What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Peep Show
Remember when TV stations had local programing? You do? Then you must be as old as Perry Block. For those under forty, let me explain. Back in the golden era of television, stations would do anything to gain viewers and improve ratings. One of the most effective ways to accomplish this was by bringing local children into the studio for fifteen seconds of fame.
Every station in our viewing area (all three of them) had a “Santa Show” where the kids would sit on Santa’s lap and stare dumbfounded at the camera while Santa attempted to gain their attention long enough to learn who they were and what they wanted for Christmas. (A ridiculous premise since he’s already supposed to know those things.)
My favorite local show was Uncle Zeb’s Cartoon Camp. It came out of channel 8 in Tulsa. Uncle Zeb dressed like an old prospector and was forever popping adult oriented one-liners. If the temperature was below freezing, like it is here today, Zeb would proclaim, “Hey, kids, it’s Brass Billy Goat weather out there.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the host of our weekly program is Elmyra “Babs” 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.
“Hey, Randy, why do you think they boarded up the windows like that and spray-painted ‘No Trespassing’ on the building?”
“To attract attention. It’s a new marketing ploy.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Sure it does. Anytime you tell people NOT to do something, they can’t help but do it. For example, hang a ‘Wet Paint’ sign on a park bench and see how many people touch it to see if it’s wet.”
“Ah, that explains the gaps between the plywood.”
“Exactly, they’ll line up in droves to peek through those cracks.”
“But isn’t that the home of a supermarket gossip rag?”
“Yep, The National Inquirer.”
The Idiot Express
I heard a great piece of advice last week. “Don’t waste time judging yourself. Plenty of people are already doing that, and you don’t want to put any of them out of work.”
Just think of the freedom that statement offers. Now, instead of worrying about your own stupidity and social gaffes, you can stop beating yourself up and focus on something more productive, like what shade of purple to dye that unruly lock of hair that tends to flop down over your left eye.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the capable engineer who keeps this train from derailing is Kacey Jones 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.
“You seem to have forgotten the goal of our little endeavor,” Fish said.
“Guys like Ole Birdsong aren’t graduates from Miss Manner’s School of Sophistication and Etiquette. They rarely consult their brains before opening their mouths. They’re carefree, unpredictable, and totally devoid of common sense. That’s why they’re called idiots. You should be thrilled we found such an outstanding candidate who has the talent and ability to catapult Nasal Falls from a tiny hamlet to a village.”
Rip smirked. “I’m fine with being catapulted, I just don’t like the form of internal combustion he’s using to shoot us to the other side.”
*the above is an excerpt from “One Idiot Short of a Village.”
Plugging In
When we hear stories about a particularly heinous crime, someone will always remark, “There’s a special place in Hell for people like that.”
What exactly does that statement imply? That the vile offender will be granted an exalted position in Hades as a reward for “Excellence in Evil?” If so, where does this leave the common, everyday sinner when cast into the fires of eternal damnation?
These are today’s burning questions (pun intended). Feel free to share your views in the comments section.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our stage director, who always manages to connect with the audience, is “Sparky” Alma Edison 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’m on the nominating committee to fill that vacancy on the board of directors.” Richard’s voice was soft and reassuring. “You’d make a great board member.”
Edith blushed and bit her lower lip to conceal an ever-widening smile. She visualized herself on the annual report cover.
“The hot tub is full,” he said.
“Sounds good, but I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“Neither did I.” Richard flashed an impish grin.
She removed her dress and draped it across a chair in front of the mirror. “Edith Cox, board member,” she announced to her reflection. I like the sound of that.
Saving Hollywood
We just returned from a weeklong, fact-finding mission along the Missouri River. At the insistence of Detective Lowry, we spent one night in the thriving metropolis of Belton, MO.
