What's So Funny?

Yesterday I chewed the mailman out for leaving more of those darned Home Improvement magazines in our mailbox. All they do is cause trouble. 

Connie can spend hours studying the photos and flagging items like child selecting presents from a Christmas catalog.  Then she’ll point to each one and proclaim, “We could do that!”

If the Republicans are so bent on banning books and movies, why the hell don’t they do something about the HGTV network and those books and magazines that are hazardous to MY health? I bet most of them couldn’t even read a ruler, let alone a book.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the kinky-haired Bobbie Ross 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.

As a participant on Nekkid & Skeered, I was flown to a town near the Teton Wilderness and met by a man named Todd.

That night, he took me and the film crew to a fancy restaurant. The waiter seated all nine of us on the backside of a long table with me in the middle and Todd, the producer, and film crew split evenly on each end. The waiter took a picture of us that reminded me of that painting, The Last Supper. 

We broke bread and drank some wine. 

But I didn’t offer to wash their feet. 

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This is an excerpt from my current WIP, A Chip Off the Ol’ Bunyan

This week, I’ve been thinking about urban legends. You know, that modern genre of folklore where false claims or fictitious tales are circulated as true.  One of my dad’s favorites regarded the pulling of a baby tooth. “If you don’t stick your tongue in the hole, a gold tooth will grow in to replace it.”

Here’s a few I’ve been working on:

• Keith Richards is a mortal.
• If a man says something in the forest and no woman hears him, he must be right.
• Mimes are known to steal Do-Not-Remove tags from other people’s furniture & mattresses.

I’m sure you must have a few of your own. Please include one or more in the comments section.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the 7’ 4” tall Dinka warrior,  Xena Catrina 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.

I had taken my son, Brandon, to a baseball game. On the way to our seats, I noticed a WET PAINT sign on a mezzanine support post. Naturally, I had to touch it. The paint was damp. 

I froze in my tracks. 

Brandon tugged at my arm, “Come on, Dad. We’re missing the game.”

But I couldn’t leave that paint to dry alone. 

“Go ahead, Bran. I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

I stared intently at the post. Four and a half hours later, I could touch it without leaving a fingerprint. 

Boy was I needing to pee.

A few days ago, I had a thought, which may surprise those of you who know me well.  I was writing my autobiography and came to the scene where Connie and I applied for a marriage license.  It occurred to me that this was the only type of license not requiring renewal. It has no expiration date. How strange.

What if people DID have to renew them and carry a plastic card in their purse or wallet?. Would the Matrimony Patrol spot your wedding ring and demand to see your license? If caught flirting, would they write the offender a ticket and make him/her explain their actions in front of a judge and their spouse? Now you know why I avoid having thoughts. It always leads to more questions than answers.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is feisty little bruin named Shewwey Bear 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.

“Grandpa, what was it like in the old days.”

“Back 2020 lots of people were dying from Covid-19. Factories closed. Trucks stopped making deliveries. Store shelves sat empty. Not a roll of toilet paper left on the planet.”

“That’s awful.” Sally scrunched her face. “What did you do?”

“We wiped on old socks, shirt sleeves, photographs of Donald Trump. Just when we thought things couldn’t get worse, our family came down with diarrhea. The only thing soft enough to wipe on was stuffed animals.”

“Oh no!” Judy covered her ears.

“Yep, we didn’t call him Winnie the Pooh for nothing.”

Earlier this week, I did one of those Cologuard tests where you poop in a bowl and send it to a laboratory to screen for signs of cancer in your colon. The test is incredibly easy for the contributor, but probably not so pleasant for the lab tech on the receiving end.

After dropping off my sample at the UPS Store, I thought about all the other people I could mail my turds to. Wouldn’t if be fun to enclose one in a candy wrapper labeled Baby Donald and mail it to Mar-a-Lago? As a sentiment of my regards for the recipient, I would include a note saying “This is the best tasting candy bar ever. Goes great with Diet Coke and is guaranteed to take four strokes off your golf score.”

Who would you like to mail one to?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our resident authority on historical hemorrhoids is Dr. Rudy Prodder 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.

Connie surveyed the wide array of odd looking items at the Asian market, then stepped up to the counter.

“What you like?” the clerk asked.

“Give me a dozen pig eyes and two pounds of lizard legs.”

“Is that all?”

“No, I’ll take one of those monkey brains—and eight ounce of shaved serpent, if you have it.”

The clerk dipped her hand in a bowl of grey matter and plopped a handful on the scale.

“Makin’ a special dish for husband?” she asked.

“No, for my granddaughter, Erika. She bet me twenty dollars I couldn’t scare her on Halloween.”

How many of you have attended a tent revival?  Mom dragged me to one in 1967. It was scheduled during the hottest week of the summer and held in large army-green canvas structures.  Inside, the heat and odors were suffocating. If bottled, the fragrance would’ve been labeled Eau de Gym Locker.

The evangelist was a silver-haired version of Ichabod Crane.  His boney fingers trembled even when he wasn’t pointing them at every lost sinner in the congregation. From his point of view, if you weren’t going to speak for an hour, why bother opening your mouth. Then came the altar call, which lasted a full thirty minutes. 

When we got home, I had to peel my clothes off and draped them over a chair. The next day they could stand by themselves. If Hell is anything like a tent revival, I sure don’t want to go.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the chirping beak who emcees this show is  Eleanor “Bird Woman of Belton” 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.

The musical of group Ronnie, Ray, and Stevie, known as The Three Blind Mice, filed suit today seeking punitive damages against Eva MacDonald, wife of local farmer Ol’ MacDonald. 

The plaintiffs are asking for $3 million compensation for the loss of their tails, which they allege the defendant chopped off with a carving knife.

