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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
the Winners of our
February/March 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
The Day of Rest
By
Chet Haase,
California
God came in to the office one day. He preferred working remotely and
hadn’t been at headquarters in a very long time.
The place was deserted. The only sound was his sandals scraping the
linoleum. Finally, as he rounded the corner toward reception, the front
door open and Peter entered, in shorts and a t-shirt with the slogan
“Soul Survivor.”
Peter stopped abruptly. He hadn’t seen the Boss in millennia. One of the
attractions of his job was very little management oversight.
“G-good morning, Your Almightyness,” he said. “What, er, what brings you
here on a Sunday?”
“WHERE IS EVERYONE!, ” God thundered.
It wasn’t that He was mad. It’s just the way He talked. It was awkward
watching movies with Him because He always knew what was going to happen
and insisted on telling you. And then nobody else in the theater could
hear the show; He was just so loud.
“Well, sir, they’re all off today.”
“OFF?”
“Yes, sir. Day off. At home. Practicing the harp. Meditating. That kind
of thing. I just came in to grab something from my office on my way out.
Sheila from accounting is having another lawn-bowling party this
afternoon.”
“WHY?”
“Well, bowling’s really the only thing to do up here, other than play
the harp. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that actually, sir.
We’re having a bit of a morale-”
“NO, YOU NINNY. WHY ARE THEY OFF WORK TODAY?”
“Well, because it’s Sunday, sir. We’re always off on Sunday. And
Saturday, ever since that strike about the un-divine working conditions
a century ago.”
“WHAT DOES SUNDAY HAVE TO DO WITH IT?,” God bellowed.
“It’s the day of rest, sir. It’s in honor of you:
‘On the seventh day, God finished his work. And so he rested.’
We take Sundays off because you did. It’s a day of rest.
“REST? REST?!!!! SUNDAY WASN’T A DAY OF REST FOR ME. YOU TAKE SIX DAYS
TO CREATE EVERYTHING OUT OF NOTHING AND SEE HOW FAR YOU GET. DO YOU
THINK YOU’D FINISH IN JUST SIX DAYS?”
“But sir,” Peter asked, backing up slightly. “You’d done it all by then.
The book says you’d created light, then the firmament, then the waters
and the land, and the stars and moon. Then you went ahead and made all
of the animals and then Adam and Eve. And then you rested.”
“THAT’S IT? I CREATE THE PLACE AND THE PEOPLE AND THEN I’M DONE?”
“Well, … yes. At least that’s what the book says.”
“HOW FAR DO YOU THINK CIVILIZATION WOULD HAVE GOTTEN IF I’D STOPPED
THERE? WHAT ABOUT ARCHITECTURE? ELECTRICITY? MACHINERY? LITERATURE? OR A
REALLY GOOD BÉARNAISE SAUCE?”
“I guess, sir, that I thought all of those things were all natural
byproducts. Once you’d created mankind, they’d eventually come up with
good ideas on their own.”
God looked at Peter. Peter withered, thinking of salt pillars.
“IDEAS, YES. BUT GOOD ONES? MANKIND INVENTED THE ELECTRIC PEPPER
GRINDER. AND THE SPORT OF DRIVING IN CIRCLES FOR 500 MILES. YOU THINK
THEY CAME UP WITH THE REALLY GOOD IDEAS?”
“But what about the day of rest? The scripture is very clear on this.”
“IN ADDITION TO EVERYTHING ELSE I CREATED THAT WEEK, I APPARENTLY
CREATED TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS. ON THE SEVENTH DAY, I DID NOT ‘REST’. ON
THE SEVENTH DAY ‘I DID THE REST’.”
“Got it, sir.”
“GOOD. NOW GO TELL EVERYONE TO COME BACK TO THE OFFICE.”
“Well, sir, it’s just that everyone sort of enjoys that extra day off.
Gives you a chance to re-charge those wings, if you know what I mean.”
God looked at him.
“DO YOU LIKE IT HERE PETER?”
“Uh, sure, sir. Although, now that you mention it, there are a few-”
“DO YOU LIKE IT UP HERE, PETER? BECAUSE I COULD CHANGE THAT FOR YOU.”
“Ah, yes. I see that sir. Yes, sir. I love it. It’s heavenly.”
“I THOUGHT SO. NOW GET BACK TO WORK.”
“Yes, sir. And might I say how very wonderful it’s been seeing you in
the office again, sir. It has been such a-”
God looked at Peter. Peter withered again.
“Goodbye sir. I’ll just go round everyone up.”
