What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Outside the Lines
They’ve been making adult coloring books for several years now. Most pages contain a jumble of intricate designs said to help relieve stress. They also make one with swear words for those whose clock is wound so tightly they’re about to explode.
Even our own fearless leader, Andrea Warthog W(T)F, is an advocate of color-by-numbers. Her wine glass series, known for their warm, fuzzy images as the glass nears empty, has led to a spike in sales for Boone’s Farm winery, especially the Strawberry Hill vintage.
What’s woefully lacking is a coloring book of crude, juvenile activities. Wouldn’t it be fun to throw down some reds and yellows on a picture of Bobby and Mark lighting each other’s farts? Or how about Cindy’s expression when she discovers the plastic snake Ted hid in her locker? I’d love to hear your ideas and suggestions.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, pick up a bottle of Boone’s Farm and schedule a session with our headmistress (see above). If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The image was grainy, but clear enough to conclude the subject was petite, barely five-feet tall. The figure crept across the backyard with elbows tucked, wrists hanging limp, like a small rodent sneaking up on an acorn.
“It looks like a midget,” Harvey said. “Do you think this one ran away from the circus?”
“It’s a mime.” Lowry replied with disgust. “A strange breed. Most are harmless, but creepy in their own way.”
“I’m glad Lucinda didn’t encounter this white-faced vermin when she came home. That would’ve freaked her out.”
Lowry nodded. “It would be enough to unnerve anyone.”
*an excerpt from Criminal Mimes.
Slow Times at Belton Jr. High
During my work career, I attended several classes on Time Management. The curriculum focused on scheduling activities and other tools to gain efficiency and become more productive.
However, occasions often arise where neither efficiency nor productivity is important. That’s why I decided to create a course called Time Wasters.
This class is designed to help people slow down and appreciate doing absolutely nothing. There are no lofty goals to achieve, no stressful timelines, and best of all—it’s impossible to fail. Our motto is, “Aim low and you’ll always miss your mark.”
“So, you going to the dance tomorrow night?” Shelley asked.
“No.” Clarence didn’t look up.
“It might be fun.”
“I doubt it. I don’t dance.”
“But you could listen to the music. Beeswax is playing.”
He shrugged. “I’d rather listen to ear wax.”
“You could hang out with your friends.”
“Don’t have any friends—‘cept Melvin—and he’s taking Debbie.”
“I don’t have a date either.” She sighed. “No one wants to go out with a short girl with curly hair.”
He stuck a finger in his ear and gave it a twist.
“Wanna listen to ear wax with me?”
The Night Before Yom Kippur
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, it’s run by a woman who sticks a fork in an outlet every week to keep her hair curly, the permanently permed, Shirley Temple Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Twas the night before Yom Kippur
and as sure as a bagel ain’t a donut
everyone was excited about the day of atonement
With Papa in his turtleneck
And Mama in her bunny shoes
Kicked back in their recliners like a couple of old Jews
Tomorrow they’d go to the synagogue and pray
And beg G_d to keep that evil mime away
As a further precaution, they strung up some garlic
Bought plastic gold crosses and consulted a psychic
But while they were out, their mattress tags were stolen
By that La Petite Voleuse, Shelley “Yom Kippur” Kohlen
California Scheming
Have you ever taken a long cut–as opposed to a shortcut? What I’m referring to is driving around the world to get across the street. Some people call it “taking the scenic route,” or offer the excuse of avoiding heavy traffic, toll roads, or fear of getting stuck in a Presidential Motorcade. The goal is to ignore the shortest, fastest, most efficient route to your destination.
My wife, Connie, really enjoys doing this. In fact, her motto is, “If there’s a back road–take it!” As an experienced yard sale fanatic, she knows every side street, alley, and dead-end cul de sac in our portion of North America. We’re never truly lost, just not always sure where the road we’re on is going to take us.
