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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June/ July 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Intelligent
Turn-Ons
By Eric Kester, Massachusetts
Us guys look for many different qualities in a girl when looking for
love: her sense of humor, physical appearance, compassion, looks,
generosity, physical attractiveness, sensitivity, and what she looks
like are all very important.
Of these attributes, intelligence is often very high on our list of
turn-ons. After all, is there anything more attractive than a girl who
knows exactly what to do when the remote needs to be reprogrammed?
We want girls who know that the "Treaty of Paris" marked the end of the
Revolutionary War, not the end of Nicole Richie and Ms. Hilton's
friendship.
The only problem is that intelligent girls are nearly impossible for us
to get because they are smart enough to realize that, when you get down
to it, 99% of guys are first-rate creep shows.
So how do you convince your brainy beauty that you fall in the 1%
category of "dateable" guys? Listen to my advice, and you'll soon find
yourself spending passionate Saturday nights playing Scrabble and
talking in extended metaphor with your girl.
First off, when courting an intelligent girl, do not try too hard to
sound smart. They will see through your shallow attempts at intelligence
and know that you are overcompensating for your insecurities (i.e. your
stupidity).
For instance, do not attempt a pick up line like this: "Are you
differentiable? Because I want to be tangent to all your curves."
Calculus belongs in classrooms, labs, and sometimes rap lyrics, but
never in the dating scene.
The best strategy when making the first move on an intelligent girl is
to keep what you say relatively simple, reducing the risk that you say
something idiotic and thus blowing your cover. Try, "Hey, I'm Eric."
(WARNING: DO NOT SAY THIS IF YOUR NAME IS NOT ACTUALLY ERIC)
The girl will most likely respond to your greeting with "Hi, I'm
so-and-so." Make it a point to remember her name. Good memory is a sign
of intelligence. I once ruined my chances with a girl named Jenny
because I forget her name from the first time I met her. When I saw her
again she said "Hi, Eric," leaving me in a situation where I had to take
a stab in the dark: "Umm Hi...Johnny?" We never spoke again.
Smart girls love a guy with confidence. Be careful though, because these
girls have the capability of distinguishing between confidence and
cockiness. Do not use this pick-up line that I once heard someone try:
"It doesn't take a genius to see how beautiful you are. But if it did,
I'd be overqualified."
I think the best way to impress a smart girl by exuding your confidence
is to memorize a random intelligent fact and, when the time comes, pull
it out of your pocket and state it with conviction. It also serves as a
good safety net in case the girl brings up a sophisticated topic that
you know nothing about. Example: Her: "What time is it?" You: "Until the
19th century solid blocks of tea were used as money in Siberia."
Do not use Snapple Facts, though. Smart girls drink Snapple and will
know your source.
If you are having trouble courting your girl in person, the internet is
not necessarily a bad place to turn to. In cyberspace, the girl won't be
able to smell your breath and you can visit dictionary.com for quick
definitions of complex words that smart girls often use, such as
"regarding," "however," and "commitment."
Be wary of your America Online screen name -- it reflects upon your
intelligence and the girl will most certainly judge you by it. I know it
seemed cool while you were a retainer-wearing 6th grader using AOL
version 1.0, but DarkWingDuck69 is not a screen name that will be viewed
favorably by your crush. Seek a more sophisticated screen name, like,
for instance, ThreePointOne4.
I hope that my advice helps you along with your quest to date your
intelligent young lady. Just remember not to be intimidated by the
intellectual girls of the world. Chances are that even they, with their
high IQs, had a crush on Tom Cruise at some point in their lives. And if
you happen to be a single, intelligent girl looking for a date, I am
currently available. Just send me an IM at RoboCopRulz69.
www.erickester.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 If
Memory Serves — The Difference Between Tennisers and Golf Players
By Joel Habush, Wisconsin
Growing up, I noticed that there was a big difference between the
people I knew who played tennis and the people I knew who golfed. The
difference was I didn’t know any people who played golf.
But we all played tennis. A lot of us kids went to the backboards or the
courts at the nearby playground or park with our rackety old rackets and
dead mouse-gray tennis balls, whose white fuzzy covering had long
departed.
Years later, having outgrown being poor, I joined a country club. To my
delight, the courts did not have metal nets which chewed up the balls,
and the surface was not criss crossed with tar lines and dotted with
clumps of weeds.
To my further astonished delight, I saw, closeup, my first golf course.
