What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
My Daughter, My Hero
This commentary ran in the editorial section of the Northwest Arkansas Democrat Gazette on March 26, 2016. Connie and I couldn’t be prouder of our daughter. She is a free spirit, an articulate writer, and wise beyond her years.
Commentary: Rude is rude, politically correct or not.
Allendorf speaks for herself
Greta Allendorf is a better writer than I am.
A Fayetteville City Council member disrespected her at a local coffee shop where she works. His remarks were overheard and made public. Allendorf wrote about both the insult and the unwelcome publicity it brought, posting a letter to the alderman on the Internet last week. That letter was gracious while making strong, uncompromising points. That’s a difficult balance to strike, as any writer knows. Allendorf consented to reprinting her letter here.
First, some context. Councilman John La Tour asked her to join him in an impromptu dance a week ago Friday but wanted her to confirm her gender first. She objected. He went on, saying at some point, “I am a man and I can prove it.”
La Tour was trying to say something about the city’s civil rights ordinance at Allendorf’s expense. La Tour’s disdain for the voter-approved ordinance and the standard of civility it sets is no secret. But consider his conduct even by traditional standards.
No gentleman would ask a lady in public if she is a man. If he was unsure, a gentleman would keep quiet rather than risk giving offense. There was no need for La Tour to know. If he had doubts, he didn’t have to ask for a dance. And a gentleman also wouldn’t tell a lady in a public place he’s “a man and can prove it,” whatever the context.
La Tour’s comments are no reflection upon the femininity of Allendorf’s appearance. He admitted his inability to judge such differences by offering proof of his own gender, his own appearance notwithstanding.
Here’s the letter:
“John La Tour,
“Hi. You may remember me from Friday. I’m the ‘waitress’ you had the unfortunate encounter with. I am not actually a ‘waitress.’ I am a barista, and more importantly, a human being. I acknowledge that you are also a human being and not the complete monster you are currently being portrayed as on social media. I am also not the victim I see described in these posts.
“On the morning of our incident, I didn’t know who you were and just thought you were a jerk being a jerk to someone in the service industry. It happens everyday. When you apologized, you said it wasn’t your intention to offend me, but what was your intention? It seems now that whether you realized it or not, your intention was to bully someone who obviously didn’t share your political notions. Whether that’s true or not, you should know that your insensitivity to the plight of others can be very hurtful. Your behavior was unacceptable regardless.
“You said to me that it’s not hard to declare gender, that there are only two choices, male or female. I, like you, am not well versed in gender politics. We just can’t possibly understand what it means to be transgender. But in my lack of understanding, there’s a well of compassion. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to just exist in a world of those who don’t understand and hate you merely for existing. In your lack of understanding, there is fear. I get that. That’s very human of you. But how does that fear serve you? How does it serve your children?
“It certainly didn’t do much for you this weekend. It was no fun for me either. Our little encounter has blown up in a way neither us of would have expected. I don’t revel in this kind of attention and chose to lay low, but that felt more victimizing, and irresponsible. The things you said to me on Friday were wildly inappropriate and even though I personally didn’t feel assaulted or sexually harassed, I have to speak up for those your bullying was intended for.
“I hope this weekend has shown you that you are governing a community that doesn’t share your oppressive belief system and doesn’t tolerate this kind of treatment of its citizens, regardless of the gender they identify with. We no longer see you fit for duty. I hope you choose to resign your post, but if not, maybe you can choose to move forward, regardless of your beliefs, with an attitude of respect, compassion, and humanness towards your constituents. We’re all in this together.
“And for the record, I declare myself woman. And I love to dance. If you can put aside the fear and hate, I’d love to take you up on that dance, regardless of how you identify.
“Love & Guts,
“Greta”
Stuporman
I’ve never been a big fan of superheroes with the possible exceptions of Underdog and Super Chicken. Generally, I prefer the bumbling anti-hero who strives to avoid conflict, but tends to accidently save the day simply by default.
Such characters consistently fail in areas where they most desire to succeed (i.e., romance, best-selling author, etc.), and have an uncanny knack of always ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trouble follows them like a band of gypsy hemorrhoids, yet they can’t help but crawl out of every sewage hole smelling like a rose.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cosmetic-wielding Wonder Woman who can teach you to hold successful home parties from the comfort of your own blog is Mary Kay 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 imprisoned souls in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Slower than a sloth wading through molasses!
More powerful than an extra-strength laxative!
Able to leap small bounds in a single building!
Look! In your soup!
It’s a fly! It’s a bug!
It’s Stuporman!
Yes, it’s Stuporman… strange visitor from another planet, who came to Earth with a bad toupee and reasoning abilities far beneath those of a concrete garden gnome!
Stuporman… who can reverse the flow of raw sewage, bend spaghetti noodles with his bare hands, and who, disguised a foul-mouth politician from a great northeastern metropolis, fights a never-ending battle for ignorance, hatred, social injustice, and the extinction of the American Dream!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Stuporman did not authorize or offer to pay me millions of dollars to post this on my site. He furthermore wishes me to inform you that any resemblance between his character and that of any politician living or dead is strictly a coincidence.
