What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Abducted
Saturday morning, I will be competing in the NWA Toastmasters Area Humor Speech Contest. Thankfully, I won’t be going up against Donald Trump. He was in top form Monday night. There were several occasions where the entire audience rocked with laughter, including Mrs. Clinton.
As I prepare for the contest, I keep asking myself, “What’s this guy got that I don’t have?” I mean, other than several billion dollars, a gorgeous wife half his age, and terrible hair. Is it his timing and delivery, or the utter ridiculousness of his words? To improve, I have been practicing my scowl, grimace, and other facial expressions in front of a mirror.
I’m sure my topic, “The Six Habits of Highly Effective Procrastinators,” will pale in comparison to his side-splitting approach on the use of nuclear weapons, racial issues, homegrown terrorism, and building a dome over America to keep out aliens from another galaxy.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, our moderator, who struggles to keep the authors on track by providing a weekly photo prompt is Ruth Gordon 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.
Mr. Gayer, you’re probably wondering why we brought you here. Remember your post from last week?
You read it?
No, but word gets around. You’re a self-appointed expert in many fields and hold strong opinions in all others. We want you to join us.
And who is us?
THEY, the international intelligence agency known as the unquestionable authority of truth, keeper of factoids, and proverbial mill of rumor fame.
And if I refuse?
We offer the position to Perry Block.
You’ve read his blog?
No, but he’s always wanted to leave a scar on the butt-cheek of mankind.
Okay. You win. Where do I sign?
Another Profound Revelation
Last weekend, I was on display at the 42nd Annual Foothills of the Ozarks Antique Auto Club Swap Meet in Springdale, Arkansas. Over the two day span, three or four elderly, toothless women sized me up before shaking their heads slowly from side to side and walking away.
“You’ll never get that for him, Hon.” Said one old hag, as she wiped the tobacco juice from her chin. “He’s an antique all right, but it would take way too much work to get him where he’d be worth anything. I’m not looking for a ‘Project.’” Poor Connie. It’s looks like she’s stuck with me for at least another year.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, welcome to our weekly blog swap meet where people exchange stories (and hopefully comments). Our booth wrangler is Fanny Bricetag 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.
Some people have so much gall as to suggest that THEY are the center of the universe
These arrogant, narcissist bastards only care about THEIR needs and feelings, and expect the rest of world to orbit around THEM, catering to THEIR every whim.
I’ve just got one question for these egotistical morons.
“Who died and appointed YOU Elvis?”
If THEY would stop admiring THEIR own reflection for two minutes and step away from the mirror, the truth would crush THEIR fragile pride.
After all, any fool can see that I AM THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE!
Okay, so I plagiarized this from Donald Trump (all except the Elvis part). I suppose there’ll be a big stink about it now in the conservative media and I’ll become as hated as Hillary. I can feel my value at the swap meet is sinking even further.
Outsourced
It appears we can’t manufacture anything in America anymore. All of our dry-goods, as my mother called them (clothing, shoes, linens, artificial cotton/cotton balls), come from foreign countries. Even Donald Trump had to import his current wife, Melania, from Yugoslavia because he couldn’t find a suitable young supermodel in the United States who would tolerate his super ego and constant bragging. Who knows what foreign, low-cost supplier he’ll turn to when it’s time to replace her with a new, younger model.
Politicians are always telling us how they are going to create new jobs. Let’s be honest, the only job a politician can create is another government job. I suppose if they all hire ten additional firm, young, interns it will add another 5,000+ new jobs in Washington, D.C. Such a move would likely stimulate more than just the economy in that town. Just ask Anthony Weiner.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Vice Chancellor of Intergalactic Blog & Comment Exchange is Paulette LeBrunett Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Goot morning, Mr. Dayer. My name is Harvey (a.k.a. Ninjay Fuqua) and I’m calling to renew your free circumcision to Colon & Bladder magazine. Dis call may be monitored to enjoy your complete dissatisfaction. Now, if I may ass you a few questions to confirm your conscription. Your name is Rushell Dayer, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s close enough.”
“And de name of your company is Tasty Fooze?”
“That’s right.”
“Hookay, sir. Tank you merry much. To confirm we spoke—what was your mudder’s maiden game?”
“Scott.”
“Snot? Hookay, berry goot,sir. Tank you, Mr. Dayer and employ your free prescription to Colon & Bladder. Goot day.”
School Daze
I was looking over my grandson’s homework (third grade) on Tuesday and discovered the little rug rats are dissecting sentences. Now, this might be cute if it were frogs, rats, or blocks of Limburger cheese. But sentences? Gross!