Tears came to my eyes. Golf and tennis could coexist. (Anything really
can, if you’ve got enough money.)
But usually there is a strong preference for one over the other, and
there are still many tennis enthusiasts who scorn golf, golfers, and
friends of golfers. And there are avid golfers who make impolite sounds
when the subject of tennis comes up.
Of course there are millions, or at least dozens, of “Real Americans”
who eschew both, and only accept baseball, football, and women’s mud
wrestling as true sports. To them the only virtue of golf and tennis is
that neither one is soccer.
Okay, now we’re going to cover the biggest difference between golf
players and tennisers.
The difference is memory!
“What did you say?”
Very funny. Yes, it’s memory. Tennis players not only have a gnat’s
attention span, we’ve got an even worse memory. And we’re fine with
that. Here’s a typical example; You and your opponent have just finished
a grueling, hard fought, should-have-been-televised (should-have-been
memorable) match. You head up to the juice bar, which despite its name,
has put alcohol back in after the newly stressed health emphasis failed
to attract any customers, and had, in fact, driven away the old ones.
Up until the time the drinks are served, the extent of the conversation
is “Nice playing.”
“Thanks, good match.”
You each tip one back and this short, forgettable discussion follows,
with him beginning, “That was a good shot you had in the second set.”
“Which one? Oh, you mean my overhead smash that gave you a nosebleed?
“Yeah, I couldn’t get out of the way.”
“Thanks, I’ve been working on my overhead.”
That about sums it up, until he says. “What was the final score? I’ve
got to turn it in to my team captain.
I think it was 6-2, 6-3, or was it 7-5, 6-1?”
“ It might have been 6-0, 10-8. Wait, did we play two or was it three
sets?
Now we come to the golfer. All golfers are cursed with total recall.
Cursed? Isn’t that a little strong? No.
Follow me. You’re savoring a drink on the 19th hole, when two latter day
Palmers stagger in after a tough 18 holes in pursuit of the beer cart.
Let’s listen in.
“Say, did you ever play Maple Elm Babbling Runamuck?”
“The one in downtown West Virginia? Yeah I played there once about 10
years and two months ago.”
“Well, you know the third hole?”
“Sure. 405 yards, dog leg to the left. Big elms on the right.“
“Well, I almost made par on that. My drive was just 300 yards short.”
“Wow. That reminds me of the time I played the fifteenth at Native
American Pine Willows. I was lying two, so I reached for my 3 1/2
iron...Oh, did I mention I was using those new clubs with the cartilage
shafts? Anyways, you’ll remember that there’s a sand trap about 25 yards
from the green, so I kept my elbows akimbo, glarnced sidways at the
ball, adjusted for the crease in my knickers...”
“Oh, yeah. that’s the most imporant part, plus...”
Maybe we should give soccer another chance.
www.joelhabush.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Golf
Carts And Tiny Animals
By
Daniel
McGinley, Connecticut
Years ago my parents left for a quiet little Shangri La retirement
community in Florida, where everything from groceries to church is
within range of a pink or blue golf cart, and their backyard overlooks
the seventeenth green. Every blade of grass and tropical bush is groomed
by a community service, every wayward alligator is promptly rounded and
reprimanded, and every unknown vehicle or strange noise is located and
identified.
While visiting for a few days, my parents asked if I could disconnect
the backup buzzer on their golf cart, and a lively debate developed.
“Mrs. Wolski had it done because her husband is on the committee,” mom
informed us. “Otherwise it couldn’t happen.”
Dad scowled as I paused beside the cart, screwdriver in hand like a
rancher pausing before a nervous bull about to experience castration.
“It’s not like they even notice when a cart backs up or not,” he said.
“Half the town is on faulty hearing aids, and the other half is blind.”
Mom countered, “Still, you don’t want to get caught taking liberties,
and give up a place at tee-off while they reconnect the buzzer.”
Dad pondered this for a moment, remembering some unlucky soul in his
foursome.
“Jocko was ratted-out,” he mumbled, staring at his golf equipment stored
neatly in a corner of the garage. “Franky rolled on him after he was
cornered about his grandson’s illegal fireworks.”
“They were sparklers, dear.”
“Unallowed!” he shouted. “Those things could blow a kid’s head off!”