The purpose of this stop was to locate, and investigate, the home of that dastardly criminal mime known as “Le Petite Velour.” Unaware of our mission, she graciously welcomed us into her abode. While Connie kept her busy with idle chitchat, I scanned the premises for Do-Not-Remove tags. None were to be found. One can only conclude they were squirreled away with the tags stolen from nearby homes and stashed in an invisible box (also stolen)—which I was unable to locate.
Ironically, Ms. Velour’s residence is only a few blocks from the Belton Police Station.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the director of this weekly production of 100-word stories is Zelda Rubinstein 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.
“You guys were great,” the producer said. “I can’t remember ever working with anyone quite like you. Your performance today put Hollywood back forty years.”
It was an “Aww, shucks” moment for Connie and I. We looked at each other and blushed. The glory days had returned to Hollywood.
The roar of applause followed us through the back door and spilled onto the patio. Members of the production crew came over to offer congratulations and shake hands.
The way they carried on, you’d have thought Colonel Sanders had just arrived with a bucket of fried chicken.
*the above is an excerpt from “Saving Hollywood,” and can be found in my second book, One Idiot Short of a Village.
“From the moment I picked up your book until I laid it down, I convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend on reading it.” – Groucho Marx
Karma Bites II
I learned a new word this week. Pentheraphobia is a fear of your mother-in-law. While I was never afraid of mine, I know people who cower at the mere mention of their mother-in-law’s name—and with good reason.
Mothers are a protective lot. Sometimes overly protective. If her Baby stops by, or calls to vent about a relationship problem with a spouse, whose side do you think Mommy is going to take?
The tension escalates when Baby’s spouse appears to be “a lazy, no good, worthless piece of horse dung.” To which the spouse responds by pointing out Mommy’s exceptional talent as “an overbearing, Nazi witch.” Now, the table is set for a long and resentful relationship.
Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our resident advice guru on Outlaw In-Laws is Jeanne Phillips 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.
Detective Lowry’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the release of the murder victim’s name. Confessions poured in. At first only ten people admitted to the crime, but that number had passed twenty-five and was still growing each day.
It seems everyone who’d encountered the old Scot wanted to see him get his just deserves. According to Medical Examiner Gayer, the causes of death were drowning, strangulation, blunt trauma, knife wounds, and gunshots, among other things.
“This man truly died a thousand deaths,” Gayer said.
“It could’ve been worse.” Lowry shook his head. “At least he wasn’t trampled by pink pachyderms.”
Watching & Waiting
We were at my daughter’s house the other day and she was watching “Hollywood Medium” on TV. This is a show where a handsome young man scribbles on a notepad while visiting with celebrities about their deceased relatives.
It seems to me that people in the income bracket these actors enjoy could afford someone a step above “Medium.” Why settle for average, or middle-of-the-road when you could order a “Supreme?”
If I was going to the time, trouble, and expense of hiring a psychic, I’d at least try to get one who could provide me the winning numbers for the next Mega-Millions Jackpot.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our wave-swept leader (who writes to her invisible friend, “Friday,” on Wednesdays) is Robin Crusoe 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.
copyright – Susan Eames
Darren was a patient man, but his patience was wearing thin. The minutes turned into hours, and the days into weeks.
From his perch high above the sand, he scanned the distant horizon in hopes of seeing a tiny spec that would grow into a boat or seaplane.
He’d grown accustomed to the long days, and the even longer, lonely nights. The only thing that kept him going was a dream of deliverance. Shaking from the hunger pangs he punched in the 800 number and waited.
“Hello. Domino’s?” He shouted into the phone. “Where’s my damn pizza?”
The Negotiator
The month of May is filled with graduation ceremonies for everything from kindergarten to Masters Degrees. Sadly, I’m still a few credits short of earning my diploma from Hard Knocks University.
According to my professor, Dr. Lamebrain Peabody, the problem lies in my ability to write a decent essay. Both of my term papers, “Getting Old is Not Sissies,” and “The 6 Things They Don’t Tell You About Retirement,” failed to adequately expose the hazards of aging. It looks like it’ll be three more years of trying to “pin the tail on the donkey” before I earn a degree in Laziness and Procrastination.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the leader of our gang is the diminutive, yet feisty, Lilly Putian 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.
