope of money in an organizer attached to the driver’s side visor.
Hours later, with the sun hitting his face on that stretch of highway
attempting to cool off, he momentarily forgot the money was there and
flipped over the visor to block the sun. He noticed a flash of white fly
by the window but figured it was nothing until he heard something
flapping in the wind. He glanced in the window behind him and saw one
$100 bill caught on the edge of the door.
It hit him: $3,000 in cash just flew out the window!
He slammed on his brakes, veering off to the side of the freeway as he
glanced behind him to see the sky raining $100 bills everywhere! He
backed up, jumped out of the car and began darting in and out of cars
flying by going 60-75 mph as he attempted to grab thirty $100 bills!
They were landing in ditches and in the middle of the high-way as
passing cars would send them flying through the air again. He counted to
thirty as he frantically grabbed them…one…two…twenty-nine and finally
(thank GOD!!), THIRTY one-hundred dollar bills were stuffed safely into
Bob’s pocket.
I stared in shock as Bob finished the story.
“So…” I confirmed, “You have ALL the money again?”
“Yes.”
Then, after that moment of shock, I burst out laughing. I could just see
my dear husband racing in and out of traffic, frantically trying to
gather every last $100 bill flying in the air.
“You’re right,” I smiled as I thought about how we shouldn’t judge
another’s actions until we’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Once again,
God shows me that I could use a little less fighting Irish in this blood
and a little more patience and understanding in my heart. I also learned
that my husband would never leave me at a little town in the middle of
nowhere…at least not when he had all the kids.
If you don’t mind learning a thing or two, then there is probably a
little lesson from God in something every day…even on the days it rains
$100 bills from the sky!
http://belleofthebustle.blogspot.com
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SHE
gave ME the Skank Eye??
By Heather Davis, Oklahoma
In a moment of momma weakness, I agreed to take The Daughters to the
local water park. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the water park, it’s that
I don’t always enjoy the other people who GO to the waterpark. There are
kids there and they are peeing in the pools and splashing and I find
myself channeling a 76-year-old man, shaking my fist at them, screaming,
“Stop that splashing, you dirty, rotten kids!”
However, it was a glorious day and I decided that I would just plant my
skirted butt beside the pool, soak up my overdose of Vitamin D and let
the kids do their own thing. I had just slathered my shoulders with SPF
50, (I’ve come a long way since the baby oil days of the 1980s, huh??)
when Daughter 2 swam over to me and exclaimed, “UH! It’s not fair that
you won’t let me wear my pajamas out in public!”
Kids these days – what the heck was she even talking about??
Then I saw her. First I saw the yellow-cartoon-character boxers (on top
of the black thong – why bother??) covering up what I could only assume
was a crabby bottom, as this young lady did a headstand in an effort to
impress her tatted up (and seemingly blind) boyfriend. Then she bobbed
to the top revealing that she was wearing a ragged black bra under her
cut-off white wife beater! I know it was cut-off because it revealed her
tramp stamp that said – in old English font – “Pretty is as Pretty
does!” No lie.
Good heavens! Those aren’t pajamas! Those are morning-after clothes!!
Those are clothes that you put on to carry out the cans of Keystone
Light before your momma shows up! Those are the clothes that you put on
when you realize you haven’t done laundry in well over four weeks! Those
are NOT the clothes you wear on your date to your local, family-oriented
water park! Who would let her go out in public wearing that??
At this thought, her friend showed up. Her friend - who was wearing a
black bathing suit bottom and a white, cut-apart t-shirt that had been
tied into a halter - showed up! Oh. It was SHE who let her go out in
public wearing that get-up.
I sat myself up straighter and adjusted my one-piece, skirted grandma
suit, feeling awfully proud of my modest choice. I stretched my legs out
in front of me and let them dangle in the water. As I kicked my legs up,
I discovered that my last pedicure had been, well, probably about the
same time that I last slathered my shoulders with baby oil! Oh well, I
told myself, who was I going to impress anyway, right? I mean, I am a
well-educated, self-sufficient momma of two. No one’s going to be
looking at my toes.
No one, that is, except black bra girl and her friend, whom I
appropriately named, “Nothing-to-Hide.” Then, the two-some glanced at my
toes, glanced up at me, then they gave me the skank eye.
Really? I mean, REALLY? THEY were giving ME the skank eye? I could be
the more mature person and just ignore them, right? I mean, I was
wearing SPF 50 AND a skirted uni-suit (with cute, matching hat). I could
take the high road.
