What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Do you ever promise yourself that you’re NOT going to do something, then wind up doing it anyway? How a “NO” can get twisted into “YES” is one of the great mysteries of the universe.
After pondering on this conundrum for ten to fifteen seconds, I came up with the following equation, which has been field-tested for accuracy and holds true 99.8% of the time when dealing with grandkids and wives. I call it the Russellean Theorem. No + No + No + No = Yes.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the medieval barber, known for her penchant for purple, is Theodora of Belton Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Remember those haircuts Mom used to give us in the sixties, Perry?”
“Yeah, we were supposed to look like the Beatles. She’d call you Paul and me Ringo.”
“That’s because you had a schnoz big enough to hold the family station wagon.”
“And poor Sis, she got the same haircut, only parted on the side to look like Twiggy.”
“It didn’t help that Mom had poor eyesight and used pinking shears.”
“The kids at school used to laugh and call us Fred and Barney.”
“Maybe that’s why we entered the stoned-age in the seventies.”
“I wonder what became of that bowl?”
Booties
Remember when people used to send their child’s baby shoes off to have them bronzed? Several of my mother’s friends memorialized their baby’s infancy in this manner. These were usually displayed in a prominent location, so that guests couldn’t help but see them.
I remember wondering why my mother never had a pair of mine bronzed. Did it cost too much? Was she embarrassed by my footwear? There are still several companies that can provide this service. They will even bronze your brassiere, if you’re so inclined. Check it out.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the emcee of our program, known for her purple footwear fetish, is Sneaker LeBeau Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Sir, you have a long-distance call from the U.K. Will you accept the charges?” The international operator’s voice was monotone and robotic.
“Sure.” Probably J.K. Rowling asking for writing advice—again.
“Hi, Russell. This is Harry. I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”
The only Harry I knew of in England was Harry Nilsson, and he was dead.
“Meghan’s father is unable to attend,” said Harry, “and we were hoping you’d fill in for him at the wedding.”
“I guess so. What shall I wear?”
“Whatever’s comfortable. The men are wearing boots.”
“Well, I do have one pair.”
Street Vermin
Have you ever noticed that when a bug hits your windshield they always splatter directly in the center of your field of vision? This “accuracy of aim” occurs far too often to be purely coincidental. I suspect they are graduates from Kamikaze Insect Institute who are intent on delivering their payload where it makes the most impact.
A close friend of mine would always make keen observations like, “It took guts to do that,” or, “I bet he doesn’t have the guts to do it twice.” Another favorite is, “What’s the last thing that passes through a bug’s mind when he hits your windshield?” I’m sure you can guess the answer. If not, bug me about it in the comment section.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess is the renowned author and artist, The Belle of Belton, Shelley Kohlen Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Today marked the first time Shelley had encountered other people while carrying stolen property. Three boys in their early teens stopped her on a side street.
“Whatcha got there?” they teased. “Is it heavy?”
“Want me to carry if for you?” The tallest one made a goofy face and reached for the invisible box.
She had to spin hard to avoid his grasp and twisted her ankle on the curb.
An elderly man saw the boys harassing her and ran them off.
“You boys should be ashamed of yourselves.” He shook his cane at them. “Picking on a damned mime.”
*the above is an excerpt from my current work in progress, “Criminal Mimes.”
This Means WAR!
We’ve coined a new slogan here at the Gayer Plantation; “What doesn’t kill you will make you so sore you can’t move without pain.” Connie’s been putting in long days in the flower farm while I work two-hour stints in the vegetable garden.
Spring may be in the air, but there’s not much of it left in my step. When I have my hearing aids in, I can actually hear my joints creak. In the evening, I lubricate them with a magical elixir known as Rum & Coke, which tends to prove quite effective in providing temporary relief.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our rheumatoid specialist, who offers a weekly prescription for 100-word arthritic writing, is Verna Write Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Something has to be done about these armadillos.” The anger in Connie’s voice whistled like a teakettle at full boil.