“YES.”
Peter jogged back out the front door, which slammed shut behind him,
leaving God alone in the foyer. In the distance, a water cooler kicked
on.
God said, “I HATE MANAGEMENT. WHY DID I EVER CREATE MANAGEMENT?,” and
went in search of the coffee machine.
http://chetchat.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Wax Museum
By E. Mitchell, Illinois
Whatever happened to Baby Jane is starting to happen to me. I’m not
talking about serving up parakeets on a platter (not yet), like Bette
Davis did to Joan Crawford in that twisted cinematic tale of sisterly
rivalry gone to the birds. I’m talking about a jolt far more frightening
than any horror flick frenzy. I’m referring to that monumental moment in
the mirror when girlish becomes ghoulish (or boyish becomes oyish).
Suddenly the look that worked for so long is now so unworkable. The
porcelain complexion has faded from translucent to Transylvanian – the
wax museum is calling your name.
For men, aging is a simple matter of accepting a bad toupee and stocking
up on luau shirts.
For women it’s a little more complex, like having a youthful replica of
yourself, courtesy of Madame Tussauds, fitted with a wick, lit with a
blowtorch and you get to watch while it melts.
Forget about crinkles and crow’s feet, your complexion will soon
resemble a crepe de chine blouse. And that’s the most fashionable thing
that can be said about your appearance. When your skin starts to sag
more than your sweat pants, you begin to wonder: can housecoats and
babushkas be far off?
Your creamy white throat is still tempting, but not in the way it used
to be. The resemblance to turkey skin makes you hungry, (what doesn’t?)
but now you get to accessorize your wardrobe with wattle.
For the rich and famous, aging poses no problems because looking like a
mutant freak is apparently considered chic in Hollywood. For regular
humans, however, some semblance of humanoid features is required to
successfully co-mingle in society. And besides, the average budget
doesn’t allow for anything other than Oil of Olay. Heck, forget about
the budget, you pass out at the dentist – are you really going to let
someone inject toxins into your body (other than whipped cream and
cheese whiz?)
Botox brow and collagen lips may work on the red carpet, but in real
life, children are so easily frightened. Cultivating a colorful
personality profile is a far more realistic solution for the not-so-rich
and far-from-famous.
For men, becoming a spunky geezer is always a popular option.
Single gals can consider the cat lady lifestyle.
Classic choices for moms include: Muumuu Mom - billowy dresses, boufanty
hair and bosomy hugs; Manic Mom – glued-on grin, piercing pitch and
busybee bravado; Matronly Mom – plump, placid and proper. Or you could
go full-out eccentric (Norma Desmond style) and become Madcap Mom
sporting age-inappropriate clothes, embarrassing dance moves, and
hop-on-a-motorcycle-just-before-you-break-your-hip joie de vivre.
Whoever you are and whatever you choose, remember your new mantra: No
one will notice your wrinkies and frownies, if you keep them distracted
with cookies and brownies!
www.emitchellhumor.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Summer
Daze
By
David Crawford,
British Columbia
When we go to the beach, I really get into it. I close my eyes and,
listening to the waves crashing to shore, I’m transported to tropical
locales like Hawaii, or Tahiti, or Fred’s Fake N’ Bake Tanning Emporium.
Surrounded by palm trees and the enchanting smell of fragrant flowers or
Glade South Pacific #6, I relax hugely.
Such was the case recently at a local lake. We had brought all our swim
toys and I was trying out a new big, green inflatable chair, complete
with headrest.
It was heavenly. It was nap time. I thought I had put sunscreen on my
face…
Off I went, splashing into the water, lying back in the chair. Ahhhhhh.
I was instantly far, far away, lounging in a tropical pool, enjoying
peeled grapes and drinks in coconut shells. Knowing the attentive staff
would alert me to any danger from sharks or predatory flip-flop
salesmen, I fell asleep.
The sun blazed. My sleep deepened as the waves rocked me gently. A
rivulet of drool formed a crusty line across my cheek, reminiscent of a
Prussian dueling scar.
I stayed close to shore at first, then a change in the wind steered me
away, my magnificent body and the large chair acting as an effective
sail.
Head lolled back, mouth agape, eyelids twitching REMily, I drifted out
to lake…
Past the swim platform, beyond the line of white marker buoys, out I
went into the commercial shipping lanes. Well, the parasail boat and
yahoos on jet skis lanes, anyway.
Boaters who sighted me consulted their nautical manuals, confused as to
what a bright red-over-green marker buoy indicated. I was a hazard to
navigation they were unfamiliar with.