I could have done that, but I didn’t. I looked right at the bearers of
the skank eye (and more!) and said, “Pretty is as pretty does!”
And boxer bottom said – whose hiney was home to the quote, “What does
that even mean?”
Wouldn’t she like to know…
www.minivan-momma.com
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A
Thanksgiving Day Tale
By Christopher Hivner, Pennsylvania
There once was a turkey named Larry who lived in a small wood next
to a hunting shack. The shack was owned by an exceptionally bad hunter
named Earl. For ten years Earl had been trying to shoot Larry to eat him
for Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, for the last ten Thanksgivings, Earl
ate General Tso’s chicken and beef dumplings from Mr. Sing’s House of
Chinese Delicacies and Non-Denominational Wedding Chapel.
Also two years ago he married third shift waitress Darlene Lumpholz in a
ceremony presided over by Mr. Sing and witnessed by long haul trucker
Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel. They were separated 6 days later. Darlene
listed as the reasons on the divorce papers: “general stupidity and
clipping his toe nails in the bathtub while I was taking a bath.”
Larry the turkey, however, was worried this year. He was getting older
and couldn’t move as fast as previous hunting seasons. Although he
believed he was smarter than Earl, Larry was still afraid he would get
caught. He had decided that it was time to make peace with his nemesis.
He knocked on Earl’s door, ready with a truce offering of a pine cone.
It may not sound like much, but remember, Larry is a turkey. To his
relief Larry was invited inside where the two combatants shared in a
feast of Frosted Mini-Wheats while Earl relayed the dream he had had the
night before where he won the lottery, ran off with Katie Couric and
then drove in the 24 hours of Lemans in a soap box derby car.
They spent hours discussing their differences, like how much Earl wanted
to eat Larry and how much Larry really did not want to be eaten. What
they found in the end is that they were very much alike. Neither could
dance and both did terrible impersonations of Lady Gaga. Larry had also
been married briefly, to a female turkey named Melinda who ran off with
a ruffed grouse whose nest was next to the largest tree stump in the
tri-state area.
They commiserated over stories of their domineering fathers. Earl’s
wanted him to go into the family business of lard production while
Larry’s repeatedly told him he was a bad gobbler and wouldn’t live past
6 months in the forest on his own. After a few ribald jokes and shots of
. . . wait for it . . . Wild Turkey, Earl and Larry had become friends.
As gifts that signified their new trust, Larry gave Earl one of his tail
feathers and Earl gave Larry his Dale Earnhardt commemorative
flashlight.
Larry the turkey spent a restful Thanksgiving Day watching football at
his favorite forest pub, The Rotting Pile of Leaves Next to the Dead
Skunk. He listened to the stories of a gang of raccoons who claimed to
have been abducted by aliens that looked like research scientists and
got the general location that she usually grazed in from a very cute
young turkey named Felicity.
On the other end of town Earl made memories of his own. Brimming with
renewed hope and confidence he reconnected with Darlene at the
Thanksgiving evening buffet at Mr. Sing’s. A dozen shared crab Rangoons
later and Earl proposed, giving Darlene the same ring his own father had
once given to a Las Vegas showgirl before understanding that their
subsequent marriage would be legally binding in Pennsylvania.
Earl and Darlene were re-married that night by a bored and petulant Mr.
Sing with Darryl “Dirty Deeds” Hufnagel once again looking on, toasting
them with a tall boy of Schlitz.
It was a Thanksgiving full of miracles and everyone lived happily ever
after. Except Darryl Hufnagel, who ate a bad piece of Mongolian beef and
ended up in the hospital with a case of gas so explosive they had to
evacuate the fourth floor. But eventually he went home and lived, if not
happily, at least reasonably ever after.
http://cosmicoverdrive.blogspot.com
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Birthday
Ponderings
By
Kurt Isaacson,
Minnesota
I’ve been thinking a lot about birthdays
lately, since mine is coming soon. As you grow older, you tend to become
more philosophical about them, as opposed to actually celebrating them.
This is mainly because having a party where you run around shrieking and
consuming mass quantities of sugar as an adult can easily lead to a
hospital stay, not to mention the fact that your significant other
probably wouldn’t find it amusing if you were to end up in a rousing
game of Spin the Bottle.
Typically, the older you get, the less you enjoy birthdays. The logic
here is that birthdays lead to aging, and aging leads to wrinkles,
creaky joints, wearing pants that come halfway up your chest, memory
loss, hair loss, and an irresistible urge to shake your fist at
teenagers and tell them to turn their music down and put their baseball
caps on the right way. (This occurs even if the teenagers aren’t
listening to music, aren’t wearing baseball caps, or aren’t even
teenagers at all, and instead are mailboxes on the sidewalk, because
senility is another product of aging.)