I envisioned Franky the rat, floundering in a golf course water hazard,
orthopedic shoes encased in concrete. His head would be exposed above
the surface because someone ruptured a disk trying to throw him from the
boat, and the maximum depth is just over five feet. He would be cussing
mightily as a tagged alligator regarded possible options, slightly
confused by a wild grey hairpiece floating by.
So the buzzer disconnection was scrapped, and another minor dilemma was
brought to my attention.
“There’s a tiny animal living in the walls,” mom whispered, as if the
creature would hear her and respond in a violent fashion. “It constantly
makes holes to get in and out.”
“What’s it look like?” I asked, fearing the most destructive form of
exotic Florida wildlife imaginable.
“Well . . .” mom said, looking to dad for assistance.
Dad scowled. “We’ve never actually seen the little bastard. He’s quiet
as a church mouse.”
“Say . . . do you think it’s a church mouse?” mom asked, causing dad to
go mix a strong drink.
“Show him the hole!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Take him to the
garage and show him the destruction!”
Mom sighed and led the way, talking about so much pressure lately, what
with rising green fees and annoying buzzers.
“And now this animal,” she said, pointing to a perfectly round hole in
the basement wall, near a door to the garage. “He keeps making these
holes in the wall, in exactly the same spot. This man comes out to fix
it, and the tiny little animal makes a fresh hole over and over.”
“Mom,” I said softly. “Watch this.”
I pulled the door open, and showed her how the doorknob fit perfectly
into the hole.
“Ohhhhhhhhh . . .”
“No doorstop,” I said. “When you enter from the garage, this doorknob
punches a hole into the wall.”
“I’ll be darned.”
I was thinking of some guy laughing over beers after coming out to
repair this hole for the tenth time. “Yes,” I said, slipping into her
Minnesota accent. “I’ll be darned.”
My dad had other words, all of which were unapproved by the committee,
unless you have a connection, in which case you could probably play
Howard Stern at full volume while running around waving sparklers.
There are lessons in all of this for people nearing retirement; perhaps
that when our neighborhood simulates a giant golf course, we rely
heavily on a caddy for help and advice regarding the course.
I’ll be visiting my parents down there next month, packing a musical
backup signal after spotting an obscure loophole in the cart regulations
regarding buzzer “tone and pitch.” I’m sure there will be political
repercussions, but I’ll be safely in the air before the committee dust
settles.
I can only pray my parents don’t take the fall. I would hate to find out
that my dad started his car one morning and ignited a hidden sparkler.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Sin
While You Can
By Mary Tompsett, Wisconsin
Okay, kids, let’s talk sin. As in the seven “deadly.” Can you name them
with me? Pride, Greed, Envy, Grumpy, Gluttony, Sloth, and…the last
one….?
Dopey! Somehow I imagine these sins as short, and whistling.
Nevertheless, they torment me, not with guilt, but with a nagging sense
of failure. My weekly sin quota has plummeted, and when I do kick up a
spree with the demons…gosh, this is painful to admit …well, my
performance sucks.
Has anyone else lost the groove? After years of diligent practice, one
would hope to be increasingly proficient at sinning. Many of us believed
that good diet, exercise, and a dash of depravity would yield a lifetime
of satisfying, damnable offenses. We’d enjoy a proliferation of evil
deeds with only the rare misstep into virtue. But, no. What woeful,
wicked, wanton, twisted iwony! Irony. Hear me, O young people—sin now,
before it’s too late!!
In second grade I gushed with Pride when wearing my Brownie uniform to
school. Screw merit badges, I grooved on that dress and beanie. When
teenage zits turned me into a mountain range with glasses, I auditioned
for Ten Commandments: The Musical, and landed a singing role as the lead
female leper. But lately my Pride has fallen off. Yesterday I sported
one blue sock and one yellow, certain no one would notice. After all,
since I stopped wearing dentures, everyone stares at my gumline.
Greed. Oh please oh please gimme another chance at this one! I blew it
big-time in my Hippie years. Now, to help our economy, I strive to be a
patriotic A-more-ican by buying lots of crap. But daily I battle with
the urge to declutter. Verily, hot coals of shame do I bear.
Growing up in a big family, I embraced Envy with a blind zeal and hated
anyone without siblings, especially orphans. Later I included blonde
cheerleaders, plus Mousketeer Annette. But the green monster has wilted.
What, you’re retired already? Gee, that’s wonderf—See? See? I should be
frothing over that! Man, I need to quit meditating.
