What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Rife for the Picking
Last Saturday, Jan Wayne Fields and I, along with his wife, Lil’ Whats-Her-Name, attended the February OWL meeting in Branson. In the afternoon session, a pair of esteemed editors critiqued submissions of opening paragraphs. The subject of grammar came up and both mentioned their aversion to writing with colons.
Those who follow this blog know that I sometimes write from the lower intestinal tract. The Master of colon writing is Dave Barry. He even published a study the subject entitled “A Journey Into My Colon—And Yours.” In one version, he asks the doctor ‘Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, the nurse who will prep you for your deep cleansing of 100 words is Cloris “Nurse Diesel” Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block, click here.
copyright – Sarah Potter
Scattered snow-showers with a chance of breakfast
At six am on Groundhog Day, the Nasal Falls Volunteer Fire Department pushed their lone engine out into the wintry blast to make room for the voting booths.
Father Kowalski and the firemen huddled for a quick prayer, petitioning God to postpone any unnecessary fires or cat-in-the-tree rescues until the polls were closed.
By seven-fifteen a line had formed on the downwind side of the building. The threesome stood with their arms crossed, gloved hands tucked under their armpits, shuffling their feet like little penguins, and hoping a polar bear looking for breakfast didn’t round the corner.
The above is a snippet from One Idiot Short of a Village
Double Enigma
Here’s an enigma for you. How do words such as Common and Sense get paired? The implication is that your sense is at best average, or ordinary. What if you had Uncommon Sense, Inn Sense, or even Franken Sense? You might be better off having no Sense at all? In other words, Senseless.
What other word combinations can you think of? Since I have poor word recognition (hard of hearing), my Listening Ear Wife often translates inaudible sentences to me by screaming at the top of her lungs (as opposed to from the soles of her feet). I bet you can think of plenty more.
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, the meter maid who writes speeding tickets to those exceeding the 100 word limit is Lovely Rita Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a box in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block, click here.
copyright – Liz Young
Detective Lowry took a drag off his cigarette and studied the scene. Since solving the invisible box caper his phone had rang non-stop. He’d investigated decapitations before, but none this gruesome.
The how and why were obvious. But who?
The Heineken bottle, cigarette box, and mattress batting were obvious plants. The list of possible suspects ranged from O.J. Simpson, to Jamie Farr, to Rin Tin Tin.
Lowry turned to his assistant, Dr. Blockson. “What’d ya think, Cyrano?”
“I’d say the perp was an amateur. He’ll trip himself soon enough. After all, how many people out there are wearing Michael Jackson’s nose?”
Washed Up
What ever happened to theme songs? There was a time when you didn’t have to be in the same room as the TV to know what was coming on. Those first few notes signaled smoke from Jed Clampett’s musket, the thundering hoofs of the Cartwright’s horses, and the melodic voices of Archie and Edith belting out “Those were the days.”
I propose we have theme songs for our blogs. The music from Hawaii Five-O, Jeapordy, or Twilight Zone, might be fitting for some, while others may opt for the lyrical magic of tunes such as Rawhide, Cheers, and my personal favorite—Gilligan’s Island.
Which music would you pick? Include your answer in the comments.
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, expect to hear “Smoke on the Keyboard” (a take-off of the Deep Purple classic) when you click on the homepage of our hostess, Linda November Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To meet the members of the FFF Glee Club click here.
copyright – Ted Strutz
Washed Up
“A has-been,” they whispered behind his back.
After a career spanning more than four decades in the advertising business, he’d been dropped like hot potato.
Told that he would be a nice fit for Washington by an orange-haired candidate, he anticipated being nominated to a cabinet post after the election.
When that fell through, the only work he could find was an occasional birthday party. Once considered loveable, his random public sightings were now labeled as “creepy” by the mainstream media.
Ronald stared at his red shoes and wept. He would eat tonight, but it wouldn’t be a happy meal.
Running of the Chickens
We have a wooden box with drawers in the garage that serves as a tool chest. The drawers in this cabinet are older than Perry Block (yes, trees had just been invented) and don’t slide freely. Saturday morning, I grasped the handles of the top drawer and gave a quick, hard yank. When I did, a mouse leaped toward me before escaping through a back entrance in the box.
Normally, I’m not frightened by small, gray, fuzzy creatures, but due to the element of surprise, I jumped and darn near marked my boxer-briefs right there on the spot. Evidently, my sudden appearance had a similar effect on the mouse, as I noticed numerous droppings in the drawer upon his departure. He probably thought I was from the Trump administration, come to deport him.
