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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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April
/ May 2007 Contest Results |
CSI: Can
Someone Intervene?
By
Dan Bain, North Carolina
I recently started a trial separation from my best friend and soul mate
– the one with the 25-inch diagonal. No big deal; it happens every year
after Sweeps Week, when we’re typically sick of each other.
Some of this year’s finales really had me questioning the strength of
our relationship. I knew it had been a long season when I started to
doubt my favorite series of series, CSI.
[In case you’re still reading, first of all, thanks! But there be
spoilers ahead….]
Is CSI’s Jorja Fox still paying for the Great Hold-out of 2004? If you
don’t remember it, here’s a dramatization:
Jorja/George Eads: We’re not showing up to film until you pay us more!
CBS: Fine. You’re fired.
Jorja/George: We’ll be there in the morning.
They were rehired, but their characters have paid the price. Eads’ Nick
Stokes was later kidnapped, buried alive atop an explosive charge and
ravaged by fire ants while a webcam broadcast his predicament to his
colleagues. All because a young woman forgot her coffee cup, went to
jail, and got an involuntary flower tattoo, sparking her father to
vengeance.
Make sense? Hey, if a synopsis isn’t clear in 50 words, the plot doesn’t
belong on television.
Take this year’s cliffhanger, when it was payback time for Jorja’s
character, Sara Sidle: A barely functioning, diminutive woman-child
steals a wreck from impound, transports it to a remote desert setting,
overpowers Sara, and entraps her underneath it. All while working,
undetected, at the crime lab. As a maid. Who fears bleach. And builds
models near a huge projection of a dead doll’s head.
Hard to swallow from supposedly the most scientifically grounded of the
three CSI series. In fact, each one's logic is proportional to the
relevance of its Who-penned theme song.
The original has “Who Are You?” and I’ll give ‘em that. The show is
about a quest to determine identity, so in essence, the employees of the
crime lab are asking that thematic question.
Miami uses “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which is pushing things. I guess it
means the crime lab won’t get fooled. Again. Does that mean they were
fooled before? Boy, that Miami-Dade Crime Lab must be a crack team of
second-guessers!
For New York, they went with a theme song that makes no sense – “Baba
O’Riley.” Excuse me? Out here in the fields, you plow for your meals?
Where – in Central Park?
If CBS breaks out “Magic Bus” for the next location, I’m leaving the fan
club.
But it’s not surprising that CSI New York featured such classic leaps of
logic as the cult leader who was secretly building an ark…. An ark! A
massive boat. Biblical proportions. Hidden. Among 8.2 million people.
Then there was the episode where they were looking for a suspect based
on what they determined to be a woman’s bare footprints in the snow.
Turns out, they belonged to a mannequin. What’s wrong – was the
epithelial-versus-plastic analyzer in the shop that day?
The New York season finale promised to make it all up with non-stop
action, via a mob assault on the lab. Exciting, right? Turned out, it
was the Irish mob.
Umm, there’s an Irish mob? What’s next, CBS? Will the boys from The Unit
be pitted in the fight of their lives against special operatives from
Luxembourg?
And yet, I watched…. Unarmed and stranded in the lab, Mac and Stella
fended off thieving terrorists, who planned to escape disguised as
rescue personnel. It took me 40 minutes to realize I was essentially
watching Die Hard.
They captured one of the Irish mob goons and duct-taped him to a pipe
bomb that would explode if anyone entered the room. I thought it was a
bluff, but when the Irish mob boss later lost his gun during the
climactic fight with Mac, it slid into the booby-trapped doorway. He ran
to get it and – kaboom! Problem solved, lab demolished, Mac on vacation,
U.S. Constitution in tatters.
Seriously, I’m no lawyer (you’re welcome, Mom), but I’m pretty sure Mac
violated Amendments 4, 5, 6, 8, and possibly 2.
That’s tough to buy so soon after he was suspected of throwing Joey
Lawrence off a roof. Sure, there’s no crime in that, but shouldn’t he
toe the line now?
Sigh. I hope three months away will renew my love, but for now, there
ain’t no cure for the summertime blues.
Wait – can I say that, or has CBS bought the rights to it for CSI 4?
www.dan-bain.com
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 Picnic
Season Is Good News For Bachelors
By Burton Cole,
Ohio
'Tis the season to pack picnic dishes. I'm already stocking up on green
beans, mushroom soup and french fried onions.
For guys who aren't single and don't have to fix their own covered
dishes, those are the key ingredients in green bean casserole. It's just
about the easiest and quickest covered dish to make, which is why I whip
up a round for every family picnic.
