What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Those Beaches! (deaux)
Have you ever noticed how inanimate objects gossip about each other? Just look at the picture below. Judy and Wanda are over in the corner whispering about poor Carol. Perhaps one of her wheels spins in a circle or flops like flat tire. Maybe she has some rust and corrosion on her frame or the latch is busted on her child safety belt.
Whatever the case, pointing out Carol’s flaws makes Judy and Wanda feel a little bit superior about themselves. Little do they know that Carol is about to be adopted by a homeless person and will receive more love and attention than they can ever imagine. Meanwhile, both Judy and Wanda will be slammed by teenage drivers and end up at the bottom of a ravine, twisted and warped beyond recognition, and left to die against concrete barrier with only some illegible graffiti to mark their final resting place.
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already!
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, let me introduce you to one person who will never speak evil of you and will always be a constant source of support and encouragement. Not only that, but if you forget to zip your fly she will tell you discreetly so that you don’t suffer public humiliation. I’m talking about our bus driver, Georgette Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Raul was pissed. Why hadn’t he listened to his father?
“Do not open an all-night Quicki-Mart so close to beach, my son. It will bring you nothing but pain, hard work, and unhappiness.”
His father was right. Everyone he hired for graveyard shift fell under some strange spell. Sunrise would find them wandering around the store wild-eyed and mumbling, “It’s true. It’s true.”
It was true all right. Sand and water was all over the floor. The worst part was retrieving the shopping carts. Raul decided to add quarter locks to the carts—like Aldi’s.
“That’ll teach those mermaids,” he muttered.
*this post reprinted in it’s entirety from October 2013. Many of the previous commenters preferred the intro to the actual story. In either case, consider it a two-for-one deal. Perhaps one or the other will tickle your funny bone.
Dems Split on Cup Issue
Philadelphia: – While the national news media is blathering about the resignation of Democratic Party Chair Debbie Wassermann Schultz, the issue causing the most division within the party is how to wear the Political Protective Cup.
The Sanders supporters insist the cup should be worn over the lower extremities to provide protection against Republican low-ball tactics, while those in the Clinton camp recommend covering the right ear to guard against the fear & hate propaganda directed at Democrats.
The one thing both factions agree upon however, is that Donald Trump should wear his cup firmly over his mouth. According to one delegate, the only problem seems to be finding a cup large enough to cover such an orifice.
*Our Arkansas correspondent is covering the convention this week from the safety and comfort of his easy chair. If you wish to contact him, you may do so by email at russellwrites2@gmail.com.
Methuselah Comes to America
It’s not everyday someone you know has a four-digit birthday. In fact, most people would consider crossing the century mark quite an accomplishment in longevity. But like Methuselah says, “After three or four thousand years, who’s counting?”
At his age, finding health insurance is almost as challenging as finding a date. Although, for enough money, he can purchase limited coverage. The female companionship however, remains elusive.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, your Entertainment Director on this Cruise of Creativity is Julie “Twinkle-toes” Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF “Collection of Authors” click here.
In the days before color (known as BC), Methuselah decided to emigrate to America. He’d spent twelve lifetimes herding goats in The Holy Land, and was looking for a nice place to retire.
His cousin, Hershel, sent him a brochure advertising an Eden in the new world called Florida. Allegedly, there was a Fountain of Youth hidden somewhere in this paradise of white, sandy beaches covered with beautiful bouncing babes. Methuselah threw on his kippah and boarded the first ship headed west.
Unfortunately, he made a wrong turn at Philadelphia and ended up in Havertown, PA. The rest, as they say, is history.
This was one of my early pokes at fellow Fictioneer, Perry Block, aka-Methuselah. This week, Julie “Twinkletoes” has dispatched him to Cleveland to cover the Republican National Convention. I don’t expect him to last long there as those in the Trump Camp are apt to track him down and break his ancient fingers, or deport him as an undocumented immigrant, for some of the unflattering stories he’s been reporting from the convention. If you haven’t read them, I encourage you to hurry over to his site and check them out while there’s still time.
Thirty-Five Years Ago
On this day in history thirty-five years ago, Connie and I were at Washington Region Hospital in Fayetteville, Arkansas where she was about to give birth to our first child.
Due to having no medical insurance, we had went the cut-rate route on the pregnancy, meaning we had no ultra sounds or other fancy/unnecessary pre-natal frills. We did, however, take a Lamaze class to qualify ourselves for the lower-priced birthing room.
As the coach, my job would be to help Connie through the painful contractions by encouraging her to employ the heavy puff/pant technique we’d been taught in class.