If this is your first visit to Friday Flash Fiction, our little hostess with the big smile and pointy nose is Minnie M. Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To meet the members of the FFF Mouseketeers Club click here.
copyright – Roger Bultot
Running of the Chickens
Spectators crowd onto second-story balconies to cheer on the daring competitors. Local TV crews jockey for position.
Piercing screams echo from the brick facades of ancient buildings while terror runs rampant down the narrow corridor. In its wake, the street is speckled with blood. Chicken feathers float like harmless snowflakes in the warm summer breeze.
“What was it like, running from chickens?” asks a reporter.
“Terrifying,” The combatant reveals the beak-marks on his neck and streaks of blood racing down the back of both legs. “I’ve never been more scared in all my life.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Absolutely.”
*another excerpt from a short story in One Idiot Short of a Village.
Almost Everyone Loves a Parade
When I was a boy of six or seven, my mother took me with her to one of her hair appointments. I never understood the necessity of getting something “fixed” if it wasn’t broken, and as best I could tell, her hair was still securely attached to her head.
She told the hairdresser she wanted a “Permanent.” I interpreted this as a once-and-for-all procedure and that we would never, ever have to return to this wretched den of stinky chemicals again. Three months later, I found out that “permanents” should be reclassified as “temporaries.”
If this is your first visit to the Friday Flash Fiction Salon, our chief word-stylist and truth bender is Paulette Mitchell Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a roost in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
In its wake, the parade left a path of destruction that included a porta-potty containing “Blind Rutabaga” Keller and Stevie.*
“I had just torn off some tissue and was about to do the paperwork,” said Blind Rutabaga. “When BAM! Something slammed into the building. I thought a tornado had hit. Then KABOOM! The little plastic building exploded and me and Stevie are lying in the street. Then I hear music, and a band is playing ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.’
“I thought we’d died and went to heaven, except for still having my pants around my ankles, of course.”
* Stevie is Mr. Keller’s seeing-eye-dog
Evidently, this is also excerpt week. The clip above was snipped from the parade scene in One Idiot Short of a Village.
The Fine Art of Art Appreciation
Every morning, our local TV station announces the occasion we should be celebrating on that particular day. For instance, Tuesday was “Ditch New Year’s Resolutions Day,” and Saturday will be a combination of “National Hugging Day” and “Squirrel Appreciation Day.”
Connie and I are a little undecided as to how we should celebrate Saturday. Do we invite a few of the little bushy-tailed rodents over to share a bowl of mixed nuts and a group hug, or do we host a neighborhood hug-a-thon and serve squirrel and dumplings?
If you’re looking for an occasion to celebrate, a complete list of daily holidays can be found at http://www.holidayinsights.com/
Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction, I do hereby proclaim this Curly-Haired Hostess Appreciation Day in honor of our very own Shirley Dimples Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a cubby in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
copyright – Dale Rogerson
The Fine Art of Art Appreciation
Two doors down, the theme in art class appeared to be Michelangelo with Play-Doh.
“Ms. Dubois,” said Marta. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Crofton, Saul and Jezebel’s grandmother.”
“Call me Krystal.” The young lady extended a dough-covered hand.
From past experience, I had developed a tendency to lump all art teachers into two categories. They were either idealistic dreamers, or stoners who could look at a misshapen glob of clay and spew with enthusiasm, “Oh, wow, Michael! That’s the most beautiful butterfly I’ve ever seen.”
“No it’s not,” Michael would respond. “It’s a giraffe, you blind cow.”
The little scene above is an excerpt from The Academy of Spoiled Rotten Brats, a short story which will be included in my upcoming book, One Idiot Short of a Village.
Beating the Odds
A few days ago, Connie brought one of her chickens to the house for a rehab assignment. The old girl (the chicken, not Connie) was definitely not feeling well and in need of specialized care. The hen was placed in ICU (Individual Coop Unit) for a few days and returned to the flock.
Unfortunatey, the success rate at Dr. Connie’s Clinic for Ailing and Geriatric Chickens is extremely low. In fact, the clinic is yet to record its first full and complete recovery. We had high hopes this particular hen would beat the odds and write a stirring testimonial on behalf of the clinic and the good doctor.
Alas, t’was not the case. As her health continued to decline, all she was able to provide was a few illegible chicken scratchings.