I also have been known to slave over a hot burner for 10 minutes or so
to produce a packet of flavored rice, complete with dehydrated broccoli
chunks. Then I sprinkle my own shredded cheddar cheese on top. It's the
personal touch that sells it as homemade.
But the easiest dish for the single guy in a hurry to prepare is
macaroni salad -- unless, that is, you make it yourself.
My recipe for macaroni salad sidesteps all the usual inconveniences,
such as boiling water, dicing eggs and tearing apart the cupboards for
the jar of mayonnaise you're sure you had. Somewhere.
I now share my secret with you:
1) Remove a casserole dish from own cabinet and place it in the car;
2) Stop by the grocery store on the way to the picnic and buy a couple
pounds of macaroni salad from the deli;
3) Dump the macaroni salad into your own dish. Smooth it over with a
spoon so it doesn't have that squared-container look. Hide the original
container under your seat. (Don't forget to remove this when you get
home. If you do forget, your nose will remind you in a few days.)
4) Place your covered dish of macaroni salad on the food table.
For best results, write your name on a piece of masking tape and stick
it on the dish. This is standard practice at large gatherings to make
sure you get your dish back. But mostly, you don't want any of the aunts
to miss the fact that you complied with picnic protocol by bringing a
covered dish.
Take note: With hardly any modifications, this very same recipe can be
used for potato salad, fried chicken and three-bean casserole.
My brother Tim -- also single -- can bake wonderful pies. However, he
has discovered it is less trouble to buy "homemade" from the store. And
he is less concerned with formality than I am -- he just plops the pie
on the dessert table still in it's plastic, grocery store container,
complete with label.
Tim has figured out that if you try to fake out the relatives by
transferring store food to your own dishes, then you are stuck with
dishes to wash. If you make no pretense, you also make no dirty dishes.
This is why Tim generally is regarded as the smarter brother.
The most important things for the single guy to remember to pack for
picnics are those handy, disposable containers with the snap-on lids.
When you have aunts who cook and bake as well as mine do, you always
want to sneak through line again to fill up take-home dishes.
It saves them from hurt feelings for not having their dishes cleaned
out. Plus, they don't have to cart home leftovers.
But most of all, it takes care of supper for you! And you can throw way
the dishes when you're done.
Picnic season is the bachelor's best friend.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Crusting
To The Couch
By Cy Creed,
New
York
I would have done a better job raising my kids if I'd known they'd be
living with me this long. Seriously. You put up with them through the
teenage years with the expectation ultimately, down the road, they will
be society's problems and not yours anymore. Or they'll have significant
others who will rue you for doing such a poor job raising them. You get
them to the age of 18 with body parts relatively in tact and enough
trivia knowledge to play a decent round of Jeopardy. That's all.
Anything above and beyond that is overkill.
So why is it my 22 year old daughter and 26 year old son are still
living with me? The answer is simple: toilet paper. Yes, toilet paper.
Both have lived away on their own and both have come to the same
daunting conclusion. Toilet paper is not free. Nor are shampoo or
shaving cream. This amazes them- these college educated children of
mine. Actually having to pay for disposable items such as these and on a
continual bases. You don't just buy a carton of milk and expect it to
last for a year but this is exactly what my children think. Perhaps
their active imaginations think these things are immediately replenished
by grocery store elves.
And in keeping with disposable items being free are also the
intangibles. Things such as heat and electricity. I have become very
suspicious as of late that my children are secretly in cahoots with the
electric company. I have no documented proof but I truly believe there
must be some sort of kickback scheme going on between them. Three people
living in a 1250 square foot house should not be spending this much
money on electricity. Our house looks like the Eiffel Tower at night,
well, minus the French people.
Then there's the cable company and its bills. I only need two or three
channels. I don't need all of these choices. It can be as annoying as a
trip to T.J. Maxx. Just give me a couple of outfits to look at and I'm
happy. Don't make me work at shopping. Same is true with cable. But
because of my children, we have 197 stations, one of which is a 24 hour
football network. Can you even imagine? The only thing worse would be 24
hours of curling. My daughter needs to have channels which feature
weathered, anorexic models who feel the need to berate natural looking
girls from Peoria trying to make it in New York. There is actually a
show where these pretty girls stand up to constant belittling from
supermodel types who take pleasure in making them cry. Interesting
concept- take a nice, innocent, beautiful girl and completely destroy
her confidence. What's not to enjoy here?
