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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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October/November 2009
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
October/
November 2009 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Terrors Of The Garden Have Him Shaking In His Pants
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Fresh vegetables have been finding their way onto our dinner table. I
know they’re fresh because clumps of dried dirt rain down from them as
my wife hauls them out of the sacks she took to the gardens and farmers
markets.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” she exclaimed over a haul of cucumbers, potatoes,
squash and such.
I shuddered. Terrors of the garden have frightened me since that summer
with Ollie.
I was visiting Ollie – my third cousin twice removed but not far enough
for prudence – when we got sentenced to garden duty for some perceived
offense or other.
I think it may have been the time we tried to ride a couple cows to
Dairy Queen, the poetic justice of which appealed to our 9-year-old
senses of humor. The traffic cop who called Aunt Tillie was not 9. You
would think he’d never seen a Jersey sitting on a Toyota before.
Aunt Tillie had crested into full splutter by the time she herded us all
back to the farm. She wound up with a by-now rather familiar refrain:
“If you hooligans have nothing better to do than play in traffic with
our best milk cows, I’ll find you something better to do!”
That’s how we came to be sentenced to helping her pick green beans.
I never have found a job that involved either stooping or crouching that
couldn’t be made easier by sitting. Lazy, my dad called it. Ingenious, I
called it.
While Aunt Tillie creaked and groaned every time she bent over another
of those villainous plants, I scooted along a few rows over, snapping
off the ugly beans without all her theatrics.
Unfortunately, at one lean, she caught a glance of me.
“It’s OK,” I said as she whirled on me, her eye creaking with every flap
as that nervous tic of hers fired up. “These are my old pants.”
“You’re not sitting on the dirt,” she screeched. “You’re sitting on the
row behind you. You’re squashing the tomatoes!”
It was about then that the snake, apparently disturbed by Aunt Tillie’s
flailing about, took refuge up my pant leg.
Honest, I’m not afraid of snakes. But neither am I real hepped up about
sharing the same pair of britches with a nervous garter snake.
I started hopping about a bit, over the peppers and through the peas,
not because I was scared, but to encourage the snake to change
directions. It flapped around a bit, got a grip on my knee and started
squiggling for a better hold.
“Stop stomping the beets!” Aunt Tillie offered by way of advice for
dealing with snakes in one’s pants.
“I got it!” Ollie hollered. He sprinted for his cork gun he’d left
leaning against an apple tree, pumped it and started pelting my leg
first with corks, then with dirt clods when the corks ran out.
“Ow!” I yelped. “The other leg, Ollie, the other leg! No, wait, it is
this leg now, it is this leg!”
It was at this point that I decided that if the snake wanted to try on
my pants so badly, he should do so without interference. I was 20 feet
away and gaining speed by the time my abandoned pants settled on a stalk
of sweet corn 20 feet the other direction.
“Honest,” I told my wife as I shudder over the memory, “I’m not afraid
of vegetables straight from the garden. But I think I’ll just sit here
atop the refrigerator until you bring me a second pair of jeans. Just in
case.”
http://www.tribtoday.com/page/category.detail/nav/5135/Burton-Cole.html
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 Maclaren
Pushchair Safety: Thumbs Up
By Kevin Craner, United Kingdom
"Maclaren’s “umbrella fold” pushchairs are under scrutiny after the
company recalled the buggies in the US and announced it was offering
owners free hinge covers to protect little fingers from being caught in
the hinges…"
—www.guardian.co.uk, November 10, 2009
If you were to see my mouth right now, you’d say, “Hey Walter Whiffet,
you’re either very shocked or sucking on a large invisible courgette.
Well I’m not sucking on a large courgette, a small marrow, or even
pretending to suck on a vegetable, okay. I’m, like, REALLY shocked. For
the record, I’m also not sucking on an invisible bratwurst, but not
because I’m meat phobic—just super shocked. You see, I’ve just heard
about Maclaren’s umbrella-fold pushchair. You won’t believe this, but it
turns out that if you let your kid wedge his tiny fingers in the large
metal hinge and then collapse the pushchair onto your kid’s hand, the
large metal hinge may actually hurt your kid. That’s right; you did read
that correctly: crushing your kid’s delicate fingers in a large metal
chopping device tends to hurt. Why didn’t Maclaren point out this
non-obvious fact sooner?
What’s that Maclaren? You thought that your average citizen would
realise that a small hand + a heavy-duty crushing device = hospital
visit? Yeah right! We can’t all be science geeks like that Hawking fella,
who talks with an electronic voice and sits in his adult pushchair all
day—probably because thinking about complex science stuff makes him “leg
lazy.” Oh, and to clarify, I’m also not sucking on an invisible giant’s
thumb to help him sleep. Like I said, I’m just shocked, and I’m
definitely not giant-thumb phobic.
Let’s be realistic: when you’re collapsing a pushchair, who’s got the
time to look both left AND right to check whether little Jimmy’s fingers
are trapped? Sure, maybe a time-machine guy or someone who‘s always late
for appointments, but they’re about it. Come on—next you’ll be telling
us that when we’re driving we should be paying attention 100% of the
time. I mean, get real. Seriously. Like, get out of here. And by the
way, don’t think that I do have a giant-thumb phobia and was trying to
cover it up by emphasising that I don’t. I do hope I’ve made that clear.
I’m shocked; that’s all.
