What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Jingle Magic
Tomorrow, I have a couple of medical appointments. Dr. Connie has made arrangements for MRI scan of my brain. The last time they did this procedure, May of 2010, doctors discovered cave drawings of primitive hunters gorging themselves on buffalo fat laced with Cialis. Unfortunately, ancient man had no bath tubs, but the images did reveal males and females sitting next to each other in his & hers mud puddles.
Afterwards, I’m scheduled for a carotid ultrasound to see if there’s any blood getting to my brain. Many of you who are regular readers of this blog have often expressed concern about the inner working of my brain, or lack thereof. These tests will likely confirm your suspicions.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Surgeon General who has issued a mental health warning regarding the post below is C. Evelyn Croup 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.
Hello, boys and girls. Welcome to The Jingle Writer. This week we’ll learn how to work “Jingle Magic” for products no one wants to buy, but everyone needs in their medicine cabinet.
Finding words that rhyme with the product name can be tricky. In those cases, focus on the intended benefits and add a cheerful melody.
If there’s poison in your soup
And it’s either die or puke
Grab a bottle, drink it fast
Sandra’s Syrup of Ip-e-cac
Here’s another example;
When lame humor stories
Become a pain in the behind
Insert a Block Suppository
And ease your troubled mind.
Today’s post sponsored by;
Sandra’s Syrup of Ipecac ~ Sweet, yet extremely unsettling
Block’s Suppositories ~ Tapered, for Fast Relief
Stairway to Kevin
Well, it appears another Powerball drawing has come and gone without leaving me a billionaire. Too bad, cause we had already earmarked every penny for something we couldn’t live without. Plus, I spent all week polishing my letter of resignation, ready to hand it in this morning.
I guess it’s just as well. I’d hate to be saddled with the burden of wealth. Had I won, no doubt Donald Trump would be calling this morning begging me to be his running mate in November. I hate to sound shallow or vain, but I just can’t see me teaming up with someone whose hair looks like that.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, beautician who clips and details every photo prompt prior to posting is Vidal Sassoon 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.
“Hurry! Come quick. I’ve found it.” Amy struggled to catch her breath.
“You found what?” Dawn tiptoed around a broken statuary in the abandoned garden. “Another gazing globe covered in poison ivy?”
“No. The pathway to enlightenment. I knew it was here. I just knew it.”
“Are you sure it’s the right path?”
“Duh. There’s a sign on the wall next to the staircase.”
“Okay, but you know sometimes words have two meanings.”
Cautiously, the girls made their way up the winding stairs.
An old man sat slumped in an open porta-potty.
“Hi. I’m Kevin. Hope you brought some paper?”
The Boomer Brothers
The Boomer Brothers
The story is a tale of redemption for retired Human Resources Manager Flake Boomer (Perry Block) and his brother Deadwoody (Russell Gayer).
After being thrown out of the senior center for cheating at Bingo, Flake is irritated at being picked up by brother Deadwoody in the Boomermobile, a red and white AMC Pacer, instead of the Plymouth Valiant the brothers used to own.
The Boomermobile
The brothers visit their childhood haunt, a Jewish delicatessen they grew up stealing bagels from, only to learn it will close unless it pays $1,252.19 to an Amish dairy who is holding their kosher cream cheese hostage until the deli’s delinquent bill is paid.
After visiting a Roman Catholic priest, where Flake confessed to being aroused by his fourth-grade science teacher’s unshaved legs, Deadwoody has an epiphany without even knowing what one is.
The pair decides they must prevent the deli from closing as restitution for all the bagels they stole as children. To do so, they enlist the help of The Hartford adman, “Mad Matt” McCoy and organize a rummage sale to earn the $1,252.19.
“Mad Matt” – Rummage Sale Barker
Along the way, they are targeted by a horny male dog, Frank & Mike from American Pickers, and a Cajun Polka band—all while being relentlessly pursued by a band of elderly women wearing yoga pants.
In the end, the brother’s quest falls short by $916.42, but the Amish agree to release the cream cheese if Flake and Deadwoody promise to stop singing Jewish folks songs outside their dairy.
The Midnight Ride of Paul in Fear
Over the years, Connie and I have grown accustom to eating regular meals and sleeping indoors. Therefore, when Monday morning January 4th rolled around, I grabbed my lunch bucket and headed out the door whistling, “I owe, I owe, it’s off to work I go.”