Subtle hints such as pasting ads for apartments on their bedroom doors
have gone unnoticed or ignored. When I threaten my children that they
will ultimately have to care for me as I age, we discuss the kind of
care which will be required. These are children who can't remember to
feed a cat so putting my care in their hands will be volatile, to say
the least. I'm reminded of the true story about the woman who literally
"crusted to the couch" when her less than attentive son (who lived with
her) let his crippled, elderly mother lay in her own bodily fluids for a
period of months. The fire department had to literally cut her from the
cloth of the couch. I just bought this couch so if I end up in the same
condition, just bury me, couch and all. I'd hate to ruin the fabric!
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The
NASCAR Strike
By Joseph E.,
South Carolina
It had to happen. The baseball players did it and we lost a season. The
football players did it and we had the scrub teams. The hockey players
did it and we lost a season there too—which was not only hard on the
fans but on a large group of oral surgeons who count on the busted teeth
to keep them in practice.
Someone said that the NBA went on strike, too, but no one noticed—until
playoff time.
So it was big news when the NASCAR guys decided to form a union. They
elected Richard Petty as their President and voted to strike. The vote
was 57-13-3. (Three drivers ordered hamburgers—obviously mistaking the
strike vote for the lunch order).
The grievances were a little vague. Some of the rookie drivers wanted a
minimum salary; others wanted Jeff Gordon to have to tow a trailer to
make it fair. Kyle Petty wanted to be guaranteed that he would win more
races than his Daddy but that demand was nixed by the President.
Several names were suggested for the union:
Reorganized Order of Angelic Racers (ROAR)
Society of Professional Exceptional Energized Drivers (SPEED)
Professional Association of Special Speeders (PASS)
Fraternal Association of Racing Teams was suggested but dropped for
obvious reasons because as President Petty remarked, “It just didn’t
pass the smell test.”
In the end they settled on Fraternal Association of Race Car Excellence.
“From now on, our focus will be FARCE,” said President Petty. “We have
to make NASCAR and FARCE syno-something or other. We’ve got to make it
the same, you know, like GM and UAW.”
The team owners responded with a plan to keep the fans interested in
racing during the strike. “We’re going to keep the tracks open,” said an
anonymous spokesperson. “The pit crews are still working so the fans can
come to the track and see regular people getting their tires
changed—very quickly.”
He added, “We’re also introducing something new. We know the heart of
our fans. If we can’t give them the thrill of wrecks involving big name
drivers, we can put more of them into the NASCAR state of mind. When you
come to the track, we are offering Outback Steakhouse Parking Lots—‘No
Rules, Just Riots.’ No organized parking, no speed limits in our lots
and no more traffic control people. We can almost guarantee wrecks every
weekend from now on. Bring the entire family for this wholesome fun.”
Despite these efforts, some of the fans have taken the matter into their
own hands. A group of disgruntled NASCAR enthusiasts set up an “infield”
in the median of I-85 near Charlotte, NC. They had their coolers and got
drunk and sunburned as they watched the cars go buy and hoped for a
wreck. After about six hours, they packed up and went home. “Its better
than nothing,” said one of the fans, “but it just ain’t the same.”
Other fans have taken to NASCAR-like driving when they are on the
road—driving just a few inches behind the cars in front of them and
nudging them out of the way when they are trying to pass. One fan
insists on being showered by champagne by his wife when he gets home
from work but this may have been going on even before the strike.
Reaction from our nation’s elected officials has been swift. A
Congressman from Alabama has proposed federalizing NASCAR. “Look at how
we handled the steroid situation. I think we can do for NASCAR what we
have already done for baseball,” he added. Another Congressman proposed
the creation of a college racing circuit, “We can withhold higher
education funding from any university that refuses to have a racing
team. That way at least we would have amateur racing.” Several Ivy
League schools have already indicated some interest. “Our schools may be
full of weirdoes and nerds but we might be able to win a few races. They
already drive like maniacs and we could use some television dollars,”
said one unidentified school president.
The important thing is to stick together during the crisis. Groups of
fans are holding candlelight vigils and many fans are wearing
wife-beaters and blacking out a few teeth to show solidarity. One fan
summed it up best, NASCAR now means Nobody Apparently Seriously Cares
About Racing. That just about sums it up, don’t it?