When you first learn that crushing your kid’s fingers may actually hurt,
your first reaction is “Crushing Denial.” You may find yourself saying
things such as, “But I thought that little Jimmy was a walnut.” How
arrogant of Maclaren to think that we’re smart enough to distinguish
between a human being and fruit with an edible kernel. Talk about
totally whacked.
Next comes “Denial Recognition,” often accompanied by a deep hatred of
walnuts, or anything that reminds you of a walnut. During this stage
stay away from anyone called Mr. Walnut, pygmies who keep getting
accidentally sat on and then shout, “Ooh, big man, you’re crushing me
like a walnut,” and any accountant whose head is trapped in a giant
vice. Your hatred may also spill over to anything that starts off
sounding sort of like walnut, such as someone saying, “Hey, pass me that
Walrus” or “Let’s all go to Wal-Mart.” Don’t be surprised if you get the
urge to collapse a pushchair on a Wal-Mart employee—I mean, that’s
normal anyway. And let’s just assume, for argument’s sake, that the
employee is twenty-foot tall and has a disgusting giant thumb.
Be prepared for “Denial Denial,” later followed by “Denial-Denial
Denial,” and then “Denial-To-The-Power-Of-Six Denial.” You’ll probably
find that all that denial is causing your head to hurt, although this
may be because it’s repeatedly being hit by an angry pigmy. If so, stop
sitting on him. Also be aware that your house probably stinks of walrus.
Finally you’ll experience “Crushing Acceptance”— that is, provided you
don’t get stuck in a phase called “Walrus-Stench Denial.” Once you‘ve
conquered stench denial, there are many ways to forget about the stench,
and only some of them involve a large mallet and a repulsive giant
thumb. Okay, most of them do. And just assume that by “most” I mean
“all.” Now if that’s not shocking then I don’t know what is.
(NOTE: It turns out that I was wrong. What I thought was shock was,
indeed, a large courgette stuffed in my mouth. Ignore everything I said.
Misinterpreted shock is a symptom of Giant-Thumb-Phobia Denial.)
www.humourwhiffet.wordpress.com
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by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Grinding
The Axe
By Kathryn Cureton, Missouri
It’s better to give than to receive. And I give, by cracky! If I was not
there to assist Santa, my kids would get a plastic moose that poops
jelly beans, and a candy dispenser in the shape of a Wiimote. That's my
husband's idea of Christmas presents.
Knowing that the men of my house are a bit obtuse when it comes to
selecting the perfect gift, I left numerous hints about the Seinfeld
Scene-It game that I wanted last year. Heck, you can't even call them
hints. They were bold-faced declarations of the one gift I wanted for
Christmas. "We never know what to get you." And I would shout, "Seinfeld
Scene-It! That's what I want. They have them at WalMart." You see, it's
wasn’t some esoteric, gossamer, flight-of-the-imagination, eclectic
gewgaw that my men would not know if it bit them on the butt and then
bellowed, "HA! I JUST BIT YOU ON THE BUTT! BET THAT HURT, DIDN'T IT? MY
FANGS WERE JUST IN YOUR BUTT, AND BLOOD IS SEEPING OUT! HOPE YOU'RE NOT
A BLEEDER!" Nope. It was just a regular everyday game from WalMart.
There were commercials for it. And I would yell, "That's IT! That's the
game I want for Christmas! See it? They have it at WalMart!" No, it's
not like getting me the one gift I wanted would plunge us into financial
hardship. $29.97, people. A fifth of my beloved husband's weekly
allowance. Both boys had more than that socked away. Heck, they could
have all chipped in $10. But no.
Did they pick up my gift on one of the weekly trips to WalMart for dog
and cat food? No. Our oldest son is 14. Old enough to say, "Mom, drop me
off while I run in and get something. I'll call you when I'm headed for
the door." I do it all the time when I don't want to go in. The youngest
son and I wait in the car. But no. Their father organized a shopping
expedition on the evening of December 22. They came back with bags.
Their daddy wrapped things. I assumed they had my gift. The only gift I
wanted. The gift I had asked for repeatedly for six weeks. But no. NO
GIFT FOR ME!
That’s not quite true. I DID receive several books that I had ordered
for myself from Amazon. Because you know my children are internet
illiterates, and my husband only knows how to go to eBay and look up car
parts and old beer trays during work hours. I got some fruit medley
candy, which I enjoyed, but needed like a hole in my lady-mullet. And I
got DVDs of StepBrothers and House Bunny. And two tickets to see Jerry
Seinfeld at The Fabulous Fox, which was a really good gift, but resulted
when my sister called my husband to ask if he wanted her to get them,
because she had ordered some earlier, when the seats were good, and knew
that he could not do something so simple as look up the number of The
Fox and call to order tickets with a credit card. He is kind of an idiot
savant, except for the savant part.
But I really just wanted that ONE gift. And I didn't get it. At my mom's
house for Christmas dinner, I might have let it slip that I had only
wanted ONE gift, and nobody cared enough to get it for me. My sister
said that she had asked about getting it for me, and was told that no,
someone else was getting that for her. Because, you see, she got it for
her husband. Oh, and he happened to bring it with him, so we could all
play, which was like Jeff Probst eating pizza in front of the Survivors.
The story told by my men was that they actually looked for Scene-It on
that shopping expedition on December 22, but "...we didn't see any." So
they got me Apples to Apples, which is a game, and that should count as
the same thing as Seinfeld Scene-It. To me, it just says that I do not
matter, and I've been having myself one grand old pity party since then,
After Christmas, my son reported a stack of Scene-Its at the end of the
aisle for $25.97. That stack was one shorter when we left WalMart. I
always give myself the BEST gifts.