“Are they putting possums out of work again?”
“No! They’re destroying my flowerbeds. Half of my plants have been dug up and there’s a maze of trenches throughout the mulch.”
Her once beautiful garden now resembled an artillery-ravaged battlefield. Prize plants lay wounded and dying, their tender roots left naked and exposed beneath a merciless summer sun.
Earlier attacks had been random potshots. But now, the flowerbeds looked so bad even the Narcissus was having a tough time loving himself.
*the above is an excerpt from the award-winning story “The Battle of Gardenville.” This story and more can be found in my latest book, One Idiot Short of a Village.
Partners in Lobotomy
I’ve discovered the secret to being late. Leave early. It’s that simple. When there’s plenty of time to spare, your brain immediately tries to fill that void with a distraction or task that should only take a few minutes, but in reality takes five times as long as you imagined.
Therefore, if it’s critical that you arrive on time, I recommend leaving late. This will elevate your stress level and keep you so focused you won’t have time for stoplights, tollbooths, flat tires, and other annoying distractions. Drive like hell—You’ll get there.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our librarian in lavender, who keeps a close rein on the 100-word limit, is Fanny B. Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Partners in Lobotomy
genre – Parody
Dear Dr. Strangeglove,
I never dreamt I would become a writer. Now I are one.
Thanks to your amazing medical procedure, I’m now one soul with half a brain.
Whoever said ignorance is bliss wasn’t kidding. Ever since the icepick surgery I’ve been as happy as a five-year-old.
To celebrate, I propose we put on our Sunday clothes and dance in a mud puddle. Afterwards, we can cut out some cardboard wings and hang-glide off Mt. Nebo.
I plan to write a book on how wonderful it is to be thought-free–as soon as I find my crayons.
Forever lamebrain,
Corky
* I don’t usually read other’s posts before writing mine, but the title of our Fearless Leader’s story was just begging for a little satire and parody.
Dirty Laundry
Not a day goes by that I don’t get a phone call from a total stranger wanting to help me. Yesterday, a young lady named Lisa told me that because I stayed at one of their properties in the past, she wanted to give me a week in Orlando. One of us must have amnesia. I don’t remember staying at their resort.
An hour later, I received an offer to consolidate my credit card debt, thus saving me thousands of dollars. Another caller wanted to provide an extended warranty on our 2001 Toyota. What a blessing to have all these thoughtful people interested in my well-being. Is this a great country, or what?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our purple-clad garden gnome, who would love to sell you 100-word overdraft protection, is Mammy Warbucks Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In days of olde
When knights were bold
And Fruit of the Looms not yet invented
King Arthur’s men
Would often send
Their underwear out to the cleaners
There’s nothing worse
Said the laundry serf
Than a knight who’s gone too long
Tis a life of pain
To remove such stains
From chainmail that is reeking
Twice dipped in lye
Then hung to dry
A jingling banner in the breeze
The maiden sighs
With lovelorn eyes
And the knight cries, “No starch, please!”
Video Surveillance
Let’s talk about “How To” books for a moment—especially those aimed at dummies. First of all, I don’t need to be reminded of my incompetence. I already have someone who does that for me. Secondly, I’m not sure I want to learn “How To.” The more you know, the more people expect from you. Who needs that pressure?
However, for those who insist on learning new skills, I have put my personal prejudices aside and included self-improvement essays in both my books. The instructional manual, How To Write “How To” Books and The Seven Six Habits of Highly Effective Procrastinators are just a few short clicks away. You can thank me later.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our inter-galactic cat-herding gypsy who shakes a long, skinny finger at 100-word violators, is Katarzyna (the E.T.) Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The image was grainy, but clear enough to conclude that the person was petite, barely five-feet tall. The figure crept cross the backyard with short, pronounced steps, elbows tucked, forearms extended, like a small rodent sneaking up on an acorn.
On the return trip, the torso was more erect, leaning back with hands upturned as if carrying something in empty arms.
“Can you put this in slow motion?” asked Lowry.