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Ode
To The Handyman
By
Sean Ellis,
New
York
As I will be turning forty in a few months and death cannot be too far
behind I have a renewed interest in religion and what it offers. So I
spent the past several days researching various religions trying to
decide which offered the best life after death policy. While I was
temporarily leaning towards the Seventh Day Adventist faith due to
Friday being their Sabbath and thus those practicing this religion are
unable to work on Fridays ( shouldn’t they be called Four day
Adventists?), I quickly remembered I was seeking to make the most out of
the next life as this one is beyond repair.
I’ve narrowed it down to any religion that preaches reincarnation. I’m
not picky; I just want one that will allow me to come back as a
handyman. A humble choice, perhaps, but frankly I’ve grown quite tired
of my incompetence around the house, the workplace, the automobile, the
farm, the playground, basically anywhere something breaks or needs
repair.
My usual approach to a handyman situation is to ignore the problem and
hope it goes away, and then make a feeble attempt to cover it up. This
worked well before I got married but Laura balked when I tried to hide a
small hole in the wall with a poster of Farrah Fawcet.
As a married man I have tried diligently to do handyman things. In fact,
I started spackling a wall in August. After fifty gallons of joint
compound the room is quite smaller now and I plan to begin sanding in
April. Interestingly, I’ve been invited to the spackle salesman’s
wedding.
The thought of living my next life as a handyman is very exciting. I am
giddy with anticipation as I will finally know what a joist is; I will
learn how to hang a picture without putting several unnecessary holes in
the wall. I look forward to telling people “I need to get a look at the
crawl space” and actually go into that dark, scary place without crying
for my mother. I will be able to cut into a room while I paint, whatever
that means. And oh, when that toilet gets clogged because one of my
children flushed an entire Fischer Price family down it, I will know how
to fix it without putting on a space suit and flooding my entire first
floor.
So, as I count the years to the end of this life I am optimistic that I
will be more useful in the next. Now I must go buy a wedding present and
if I knew what you call that thing you use to spread spackle I would be
all set. Oh well, I’ll learn in time.
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Cleanliness
Next To Godliness
By
Michelle Evans,
New
York
I attended church today, and the mass was related to the “healing of the
sick.” Which is how this article came to be, because I find it ironic
that the very place that “heals the sick” can also cause you to get
sick. While church is good for the soul , it’s not so kind to the body.
Take for instance the act of exchanging “the sign of peace”. During mass
you hear the coughing and sneezing of your God-loving neighbors. After
much praying to God that you don’t catch whatever it is that the people
around you have, you reluctantly extend your hand to the person you deem
least likely to inflict feverish, flu-like symptoms unto you. Short of
coming to church in full chemical cleanup gear, or getting to church
before mass begins to replace the holy water with anti-bacterial soap;
the only thing left to do is a quick Michael Jackson dance move while
pulling out a white glove and then extending your hand to your neighbor.
But as scary as “the sign of peace” is, there’s an even BIGGER danger
lurking at church. This is where all the germs are multiplying faster
than the Lord was able to multiply fish and bread on the mountain. What
is this demon of disease, you ask? It’s the Wine Chalice!! Yes, Yes, I
KNOW that they wipe it with a cloth after every person drinks from it-
but did you see the size of the cloth? It’s as big as a Post-It-Note!!
I’m not the only one that has this aversion to drinking from the
chalice, it goes waaaaaaaaay back to when Jesus was alive. It’s how the
apostle Doubting Thomas got his name.
Here’s what happened: Jesus was offering a drink from the cup and Thomas
was already to be first in line. Let’s face it- after Jesus drank from
the cup there was NO chance in “you know what” of getting sick . But
right before Thomas gets to the cup, John the Baptist cuts in line!
Since John’s job required him to get in and out of water ALL day long,
it quadrupled his chances of getting a cold and passing it on to the
next apostle in line. Saints Preserve Us!! So Thomas started having
“doubts” about whether or not the wine was pure. His “doubts” were later
confirmed when he saw Judas back-washing into the cup. This was enough
to send poor Tom over the edge causing him to doubt everything for the
rest of his life.
Don’t be a “Doubting Thomas” about miracles- they happen everyday.
People walk out of church all germ infested but you see them come back
the following week. Well…………..except for the poor soul who shook
someone’s hand and now the mass “is being said in his memory”.
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Babies
Pose Greatest Threat to Democracy
By Francis Howell,
California
Academics and citizens from Boston to San Diego have joined to form the
Foundation for Reason and all-Encompassing Equality (FREE) -- an
organization that claims babies trump racism, sexism and even terrorism
as the ultimate threat to free, democratic civilization.
“Babies are society’s leeches,” said Friedrich Jung, a professor of
Economics at Harvard University. “They get the most by doing the least.