Once a person get to be over thirty or so, birthdays may even become a
hated occasion, and if you even mention it to somebody who is
“celebrating” one, instead of replying kindly, they may just drop-kick
you down a flight of stairs. Still, can you blame them? Their birthday
is essentially nothing more than a giant neon sign reminding them that
they have less of their lives left to live, which they’ll be doing
trapped in a malfunctioning body that will soon degrade to the same
general shape and consistency to that of a raisin. They yearn for their
younger days, back when they were in shape and never had to stretch
before doing anything strenuous, such as brushing their teeth. They
crave the grand adventures of the past, something more exciting than
having to launch a full-scale search to find their car keys, which they
now seem to be having to do more and more.
However, for the benefit of the older folk, during my extensive
ponderings on the subject, I’ve come to the conclusion that birthdays
are actually a good thing, and that getting older is something that can
be looked upon with happiness. Now, I realize that this claim may be met
with skepticism, so let me explain. What you need to do is compare
yourself to a typical teenager, but not with the standard mindset of
younger is better, but instead by focusing on all of the advantages you
have over them.
First, you don’t have to worry about zits. Second, you can afford a car
that’s not so decrepit there’s a very real risk of it exploding each
time it hits a bump. Third, you haven’t spent your life listening to a
portable music player with the volume maxed out, which essentially
guarantees that your sense of hearing is going to outlast theirs.
Finally, and most importantly, you’ve experienced and seen many
wonderful things over the course of your life, and for a typical
teenager to experience all that you have, assuming the same Fun Rate Per
Year, they’ll have to grow to be as old as you are now, at which point
they’ll be losing their car keys and forgetting important details, such
as their spouse’s name, on a regular basis. Now if that’s not something
to be happy about, I don’t know what is!
So, all you old-timers out there, let’s stand up and cheer this
revelation, although be careful not to break a hip or throw out a back,
and when your next birthday rolls around, find a warm blanket to cover
your knees, along with a crackling fire, and sit back and feel smug
about how much more you’ve accomplished than all of those pimple-faced
teenagers out there driving cars that are leaking every sort of vehicle
fluid imaginable and which may very well rust away before making their
next destination.
Now, while I’d like to spend a lot more time waxing philosophically on
this subject, I can’t. You see, I’ve lost my keys and need to find them,
or else I won’t be able to drive twenty-five miles per hour on the
freeway while drifting in and out of the various lanes of traffic. Oh,
and turn down that music and put your baseball cap on right. You look
ridiculous.
http://fromthedeskofcurly.blogspot.com
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The
Story of Cain and Able and Disability
By
David Jacobson,
Texas
Since the time of the early stories of the bible, disability humor has
existed. You may be skeptical of this assertion so let me set the record
straight.
First we have Adams sons Cain and Abel. With a Cain you are obviously
“able” to walk, therefore not only addressing disability but the
evolution of walking on two legs or one good leg and one gimp leg. Cain
also means “yes” in Hebrew, a very positive affirmative word.
So why did Cain kill Abel? It's an analogy of losing your "abelness" and
needing a "Cain" because you lost your “Abel” or ability to walk without
a “Cain “or in modern English a cane. Able needed a Cain. See Cain
wasn’t “bad” or “evil” for killing Abel (ability) Cane just carried the
stigma of being a sign of being “differently abled” As the bible says:
“And there will be a mark/sign upon your head. It will thus say “I
killed this Able” or in English translation 2,000 years later” I am
removed of Abel or Dis-Abled.”
A lot can get distorted after thousands of years, so I’m going to set
the record straight. Here is what really happened between Cain and Able.
Able in the kitchen cooking up some soup. Cain walks in.
Cain: “What’s cooking?”
Able: “Chicken Soup” (They were Jewish)
Cain: “Can I have some?”
Able jokingly: “Sure, It’ll only cost you your birthright.”
Cain: “Wait a minute, isn’t that the story of Jacob and Esau?”
Able “Hey, yeah you’re right!” both laughing as Able hands Cain the
microwave bowl of soup.
Able “I’m going to eat outside; it’s a beautiful day, not much smog.”
Cain “Okay”
Able walks out. Cain watches him walking towards the gazebo in the
backyard and is suddenly shocked to see a lion charging towards Able.