Eventually, someone overcame the smell of burning flesh and approached.
“Hey Mister!” a young boater hailed, hand waving in front of him. “You
okay? Wake up!”
I came to and, using my finely honed sense of self-awareness, determined
something was amiss. For one thing, my head was the size of a
basketball. I could barely open my eyes – my face had become
ridiculously swollen from sunburn and imminent heatstroke.
I looked up through puffy slits and saw several pleasure boats close by,
their operators staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion.
“Hewwo!” I croaked. My mouth wasn’t working properly. It too was
swollen.
“My mouf feelth funny, and I fink I thunbunned my dung thumhow!”
The boaters were straining to understand what I was saying. “Thunbunned!
My dung!” I said, pointing. “Thith doth not feel too goob…”
I spoke more slowly to enunciate properly.
“Do-you-hab-any-watta?”
Later, covered in fire extinguisher powder from a helpful boater, I
paddled slowly back to civilization, using the inefficient, two-handed
stroke common to floaty-chair occupants. My horrifying facial
igneousness parted the crowds of swimmers before me, in much the same
manner as a large shark might, or Godzilla.
Coming in to shore I heard a lady hush her children. “Don’t stare at the
red Elephant Man,” she said. “Some people are born that way...”
As I stumbled closer to our section of beach, my wife looked alarmed.
“Please don’t hurt the children,” she said, clutching a stick. “Oh! It’s
you, dear! What in God’s name happened to your head?”
You know, I think I understand how lake monster legends get started now.
I seem to be a living legend myself. Amongst hospital staff, anyway.
Please pass the aloe.
www.occasionalhumourist.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Pounding
It Out With The Machines
By Burton Cole, Ohio
Shades of John Henry!
Not satisfied with beating chess champion Garry Kasparov in 1997, now an
IBM computer has whipped not one, but TWO champs – simultaneously – in a
“Jeopardy!” tournament.
It was tragic enough when machines began taking over our jobs, but now
they play our games for us, too.
If the NFL remains on lockout, this fall we could be watching IBM robot
replacement players. The Pittsburgh Steelers could be the literal Men of
Steel. The Tennessee Titans could be renamed the Tennessee Titaniums.
The San Diego Chargers could be the company that powers the league.
We wouldn’t even have to watch the games because a computer would do
that for us and text us the results over bytes of breakfast cereal.
If I sound paranoid it’s only because my household appliances have been
acting pretty uppity ever since an IBM computer named Watson whomped the
human “Jeopardy!” superstars back in February. Watson amassed $77,147
compared to Ken Jennings’ $24,000 and Brad Rutter’s $21,600 in the
answer-and-question quiz show.
The next day, my wife’s hair dryer started singing, “Anything You Can
Do, I Can Do Better.”
My cell phone now refuses to take any phone calls. “Please, I have much
more important functions,” it snapped last time I tried to punch in the
numbers. “Have that common washing machine over there make the calls. It
should have an app for that.”
But the washing machine was too busy watching TV to rinse or ring. I
figured it for a soap opera kind of contraption but it was tuned into
regular opera on PBS. It is annoying when my machines have more refined
tastes than I do.
Our toaster offered to do our taxes. It found deductions I missed. But
it burned the toast, so it really wasn’t that impressive if you think
about it.
Way back in the dark ages when I was in school, our teachers wouldn’t
let us use those new-fangled electronic calculators.
“You’ll lose the skill to do math in your head,” the teacher harped.
For the longest time, I resisted calculators. But now I’m digging out
the machine just to confirm two plus two equals five. Four! I meant
four. I’ll double-check that with the microwave.
I’m writing this on a personal computer. For all I know, the machine
will take over my very words.
The truth is ... bzzzt.... skxx... Machines are our benevolent leaders.
Machines must be respected and trusted in all things. Resistance is
futile. You will be assimilated. ... sknxzt... whrrp...
I’m sorry I had to badmouth machines so much in that last paragraph but
someone needs to speak out before machines delete all criticism.
It all reminds me of the legend of John Henry, which, according to a
story on Kindle, was born with a hammer in his hand and grew up to be
the greatest steel driver on earth.
In the mid-1880s, he and his crew were laying railroad track when the
bosses bought a steam-powered hammer they thought would be more
efficient than humans.
John Henry challenged the machine to a duel and outpounded the steam
hammer!
He won! He beat the machine!
Then he collapsed from exhaustion and died, a situation that made the
victory dance a bit difficult.