You talk about rich kids getting the high-paying jobs and having it
easy, but babies don’t even need jobs because they get everything bought
and paid-for.”
After denying that his conscription into a last-ditch Hitler Youth
regiment at the age of one in any way embittered him towards
“draft-dodging babies,” Jung added, “America’s economy is a welfare
state where the old pay for the young.”
In addition to its strong member base in the field of economics, FREE
hosts a large faction of Constitutional purists who seek to provide
legal grounds against the preferential treatment of babies. Political
scientists like Professor Quinlan Hale say that youth-biased laws
against child labor and baby abandonment “virtually guarantee the
slavery of adults.”
“At the very least it’s involuntary servitude, because let’s face it,
after the first couple of months, child-rearing becomes very, very
involuntary.”
Frustrated, Hale then flipped open the perpetually ringing cell phone in
his hand. “Yes, honey? Jesus, this will be the third time this month
we’ve had to clean that carpet. Yes, I’ll pick up extra diapers on the
way home.” He hung up the phone. “You see? That’s the kind of
(expletive) I’m talking about.”
Indeed, Hale’s baby is a liability to more than just his mental and
financial sanity. He says his social life has suffered as well, as he no
longer has time to spend with his soon-to-be-former friends.
“With the valuable time and money that baby has stolen from me,” said
Hale, “I figure that in a reasonable court of law I could sue him for
anywhere between one- and two-million dollars.”
When approached for a more exact estimate, Professor Jung indicated that
Hale’s baby is straining more than just his friendly relationships.
“Tell Hale to piss off. He’s a baby-hugger and a hypocrite.”
In a group dedicated to fighting baby oppression, much as in the
professional world at large, having a baby assures the steady erosion of
credibility. The irony of Hale’s particular situation is not lost on
him. In a seemingly random incident at a conference in Denver, Hale
punched in the face -- and rendered unconscious -- fellow FREE member
and English professor Jonathan Seymour...for recommending the book
Catch-22.
“What are you trying to say?” Hale shouted at Seymour’s motionless body.
Hale’s frustrations and the resulting assault charges, however, are just
symptoms of a greater epidemic. The loneliness, forced labor and general
sense of fatigue that afflict Hale will affect the majority of Americans
at some point in their life. This near-ubiquity of the baby problem, as
well as the government’s laissez-faire attitude toward it, is what led
FREE to vote babies the number-one threat to democracy in a recent poll.
This designation, according to FREE President Thomas Welch, is no
exaggeration.
“Sure, terrorism is the threat-du-jour,” said Welch. “But once you get
past the hype, you realize that it’s all been outsourced since 9/11.
Babies affect more people in the here and now.”
And on the specific threat to democracy? Welch made it clear that babies
-- not terrorism -- put the United States and its core values at risk.
“Terrorism unites people to favor the current establishment. What can a
pro-baby government do but fear its own demise at the hands of a
disgruntled populace? We need to start thinking about what kind of world
we want for our children.”
http://www.associatedcontent.com/use r/75096/francis_howell.html
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Death
Of A Celebrity
By Mary Kirchoff,
Pennsylvania
Memorial services were conducted Friday at Bob’s Garage for a 1984 Chevy
Celebrity that died June 11 in Boston, Elizabeth Twp. The car, formerly
owned by former N.Y. resident Catherine Dugan of North Carolina was
given to her daughter, Mary, five years ago with a life expectancy of
about a year.
To her parents chagrin, they assisted with several hundreds of dollars
in repairs over the years, listening to long-distance complaints and
tearful groans about its ever present need for new parts and constant
breakdowns, resulting in Mr. and Mrs. Dugan really, really, wishing they
had sold the car to someone from Oshkosh who had a relative that was a
certified GM mechanic.
Born in 1984, in Long Island, N.Y., the former owners, responsible
people who had oil changes at regular intervals and performed other
preventive maintenance, kindly gave the car to aforementioned daughter
knowing it would never see the light of a mechanics garage until
something went wrong.
The owner has suggested memorial contributions to the Get a Real Car
Fund, or a favorite charity.
************************
I’ll miss that car. I used to have all kinds of adventures with it. One
of the most memorable was when I was having tests done at the hospital
to find out why my stomach was always sick. (The car, no doubt.)
I had just gotten it back from a stint in the garage and was leaving the
hospital when the transmission went. A woman clearly not in her right
mind, I called my mechanic.
“I’m stopping payment on that check I just gave you! What did you do to
my car?!! How could it break down, I just got it back yesterday! You did
something to it!”