Tell me about a time when taking an alternate route led to an adventure.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who wrote from Kansas City to Hollywood with a laptop on her knee is Old Suzanna Danna Anna Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Look! Up in the bird. It’s the sky. It’s a plane. It’s Dyslexia Man.
Slower than a mentally challenged sloth wading through molasses.
Weaker than single-ply bath tissue.
Unable to infuse short sentences with a single noun.
Yes, it’s Dyslexia Man, backwards visitor from the hills of Arkansas who came to Bloggywood with the power and ability to render the English language incomprehensible. Dyslexia Man, who can alter the meaning of common phrases, blend two-syllable words into inaudible gibberish. And who, disguised as Enos “Skin” Flint, half-witted blogger for Friday Flash Fiction, fights a never ending battle for humor, foolishness and the Redneck way.
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We can only hope our hero’s arch enemy and lifelong nemesis, Grammar Girl, will stop by to save us from the twisted vernacular and nonsensical jabbering of Dyslexia Man. Please hurry, Grammar Girl!
Road Trip
Here in the South, the temperature is rising faster than the boiling blood of an angry bovine who’s just been teased with a red handkerchief. Since we don’t live on a paved road, Connie had to cook our bacon and eggs this morning on the hood of our car.
It’s gotten so dry that the Baptists are sprinkling, and the Methodists are using a damp washcloth for baptismal services. The good news is I’ll soon have a picking of sun-dried tomatoes straight from the vine.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cat-wrangler who runs this outfit is Bombalurina Hairball Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Dear Shelley, and my new best friend, Jan
Thanks for coming to visit me. It was a pleasure meeting you.
The portrait you painted of me was absolutely gorgeous. Dad says you have a degree from Walla Walla Bing Bang Art Institute. I have a variety of adorable poses if you decide to create a series for display at Crystal Bridges Museum.
Dad also warned me about your penchant for DNR* tags, so I slept with one eye open while you were here.
Please come again soon. I only get lamb when we have Jewish visitors.
Licks and slobbers,
Liza Jane
*Do-Not-Remove Under Penalty of Law
Joined at the Lip
Until recently, if you wore a mask into a liquor store people would assume that you were either a robber, or a Baptist hoping a fellow parishioner didn’t recognize you.
Today, thanks to the coronavirus, it’s fashionable for everyone to wear masks in public. All you need is a head to hang it on and a face to attach it to. Despite the fact that the majority of the public can meet this simple criterion, many people are intimidated by the thought of wearing a mask. Don’t be afraid. They don’t hurt. Plus, your mask will never tell your innermost secrets or go bragging to other masks about how many times you wore it in public last week.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the pint-size Superhero who presides over this hallowed institution is The Periwinkle Gnat Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Louise leaned over the backyard fence and called to her neighbor, “Hey, Betty, wanna go—”
“shopping? Sure.” Betty’s eyes lit up. “We can go to TJ Maxx and—”
“then swing by Pancho’s Mexican for lunch—”
“and a couple of Mango Margaritas.” Betty tossed her garden gloves in a chair by the back door. “Just give me a—”
“a minute to freshen up and I’ll meet you at the car,” Louise said.
Betty’s husband shook his head. “Those girls are so close, if one of them took a laxative, they’d both have to go to the bathroom.”
Incognito
I don’t know how many of you are superstitious, but according to my calendar, today is Wednesday the 13th. I know it doesn’t sound as ominous as Friday the 13th, but hey, just wait a couple of days and Friday will be here.
This morning, I sent an email request to a couple of well-known Jewish Know-it-alls asking on which day of creation G-d made Gentiles. Obviously, it was a complicated process as we come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors. He couldn’t just make a single set of molds and crank out a few million Gentiles like He did with the “Chosen People.”