Six hours into the labor, the contractions became more intense. I moved up beside Connie and stroked her sweat laden forehead. When the next contraction hit, I put one hand on her shoulder, leaned down and whispered, “Now, Honey, remember your breathing.”
What happened next was like a clip from the movie “The Exorcist.” She grabbed the neck of my cotton t-shirt and began to twist the fabric with the strength and determination of ten thousand IRS agents intent on wringing last drop of blood from a turnip.
My face turned red, then purple, then blue. She continued to twist, cutting off all blood flow to my brain and closing the airway to my lungs. Her eyes bulged with fiery anger. She bared her teeth and growled in Linda Blair fashion,
“You did this to me, you son-of-a-bitch!”
I don’t remember what happened next. Maybe the contraction ended, a nurse stepped in, or perhaps it was divine intervention. In any event, she released her death grip long enough for me to stumble away from her bedside. For the remainder of the evening, I was careful to do my coaching at least an arms-length from her bed.
Somewhere around midnight, the nurse announced that the baby was about to come and went to find a doctor. Fortunately, the golf course closed at dark and she was able to find one within about five minutes.
He’d only been seated in front of the birthing chair about two minutes when he told Connie to give a hard push. She did and the baby came flying out like it was shot from a cannon. The doctor juggled it, but managed to make a circus catch just before the baby hit the floor.
I remember being relieved that the baby had the appropriate number of fingers and toes and that all other parts appeared to be intact and in good working order. It was truly a blessed event that I’ll never forget.
Happy birthday, Snicklefritz (a nickname John Craig gave her).
Running of the Spiders
Here’s my offering from October 2012. It’s a mix of Alfred Hitchcock and Mel Brooks. It won’t make you spew coffee through your nose, but you might look over your shoulder.
Since that time, I’ve also written a longer story entitled “Running of the Chickens” which will be included in my next book. It includes a scene that features the running of the boneless chickens, a real terror if there ever was one. It makes chicken bumps rise on my skin just to think about it.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the politician who is running for the county line is Charlotte Webinski 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.
Lucinda had always been afraid of spiders. Therapists suggested a variety of treatments including hypnosis. Nothing worked. The only way to overcome arachnophobia was to face her fear.
The streets of Pamplona were empty the day before its lesser-known festival. Lucinda thought it wise to familiarize herself with the course prior to the event.
The white stucco walls bore evidence of past participants attempting to escape the terror. Broken fingernails and dried blood stains littered her path.
Something moved behind her. A cold shiver raced down her spine. A lone gossamer strand trembled in the breeze.
“Mañana, Lucinda,” it whispered. “Mañana”
Frosty the Fireball (reprise)
I’ve always wanted to use the name Madge in a story. Thanks to our lovely host and her intriguing photo, I finally get my chance. Some of you may remember Madge as the beautician who soaked client’s fingers in Palmolive dishwashing detergent to make them soft as a baby’s ear (or was it a lower region?).
No palms or olives were injured in the fabrication of this installment from November 2012.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the dream weaver who can teach you how to transform passing fancies into 100 word stories is Madge N. Nation Wisoff-Fields. If you’re up for the challenge, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
(phone rings)
“Good morning, Irma, it’s Flossie. Do you know what’s going on with Madge?”
“No. Is she all right?”
“I think she’s having an affair. She wouldn’t talk on the phone, so I went over there. She kept looking at her watch and practically shoved me out the door at 3 o’clock. Minutes later, a gray-haired man arrived and stayed for four hours.”
“That must be Paul. What else did you see?”
“Not much, her windows fogged over. He looks twice her age.”
“Well, Madge told me, ‘Just because there’s frost on the roof doesn’t mean the fire’s gone out.’”
Le Plane, Le Pain
Remember those thrilling days of yesteryear when you could actually sprint through an airport like O.J. Simpson in those Hertz commercials? This is before he’d killed anyone—except those who died from over exposure to poor acting in “Naked Gun.”
And who can forget that classic movie, “Airplane?” It’s still hard to believe the Academy passed over Lloyd Bridges for Best Supporting Actor. The writing was amazing. Here’s an example; “I guess the foot’s on the other hand now, isn’t it, Kramer?” (Striker)
Our flight attendant for this week’s journey across the friendly skies of Friday Flash Fiction is the lovely and talented, Violet Jessop Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to book a reservation on this weekly flight of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“It was supposed to be a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny.”
“I never dreamed they’d take it that far.”
“What did you expect, Ken? They work for the government. They have no sense of humor. Now, we’ve missed our plane.”
“But it was just a couple of metal ink pens.”
“A couple? They counted fifteen. One in every pocket and open seam of my overcoat. After the metal detector went off the third time, I knew I was in trouble.”