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Celebrity
Children's Books
By David Goldstein, California
Celebrities writing children’s books are
to the 00’s what celebrities' “cutting albums” were to the 80’s. (Which
reminds me: Thank you, Eddie Murphy, Don Johnson and Bruce Willis for
sparing us your Seussian-like literary wisdom so far.)
To me these tossed off afterthoughts of a quick paycheck go far beyond
just being your typical annoying celebrity vanity project. They’re a big
“screw you” to actual professional children’s book writers. They say,
rather defiantly, “See? I can churn out what you do in a matter of hours
and still have plenty of time for my ‘real profession’.”
And writing a children’s book is unfortunately a fertile breeding ground
for a celeb’s monstrous ego. Because the actual effort one needs to put
into creating a lousy picture book (as opposed to a decent one) is
virtually nonexistent:
All Madonna needed to do (or pick your favorite celebrity “author”: Jay
Leno/Terrell Owens/Tori Spelling/Guy who did the funny voices in the
Police Academy movies) was come up with a painfully obvious moral
(“don’t eat poisonous mushrooms/ don’t stick crayons up your butt/ don’t
de-pants the unpopular kid/don’t roll around in broken glass/ don’t
drink out of the sewer”) or any trendy hot-button kids “issue” (“I get
bullied at school/I crapped my pants/ my parents are
gay/abusive/dead/French”).
If you can’t think of a new topic, you can always just toss together
something about saving the sea turtles (Yes, I’m talkin’ to you, Gloria
Estefan. Great idea, by the way: let’s teach kids about protecting the
environment and saving the sea turtles… and chop down 10,000 trees in
order to publish your book.)
Next, scrawl 200 or so words down on a the back of a dry cleaning ticket
and send it to your publisher so that they can hire someone with actual
talent to illustrate it for you. Before you know it — WHAMO — you’ve got
yourself a best-selling children’s book!
And hey, this is impressive: Billy Joel managed to completely avoid
writing anything new whatsoever when he crapped out his children’s book.
He just hired someone to illustrate the lyrics to New York State of Mind
and slapped it in between two covers. (In his defense, I can see how
anything Billy does would be a big hit with kids. They may not be aware
of his music, but he’s fat and bald with a grey beard, so he kinda looks
like Santa.)
If it doesn’t sufficiently feed your ego by having your name plastered
across the cover for writing two paragraphs of text, you can always
indulge in the latest celebrity children’s book trend — have a child
version of yourself as the protagonist of the story.
That’s right, follow along with the adventures of Little Terrell Owens,
Little Queen Latifah (actually I’m not certain Queen Latifah ever
qualified as”little”), and Little Spike Lee and they’ll teach you how to
grow up and be really famous and self-indulgent just like them!
The childhood version of New York Yankees slugger Alex Rodriguez will
even share with you his credo for success: “No matter what your dreams
and goals, you can never go wrong if you give them all you’ve got.”**
(** Even if it involves taking substances banned by Major League
Baseball.)
The real question is — why do parents think children want to read these
books anyway? The kids have no idea who the author is. No child lays in
bed in their footy pajamas and demands “Daddy read me the one written by
Mario Cuomo! Then James Carville! And don’t forget my favorite author,
Jimmy Carter!”
All that aside, my true rage is reserved for Madonna. Because her
children’s book series is called The English Roses (after the accent she
adopted sometime in late 1992). And because her books have sold over 5
million copies (which works out to approximately a million copies for
each minute it took her to write them.) And because she claims she “had
to write them” because she couldn’t find “any decent kid’s books to read
my children.”
Yeah, screw Dr. Suess, that hack. You wrote Borderline.
http://ourannoyingworld.com/
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T'was
The Night Before Jesus Day: A Politically Incorrect Holiday Rhyme
By
Morgan Ingari,
Massachusetts
‘Twas the night before Jesus day and all
through the McMansion
Not a hired helper was complaining about their small Christmas pension.
The silk stockings were hung by the butler with care
In hopes that his own might someday be there.
Back from boarding school, the children were snug in their beds
While visions of trust funds danced in their heads.
I opened an article on those without jobs
“How sad,” I thought, then shoved it in with the logs.
Look at the snow, I said, so serene, nice, and white
“Just like Jesus!” Mom added, her face all alight.
I then settled back in my chair to relax
And thought about how to evade next years’ income tax.
When outside came a clatter so loud my head throbbed
I said, “We live in the suburbs! Are we being robbed??”
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Hiding the china, the Macbook, the cash.
The moon on the snow of the manicured lawn
Made me sigh with relief: our stuff wouldn’t be pawned!
But when I saw who it was my heart fell all too soon
It was not a thief, or Santa, but that chick from Cancun.
“Oh Crap!” I exclaimed, “not here on Christmas Eve!”
I opened the window and begged her to leave.
But the story gets worse; my dear wife was awake
She ran to the window and saw my mistake.
“Who’s that?” She did cry, “was it a fling?”
I assured her sincerely it was a one-time thing.
“She was the only one?” She asked with a fist
I cringed and she told me she wanted a list.
I began with a name hoping she wouldn’t get brasher
“Well this one time in Cabo was a dancer named Dasher.
And then in Belize there was Prancer, what a vixen,
And that secretary Comet and that cupid named Blitzen.
And finally Donder, and Rudolpha the Brit
Sorry to say, but I think that that’s it.