Cain: “Hey Able run! There’s a lion!"
Able shaking his head. “Cain very funny, always joking… ahhhh” Roar!
Munch, munch, chew, chew, burp!
The thing to remember is that most types of ability are good things and
like Cain we should use them.
www.humorhorizons.com
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Au'
Jus Really Trying To Cook Something?
By
Paige Kellerman,
Kansas
Did you know there are books out there
comprised entirely of recipes? That's it. Nothing else... Not even a
crossword puzzle or a Why Do I Care I share A Birthday With Robert
Redford Celebrity Birthday Column. A few days ago, Husband strolled-up
next to me, dropped one of these books on the dining room table, cracked
it open and stuck a finger to one of the pages. "We should make this."
I stopped Googling "how to avoid cooking at all costs" and looked up at
him. "Where did you get that?"
"The kitchen..now I was thin -"
"Impossible, we don't own any cook books."
"We have entire stack, on the counter.."
Putting up a hand, I stopped him. "You moved my paperweights?"
"What? No..look, there's quite a few recipes in here, and since you
always say you don't know what to cook, I thought this would help.
See?.." His finger tapped a line in bold, "Beef stew".
"The only "stewing" I'll be doing is over why you moved my paperweights.
Not to mention, half the chairs in the house are going to be crooked,
now that they don't have a prop. Do you think anyone's going to visit us
when they hear we have crooked chairs?.. Just because you don't want to
eat frozen pizzas five days a week, doesn't mean we have to lose all our
friends."
"So that means you'll take a crack at it?"
"I might as well, now that I'm a social outcast."
So yesterday, I dragged the book back out and, with Butch and Sundance
peering over each shoulder, flipped through the index of witches' brews
and backwoods recipes. Things like "hamburgers" and "pasta salad".. Who
were these authors?... Magicians?
Instead of randomly picking something, I tried to narrow it down,
turning to the section on "Easy Meals", but seeing the laundry-list of
ingredients, I kept going. "Meals With Five Ingredients" caught my eye -
Still too much work. Finally I saw it, "Two Minute Meals With One
Ingredient". I ruffled Butch's hair and gave Sundance a squeeze.
"Babies, this is it." Rifling to page 235, I found what we were having
for dinner. It read:
You are trying to boil water. You will need: A pot and some water
I could already tell Husband would be too picky to eat it, so I went
back to the
five-ingredient-we-hope-you-have-your-doctorate-before-you-start-this
concoctions, and settled on Beef Au Jus. Lovingly I gazed upon the
recipe. My recipe. The "made it all by myself because it's easier to
prove my love by throwing things in a crock pot, instead of myself, in
front of a bus" recipe. The babies nodded their approval. I read out
loud:
Beef Au Jus:
You Will Need: beef, a pot, some water
The phone rang. "Hey Hon, how's it goin'?"
"Good..just picked a recipe."
"Great! What are we having?"
"Beef water."
There was a long pause on the other end. "You're right..We're not going
to have any friends left."
"Don't worry." I replied. "I found something else to prop the chairs up
with..."
www.paigekellerman.com
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“Did
I brush my teeth today?” and Other Reasons Why Motherhood Might Not Be
Ready For Me
By Sonya Phillips, Virginia
As I sit here running my tongue slowly across my teeth, seriously trying
to remember if I brushed them today, I can’t help but think of some
conversations I’ve had recently with a couple of my friends (male,
female, single, and married) about Motherhood. What Motherhood means and
all the responsibilities that come with it. One of the main
responsibilities, I would imagine, is making sure that more than just
your own teeth get brushed. You know, once the kid is big enough to
actually grow teeth and stuff.
Everyday I wonder what it would be like to HAVE to take care of more
than just myself. And sometimes, those thoughts can be a bit
overwhelming. One of my friends has told me repeatedly that crackheads
do it (it=being a mother) everyday. “So if a crackhead can do it, you
can do it.” She has a point, but that’s not very reassuring. Being
compared to a crackhead doesn’t exactly scream, “I have confidence in
you!”
Still, I continue to wonder what Motherhood might look like on me.
I mean, I can see it now...
Scene 1:
My kid would say something like, “Mommy, I know its cold outside, but
this scarf itches so I don’t want to wear it. And this hat itches. And
these socks itch, too!!”
And I would say something like, “But sweetheart, Mommy loves you, and I
want you to stay warm so you don’t catch a cold.”
Then the kid would say something like, “But Mommy, THEY ITCH!!!!”