If this is your first visit to the Friday Flash Fiction Coop, our matriarch, and chief story-whisperer is Henny Penny Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a roost in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Doc, you look exhausted. Here, have a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks.” Tracey pulled the cup close to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled the aroma rising from the scorched java.
“Bad night?”
“Yeah. A passenger train hit a bus. We’ve been swamped for hours.”
“That’s too bad. Win any money?”
“Nah, look at the dry erase board. I only hit one out of twenty.”
“Yeah, it looks like Dr. Case-Uvem really cleaned up.”
“How he can accurately predict before they even get to triage beats me.”
“Face it, Tracey. No one puts on clean underwear before leaving home anymore.”
My mother would be appalled at the results, but relieved to know that the medical community is indeed monitoring the underwear of those arriving at the ER.
A Time for a Pill
My mother loved to watch soap operas. As a small boy, I can remember being told frequently to “Sshhs-it” during The Edge of Night. Mom scheduled all of her daily activities around these never-ending dramas, referring to them as “Her Shows.” My favorite character was the incredibly beautiful, lying, scheming, cheating, two-timing, home-wrecker whom my mother nicknamed, “That Little Hussy.”
What amazed me about these programs was how slowly the action unfolded. You could miss every episode for six weeks, and when you tuned in again, “BAM!” Rachel was still in a coma, Harvey was still on trial for flushing a goldfish, and Louise was still in the arms of her husband’s proctologist (Let’s hope he washed his hands first).
Welcome to the Thursday edition of Friday Flash Fiction. The executive producer and director of this program is Mary Tyler More-or-Less Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a booth in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Jacqueline was waiting in the vestibule of the assisted care complex when he arrived. She was born deaf, dumb, and blind, but endowed with a rack like Dolly Parton.
Perry had promised to take her to an off-Broadway production of the rock opera, Tommy, and then to a video arcade for pinball before swinging by the “love shack” for a nightcap.
Anticipating an evening of romance, he took a pill. The directions read, “for best results, take thirty minutes to an hour before bed.”
Nuzzling her neck, Perry showered her with tender kisses. Minutes later he was sound asleep.
I promised Perry I’d let him get the girl in 2017, but he still managed to bungle it. Perhaps he shouldn’t store his Viagra in the same medicine cabinet as his Unisom.
Love at the Greasy Spoon
I feel sorry for all those people who put a lot of thought into Christmas shopping. They spend hours, weeks, sometimes months agonizing over which gifts to buy for their loved ones only to get a ho-hum response from the recipient before the item reappears three months later in a garage sale.
My approach is much simpler. Start at the garage sale and work your way back. So what if a wheel is missing on Tommy’s toy truck or Jenny’s doll only has one arm? The kids are going to spend more time playing with the box it came in than the actual toy anyway. And who cares if that decorative pillow has a wine stain on one side? Just pass it off as mode o’ day camo. They’ll love it.
If this is your first visit to the Friday Flash Fiction Flea Market of stories, the proprietress who offers a no-money-back guarantee is Felece’d Ya Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To rent a booth in the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“You want fries with that?”
Still staring at the menu, he pointed to a cream pie photo.
“We got banana, coconut, or chocolate. Which do ya want?”
“Umph,” he grunted.
Working a block from the interstate, Fay had seen his kind before. A big, hairy galoot with bad table manners. His weathered hands made the salt shaker look like a thimble. Definitely not a tipper—this one.
“Banana it is.” She felt his gaze on her back as she went for the pie.
He gulped it down and headed for the door.
“Be careful, Kong. It’s a jungle out there.”
Y’all-Tide Greetings
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and best wishes to all. The cover photo of this year’s card was taken by our four-year-old granddaughter, Maudeline Bee.
Howdy friends and neighbors,
This year has been filled with more ups and downs than a roller coaster bouncing on a trampoline. Polly and I have been working on a new Christmas album containing several never popular and unrequested classics, such as;
Little Dumber Boy · Grandpa Got Run Over by a Beer Truck · Wide Christmas · Oh, Little Clown of Goshen Town · Rudolf the Brown-Nose Reindeer · Barely Audible Night (closed captioned for the hearing impaired)
We hope these songs will touch your heart and make this Christmas a memorable one for you and your loved ones.
Remember, often and always, to make a Joyful noise unto the Lord.
God Bless Y’all and have a Merry Christmas.
X________________________ X_______________________________
His mark her mark
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 