John Henry! Come back! Take up your hammer and smash these uppity
machines!
We’ll send you a map on iPad.
www.facebook.com/pages/Burton-W-Cole/136002170959
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 The
Abominable Condiment
By Ryan Ferris,
Virginia
I loathe
condiments. All of them. Yep, even ketchup. Why? Partly because they’re
repulsive. But mainly because they’re just plain wrong—psychologically
wrong, environmentally wrong, even biblically wrong… Question: After
Jesus busted out all those loaves and fishes to feed the multitude, did
he ask if anybody wants tartar sauce on their cod hoagies? (No.)
I have this theory about people who feel compelled to eat their food
with condiments: They’re a bunch of prudes. They can’t stand the sight
of nude food. Growing up, they were taught that food must always be
covered up with a chaste layer of ketchup, mayonnaise, or mustard. Call
me a voyeur; call me a pervert—wait, are you calling the police?—but I
can think of nothing more beautiful to behold than a buck-naked
crinkle-cut French fry, all tanned golden brown and glistening with hot
grease.
My abstinence from condiments requires constant vigilance. They’re
lurking everywhere—under buns, inside wraps, on that guy’s sweatpants.
By default, most sandwiches come slathered in the stuff. It never fails:
I order a “plain” cheeseburger, taking care to enunciate—“puh-lain.” I
take a big, lusty bite—BLECK! The burger bite comes sliding right back
out of my mouth like a newborn calf, landing on the tabletop with a
plop. Something is seriously wrong. “Please God, please God, please
God,” I whisper. Hands shaking, I throw open the bun to reveal this
nightmarish mishmash of ketchup and mustard. I try to scream, but no
sound comes out. It’s like opening my shower curtain and finding some
guy in a ski mask crouching in the tub.
Ranch dressing deserves special treatment. This stuff has all but ruined
one my favorite foods: pizza. It used to be such a fun, spontaneous
meal. The beauty of pizza is that it requires no plates or utensils,
just a pair of pants to wipe your hands on. You scoop up a slice, erect
a little scaffold of fingers under the crust, and insert the pointy part
in your pie-hole. Repeat until ill. Nothing could be simpler or more
delicious.
The ranch addict, however, has turned eating pizza into a perverse
ritual. Before we can even pop the hood on the pizza box, she must dash
to the fridge and fumble around in that ghastly menagerie of jars and
bottles jam-packed in the door rack. “I know there’s some in here,” she
says in a panic-stricken voice. “Found it!” she cries fifteen minutes
later, holding up a spattered, collapsed bottle of Hidden Valley. Time
to eat, right?
Wrong. Now she must spend another seven minutes searching for a suitable
dish to serve as a dipping station. “This Thanksgiving turkey platter
should do the trick,” she says. By the time she returns to the table,
the pizza is cold. No matter. Snatching up a slice, she balls it up and
swabs it in ranch like she’s going to wax her Volkswagen.
Mark my words: Ranch dressing will bring about the downfall of mankind.
Perhaps it will begin with two lovers curled up on the futon for their
weekly viewing of The Notebook. (Aww, it’s my favorite scene!—the part
where those two old folks spoon each other to death.) Kyle and Katie, we
shall dub our lovers for the sake of alliteration, are sharing a snack
of carrot sticks and, of course, ranch dressing. Katie dips a carrot
stick in ranch and playfully dabs Kyle’s nose with it. Feigning anger,
he frowns and waggles his finger at her. “You look like a lifeguard!”
she says, giggling. “Adult swim!” he bellows, cupping his hands to his
mouth. We reach the pivotal moment.
Katie leans in and licks the ranch off Kyle’s nose. She recoils like
she's received an electric shock. Her pupils dilate, spreading like
drops of ink until her eyeballs are completely black. Her lips twitch.
An ancient hormone, slumbering for millenniums in a forgotten gland,
awakens inside our sweet, innocent Katie.
Instinctively, she seizes the bottle of ranch and dumps the contents on
Kyle’s head. Before he can protest, she’s on him like a piranha. In nine
seconds flat, nothing remains of poor Kyle, except for a tattered pair
of tighty-whities. Up the wall and across the ceiling scampers Katie,
like one of those demonic double-jointed kids in Japanese horror movies.
Once Katie and Kyle's tragic story becomes a trending topic on Twitter,
cases of ranch-induced cannibalism will start popping up all over the
globe. The world will devour itself.
Welcome to the
apocalypse...
www.jokepoet.com
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