So far, no answer, but keep checking the comments as we move along. I’m sure they’ll respond soon. Right now, one of them is scouring the Torah while the other is plucking nose hair and ear wax to create a mystic “Ball of Knowledge” that will reveal the answer to all questions great & small.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Uber driver of this bus (who peeks through the steering wheel, not over it) is Ralphetta Kramden Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Lowry sighed. “Since they plastered my glamour shot on TV, I’ve not been anxious to go out in public. Some a-hole might recognize me and give me crap about mimes. I don’t need assault and battery added to my rap sheet right now.”
“You won’t have to.” Blockson handed him a bag. “I brought you these.”
In the bag, Lowry found a pair of horned-rimmed glasses and a beat-up, Kansas City Chiefs baseball cap.
“I picked those up at the Thrift Shop,” said Blockson. “Now, you’ll look like every other bum standing on a street corner scrounging for handouts.”
*the above is an excerpt from Criminal Mimes
Sideways in Paris
No intro this month—you can breathe a sigh of relief.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the keeper of bats in the Belton belfrey who posts our photo prompt each week, is Denise “The Purple Menace” Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Dalia Calvin and Roccella Cline were into the fashion business—big time. Sales of their line of designer clothing had reached double-digits and was threatening to climb into an area known as “the black.”
Then came the invitation.
We would be honored to exhibit your outstanding designs at our fall fashion show in Paris. Models of all sizes are available. *
This was a perfect fit. Roccella specialized in small and petite fashions, while Dalia created dazzling outfits to grace women of Amazon height.
Roccella gasped at the twenty-five-foot Eifel Tower replica. “This isn’t Paris!”
“Is too,” Dalia said. “It’s Paris, Arkansas.”
*This is the paragraph I had to cut.
Dalia fainted upon reading the news. When Dalia finally came to, two glasses of wine later, Roccella poured a glass for Dalia.
Surfboard of Denial
Friday night, we played cards with another couple. For a twist, I suggested we name our teams and add cheers or fight songs like you might hear at a high school or college sporting event.
Instead of choosing a fierce animal, bird, or renowned race of fighting people, we chose vegetables for our mascots. Ross and I were the Onions—known for our pungent odor and ability to bring our opponents to tears—while Connie and Peg decided to call their team the Beets. As the night wore on, the ladies’ became Un“Beet”able and won every game.
What rough & ready fruit or vegetable would you choose for your team mascot?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Kansas City Kumquat, who posts our photo prompt each week, is Mayapple Fritter Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Who were these strangers at our class reunion? Not one resembled their image in our high school yearbook.
Gray hair, no hair, wrinkles, and beer guts had overtaken the firm, athletic physiques of my classmates—and that was just the women. The men were even more wretched and despicable.
I’d heard of people getting old, but assumed it was a matter of choice. Failing body organs and memory loss made aging like performing death-defying stunts blindfolded—or writing cursive with the wrong hand.
That night I realized not everyone is equipped to handle the trials and tribulations of old age.
Hand Me My Top Hat
Rubber boots and slickers are standard daily attire in my neck of the woods these days. It seems we’re in the middle of a winter monsoon, and I’m wondering if I should’ve started building an ark months ago.
Connie asked me yesterday about the snakes. Did they crawl from their dens and seek higher ground? I assured her they’ve sought refuge in our wood pile and probably the warm, dry confines of the building she converted into her arts & crafts studio.
I doubt she found any consolation in my words of comfort. After all, she’s afraid of snakes and wouldn’t welcome any on the ark.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the slippery serpent of Belton, who dangles a tempting apple from her pool of photo prompts each week, is Roshanna Weeble Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Blockson stared out the unlocked back door, the likely escape route of Le Petite Velouse. Dusting for prints would be a waste of time.
The furniture, pillows, and mattress had all been freed from their Do-Not-Remove tags in some twisted act of ritual cleansing.
Her standard M.O. followed to the letter—a dirty bowl in the sink, an empty bran cereal box, and her trademark smudge of white face paint tarnished the mirror above a naked mannequin head.
This time she’d taken something valuable. The beaver-fur top hat worn by Harpo Marx in Duck Soup.
Too bad Lowry wasn’t here.
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