“Well in the spirit of Christmas, let’s forget it” she said
So I turned off the light and we went back to bed.
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National
Park Service Guidelines
By
Robert Kalish,
Maine
Welcome to your local national park. In
response to recent changes, the National Park Service and the National
Rifle Association (motto: Guns Don’t Kill, People Do) have formulated
the following guidelines to make your visit safe and enjoyable.
1. All duels to the death must be held on the duel field expressly
designed for it. Reservations must be made at least 24 hours in advance.
Flinging one’s glove at the face of your opponent to announce a duel
challenge is not enough, you still need a permit. At the conclusion of a
duel, the one left will promptly remove the other’s body and dispose of
it safely so the bears won’t get to it.
2. Tent campers must appoint at least one person to stand overnight
watch because you can’t be too careful.
3. Shooting animals is allowed, as long as the animals are bigger than
you and wear shoes. If using an automatic assault rifle, do not leave
animal parts behind to feed the rangers.
4. Speaking of rangers, if you don’t see many during your visit they are
probably in the new Dick Cheney Memorial Underground Bunker, which have
been built in each park, where they feel safe. If you do happen to see
one or two outdoors, don’t surprise them by sneaking up behind them and
shouting “bang bang.” Such capers will set them off.
5. Unarmed campers should not wear inflammatory tee shirts inside the
park borders. Such phrases as “peace” and “hope” and “Commit acts of
random compassion” tend to irritate gun-toting campers and could lead to
a prickly rash.
6. No shooting (except in self defense) on the Sabbath.
© Copyright
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Leaving
My Heart In The Depths Of A Taco Shell
By Mark Levin,
California
It was Friday, and I was making my weekly
Taco Bell trip to delve into the land of beef and nacho cheese: paradise
in a taco shell. Taco Bell is what gets me out of bed in the morning,
and after a long sleepless week, a bite out of a freshly assembled
Chalupa is like a little bite of heaven. This day, as I scurried onto
the smooth linoleum floor of Taco Bell, I faced myself with the same
question I face every trip: Baja Chalupa or Cheesy Gordita Crunch?
However, as I played with this question in my head, my attention was
drawn to an entirely new Taco Bell creation I had never seen before. It
was called the Bacon Cheddar Gordita Crunch (BCGC), and as I pronounced
the name over in my head, a brilliant light shined through the window
illuminating the BCGC’s valiant figure and a heavenly hymn sounded in my
ears. The 600-calorie dish was comprised of a fluffy gordita shell stuck
to a crunchy taco shell with cheddar and bacon bits. Inside the shell
was glorious Taco Bell beef topped with a zesty southwest cheddar sauce,
lettuce and more cheese. A charge of $2.49 seemed a fair price to pay
for happiness.
Now many of you question why I would think that bacon would be a great
addition to Taco Bell’s forte. The answer is I have had bacon, and it is
good. I have also had many Cheesy Gordita Crunches, and they are great.
In my mind, the combination of good and great makes awesome. But the
BCGC was far less than awesome.
As the Taco Bell employee placed the BCGC on the counter I quickly
snatched it away and unraveled its wrapper on the way to the car. I took
a bite and curiously furrowed my brow. The car seemed to be rolling over
hundreds of speed bumps shaking my stomach. I took another bite, and
suddenly I felt as if Richard Simmons was massaging my thighs with baby
oil. How discomforting.
The bacon was not your typical bacon. It was preservative heavy and
tasted a lot like crappy beef jerky doused in cheese. The salty taste of
bacon overpowered all things wonderful about the Cheesy Gordita Crunch,
and the combination of bacon, cheese and beef was much less tasty than
it was uncomfortable.
I took another involuntary bite, groaned and stared at my BCGC. “You are
a disgrace,” I thought. I could not bear to force another bite of this
jerky taco down my throat, but my father’s voice rang in my ears
reminding me of poor African children who would kill each other for a
BCGC. Thinking of bony children, I forced myself to bite into it again,
and bacon bits mingled with beef stuck to my teeth.
“Be heroic Mark!” my father cheered. “We didn’t raise you on Taco Bell
for nothing!”
I stared my BCGC in the face. What a disappointment. There had been
nothing at Taco Bell I had not been able to finish before. The fluffy
gordita shell was now dry and peeled away from the inner taco to reveal
the bacon bits that had ruined my dreams.
I could not do it. I was so upset I could not even look at it. I am not
one to litter, but the BCGC was not worthy of my grasp or a trashcan. I
tossed it out the window and said good riddance as a nearby Honda Civic
trampled its cowardly figure.
Any item that is thrown under a compact sedan to be trampled, like the
Bacon Cheddar Gordita Crunch, is a disgrace to Taco Bell and a
disappointment to Taco Bell aficionados around the world. So do not
break your bank on a BCGC, you will be better off with a regular Cheesy
Gordita Crunch.
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R
U Understanding The Latest Technology?
By
Michele McCusker,
New Jersey
I have a close friend named, Rutgg. Well,
her name really isn’t Rutgg. It’s Ruth. I just happened to have had a
hard time entering her name in my cell phone. I couldn’t figure out how
to reverse, correct and pull out after entering a “g” instead of an “h”
at the end of her name and somehow instead added another “g”. So, I just
decided to change what I call her.
I recently mastered how to send a text message (in process, not speed).