“Sure.” Wingnut pressed a button on the remote.
They watched the video again.
“It looks like a midget,” said Wingnut. “Do you think this one ran away from the circus?”
*the above is an excerpt from my current work in progress, “Criminal Mimes.”
Pack Mule Mentality
Raise your hand if you’ve ever been guilty of impulse buying. That’s what I thought. Almost 100% (except for the two of you in denial, and the guy who’s afraid someone might accuse him of swearing allegiance to an iPad).
Well, I’m guilty as charged—even with online shopping. I remember one particular item I just couldn’t live without. I was salivating like Pavlov’s dog when I clicked “Place your Order.” Two months after the package arrived, the box still hasn’t been opened. Has that ever happened to you? (You can put your hands down now)
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our blog show emcee, who bangs a giant gong if you exceed the 100-word limit, is Babs Barker Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Men just aren’t cut out for the rigors of shopping. It’s a neurological gender defect. They don’t have the stamina, determination, or killer instinct to find that last one-of-a-kind item.
Every time I need Brad for something, he’s halfway across the store chatting with another pack mule or fiddling with some trinket in the electronics department.
“Hey, look at this,” he’ll say, as if he found a diamond in a goat’s butt.
“Why don’t we go to sporting goods?” I suggest. “Maybe they have one of those battery-powered shock collars.”
“What do we need that for?”
“To keep you focused.”
*the snippet above is an excerpt from “Black Friday Shopping Tips.” The full story is available in One Idiot Short of a Village.
Wobbly Legs
How many of you grew up watching Captain Kangaroo? Yesterday, while pondering the great mysteries of the universe, I thought of Mr. Green Jeans. In all of the hundreds of episodes I watched, I can’t remember seeing him in anything but overalls, causing me to wonder why they didn’t call him Mr. Green Overalls?
After a brief investigation on Google, I discovered Hugh Brannum did at times wear denim pants (or waist-britches, as I call them), but that they weren’t always GREEN! Not that it mattered much to a child watching Black & White TV. These revelations shook my faith. Now, I’m wondering if Bunny Rabbit really needed to wear glasses?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our blog show hostess who is known to converse with inanimate objects is Ro-Shari “Lambchop” Lewis Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
copyright – Fatima Fakier Deria
The name is Junior Barnes. Not Junior as in named after my father, just plain Junior. You probably don’t recognize my business name either, but I guarantee you’ve used my products hundreds of times.
People in the industry know me as J. C. Chitwold. I design wobbly tables for bars and restaurants
The beauty of my design lies not in the aesthetically pleasing use of materials, but in the engineering of the wobble itself. It doesn’t matter how many coasters, napkins, or photos of your ex you stuff under the short leg, my tables will always rock. I guarantee it.
The No-Selfie Zone
I received the nicest card in the mail yesterday. It had a picture of a sock monkey on the front and a hand-written note inside. The postage stamp was round and featured a textured kickball—truly unique.
It was from a fellow fictioneer who had ordered a copy of One Idiot Short of a Village. When shipping the book, I asked the post office for the least expensive option. They recommended sending it by stagecoach to St. Joe, MO, and Pony Express from there to a remote location in Montana, where a one-legged prospector would carry it through grizzly bear country to it’s final destination. They assured me it would arrive by mid-summer.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our online recorder who will help you stake a claim to your 100-word story is Howette Sprague Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In much the same manner as a blind man finds his way down the sidewalk, sweeping a cane in serpentine fashion, owners of the Selfie Stick wander through life with their arm and telescoping rod fully extended.
The primary difference being the blind man is seeking to safely navigate from point A to point B, while the stick-bearer, captivated by the magnetism of his own image, tends to stumble into light posts and parked cars.
After watching a dozen stick-bearers tumble off into the ravine, I petitioned the Mayor of Jellystone to rename this area The Tar Pit of Idiots.
*the above is an excerpt from “Saving Hollywood” one of the short stories in One Idiot Short of a Village.
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