What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Return of the Invisible Box
GOOD NEWS! We found the invisible box. After my post two weeks ago, several bloggers (who’ve asked to remain anonymous) came forward to report seeing a mime in the Kansas City area toting around an invisible square container.
Detective Lowry followed up on the informant’s tips to confirm whether the container in question was indeed “The Box” or just a cheap, imported Look-a-like from China. He discovered that it was the stolen box, and inside numerous blank photographs which the mime planned to use to confuse poor, unsuspecting bloggers.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, our facilitator (Congrats on 4 years of service), who would never intentionally mislead her loyal lemmings is Blind Melon Chitlin’ 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.
I plodded down the hall with the speed and enthusiasm of a death-row inmate approaching the gallows. On the way, I contemplated my last words before the executioner’s paddle would bruise my tender buttocks.
The door was open and the principal, Mr. Kerr, sat behind his desk filling out some type of paperwork.
It could’ve been a report on the number of spankings in the last thirty days, or a requisition for new paddles. Rumor had it that Hillerich & Bradsby, the famous baseball bat manufacturer, had expanded their “educator series” by releasing a new product known as the Louisville Swatter.
Following Fearless Leader’s example, I’m throwing out an excerpt too. This is from my short story, “The Backside of Knowledge” which will be including in my upcoming book, One Idiot Short of a Village.
On Golden Puddle
One of the most common idioms in America occurs when a person announces his/her candidacy for political office. They are said to “throw their hat in the ring.” Based on this year’s crop of candidates, beginning with the primaries, I propose this idiom be changed to “Throw their dirty underwear in the ring.”
A great example of this is the response of an elder statesman, who, when asked if he’d consider running for president, answered, “Depends.”—obviously referencing his undergarments.
Those who lost in the primaries are expected to retrieve their underwear from the ring for use in future campaigns. As they slide back into their Fruit of the Looms, let’s hope they remember—yellow stain in the front, brown stripe goes to the rear.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, our facilitator, who would never mention unmentionables in public is Victoria Hanes 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.
Ethel sighed and gazed out over the motionless body of water. “Norman, do you remember our first visit to Golden Puddle?”
“I sure do. That must have been forty years ago. It was so dry that summer the trees were chasing dogs.”
“Yes, but you insisted we sit in the row boat and work the oars. When you fell overboard I threw you a life buoy. You clung to the ring while I pulled you from the dust.”
“And as I recall, you laughed so hard you wet your pants.”
Ethel blushed. “And there I sat, on Golden Piddle.”
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.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 