The interesting thing that I find about texting is that it helps me say
things I wouldn’t make a call to say. For instance, telling Rutgg that
I’m glad I have her to share laughs with. I just can’t imagine hanging
out and saying that or sending a letter which would require paper, a pen
or printer, an envelope, a stamp, and a place to sit and write. But, if
it crosses your mind, you can just enter a text and send it no matter
where the other person is and what time it is.
However, thanks to having pretty much mastered texting, I can’t dial a
phone anymore. I keep thinking I need to hit a key three times before I
get to the number. For instance, if I need to dial a “2”, I want to hit
the first key four times until I get through a, b and c and get to the
number choice. So, I just send a text instead.
Text spelling just puts a whole new spin on the English language. Being
short and not punctually correct is the priority when you need to get a
message to a friend ASAP. And, we’re making our numbers
multi-task—“1”,“2”, “4” and “8” now represent all forms of the word. It
makes you wonder if one day, we will all accept this new language and
we’ll start seeing emails from executives at our places of work looking
like this:
2 All Employees:
I’m :) to inform u that the day b4 Independence Day is 1 more company
holiday this yr. Njoy!
With all this texting going on, I’ve been noticing a lot of parts
lately--I mean parts in hair. I will be sitting across from somebody in
a meeting and his/her head is down. They’re not snoozing. They’re
texting (with the phone below the table hoping you won’t notice). At the
same time, the response you’re getting to your question is “Ah ha.”
That’s because it takes a lot of concentration to know how many times to
hit the “7” key to get an “s”.
Before texting became so popular, people actually called each other on
the phone. This too got tech savvy. Caller ID came into play so you
could be selective in who you grace with a conversation. However, I’m at
a loss as to what to do when I call someone and I know my name popped up
on their ID. Do you introduce yourself or just say, “What’s up?”
With all the new technology, I’m torn about if it’s a good or bad thing
that we’re always reachable. The good thing is that we’re always
reachable. The problem is that we’re always reachable. I find it amazing
that I was holding a text conversation with my friend while she was
boarding an airplane and I was a passenger in a car on a highway several
states away from her.
However, do you ever have times you want to be alone? You know, have a
quiet, peaceful day? No matter how much you have planned for that,
technology can steer you in a different direction. Maybe you wake up in
the morning and turn on your cell phone. You haven’t had your coffee yet
but you hear it—the sound that lets you know that you have a text
message. You sigh. Do I really feel like reading the message and then
pecking out a response prior to my daily dose of caffeine? Y do I even
ask? I no I will.
www.youhavetolaughoryoullcry.blogspot.com
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Fixing
The Fridge
By
Jill Pertler,
Minnesota
Normally I’d call a professional
repairperson to fix a major appliance. It’s the prudent thing to do.
Then again, no one’s ever described me as prudent.
The problem with my fridge started out small: a drip here, a
pitter-patter there. My first reaction was that of any normal person; I
ignored the situation – you know, like one ignores a squeaky step, leaky
faucet or any birthday after age 40. I sort of got used to the blemish
and forgot that it even existed.
Then the problem grew. Water trickled out of the freezer compartment
down into the fridge with increasing frequency. I placed a cup under the
leak and went about my business. Remember, ignoring is bliss.
This wasn’t a perfect solution. Sometimes the cup would tip over, or I’d
forget to empty it and the water would pour all over the fridge. As I
wiped up the wet mess I grumbled about the inferiority of my appliance.
Since my freezer is not equipped with an automatic icemaker, the
situation was quite mysterious. I’m no Scooby or Shaggy, but I’ve always
enjoyed a good mystery.
Besides, I figured maybe I had a big problem on my hands. Maybe my
fridge was dying. Maybe I’d end up with a brand-new one. I was thinking
stainless – with an icemaker. Maybe a side-by-side. Prudent or not, a
girl can dream.
I decided to make like Thelma and research the issue. I went online and
Googled “freezer leaking water” and discovered that many people had
experienced the very same thing in their kitchens. Best of all, they
gave detailed instructions on how to fix the problem.
I have never been one to ignore detailed instructions. They call out to
me like a Scooby Snack. Within seconds I was searching for something
called a drain pan.
I didn’t know a drain pan from the Mystery Machine, but I wasn’t going
to let a little thing like that stop me. I emptied the freezer and
thought I was pretty sure that I had positively identified the drain
pan. It was a plastic thing at the bottom of the freezer that looked
decidedly… well… pan-like.
My instructions said to remove the pan. Trouble is, the metal doohickeys
that attached the pan to the freezer were situated within a concave
dimple of plastic and I didn’t know how to reach them.
Not to be thwarted, I called my husband and described the problem. He
introduced me to two new vocabulary words: “socket” and “ratchet.” Turns
out these were important tools that he had hidden in a toolbox in the
basement. I wonder what else he has down there?
I learned that the socket fits on top of the doohickey, which I now know
is called a nut. (Or is it a bolt?) The ratchet fits on top of the
socket and is supposed to turn just one way and loosen your nut. I got a
socket to fit, but despite my husband’s patient and flawless
over-the-phone directives, I couldn’t ratchet to save my life. My nuts
were stuck. Lucky for me, there was a screwdriver implement that also
attached to the socket. I am nearly professional when it comes to
screwdrivers and can distinguish a “slotted” from a “Phillips” with a
high amount of accuracy.
I removed the nuts, and sure enough my drain pan was sitting on a
glacier. It was clear my drain was iced over, in a word: clogged. The
water created during the defrost cycle of the freezer had nowhere to go
but down into my fridge – drip, drip. Problem solved. Give that girl a
Scooby snack!