Lawyers for Mrs. MacDonald claim she acted in self-defense, fearing for her life. “The mice were chasing her. This lawsuit is clearly a promotional stunt to draw attention to their new album.”

The trio plans to release the recording under the name The Three Bob-Tailed Rodents.

A few weeks back my wife, Connie, went on a cleaning binge. According to the TV, Queen Elizabeth was fixin’ to turn 96 and the way Connie was working it appeared we would be hosting the celebration. My role in the preparations would be to scrub the toilet.

While polishing the porcelain throne, I wondered if the Queen did her own paperwork, or if one of the aides-de-camp attended to wiping the royal arse. At her advanced age, the terrain nust be the texture of a prune. Bending over the bowl, I inhaled deeply, begging the bleach-infused cleaner to flush the aforementioned image from my brain.

After recovering my senses, I installed a purple velvet cover over the ring and gently lowered the lid. Alas, the Queen never showed—she didn’t even call. How rude!

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess, currently serving home detention in Belton, MO is Pity Party Shelley (P.P. for short—pun intended) 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.

My neighbor, Carol, told me Jimmy was spending a lot of time at Sharon Peters trailer. When asked about it, he said he was just helping with a few chores. I had a good idea what chores he was helping with. 

Yesterday, I came home early. 

Jimmy wasn’t there. 

Grabbing my rolling pin, I marched down to Sharon’s trailer. When I walked in, she was wearing a purple lace teddy and Jimmy’s boxers were around his ankles. I caught her by the hair and knocked out a couple of teeth with the rolling pin. 

Jimmy ain’t feelin’ too hot neither.

Lately, I’ve been feeling left out when listening to the conversation of friends my age and older. Most of them have some kind of aliment or medical condition they can ramble on about for hours. The only thing I had was an occasional flare-up of gout, which while extremely painful, was barely enough to rate an eyeroll among a crowd of suffering seniors.

The Good Lord must’ve taken notice of my silence on the sidelines. A few weeks ago, I noticed a tenderness under my right knee cap. The pain continued to grow, followed by inflammation. A visit to the orthopedic clinic revealed I had cracks in my meniscus (how’s that for medical terminology?).  On Monday, I underwent arthroscopic surgery and now have no trouble holding my own when the subject of medical maladies pops up in conversation. Boy, am I lucky or what?

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the fastest moving feet in Belton, MO is Runny Babbit 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.

Outside the courtroom, Henderson spun Shelley around to face him. “What were you doing in there? Trying to get ten days for contempt?” Shaking his head, he grumbled, “I ought to knock two thousand off my offer for the car.”

“Too late.” Shelley handed him the envelope. “You’ve already written the check. Here’s the title. Now, go jump in your little Rabbit and hop, hop, hop all over town.”

She squeaked a pirouette in her purple PF Flyers and skipped down the hall into the waiting arms of Officer LePew, who fitted Shelley with her very own custom ankle monitor.

The topic of today’s intro is nicknames. I’ve had several thrust upon me over the past sixty years and I’m sure most of you have been suited with a fitting sobriquet as well.  My dad was notorious for coining nicknames. One of my favorites was the renaming of a small creek on the Hancock farm, which Dad promptly dubbed, Footpussy River.

My father was so well known by his nickname that county officials named our street Pug Gayer Road. 

However, I challenge the Guinness World Records to find anyone who’s worn more nicknames than “What’s-Her-Name,” the illustrious leader of Friday Flash Fiction. If you scroll through my blog posts over the past ten-plus years, you’ll notice she’s worn over two hundred monikers—and counting.

Now, it’s your turn to play along. In the comment section, share a favorite nickname for yourself, a friend, a loved one, or someone you truly despise.  

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Picasso of Pet Portraits is Michelle Angelo 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.

A female officer, who reeked of cigarette smoke, led Shelley to an open washroom. 

“You’ll find a towel, washcloth, and bar of soap over there.” The cop, whom Shelley had decided to name Piggy Le Pew, pointed to a small bench in the corner. 

“Get undressed and clean yourself up. When I come back, I want to see all that makeup gone. Understand? We don’t want any white face paint rubbing off on your new orange jumpsuit.” 

Shelley sniffed the soap. It smelled like insecticide. But what did it matter? It’s not like I’m going to the senior prom tonight.

Watching the winter games on television has gotten my competitive juices flowing. I’ve started training for the 2024 Obese Olympics. If all goes according to plan, I expect to bring home the gold in several disciplines including The Bellyflop.

Getting in shape for the games requires a strict diet. I start my day with a large serving of biscuits and gravy, a half-pound of bacon, and six pancakes.  For lunch, it’s two Big Macs, large fries, and a chocolate shake. After my afternoon nap, I wake up starving and ready for a twenty-ounce T-bone, loaded baked potato, and three slices of apple pie smothered in ice cream.

The results have been amazing. I’ve had to cut large holes in the bibs of my overalls to keep the material from restricting my ever-growing gut.  Let’s hope the podium doesn’t collapse.

If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Belton, Missouri used car salesperson known to drive a hard bargain is Illa Cheatum 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.

“Good morning, Ms. Kohlen. I’m Richard Henderson, the attorney. You left me a voicemail regarding your car and legal problems. “Let’s deal with the most pressing issue first. I’m prepared to offer six thousand dollars for your 1984 Volkswagen Rabbit.”

“What? Let’s talk about that after you get me out of jail.”

“Okay, how about seventy-five hundred?”

“No! I’m stuck in his hellhole and all you want to talk about is my car?”

Henderson grimaced. “All right, I can see you want to play hardball. Ten thousand—but that’s my final offer.”

Shelley sighed. “Let me think about it.”

*another excerpt from Criminal Mimes