Tel Aviv – Negotiations between Israelis and Palestinians appear to have made progress this month since the arrival of a secret emissary from the U.S.
Neither President Donald Trump nor Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu admitted knowledge of the meetings, but both were quick to point out that any peace agreement negotiated by an amateur had about as much chance of surviving as a fart in whirlwind.
Details of the proposed plan have not yet been released to the media. According to a source close to the emissary, the accord has been drawn up and signed by both parties using an Etch-A-Sketch.
The Shallow End of the Gene Pool
Well, I made it back from my four-day sabbatical in the wilderness (otherwise known as Silver Dollar City Campground in Branson, Missouri). Unlike Jesus, I didn’t fast for forty days, but I was tempted by the Devil.
Satan showed up with some beer and started ragging me about all the poor, hard-working Americans at the brewery who count on me for a paycheck.
Then he quoted Babe Ruth and said, “If you don’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams will be shattered. It’s better for you to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than to be selfish and worry about your liver.” How can you argue with logic like that?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our emcee—and the star of our show—is Bobbi Jo Barker 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.
-CJH WARNING – The post below contains crude, juvenile humor.
Arvel loved submarines. As a youngster, he used to lie on his back in the bathtub and holler, “Periscope up!”
He joined the navy right out middle-school, having completed each of the last three grades twice.
Arvel had no problem treading water and could float like a Baby Ruth candy bar*, even propelling himself along, providing his diet contained the optimum mixture of broccoli and beans.
The highlight of his military career came while stationed in New England. Arvel led a group of drunken sailors protesting higher liquor taxes in what later became known as the famous Boston Pee Party.
* see this clip from the movie Caddyshack
The Joys of Watching Moss
Since retiring, I’ve had to brush up on some of the skills I hadn’t used in a while. There’s always something to do around here and it’s really helps to be incompetent. If not, chances are I’ll be assigned more chores than I care to perform.
Being incompetent takes a lot of forethought and planning for most people, but for me, it just seems to come naturally. When I size up a task or project, I don’t even have to think about how to screw it up. It just happens. How’d I get to be so lucky?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cat-herder who drives this clowder of 100-word authors is Jessie Chisholm 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.
You know what I love best about being a professional moss watcher, Rochelle? It requires such a high level of focus and Zen-like concentration that I sometimes fall into a meditative trance. Has that ever happened to you?
More times than I can count, Sandra. Last week, I got so caught up in the action that pigeons mistook me for a statue. It took three days to get the white washed out of my hair, and girl at Belton Laundry refused to clean the last blouse I took in. Nowadays, you’ll never catch me watching moss without a hat.
The Ugly Stick
Monday night, I ordered a sandwich at an Arby’s in Fayetteville. The young lady who took my order appeared to be 19 to 21years old (a college student?).
“Got a name?” she asked. Naturally, my first thought was a smart-ass remark, but I simply replied, “Russell.” She keyed it in on the register and handed me my ticket. It read, “RUSTLE.”
While I’ve been known to shuffle through a pile of dry leaves, I’ve never had the urge to steal cattle. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny, or if she typically slept through English class. Where the hell are the Spelling & Grammar Police when you need them?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our facilitator is graduate cum laude from Walla Walla Bing Bang Art & Drama Institute, the infamous Le Petite Voleur 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.
There are several types of beating sticks on the market.
One is the never popular Ugly Stick. You may know someone who’s been beaten with one of these. Or perhaps they fell from the top of an Ugly Tree and struck every branch on the way down.
Sadly, no amount of make-up or cosmetic surgery can restore the beauty stolen by an encounter with the Ugly Stick. To make matters worse, the ugly gene becomes embedded in the DNA and passed down for twelve generations.
If you have this gene, don’t blame your wife for having an affair with the mailman.
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