My fridge was saved. I wasn’t sure if that was good news or not. I guess
I won’t be getting the stainless model any time soon. Still, I must have
saved some money on what a professional repair would cost. I could
probably charge about $75 an hour for my expert services. Problem is,
I’d have to bill myself.
Except that wouldn’t be prudent, now, would it?
http://marketing-by-design.home.mchsi.com
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Tainted
Crawdads
By
Cindy Small,
Alabama
From my living room window, I see
Republicans in boxer shorts sipping chicory coffee out of “Go-Bush” mugs
as they relax on vinyl Lay-Z-Boy recliners propped on a grassy piece of
land running up the street. It’s a week before Mardi Gras in New Orleans
and the Endymion Parade is ready to begin. At the corner from my home,
parade riders gather to drink massive amounts of alcohol, count their
throws and board the gigantic three-story floats. It’s carnival, traffic
is closed, everyone is hostage and no one sleeps until Mardi Gras is
over. Ever.
It’s also “Man Week” in my ‘hood. Strong coffee in hand, I peek through
window blinds. These man creatures have decided to cast their spouses
aside and live outdoors for a week. Freezing rain, no problem. Nothing
is more important than claiming their sacred spot of neutral ground.
Each male passionately rips off pieces of yellow caution tape creating
an 8x12 square location where they will bravely house essentials for
their arriving families. It’s a hunter and gatherer thingie. Ice chest,
beer, Jack Daniels, Tequila mix, Salvation Army tattered sofa, barbecue
pit, more beer, cigarettes, industrial-sized bags of potato chips, cheap
French onion dip and again, more beer. Sacred items.
Parade time. Wives and children of man-campers arrive. They come with
blankets, pillows and devices for keeping children from disappearing.
It’s gonna be a long-ass night. Floats, the size of buildings, begin
rolling, laden with dozens of costumed riders. A 110’ long crawfish
float that only the imagination could create begins winding its sequined
red tail down the street. Sleep and dreams are a thing of the past as I
remember my real estate agent telling me “it’s great living on the
parade route. Cast your worries to the wind, flash your flesh!” I tell
myself to laugh, don’t cry as I watch the parade and realize I haven’t
been out of the house in a week.
The giant crawfish float slowly stops in front of my house. The parade
route is clogged; everything comes to a sudden halt. Unexpectedly,
someone is setting up a barbecue pit inside the float. Another rider
pours fluid on the grill, and then a roaring fire erupts following the
last matchstick. Oh shit. The float is steps from my house. Is this
scene going to appear in my obituary? People are running from their
homes, hoses in hand trying to stop the crawfish float inferno. Those
Republicans in boxer shorts will become heroes of the day. Beer cans in
hand; they rush to the burning crawfish, throw their family blankets on
the fire; take a sip more of beer while the fire slowly dissipates. You
think a fire engine might come? When you live in a town with corrupt
politics, that ain’t gonna fly. It’s Mardi Gras! Throw caution to the
wind! People burning? No biggie! It’s a hunka-hunka burning love
happenin’ here.
I’m in sensory overload watching the red crawfish turn jet black; people
are running like roaches holding bottles of glue and attaching body
parts here and there on the giant paper-mache cremated crawfish. The
riders are gluing parts and pieces back on the float. It’s a long uneven
body, a lop-sided pair of claws, torn bug eyes, a body beginning to look
like a seared scorpion. I’m watching a frenzy of humans piecing together
this dead fish mounted on a tractor. Looks like the gluey Mardi Gras
trinkets will survive also. The melted plastic beads will morph into
eclectic pieces. Creative baubles and imaginative objects are going to
do just fine as throws. Those that are really artistic can use the
melted beads as future lamp shades. There you go…something wonderful
will erupt from this disaster. A Mardi Gras tip – dress for comfort, not
for style, in case you have to do a 5K without warning due to fire. You
never know when a giant crawfish will burn in front of your home, so
always bring water as a parade-goer. It’s a survival tip, just like
knowing that there ain’t no place to pee on Mardi Gras day.
The motor from the tractor trailer underneath the crawfish float
suddenly begins to spout. No more are the fiber-optic lights. Large
rubber wheels set in motion, the riders puts their masks on; straighten
the beads on their necks and toss the melted trinkets to the crowds.
Parade time! The crowds will scream “Throw Me Something, Mister!” even
if the crawfish is charred.
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It’s
My Funeral And I’ll Cry If I Want To…
By
David Swagell,
New Jersey
A 59-year-old Brazilian bricklayer has
surprised his family by turning up to his own funeral.
Relatives of Ademir Goncalves thought he had been killed in a car crash
in southern Parana state the previous day. Police said the victim had
been so badly disfigured relatives had trouble indentifying the body.
Relative A - 'Well, it kind of looks like him. Did he have hairy feet?'
Relative B - 'I don’t know, but I can only see the right foot, can you
see the left?’
Ademir had in fact spent the night on a Cachaca bender with a bunch of
work mates. It was later reported he had won four straight games of the
Brazilian equivalent of the drinking game 'Fuzzy Duck', before eating an
unpeeled banana and passing out.
Ademir did not get word of his own funeral until it was already
happening. That begs the question, when and how do you make an entrance
at your own funeral?
'I wanted to see a few tears first. I waited for the second eulogy',
Ademir said.
'Some people have been saying I am insensitive for waiting that long.