These poor nine-year-olds are expected to identify nouns, verbs, adjectives, conjunctions, and prepositions. Stuff I didn’t learn until my third year at writers critique group (age fifty-four). Maybe they’re trying to teach these children the evils of writing at an early age, but one thing’s for certain, no good can come of it.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Queen of Pronouns, who has more aliases than the entire cast of America’s Most Wanted, is Ann Fisher Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Well, Stephen, I bet you’re glad to be back in school with all your little friends.”
“I’m in Junior High now, Grandma. We’re considered young adults.”
“Oohh, I see. What courses are they teaching these days?”
“Mostly boring stuff like calculus, problem solving, and innovative thinking. But I did sign up for one elective.”
“You mean like art, music, or sports?”
“No, it’s a retro class that deals with basic domestic skills.”
“That sounds interesting. How do you like it so far?”
“The instructor is nice, but right now the class is just sew, sew.”
Welcome to Home Economics 101. This week your instructor, Mr. C.E. Ayr, will be teaching the class how to deal with unwanted guests.
No Longer #1
Bad news for Arkansas
Here in Arkansas, it’s not often we get to brag about leading the nation in any particular category. With our puny number of electoral votes (6), presidential candidates rarely even bother to stop in for a cup of coffee.
People from other states tend to view us as backwoods hicks who rarely look beyond the nearest limb on the family tree when choosing a mate. We have a long tradition of being near the bottom in education, economics, and average number of teeth per capita.
That’s why today’s headline in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette hit most Arkansans like a sucker-punch in the beer gut. We worked long and hard to earn the Obesity title. It took years of potlucks, bar-b-ques, and all-you-can-eat buffets, plus an unwavering dedication to stay away from any kind of physical activity that might cause us to lose one precious ounce.
Now, those damn Cajuns from the south have not only stolen our title, but kicked us out of the top five. It’s embarrassing, I tell ya. I hope everyone in the state is as outraged as I am.
Tomorrow starts a new season of college football. This means one thing–tailgating. I challenging everybody in the state to toss out their salads and boycott light beer. Let’s put on our big boy pants with the elastic waistband, and park our butts on the sofa with bucket of fried chicken, a bag of Doritos, and case of dark beer.
Louisiana may hold the title now, but if we all pull together, and sign that pledge card to gain at least five pounds, by this time next year we can once again proudly scream,
We’re #1!
Shotgun Lightning
Am I the only who has noticed the reverse correlation between the lack of Bigfoot and UFO photos and the number of cellphones in the world? Just a few decades ago, you couldn’t walk past a supermarket check-out aisle without seeing a blurry photos of an eight-foot tall, hairy woodland creature, or saucer-shaped, spacecraft hovering over a shack outside LaGrange, Texas.
Back in those day, only weirdos ran around with cameras in their pockets and the odds of getting a picture of Bigfoot flipping someone off, or an alien politely returning a mother-in-law after an accidental abduction were at least two billion to one. Now that we’re all camera carrying weirdos, these creatures have become shy. What’s up with that? Did they suddenly develop stage fright?
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Archiver of prints who sorts through her shoebox of Polaroids each week for a photo prompt is Linda Eastman Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Hey, Thor. What’s with all the thunder and weird lightning?”
“It’s the anniversary of Perry Block’s birthday?”
“You mean THE Perry Block? Unmentioned son of Abraham, the first Hebrew HR Director under Joseph in Egypt?”
“Yep, that’s the guy?”
“How old is he?”
“No one really knows. He stopped counting at thirty-nine, and after that every year is just an anniversary.”
“Where is he? You’d think he’d be out here for the party.”
“Says he’s embarrassed by all the adulation. You know how humble and shy he is.”
“That’s too bad. Shotgun lightning only happens once every ten thousand years.”
Phishing for Chumps
Someone once asked my dad, “Pug, do you still go fishin’ as often as you used to?”
“No,” replied Dad, “I’ve cut back to once a day.”
I took Dad on his last fishing trip when he was 92. He died three years later.
Fisherman’s Prayer
Unknown
I pray that I may live to fish
Until my dying day.
And when it comes to my last cast,
I then most humbly pray:
When in the Lord’s great landing net
And peacefully asleep
That in His mercy I’ll be judged
Good enough to keep.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the game warden who’ll be measuring your tall tales to see if they stay within the 100 word limit is Gertrude “Guppy” 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.
Junior thumbed through the dog-eared pages of his Bass Pro Shop catalog.
“Nadine, I’m gonna order me one of these boats and take up bass fishin’.”
“Junior, its 250 miles to the nearest river or lake. You ain’t gonna catch no bass out here.”
“You just watch.”
A week later, Junior launched his boat in waist-deep Kansas prairie grass and began fishing.
