What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
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.
The Waves of Our Lives
Have you ever noticed in those commercials for Viagra and Cialis how the narrator always says, “Ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sex.” Well, I’ve never asked Dr. Bogomilov, but I imagine his response would be, “Vell, I guess you can try dat if you vant, but I tink you vill find it more pleasurable if you use a different organ.”
This leads me to the conclusion that somewhere in their twelve to fifteen years of medical school, physicians must required to take one of Dr. Kropotkin’s courses such as; Hospital Humor, Bedside Manner for Dummies, or The Human Funny Bone and How to Tickle it.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the therapist who can teach you how to use your noodle to write 100 word stories is Karola Siegel (aka Dr. Ruth) Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like a book a session, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Janet, must you go?
Yes, Roger. This feeling’s been building in me for a long time. I can’t put it off any longer.
But what if they try to stop you?
Then I’ll do what I have to. I’ve never been one to make waves, but this is something I must do. They’ve left me no choice.
But you could be arrested, thrown in jail. What would that prove?
Perhaps my sacrifice would open the door for someone else.
Janet, you are the most courageous woman I’ve ever met.
Don’t be so melodramatic, Roger. I’m just going to the restroom.
Yes, this is my take on the transgender bathroom snafu that has so many people’s bowels in turbulence. If Janet wants to stand at the urinal next to mine and relieve herself, I really don’t have a problem with it–just as long as she doesn’t point and laugh.
Last week, asumani offered me a 75% discount if I could go three weeks without writing about bodily functions. Looks like someone is due a full refund.
I’ll Save You a Seat
A lot of people are terrified of speaking in front of a crowd. Not me. A tingle runs up my spine when I look out over a large, captivated audience and see people looking at their watches, yawning, and sending text messages to themselves just to pass the time.
It’s exhilarating to watch them inch ever closer to the edge of their seat while leaning back to count the number of tiles on the ceiling. But my favorite part is the thunderous sound of shoe soles echoing off ceramic flooring as they stampede toward the exits after my closing remarks. Not bragging, but sometimes the mere mention of my name sends them running.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the public speaker who can teach you to write 100 word stories worth listening to is Dalette Carnegie Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like a Free 90 day trial, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Hey, I just got a great idea. Wanna hear it?
Not really. Most of your ideas are pretty lame, but humor me.
That’s it.
That’s what?
You know how they have conferences for different writing genres, like Western Writers of America, Science Fiction & Fantasy, and Romance Writers?
Yeah, go on.
Why not hold one for humor writers? I’ve got some great speakers in mind.
You mean like Dave Barry and Fran Lebowitz?
Not exactly. I can only afford those two guys from Friday Flash Fiction, Russell Gayer and Perry Block.
Really? How much are you paying attendees to come?
The White Tufts of Rover
Did you ever wonder if birds in other countries chirp in a different language than those where you live? Me neither. However, it does sound reasonable.
Researchers at the Perry Block Institute for Birdbrain Studies recently released a report supporting this theory. According to their study, crows from the Northeast U.S. alert their companions of oncoming traffic by calling out “Cah, cah,” while their cousins from the South scream, “Y’all, y’all,” (short for y’all look out). The southern crows are also much slower getting the message out, resulting in more highway fatalities in Birmingham than Boston.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the insurance agent who offers writers coverage against birdbrain stories is Flo Nightingale Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like a Free 90 day trial, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the writers on a wire in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
General Starling reviewed the reconnaissance report and made a few last minute adjustments to the battle plan.
Satisfied, he smiled at Lieutenant Limbhopper and gave the order. “We attack at dawn. They’ll never know what hit ‘em.”
The word passed quickly down the line.
“We attack at dawn.”
“We attack her lawn.
“She eats her spawn.”
“The flapjacks are gone.”
“Your mother’s name is Ron.”
“Bonham drives a baby-blue Prius.”
Despite the poor communications, the raid was executed with surgical precision. The enemy awoke to the ravages of explosions that left no windshield unscathed.
Historians labeled it “The Shitzkrieg.”
Crop Dusting the Five & Dime
When I was a boy, my favorite store was Sterling’s 5 & 10 on Emma Avenue. It was located next to a Mom & Pop bakery with a screen door on the front. In the summer, the tempting aroma of fresh baked pies, yeast rolls, and donuts wafted out onto the street. My highly trained olfactory senses would pick up the scent two blocks away. Captivated by this magic spell, I would lumber down the sidewalk in zombie fashion, salivating like Pavlov’s dog.