But I wanted to learn a little more about myself, and I wanted to know
who my true friends are. I was surprised to see a few old girlfriends
still on the scene. Luciana had just had her breasts done, they were
twice the size I remembered, she looked great'.
'I was not too sure how to make an entrance. I mean, you can't just walk
in unannounced, that would be a little creepy. I wanted to make a big
entrance, do something a little different, something your average
mourner wouldn't expect. I wanted to involve some sort of choreographed
dance routine, nothing over the top, but something with meaning'.
'So I entered the funeral moon walking, and every five meters I added in
the stance John Travolta does on Saturday Night Fever. You know the one,
where he points to the ceiling. The contrast in moves really worked, it
really held the audiences attention'.
'If I had a little more time to prepare I would have gone with a softer,
more artistic entrance, one that builds into a huge finale. I would have
produced a short mime act, playing out the supposed last few days of my
life. But it would have needed a few costume changes and some abstract
lighting for full effect'.
'While I was on the bus to the funeral a lot was running through my
mind. I even thought about trying to lighten up the mood by making an
entrance with a naked one-man Conga line. But I knew there would be a
few oldies at the funeral and I didn't want to give anyone a heart
attack. Atletico is playing Coritiba on Wednesday and there is no way
I’m going to miss this game for another funeral'.
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My
Grandmother And The Drunk
By
Julie Tomlinson,
South Carolina
My grandmother had Alzheimer’s
disease. This is not funny but you either laugh or cry at the memories.
She was the picture perfect Grandmother. She wore dresses with pearls
and always carried a sweater over one arm (even though she lived in
Florida) and a purse over the other. Even after the disease kicked in,
she was a very determined woman.
My favorite memory is when I was given the duty of taking her to my
cousin’s wedding. I arrived about three hours early to spend extra time
with her. When I arrived, she was already dressed and ready to go. She
was even a little put out with me for being late. I explained we had
plenty of time but she insisted we leave right away. I even called my
aunt to reassure her we did not need to leave yet. She did not believe
either of us.
I was able to stall for awhile but she continued to get upset. I went
ahead and got ready and off we went. When we got to the church, the
parking lot was empty. She got out of the car and pounded on the front
door. She was convinced that everyone was hiding. After much pleading, I
was able to convince her to walk across the street to the drug store and
get ice cream.
As we crossed in front of the church, my sweet little grandmother
spotted a pair of feet hanging out of a bush. Before I could stop her,
she walked over and grabbed the feet. She shook them and began calling
out to wake this person up. All of a sudden this old bum sat up still
holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in his hand. He was most
definitely drunk out of his head. Grandma began asking him if he knew
when the wedding was supposed to begin. All I could think of was maybe
he had a knife or something.
The old drunk mumbled something about kids in love. My grandmother told
him that they were definitely in love. He said that was wonderful. “What
the world needs is more love. He then began singing, “What the world
needs now is love sweet love” not well at all. Amazingly, my grandmother
began singing with him. So here I was, standing on the sidewalk in front
of a very busy street watching this adorable little lady and this
drunken man sing at the top of their lungs. People were slowing down,
pointing and staring. This was definitely one of my most embarrassing
moments.
I was eventually able to pry the two apart. I took Grandma across the
street but not before she invited him to the wedding! Oh boy! I was
imagining my aunt strangling me if he showed up. I knew that I would be
blacklisted from all family events.
I was able to keep her busy in the store for awhile. We made our way
back to the church about 15 minutes before the wedding. As we walked in,
I could not help but look around. I had this fear of him popping up on
the back pew still holding his beer. He was nowhere to be seen thank
goodness! I would still be able to see my family.
At the wedding reception, my job was to keep Grandma out of trouble.
This was no easy task. They have videos of my grandmother walking around
and all you can see of me is my hand reaching out to grab her. She was
such a character.
I was able to have someone stay with her long enough to tell my aunt the
story of my grandmother and the drunk. She laughed until she cried. My
job then was to tell everyone there this story. It was the hit of the
party!
Everyone loved my grandmother. We were all so sad to watch her lose
herself in the disease. This day though, we had a glimpse of the old
grandma. Most people would have just turned their heads and walked away
from the bushes but not her. She reached out and spent time with this
man that I’m sure he didn’t remember but I’ll never forget.
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Does
A Candidate Need Good Teeth To Run For Office?
By
Christopher Venckus,
Wisconsin
During a break from a heated game of Go
Fish with my eight year old daughter, I had inspiration to write an
article about the election. Excitedly, I put down the energy drink I had
been guzzling to increase my card playing skills and started to write.
Perhaps we should look beyond the campaign rhetoric and dig deeper into
what the candidates really think? I'd rather not. Instead, I think you
should listen to my sage advice and vote for the candidate with the best
teeth. After all, how can I vote for someone if they don't have a nice
smile? I'm not sure I agree, but it sounded reasonable when my neighbor
told me. On the other hand, he has no teeth and spends a large amount of
time peeling potatoes.
Like some of you, I lie awake at night worrying about money, my job and
unrest in the world, while my Aunt Trudy worries about when her laxative
will kick in. Yesterday, in the midst of all this worrying I received a
letter from my 30-year-old cousin Sam. It was a 'G'. I added it to the
other letters he sent me and hope someday they would spell something
meaningful. Sam has nice teeth. Maybe he should run for office?