Thanks to persistence and comprehensive psychiatric benefits, I
progressed from an undercurrent of Grumpy to glorious, spit-flying
Anger. In a screaming fight with my manager in downtown Boston, I
invented new hand gestures, burned all employment bridges, and sent
passersby scurrying across the street. Multi-tasking at its finest. Last
year a stylist botched my haircut, so I shaved my head -- just to “get
even.” She goofed again today, but this blunder maketh me not upset. On
second thought, anyone seen my dog clippers?
Gluttony roared off the charts. Many a gingerbread house was destroyed
at Christmas by “those damn mice” until I became ginger-intolerant. And
every Sunday dinner I achieved indigestion so vile it left me bleating
like a beached whale in labor. But moderation has crept into my—ooh,
goodie! A double yolk!!
Then there’s Dopey – or is it Lust? Hard to tell them apart. For all
important matters, I’ve learned to trust the guidance of my deep abiding
Inner Dopey. But Lust, that little stinker, has abandoned ship and left
no forwarding address. Gotta say, that really frosts my pumpernickel!
What am I supposed to do with all those props and costumes under my
bed??!! Sure, I still rubberneck at tanned road workers swaggering
through a cloud of testosterone. But my heart’s not in it. Well, maybe
the heart, but definitely no other body parts.
So I’m counting on Sloth to restore the energy needed for a satisfying
gallop in sin! To this end, I recommend a weekly spritzing of ammonia
window spray in the air for that “clean” smell. Plus, if we spritz the
house while wearing ice skates, the carpet tracks will look like we
vacuumed.
And to hell with the laundry. Let’s splurge on a pizza, and shop for
designer jeans in a larger size. Hey, three in one -- Sloth, Gluttony,
and Pride!
Ah, there’s hope.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 You’re
Never Too Old To Be Busted For Parking
By
Burton Cole, Ohio
I am so embarrassed! My sweetie and I
just got busted for parking.
Yeah, that’s right, nearly 50 and graying, lit up by a deputy’s
spotlight on the prowl for overly enthusiastic teenagers.
That was the exciting part.
What shamed us was what he caught us doing -- absolutely nothing!
No clothing was out of place. I was in my seat; she was in hers. We
weren’t even holding hands.
I was never so mortified at being caught doing nothing in my life.
Sheesh! How boring can you get?
But hey, the fact remains, we’re 48 and still got told to “take it
somewhere else.”
That’s gotta count for something.
The almost-adventure started after my niece’s graduation when family
members were bunched around several restaurant tables. The sun had set
and we were just off the shores of Lake Erie. One of us so-called adults
mentioned that in the old days, it would have been a good night to take
in a few submarine races.
“Submarine races?” a nephew asked. “But it’s dark. How can you see them
at night? And don’t they run under water? Why would two of you park at
the dock in the dark to watch races you can’t see...”
He stopped. His eyes bugged, then clenched shut.
“Ack! You’re talking in adult code! Stop talking in code! I don’t want
to think about that!”
Mom slid over toward Dad, gazed up at him and said, “It’s been a long
time since we’ve gone to see the submarine races.”
“Ack!!! Grandma!! Stop talking in code!”
Dad shook her off and said, “And we’re not going to, either. We have a
house, you know.”
I’m not positive, but I think Dad slept on the couch that night.
After we left the restaurant and I was driving my fiancee to her house,
I mused, “I wonder if any subs are racing tonight.”
She looked doubtful but thought maybe there would be a chance.
So there we were, down at the public docks in the dark, gazing at water
we couldn’t see and talking about this and that when the sheriff’s
cruiser swooped down upon us, headlights and spotlight a-blazin’.
When the deputy marched up to the car and got a load of two people old
enough to be his parents in the beam of his flashlight, he seemed
confused. Perhaps a little frightened.
He never did ask what we were doing. Probably he knew I’d say, “We’re
here to enjoy the submarine races,” and he’d have to say, “Ack!!! Old
people!! Stop talking in code!”
The deputy asked both of us for IDs, noted my license plate number, and
slid back to his cruiser to punch all the suspicious information into
his mobile data terminal.
“Have you ever been busted before?” my sweetie asked.
“Nope.”
We high-fived each other.
The deputy and his flashlight returned. He handed us our IDs and
announced, “The park’s closed. Take it somewhere else.”
No ticket. No citation. No proof that in our declining years we still
are young enough to be busted for parking.
So we left.
Sigh.
If only he’d showed up five minutes earlier ...
www.tribtoday.com
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