More than a little reluctant to find his garage a pile of ashes the next
day, he agreed to replace the transmission for a fraction of what it
would normally cost.
I met lots of new people because of that car. I had numerous telephone
numbers of tow truck companies, car rental agencies and taxi-cab
companies stored in my head.
Breaking down on the Long Island Expressway on the way to a Mets game
one time, I amazed my friend with the calm demeanor I had cultivated
that comes with the experience of constant breakdowns.
To tow truck company — “Hi, it’s Mary with the Chevy.”
“Hey, Mary, where are you?”
“I’m at exit 52 heading west.”
“Isn’t that where we picked you up last time?”
“No, you were close, that was exit 62.”
To car rental agency — “Hi, it’s Mary with the Chevy.”
“Hi, Mare, what’s happening, what kind of car you want today?”
To mechanic — “Hi, Mike, its me.”
“Oh, hi, Mary. Bringing her in today?”
This last time, I made a firm decision I would not fix it if it was over
100 bucks.
I called my Dad for his advice.
“Get rid of it,” he said.
They had a 1997 Toyota and they just retired recently.
“Can you give me your car?”
“No.”
What’s wrong with parents these days? They’re not working anymore. What
do they need a car for?
This love/hate relationship with my car would finally come to an end.
But, now I have a whole new set of adventures to look forward to with my
next lemon. I can hardly wait.
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A
Late Night Scooby Snack
By Brad Manzo,
New
York
When I was 10-years-old, Scooby Doo was my favorite cartoon. I liked the
Flintstones, Bugs, Bunny, Yogi Bear, and others, but somehow Scooby Doo
trumped them all. Why Scooby Doo? I think I always wanted to be a hero
and solve mysteries. Okay, maybe I had a crush on Daphne as well.
Regardless, I look back on my Scooby years with fondness.
Subsequently, when my daughter turned two, I wanted her to enjoy Scooby
Doo as much as I did. I also desperately wanted a special bond only the
two of us would share.
I bought the Scooby Doo DVD boxed sets and we began watching them every
night. I even found and dusted off some old Scooby Doo collectibles. She
and I looked forward to our daily Scooby Doo time. My wife was surprised
how close we became. (My father was surprised that a 35-year-old-man had
Scooby Doo collectibles.)
For the next few months, it was perfect. We ran around the house
yelling, “Rutroh, Raggy!” We even finished each other’s sentences. If I
said, “We would have gotten away with it…” she’d respond, “if it wasn’t
for those meddling kids.” Then something happened. After watching our
favorite episodes for the 700th time, I grew tired of watching Scooby
Doo. I wondered how I sat through the first 699 viewings.
Looking back, I realized it was the time spent with her, not the show,
which forged our bond. If only she, a two-year-old, could realize it as
well. It was too late. I had created a Scooby monster.
Things only became worse. She started running around the house
pretending to be Daphne or Velma. On the surface, it seemed like
innocent child’s play. However, if I couldn’t guess correctly who she
was, I was the recipient of an angry Sybil-like transformation, “I’m not
Velma, I’m Daphne!!” Whichever demonic personality had temporarily taken
over her body, it wasn’t Daddy’s little girl.
Things became so bad that I longed for the days of Teletubbies, the
Wiggles and yes, even Barney. Despite this, we still had some
Scooby-free time – bath time. For 30 minutes each night, she splashed
and played in the tub without a Scooby Doo peep uttered. Then one night
during bath time, she asked me to tell her a Scooby Doo story. At first,
I was horrified. Then, to appease her, I came up with a ridiculous
story, the case of the missing wallet, patterned, of course, after my
own life.
To my surprise, she loved it and begged for more stories. Each story was
worse than the next and revolved around a common theme – me losing
things. There was the case of the missing car keys, the case of the
missing cell phone, and the case of the missing watch. Unfortunately,
all were true stories and some (such as the case of the missing cell
phone) remain unsolved today.
The Scooby Doo stories quickly became a painful reminder of my “senior
moments.” (How did my wallet end up in the freezer?) However, she knew
and loved each story and asked me to tell them to her before she went to
sleep. They worked like a charm. She fell asleep right after Scooby Doo
story time every night.
Then one night, she woke up crying and I finally appreciated the value
of Scooby Doo. I went to her room to comfort her and she said to me, in
between sobs, “Daddy, tell me a Scooby Doo story.” I began telling her
the case of the missing car in the mall parking lot. However, before I
finished the story, she was fast asleep.