Flushed
I’ve taken many personality tests over the years, including the famous “Berkman.” It’s amazing how accurate most of them are in describing all of my wonderful qualities, especially my modesty and humility. These traits come in handy when I’m standing in front of a crowd giving a block-buster speech
One thing they haven’t been able to do is tell me how to overcome SAD (Socially Awkward Disorder). No, this isn’t some sort of political aversion. It’s what happens when you put me in a situation with a group of strangers and expect me to mingle and be fluent in chit-chat and small talk. I freeze up. Connie usually finds me cowering in a corner, hiding behind a magazine. She tells me, “It’ll be all right,” but it never is.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cigar-smoking psychoanalyst who peels back the layers of our weekly tales is Sigourney Freud Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, stretch out on her couch and follow the step-by-step instructions. To view the imprisoned souls in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
One day, a couple of us boys were in the restroom when someone discovered one of the toilets was clogged. When flushed, water would surge over the side and create a miniature tsunami across the floor.
An older Jewish boy, Perry, pulled out his toy Egyptians and Hebrews, and suggested we stage a reenactment of Moses parting the Red Sea.
While Perry was being paddled for flooding the teacher’s lounge, I returned to the restroom before heading back to class. From out of nowhere, visions of Pharaoh and Egyptian chariots stampeded across my consciousness.
One more flush couldn’t hurt anything.
Murphy’s Other Law
In honor of St. Paddy’s Day, it only seems fitting to pay tribute to the great Irish philosopher and noted lawmaker, Murphy. Now, I don’t know anything about his history, family life, or how many pints of Guinness he could drink before he had to relieve himself, but I am familiar with his laws.
One that I seem intent on proving and reproving multiple times daily is the famous, “Whichever lane I move to will immediately slow down, and the one I left will immediately speed up.” This law applies not only to traffic, but supermarkets, department stores, and public restrooms—any place where lines are formed. A nice addendum would be, “If you’re in a hurry, don’t follow Russell.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Chief Justice who presides over the court of Fictioneers is the honorable Peppermint Patty 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 avatars of all the kangaroos in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Court click here.
March 17, 1886
After not seeing another human for six months, a mountain man stopped by today and invited me to a party at his cabin.
He warned me there would be plenty of whiskey and heavy drinking. I assured him that as an old sailor, I’d emptied many tankards of rum.
Then he mentioned there would likely be some fighting. Whereupon, I shared stories of past brawls and melees.
Upon leaving, he informed me his parties often concluded with people having sex. I fought to conceal my excitement.
“What should I wear?” I asked.
“Nothing fancy,” he replied. “It’ll just be the two of us.”
Dumpster Diving
The results of the MRI scan on my brain are in. Connie and I met with a neurologist yesterday and he and a panel of three other doctors have concluded that I have a severe case of Sick-Cell Overload or Humorrhoiditis. The disease effects the Bouche de Toilette, or Potty Mouth Quadrant, of the brain. There is no known cure.
This may come as no surprise to most of you, especially Cousin Jerry who has been telling people for years that I’m certifiable. I never knew what that meant, but naturally assumed it was something akin to a registered letter from the post office.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the television, radio, and book club celebrity who headlines our weekly program is Mae Midwest Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to “Come up and see us sometime,” visit her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the international avatars of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Russell, why do we have to get here so early? It’s an hour before sunrise. You know I need my beauty rest.”
“I can’t argue with that, Perry. But I’m afraid it would take more than a Rip Van Winkle nap to improve your looks. We have to get here early before all the best jokes are taken. Now, let me help you into the dumpster.”
“Why do I have to get in the dumpster?”
“Because you’re the crazy comic and I’m the handsome straight man. And don’t waste time looking for self-deprecating humor. I’ll take care of that for you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Conserving Energy
Rather than warm up an old post from 2012, I decided to conserve even more energy and clip an excerpt from an already completed story. This week’s offering comes from my yet to be published essay entitled, “The Seven Six Habits of Highly Effective Procrastinators.”
Today’s lesson comes from Habit 5 – Natural Slothness. Even a novice procrastinator can achieve mediocrity by applying the Goldilocks Principle. Everything is either too hot or too cold, too hard or too soft, too fast or too slow, too big or too small—you get the picture.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the master story teller who always keeps a fable on her table, is Mother Goose 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 not-made-for-TV avatars of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
With regular practice, the Goldilocks principle can become a key element in your daily routine.
If you drink coffee or tea, it may require hundreds of trials before achieving the optimum strength and bite of the brew. Then, consider the endless variety of additives. Perhaps you enjoy cream, sugar, honey, or a healthy shot of bourbon to enhance the flavor.
One morning, it took three of us Master Procrastinators four hours to perfect the ultimate blend of Irish Coffee.
I can’t remember what we did to celebrate this achievement, but was told later that I had a really good time.