“Caught anything yet?” Nadine called from the back porch.
“Nope.”
“I knew you wouldn’t catch any bass out there.”
“Shut up, woman. And go back to your knittin’.”
“Junior, if I could swim, I’d come out there and kick your ass.”
Even the intro is a rerun this week. There were a lot of positive comments on the Fisherman’s Prayer the first time it ran, so I thought I’d post it again for those of you who have never seen it.
Location, Location, Location
It’s “Back to School” time in our neck of the woods this week, which means that sometime in the next two to three weeks, school administrators will send the little rug rats home with some type of sign-up sheet known as a fundraiser.
The idea is that the captive sales force (primarily the parents) will strong-arm friends, family, and co-workers into spending $16 for 4-ounces of cookie dough or $12 for a shoebox of stale, cheese-flavored popcorn. Where the profit goes is anybody’s guess. The child whose family sells the most gets a plastic gold star, and the principal whose school raises the most money gets a new Lexus. Everybody wins!
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the queen bee of our hive is the lovely and talented, Flying Wallenda Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Nest click here.
“Folks, this is the little starter home I told you about. It was built in 2012, features several compartments for a growing family, has numerous flower gardens nearby filled with juicy caterpillars, and is only a short flight from the entertainment district.”
“I don’t know,” said Wanda. “I was hoping for something with more of a view.”
“Just look at this rock work, Ma’am. Beautiful, smooth, shiny stones, and running water just outside your door.”
“Are there many humans nearby?” asked Warren.
“Yes, only two minutes from a golf course.”
“What do you think, Wanda?”
“Perfect. We’ll take it.”
Bored Strait (again)
While most of the world is watching the Summer Games in Rio, I’m busy training for the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, South Korea. Unlike most athletes who specialize in one particular discipline, I plan to bring home the gold in multiple events. This may sound like an unreasonable expectation for an overweight man who recently turned sixty, but before you book me a padded cell at the insane asylum, check out my plan for becoming America’s first Obese Olympic Champion. It all starts with the proper diet and finely tuned training regime.
I arise each morning before the crack of noon and start my day with a nutritionally balanced breakfast. One half-dozen chocolate donuts, a double order of biscuits and gravy, and a pound of bacon hold me over till lunch. (The last thing you want is to be halfway through a strenuous workout and run out of energy.) By 4pm I’m famished and on my way to Dave’s Pizzeria for Happy Hour. Two Chicago-style pizzas and a pitcher of beer later, I’m ready to start thinking about dinner.
If all goes as planned, 546 days from now you can watch me blow away the competition in the Luge and a variety of other downhill events (using gravity to my advantage).
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Gold Medalist in the 100 word Freestyle Flash is Sheree Godiva 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.
Born on the day Ernest Tubb died, Claude was destined to become a country star. He had the boots, the cowboy hat, even the sequined-encrusted, powder-blue jump suit. All he lacked was a decent singing voice.
“When Claude Bawls sings,” one music reviewer wrote, “his vocal tones are reminiscent of a coyote who sat down on a steel trap.”
Claude’s entourage included a couple of bleach-blonde, trailer-trash bimbos and his cousin, Leroy. Booked to play a Louisiana swamp family reunion, one of the bimbos constructed a sign from an empty beer carton promoting the event as “The Bored Strait Tour.”
Fuzzy Headed
On July 21st I had a Tympanoplasty. No, it’s not one of those fancy mixed drinks they were serving in Cleveland after Trump accepted the Republican nomination. Nor is it a Southern specialty made from roadkill armadillo, smothered in thyme and served in your Mama’s favorite Season-Serve® Tupperware container.
Unfortunately, Tympanoplasty is a twelve-thousand dollar word for a medical procedure in which they pretty much detach your ear from the side of your head, graft a patch of tissue over your eardrum, and sew your ear back on. Afterwards, you get to wear a lovely cup, which I modeled for in this photo.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Earschplittenloudenboomer, who has been known to staple her own fingers to keyboard to increase productive output is ThumbelinaWisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t serve you.”
“Whaddya mean? I just got here.”
“Well, I’m sure it seems that way. Time really flies when you’re having fun.”
“Who said I was having fun?”
“Now, now . . . don’t get testy. You can stay until you sober up—as long as you behave yourself.”
“Sober up? I haven’t ordered yet.”
“Ma’am, you were fuzzy-headed the moment you walked in. Now, the entire room is blurry and starting to spin. You’re clearly intoxicated.”
“Who is this guy?”
“That’s Joe,” said the waitress. “He always stops in for a few drinks before work.”
“What’s he do?”
“Neurosurgery.”
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 