What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
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.”
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.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 