Homecoming 1967
What’s up with these adult sippy cups? Apparently it’s fashionable for everyone in the thirty-something crowd to be seen in public carrying around highly insulated drink containers with spill-proof lids. They sit around the break room and brag about how the ice hasn’t melted after two days in the Sahara, or the coffee was still hot after climbing to the top of Mount Everest.
Hello?? ~ Here’s a news flash for you. ~ You’re supposed to DRINK the beverage, not carry it around for weeks conducting temperature experiments. I suppose in a few years this same crowd will be comparing notes on adult diapers. Boy, isn’t that something to look forward to.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our hostess, who insists all stories fall somewhere between freezing and boiling, is Aladdin Von Yeti 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 dishwasher-safe mugs of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“When the emcee called my name, I sashayed toward the microphone, accenting my patented hip-wiggle with every step. From out of nowhere this little, brown, Southwestern purse came waddling across the stage—straight for my ankles.
“I screamed. We all screamed. Even the marching band broke ranks and ran.
“Then that hag from Morrilton, ‘Debbie “Do-Gooder” Henderson,’ ran up and booted the armadillo with such force it went flying through the papier-mâché goal post on the Delta Chi float.
“The crowd went wild. Coach Broyles was so impressed he offered her a football scholarship and crowned her Homecoming Queen right there on the spot.
“I’ve hated that witch ever since.”
This event recalled by second-string cheerleader and renowned drama queen, Virginia Saxton. (An excerpt from the short story, Welcome to the Land of Opportunity)
Case of the Lame Punch Line
I’ve been kicking around a story line idea in which my buddy, Perry Block, stars as detective Sam “Lamp” Shade, who’s hired to recover his client’s sense of humor which was stolen while she watched a Republican political debate.
Groans abound as Block leaves no pun unturned in this rousing tale of international intrigue. He struggles to find something funny—anything funny—to make his client, Margarette, (played by the lovely and talented Dale Rogerson) laugh again.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our house detective, who has solved more mysteries than Brian Doyle-Murray, is Slippery Elm 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 fashionable faux hairpieces of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Look there, Watson. What do you see?”
“It appears a gadget of some sort. For what purpose, I cannot determine.”
“Precisely. You see, but you do not observe. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Holmes.”
“The device has been strategically placed at the foot of this bed, taking into strict account the position of the sun and prevailing winds. The key to this mystery is found in the bed itself.”
“Surely you don’t mean—“
“Precisely. The bed has been stripped. Look again, Watson. What do you see now?”
“No sheets, Sherlock.”
On the Road to Dreams
Well, the results came back on the MRI of my brain. No cave drawings this time, just an endless black frontier where even the boldest of thoughts dare not go.
About ten years ago, I was diagnosed with apnea and have been tethered to a CPAP machine ever since. Now, they are telling me I need to have another sleep study to determine if adjustments are needed regarding the volume of air pumped into my system. Perhaps they’re onto something as my belly appears to have inflated to the size of a truck tire over the past few years.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the hypnotist who waves a new photo on her website every week, causing some of us to doze into dreamland, is Dr. Wilma C. Dement 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 fashionable CPAP masks of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“You’re getting very, very, sleepy.” Professor Dement dangled a wind-up alarm clock in front of my face.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Trust me on this one.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” I faked a yawn and batted my eyelids in slow motion.
“Imagine you’re in a field of soft, green grass, surrounded by yellow flowers.”
“All I’m seeing is skyscrapers and a dirty sidewalk.”
“A beautiful woman is walking toward you. She has something in her hands. A gift of love.”
“It looks like a broom and dustpan.”
“She draws near. Your lips touch.”
The alarm clock jingles.
“Zzzzzzzz . . .”
This week’s post inspired by the Cream song, “Deserted Cities of the Heart”
Chateau de Bunny
This Saturday, I’ve been asked to give the eulogy for my high school printing instructor. I enrolled in Graphic Arts, thinking it might lead to a future where I could utilize my skill with crayons and colored markers. I soon discovered Graphic Arts was just a fancy name for printing.
It was there, in printing class, where I met the most beautiful young woman. She had long, flowing hair and a smile that could light up the entire western hemisphere. We became inseparable, and were married shortly after my nineteenth birthday. That was forty-one years ago this month.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Sentimental Journalist who writes diary entries for fictional characters is Mad Housewife (or, MH if you dare) 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 fashionable hairstyles of the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” Harry studied the smeared ink blots scrawled on a cocktail napkin.
“Of course it is. Honest John said it had a metal gate.” Lloyd pressed his face against the lattice and peered inside.
“It doesn’t look anything like the pictures in the magazine or on TV. You don’t think Honest John would rip us off, do you?”
“Nah. Once you walk through that front door in your smoking jacket and silk pajamas, girls will be all over you, Harry.”
“That’ll be cool. Who would’ve thought we could afford our own Playboy Mansion?”
After conferring with Perry, we decided these to rename the characters Harry & Lloyd, as this is supposed to be fiction.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 