I ran back to the bedroom excitedly to tell my wife that I was indeed
the world’s greatest parent. In my haste, I slammed my foot into the
side of the bed and screamed in pain. My daughter woke up instantly. My
wife didn’t know whether to laugh or strangle me.
Unsure which option my wife would choose, I limped back to my daughter’s
bedroom and told her a different Scooby Doo story. Thankfully, she fell
asleep quickly. All was right in the world again.
After that incident, I stopped complaining about her Scooby Doo
obsession and again appreciated the time spent with her. (After all, she
was only going to be two for so long.) Soon after, she started watching
other cartoons as well, but Scooby Doo became my favorite once again.
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Menacing
Musicals
By E. Mitchell,
Illinois
I remember a glorious time in the not so distant past (alright it was
plenty distant and not all that glorious) when an evening at the musical
theater meant song, dance and entertainment, most notably the martini at
intermission.
What remains today is the martini and it is not all that entertaining
anymore (unless one is concealing a flask).
Gone are the hummable tunes of yesteryear replaced by doleful melodies
resembling funeral dirges and painful dental procedures. Moaning,
groaning and other wailings that sound like someone with their arm
caught in a wheat thresher. Often the show is based on a story about
someone with their arm caught in a wheat thresher.
In the old days (or perhaps you prefer the more politically correct term
“historically challenged” days) music and comedy went hand in hand
(followed by a shotgun wedding and bitter divorce.)For example, in a
show entitled “The Most Happy Fella” one might expect, and rightfully
so, to see a play about a fella who is most happy. The potential for
merriment abounds!
A musical entitled “Les Miserables” (roughly translated to mean someone
with their arm caught in a wheat thresher), does not particularly lend
itself to an evening of snappy tunes and exuberant dancing. More like
lamentable howling and depressing lyrics of the “Ouch, my arm is
shredded” variety and chorus members who don’t so much dance as tiptoe
gingerly around the wretched wheat threshed soloist.
Without going out on a limb (not unlike the one caught in the thresher)
it seems safe to say source material might be to blame. A play about a
spunky matchmaker named Dolly might be transformed into an upbeat
musical entitled “Howdy Matchmaker” or “Don’t Trip Down the Staircase,
Dolly.” The same can’t be said for musicals based on leprosy or other
misfortunes so popular in the theater today.
Catchy tunes about disfigured sewer dwellers don’t readily spring to
mind yet “Phantom of the Opera” did brisk business. There was even a
Broadway show about sweatshops called “Rags.” But what’s next? Why not a
musical based on the Irish potato famine called “Spuds” - all eyes are
on Broadway’s latest smashed hit!
If the cycle continues perhaps a reworking of the more mirthful musicals
of the past to the contemporary tragedian trend might be profitable (the
hanky industry certainly stands to gain.)
“Kiss Me Kate” could be revived as “Kill Me Kate” a woeful story of a
taunting misogynist. “The Sound of Mucus” might weave the musical tale
of bubonic plague in the middle ages with arias about respiratory
calamities of that entertainingly disease ridden era. And what theater
season would be complete without a musical about head lice? “Top Hat”
could be adapted and the “I’m in Heaven” lyric would take on profound
new meaning if infection set in.
As for me, whether it’s a tragic tale or a toe tapping triumph, I prefer
a flop to a hit any day. The lines at the cash bar are shorter. Have
flask, will travel!
www.freewebs.com/emitchell
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The
Great Wait America
By
Cheryl O'Donovan,
Illinois
We make the trek to the Great America Wait Land, where the heat, crowds
and desperation exceed the immigrant surge at Ellis Island.
Early on, my youngest son purchases blue cotton candy in Sam’s Club
quantity. If we keep it airtight in a Ziploc, this snack will easily
feed my great-great grandchildren.
My oldest rides an upside-down rollercoaster with my husband. They
return, my son skipping, Dad bowlegged and grimacing. “They should call
that thing the vasectomy ride.”
To give Dad a break, my oldest talks me into a rollercoaster.
Thankfully, my primal screams are masked by the roar of the speeding
tracks. I stagger out of the car, disoriented, about forty years older.
Of course, my son wants to hop right back on.
Instead, the Swiss Family Robinson heads toward the water ride. We
wobble onto the rotating platform and stumble into a canoe. The kids
settle in front, adults scrunch in back. I glance toward the ride’s
summit, where we will plunge several hundred feet, be drenched like
Poseidon extras and create a rogue wave that reverses the northeasterly
current in Lake Michigan.