Sometimes I get so stressed about the election that even after a
vigorous 30-second workout with one-pound dumbbells I can't relax
It was during a knitting lesson with my Aunt Trudy when I had an
epiphany about the election. I told my family, who then encouraged me to
seek political office. We all jumped in the family van and drove 90
miles to the nearest political office where they dropped me off in the
30-degree weather to ponder my decision. Needless to say I wasn't
entirely sure I wanted to be a politician, especially if it involved
standing out in the cold. I've often thought about running for office,
but was discouraged by the lack of toilet paper in government buildings.
My polling data, which consisted of my
wife, daughter and dogs, indicated I had a slight chance at becoming a
Golf Course ranger, which I immediately pursued. I was informed by golf
course management that such a position was not an electable one, but I
was still welcome to apply. I did just that and got a really cool shirt.
On the first day I brought Gus, my goat, to the golf course. In
hindsight, it was not my best decision. Gus took a liking to the green
on the seventh hole and then proceeded to snack on Mr. Werner's
polyester pants on the tenth hole. Both Gus and I were escorted off the
course in due haste. Needless to say my "political" aspirations were
hindered.
Not being one to sit around I thought long and hard for 10 seconds until
I found an answer. In an attempt to stimulate the economy, the
government is planning on giving everyone rebate checks. Instead, the
government should give every family a goat. What? A goat? Why, you ask?
Before you toss this commentary into the trash or use it to line your
bird cage and run to the store for something more sensible to read like
the National Enquirer, please hear me out.
A few of the benefits a goat offers include free milk, free cheese,
someone to talk to, plenty of meat for those non-vegetarians, fiber to
make a mohair sweater for our cold Wisconsin winters, and they can also
be bred so its really the gift that keeps on giving.
Of course you'll have to be careful because goats will eat almost
anything. One time, my Uncle Lester caught one of his goats in the house
eating Aunt Trudy's purse. It was almost gone; buckle and all. Unknown
to Gus, the purse contained a laxative. That poor goat was pooping
imitation black leather for a week.
I'd be happy to write about more of my ideas, but Gus ate those too.
Maybe the rebate check is a better idea after all and families could buy
a goat and still have extra money.
www.christophervenckus.com
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Mortgage
Mess: Can A Sheep Really Help?
By Christopher Venckus,
Wisconsin
It was during lunch with my cousin Marcus
when my inability to pay for a small kumquat reminded me of all the high
interest mortgages out there and the difficulty folks are having in
making those payments. While kumquats and mortgages are as dissimilar as
Marcus and bathing, I still had similar feelings in that I was agitated,
anxious, overcome with profound sadness, and had an incredible urge to
play with my slinky. After three hours and a tangled slinky I was calm
and tried to recall my own mortgage experience which I vaguely
remembered involved the trading of livestock.
Back home I found a document under the bathroom sink next to my blue Mr.
Bubble bath bottle and began to read through it. The language was
complex and obtuse. I read over every word, dissected each phrase,
studied all the sentences, double-checked the meanings, consulted with
several websites, and even discussed it with my 80-year-old neighbor
Mrs. Alsworth. Finally, after several additional minutes of deep thought,
I completed the application for Publisher's Clearinghouse. The crazy
thing is that I didn't do any of that when I signed the papers for my
home mortgage and that beast was longer than the Magna Carta. My
mortgage contract is pages long, full of unintelligible gibberish, as
interesting as watching my Uncle Ted pluck his nose hairs, and yet it's
one of the most important documents I ever signed.
Whoever created such a document ought to be forced to watch re-runs of
Hee-Haw until they develop an unnatural desire for hay. For those of you
who don't know, Hee-Haw was a country music based variety show in the
eighties whose name was derived from the sound a mule makes when it
brays. If you don't know what "bray" means it's not important anyway
since I'm writing about mortgages. Now, don't lose focus and stay with
me. (Author note: No mules were bothered during the writing of this
article.)
Have I ever really read my mortgage documents? Are you kidding? Of
course...I read the line where it says, "Sign here" and listened to my
cousin Marcus rattle on about all kinds of inane legal issues. The
document and Marcus made as much sense as a goose in a girdle, but then
again Marcus rarely made sense unless he was talking about his fish.
It's quite unsettling to witness a forty-five year old man discuss his
profound love for an angel fish named Agnes. I guess I can't complain
too much since I was in a bit of rough spot financially and the only
collateral I could offer Marcus was a sheep I had swiped from a nearby
farm. Marcus quietly accepted the sheep with an odd grin and approved my
mortgage application.
Since that traumatic episode with the kumquat I was forced to reevaluate
everything in my life including my recent change in hand soap and have
become worried that the increasing interest rate on my adjustable
mortgage would cause me to end up in further debt or force me to pawn my
slinky.
I've learned that the government is trying to help folks like me and
"fix" the current mortgage mess which is quite amusing. The words
"government" and "fix" in the same sentence make me chuckle. Not in a
deep grab your sides chuckle, but in a shake your head
I-can't-believe-they-think-they-can-fix-this-mess-when-they-can't-even-balance-a-budget-chuckle.
The government plans on allowing troubled borrowers to get cheaper home
loans so they can keep their current home. Heck, I'm all for cheap
government loans and I'm definitely for letting folks keep their houses,
but I think maybe all these people with high interest rates on their
loans could talk to the same mortgage lender that a certain senator
used. Maybe the senator offered the lender two sheep? Heck, I'd even
offer a goat or a chicken if it meant getting a good deal. I guess I'll
have to figure out my best option and hope it doesn't involve anymore
livestock.
www.christophervenckus.com
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