After satisfying my tastebuds with a couple of donuts and a maple bar, I would wander into Sterling’s to fondle the toys and plastic trinkets (made in Japan–not China) with my glaze-coated fingers. Once all these prize objects had been thoroughly covered in sticky fingerprints, I would purchase four or five packs of baseball cards and a nickel’s worth of bubble gum and jawbreakers. Today’s kids don’t know what they’re missing.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the proprietor of this Shady Rest Hotel of writers is Kate Bradley Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to fill the role of Billie Jo, Betty Jo, Bobby Jo, or even Uncle Joe with one of your stories, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the wanted posters of writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
An invisible cloud of noxious gas eased out the back of Darryl’s denim jeans and cascaded down the aisle, expanding in mushroom-cloud-fashion like fallout from a nuclear bomb.
Oswald Pembrook, located closest to ground zero, was the first to notice the change in atmospheric conditions. He sniffed the air, then quickly covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, attempting to ward off the rising effluvium. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
A look of horror swept across Beulah McGillicutty’s face. All color drained from her complexion. She stood frozen, staring into space, as if turned to a pillar of salt.
*This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or people (i.e. – Cousin Jerry, Perry Block, Kent Bonham, etc.) is purely coincidental.
Dumb as a Post
Today, I passed one of those Men at Work signs along the highway. According to Department of Labor, this phrase is intended to imply that somewhere within a quarter-mile radius one poor sap is working his tail off while five or six more lean on shovels and discuss the weather, sports, and that hot young waitress down at The Rowdy Beaver.
I’m thinking about ordering a Man at Work sign for around the house. That way, when Connie comes to check on the progress of a project she’s assigned me, she won’t have to ask what I’m doing when she finds me standing there stroking my chin whiskers. She’ll know I’m hard at work figuring out where to find some poor sap to do the job while I keep the shovel from falling over.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Bosshoss of this road crew of shovel-leaners is Sammie “Spade” Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to fill an empty pothole with one of your stories, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the jury box of writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Marge, did you hear that Mayor Peterson wants to build a fence around the cemetery?”
“Why would he want to do that? Those dead people aren’t rising up again, are they?”
“No, it’s to keep the illegally dead out. You know, those who died here without proper documentation and are demanding to receive the same benefits as those who died legally.”
“What benefits?”
“For one thing, they get free lawn care all summer and artificial flowers on Memorial Day.”
“Won’t they just climb over or tunnel under the fence?
“Of course they will. Mayor Peterson is dumb as a post.”
Blind in One Ear
How many of you remember sonic booms? If you do, all I’ve got to say is, “Damn, you’re old.”
I’m not sure what year they outlawed planes breaking the sound barrier (maybe one of our History Detectives will reveal the date in the comments section), but those earth-shattering explosions in the sky would rattle windows for miles around—much like a former co-worker of mine when he “broke wind.”
I’m not blaming my hearing loss on either of those events. A recent accident at the Ear, Nose, & Throat Clinic has left me with a hole in my right eardrum. Now, I’m the proverbial old man who’s blind in one ear and can’t see out of the other.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the talented artist who can teach you to color outside the lines is Binney-Smith Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to dip your toe in this brave new venture, visit her site and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the kaleidoscope of writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Grandma, do you know what happened to my crayons?”
“Uncle Kent got an adult coloring book today. You should’ve seen him. He was so excited. He grabbed your crayons and ran outside.”
“I saw the book, but why did he—”
“You know, therapists say creating artwork can help adults explore their feelings, reconcile emotional conflicts, foster self-awareness, manage behavior and addictions, develop social skills, improve reality orientation, reduce anxiety and increase self-esteem.”
“When I see him, Uncle Kent’s gonna get a dose of reality orientation.”
“Why do you say that, Sweetheart?”
“He chewed the wrapper off every crayon.”
Liar’s Grove
Yesterday, I gave my 2nd Toastmaster’s speech at a club meeting. This was Project #8 from the Competent Communicator handbook and required the use of visual aids. I made some oversized flash cards to walk the audience through the hazards of “Irritable Vowel Syndrome.”
As a writer, I’m sure you’re well aware of the problems IVS can cause. Just the other day, I was scratching graffiti on a bathroom wall when “I” and “E” got into a fistfight over who should go first in the middle of a word. Things got ugly. It’s no wonder Perry can’t get a date.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Letter Tamer who has no problem getting her vowels and consonants to jump through flaming hoops is Jackie Collins Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the mug shots of all the addicts in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Half-way House click here.
Our route to New Orleans skirted around Memphis and cut south, straight through Mississippi.
“Connie, did I ever tell you about my job at the cookie factory in Jackson?” I pointed to a road sign announcing the first exit to the city.
“No. When did you work there?”
“It was a summer job. I was responsible for adding raisins to the oatmeal cookie batter. Everything went fine until we ran out of raisins.”
“What happened then?”
“I substituted ‘smart pills.’ That is, until my boss fired me.”
“Why did he do that?
“He said the smart pills tasted like rabbit shit. To which I replied, ‘See, you’re getting smarter already.’”
*the above FF is an excerpt from the short story, What Happens in New Orleans.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 