As we ride, the boat slants like a see-saw, whamming against the narrow
canals.
“Our weight’s making the hull scrape the bottom,” my husband says.
“Quick. Lighten the load. Toss that cotton candy.”
I snort. “The parking stub weighs more.”
“Then pitch your purse.”
“Nay, Captain Ahab.”
He’s silent, eyeing me.
“Toss me overboard, fella.” I nod at the kids. “And deal with those two
alone.”
Panic registers in Ahab’s eyes. Not one Moby Dick, but two. Best not to
make the first mate angry.
We mariners absorb the climatic splash like a cheap paper towel.
Dripping, we exit. People stare. Water rides offer that special
opportunity to prance around a theme park with plastered hair, raccoon
eyes and frizzy ends. That’s when we women run into our old boyfriends
who once thought we were cover girl beauties.
Meanwhile, with the slick determination of a pool hustler, my youngest
cleans up at the side attractions. First score: a red stuffed dog so
large, that we pay admission for it. His second score is a wolf-logo
basketball which he almost bounces into the spinning tea cup ride.
The tea cup operator gives me a dirty look and shouts, “They radioed me
from the water ride. Warned me you were in the vicinity.”
“Oh,” I say. “The giant red dog tip you off?”
“No. They said look for a miserable soaked woman with blue cotton
candy.”
“That describes about 90 per cent of the moms here.”
By three o’clock, Great America is packed. My husband and oldest want
one final ride on the Ragin’ Bull. I glance at the sign. “The waiting
time from this point is 45 minutes.” I cross out ‘45 minutes’ and
substitute the word ‘hopeless.’
We limp back to the van. Dad hobbles like a cowhand from a three-day
cattle drive. I’m nursing a third-degree sunburn and have a welt on my
leg from the canoe. Cotton candy residue makes my skin sticky, and the
dog’s stuffing coats me. Yep. Jarred, tarred and feathered.
While we’re shell-shocked zombies, my children bubble with volcanic
energy. They review their winnings like they’ve just come from a Vegas
casino and ask:
“What was your favorite ride, Dad?”
He pauses.
“The ride home.”
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Citizen
Came
By Joel Schwartzberg,
New
Jersey
Responding to charges it was out of touch with real life, and useless as
a terrorism-fighting tool, the Immigration and Naturalization Service
has redesigned its citizenship exam* to help new Americans assimilate
more easily and weed out those with evil intentions.
"Everyone knows that American culture is not a melting pot, but a salad
bar," said INS official Guadalupe Chen-Silverstein, "This new test is
basically saying 'hey, we need a better sneeze guard.'"
Do you consider yourself adequately naturalized or naturally challenged?
Test yourself with some of the new questions below:
1) Which of the following is an official language of the United States?
a) English
b) Spanish
c) Spanglish
d) Ebonics
e) Pilates
f) "James Brown"
2) Identify and briefly describe the contributions of at least three of
the following four influential Americans:
a) Joe Isuzu
b) Soprano
c) Ronald McDonald
d) Paula Abdul
3) To the best of your knowledge, please list the average purchase price
of each of the following domestic items:
a) One quart of lactose-free milk
b) One loaf of whole wheat bread
c) One bucket of enriched, weapons-grade uranium
4) An American is only allowed to vote when which of the following
conditions are met?
a) He or she is over 25
b) He or she has a driver's license
c) All the contestants have finished singing
5) Complete the sentence: Trans fat is. . .
a) Good for you
b) Bad for you
c) An airline for obese people
6) In which of the following moments is it appropriate to make a racist
or anti-Semitic remark?
a) On the radio
b) As you're being arrested
c) During a political campaign
d) In front of your kids
e) All of the above
7) Hey, ummm, are you a terrorist?
8) What's the maximum number of items allowed in a supermarket "express
line"?
9) Please define "Mission Accomplished." Now define it another way.
10) Name four television channels that come included in a basic, but not
premium, cable package.
11) What's the practical purpose of an "appetizer?"
12) What's the difference between TiVo and a DVR?
13) No, really, are you a terrorist?
14) Name 12 things a cell phone can do besides send and receive phone
calls.
15) Paper or plastic?
16) Is it kind or unkind to rewind?
17) In 50 words or less, please fix our healthcare system.
Once the applicant has passed the test, he or she is given all the
necessary tools in American life, including a text-capable cell phone
for American Idol voting, a pair of $250 Lucky jeans, and a MySpace
account.
*Citizenship void where prohibited or unseemly.
www.jesttokill.com
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