“I feel bad about the full-cavity search, Barbie.”
“Don’t worry. When I’m able to straighten up, you’ll get yours.”
This is based on a true story. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. The lady in question was the sales manager for a company we did business with in Omaha. Ironically, the metal inks pens used in this prank had their competitors name stamped on them. Truth really is funnier than fiction.
Double Bogey on the Back 9*
One of my all-time favorite Far Side cartoons featured a piano player in a western saloon. Seeing the villain was about to stroll through the bat-wing doors, he announced, “Uh-oh, bad guy, switch to minor key.”
If I’d listened to Gary Larson, this week’s story would have been written in F-flat minor (even though there’s no such key as F-flat minor), but who am I to take advice from a comic genius.
Instead, I kept rotating the photo at 90 degree angles trying to get feel for what the individual in the picture might be trying to accomplish. Judging from the garb and dialect (muffled cursing), I deemed there was only one sub-species of the human race that could possibly get himself in such a predicament.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the host of this weekly blogging tournament is Susie “Sandtrap” Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view FFF author leader board click here.
Myron Muldoon Mackintosh was prone to getting in sticky situations. Even though he rarely made the cut, he was one of the most popular players on the tour.
His antics off the course were legendary. The supermarket gossips rags documented every aspect of his private life. A recent cover photo of him cavorting with the Doublemint Twins, dressed in red and green plaid bikinis, had created a rift with his sponsor.
“Mackintosh, this is your last chance,” declared the Minnesota-based, manufacturing giant.
At the U.S. Open, he revolutionized golf by inventing the piano shot, now known as the Flying 3M.
*This week I tapped into one of my most powerful skillsets–laziness, by reposting this little story from June 2013 without changing a single word.
I was extremely flattered this morning to find “Susie Sandtrap” had linked my name to the great Gary Larson, a true comedic genius. I can’t wait until follow in his footsteps with What’s So Funny? coffee cups, T-shirts, and calendars.
Maybe then, I’ll be considered in the same class as that guy from Pennsylvania who was recently published in Humor Outcasts.
Divan Diving
Well, another graduation season came and went without me being invited to speak at commencement ceremonies. I didn’t expect to get a call from Harvard, Yale, or Notre Dame, but I was looking forward to sharing one of my famous motivational messages with students and parents from a smaller institute of learning, such as The Academy of Spoiled Rotten Brats.
After all, Perry served as keynote speaker at The College of Jewish Curmudgeons, Rochelle addressed the graduating seniors at Cake Decorators Anonymous, and Kent presented balloon-animal diplomas to those receiving doctorates from the Kansas Clown Academy. I suppose I’m in good company though. Bill Cosby wasn’t invited to speak this year either.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the valedictorian of our weekly addiction is Nadia Cakestein 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.
Dear Diary,
Uncle Doug stayed with us today while Mommy and Daddy went to the Parent Teacher conference. He took me and Sissy on a treasure hunt.
“You gotta dive deep if you wanna get the good stuff,” says Uncle Doug. He put on a big helmet and told us to pull all the cushions off the couch. Then, he dove in with nothing but his feet sticking out. Sissy got scared.
He came out with a fist full of coins and a black disk he calls a 45. Next week, he’s taking us to the dumpster behind Toys R Us.
In a Good Hand
Do you ever think about your hand? No, I’m not talking about that miserable selection of cards staring back at you when you’re playing strip poker and down to your last thread of decency. I’m talking about the one at the end of your arm. You know, old Mother Thumb and her four daughters.
Most of us take our hand for granted. Oh sure, we may occasionally rub some lotion on her or manicure her nails, but look at all the dirty tasks we ask her to perform. It’s disgusting. You’d never ask your foot to do those things. And if you did, it would probably rebel and give you a swift kick in the groin before running off with a shoe salesman from Toledo.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cobbler who is adept at repairing and polishing previously published 100 word stories is Geppetto Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to have your heel replaced or a new sole sewed on, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
I’ve been cooking moonshine at the Stillhouse Spring for over thirty years. My little family business has been the victim of fires, tornados, hurricanes, floods, revenuers, and a drunk named Otis.
But through all those trials and tribulations, I’ve only had one insurance company. Y’allstate.
If a natural disaster, or government agency, busts up my still, I just hit 2 on the speed dial and quicker’n a cat can lick its ass, my agent, Cletus Thornwell is over here.
You know why their motto is, “You’re in a Good Hand with Y’allstate?” Cause they’re holding a drink in the other.
This is an extreme make-over of my September 2012 post, which can be found here.
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What's So Funny? 