Then I would say, “Take ‘em off then.”
Scene 2:
We’re in the waiting room at the Children’s Clinic because my kid has
pneumonia.
But the extra sad thing is, knowing me, I probably wouldn’t have even
gone ONE round with the kid; I would have caved immediately. Because I
feel where this imaginary kid is coming from...that crap DOES itch!
Then again, there are signs that Motherhood might look good on me. For
example, I LOVE cartoons!! So me and the kid could spend time bonding
over episodes of The Simpsons. Or King of the Hill. And I’m a pretty
decent spelller sometimes, so I could probably help the kid with its
homework. And it would never go hungry because I can make it a mean bowl
of cereal for breakfast. Can of tuna for lunch. And bowl of cereal for
dinner.
So maybe I talked myself back into it. Maybe, just maybe...Motherhood IS
ready for me. But until it...oh yeah, and A HUSBAND (almost forgot about
that part) decide to find me, I will use this time in the interim to
perfect my cereal-making.
http://magnetforfoolishness.wordpress.com
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Hamster
Infestation
By Linda L. Zern, Florida
So many time saving, work reducing, stress minimizing gadgets (washers,
dryers, microwaves, pressure cooking toaster mixers that broil) and so
little time to figure out how they work, or how to fix them, or how to
rid them of hamster infestations. Troublesome, very troublesome,
especially when you’ve become completely dependent and addicted to the
use of aforementioned gizmo time savers.
Washers and dryers are real stress relievers—or they can be, if you can
beat the hamster squatters out of them.
When we were young, dumb, poor, newly married, and our clothes were
often embarrassingly rumpled, someone gave us a FREE washing machine. It
had a rat living in it. The rat left piles of rodent flotsam and jetsam
in and around the machine to make sure that we understood who owned
what.
We owned our rumpled clothes. The rat owned our washing machine.
I found the situation stressful—not to mention frightening. Imagine
adding a final pair of random biker shorts to that last load of laundry.
Imagine discovering that there’s a rat doing the sidestroke during the
wash cycle. Imagine the endless nightmare scenarios. Those suckers can
jump—the rat, not the biker shorts.
My newly wedded husband finally had to trap the washing machine rat and
then bonk it on the head with a barbell. Afterwards, I thought I heard
him shout, “Today, I am a man.”
Some years and rodent dramas later, Brownie the “Knocked-Up” Hamster
managed to escape from her cage into our brand new squeaky-clean (never
before used) house. She re-located to the back of our brand new
squeaky-clean (never before used) gleaming, glass-topped stove. Driven
by instinct and early labor, Brownie began to nest in the insulation of
the pristine stove. Occasionally, Brownie would stick her nose through
the grating on the back of the stove, wiggle her whiskers at me, and
giggle.
My phone call to the service center is legendary.
“No, no, you’re not hearing me. You don’t understand. There’s a hamster
nesting in the back of my new stove.”
“Serial number please.”
“No, not serial number. This is an emergency. Brownie the Hamster is
pregnant. She may be crowning.” My voice became more strident with each
word.
Brownie pressed one eye to the grating and watched my panicked pacing. A
whisper of pink insulation drifted from the back of the stove to the
kitchen floor.
“I can’t find any record of an extended warranty for you, Mrs. Zern.”
“What difference does that make? Does your fancy warranty cover hamster
labor and delivery?”
“We can have a repairman out there Friday of next week.”
“NEXT WEEK! By that time, I’ll have a flock of hamsters setting up a
condominium association in my beautiful new glass top stove. Argggggh!”
I thought I heard Brownie the Hamster asking for an epidural.
“Listen, let me ask you something, Wanda,” I said, trying another tack.
“That’s right, isn’t it? Wanda? So Wanda, what might happen, I mean
hypothetically, what might the possible ramifications be, if I turn the
oven on full blast and set it to self-clean?”
It took hours to pry Brownie and her six children out of that time
saving invention.
Another rodent soap opera episode (and my personal favorite) came when a
car repairman, while checking the engine of our family van called out,
“Hey lady, did you know you have a rat living in your engine?”
I knew enough to play it cool.
“Of course, I know there’s a rat in my engine. She’s our hamster’s
second cousin, twice removed, visiting from Bithlo.”
There are days when I’d rather wash my clothes by beating them with
rocks down by the river, cook my buffalo on a stick over a fire pit, and
drag my kids around between two tree trunks lashed to a goat. There’d be
less stress, less work, and a lot less time wasted—also less rodent
drama.
www.zippityzerns.com
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