It’s been almost a week now since I’ve had a Holiday meal, or stuffed my jowls with homemade cookies or candy. The signs of withdrawal, involuntary twitching and salivating like Pavlov’s dog when passing a donut shop, are still strong, but becoming less frequent.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Dealer who offers a new photo each week in exchange for 100 word stories is the Pastry Queen herself, Strawberry Shortcake Wisoff-Fields. (be careful mentioning the “short” part). If you’re not afraid of addiction, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the poor souls incarcerated the FFF Hollywood Squares Cell Block, click here.
Pterodactyl Airlines may not pre-date the Wright Brothers, but the furnishings inside the plane were definitely from the Paleolithic era.
Our seats measured two hand-widths in breadth, or roughly the size of a five-gallon bucket. Once all the passengers had their butts firmly stuffed into buckets, the co-pilot rolled a large stone in front of the door and we taxied to the runway.
Upon being cleared for take-off, our captain revved-up all four squirrel-cage engines and released the hand brake. Even above the high-pitched screaming of the woman in bucket 8C, we could still hear the pilot yell “Yabba Dabba Do” when we achieved liftoff.
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*an excerpt from the short story, Saving Hollywood
Deja’vu, All Over Again*
In September of this year, America lost one of the great philosophers of all-time—the irrepressible, and often quoted, Yogi Berra. In honor of his memory, I’ve included a brief list of his more famous “Yogi-isms” in my final post of 2015.
- When you come to a fork in the road, take it.
- You’d better cut the pizza in four pieces, I’m not hungry enough to eat six.
- Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours.
- The towels were so thick there I could hardly close my suitcase.
- You’ve got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the wizard of wit and wisdom who pilots this international raft of writers is “Rockette” Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
He felt like he’d been pummeled by a herd of reindeer. Halloween to New Year’s was a blur of parties, parades, shopping, and feasts. Aliens had failed to abduct him, world peace was elusive, and even attempts to pick up additional bad habits failed miserably. “Time to get a new bucket,” he sighed.
Lost in a depressive state of holiday lag, he sipped coffee and waited for ‘the next big thing.’
A sunbeam sneaked through the cut glass above the doorway, spraying a rainbow over his wife. “It’s time to get back on our diet,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.”
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*a repeat from December 2012
The Contract
Yesterday afternoon, Connie and I finally got to watch the long awaited clip of our Hollywood debut in “How Long,” the testimonial commercial we filmed for The Hartford/AARP back in June of this year. I’d love share this beautiful piece of film noir history with you, but am forbidden by two reasons;
- I was forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement which prohibits use the clip on social media and personal websites–and more importantly . . .
- Connie doesn’t like the way she looks in the film. ~ Nuf said.
The two-minute commercial features The Gayers for about three seconds in which I utter a couple of short sentences with impeccable John Wayne-style timing. The ad ran for a couple of weeks in mid-November on Family Entertainment Television (FETV). I can’t believe they haven’t asked me back to film a full-length movie.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the producer/director of this little shop of tremendously short, short stories is Stephanie King Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
She pushed the document across the table.
“I need your signature on pages two, six, and ten—and your initials where indicated with an “x” and a yellow highlighter.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s our agreement. If you’re to serve as my butler and servant there are certain tasks and expectations you will be required to fulfill.”
“But I already prepare you meals, fluff your bed, clean your private bathroom, and cater to your every whim. What more could you possibly want?”
“Constant worship and praise. Hop to it Fatty, or I’ll have you cleaning up poop behind the piano.”
Song Writer’s Block
Long before I became an obscure humor writer, I was equally unknown as a songwriter and poet. A sort of Robert Zimmerman of the South, if you will. The primary challenge with songwriting is getting the lyrics aligned with the melody. To do this, I would count syllables and search for words to fit the allotted space without sounding too awkward.
Here are some examples that didn’t work out.
Mary had a little cucumber.
Mary had a little kosher ham.
Twinkle, twinkle little space capsule.
Twinkle, twinkle little moonbeam in a jar.
As you can see, it’s not as easy as people like Bjorn Rudberg make it look.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the musical director who chastises the tuba section for making farting noises, is Hester Van Cleef Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
John drummed the eraser end of the number-two yellow pencil against a lined pad and stared out the window.
The music inside his head ran a continuous loop, in one ear and out the other. Along the route it passed a giant doing cartwheels, statues wearing high heels, and elephants playing tambourines.
“Bother me tomorrow,” he told his wife when she brought up the subject of pre-paid funerals. “Today, I’ll buy no sorrow.”
“We’ll die someday.” Angry, she began to stutter. “Now’s the time to doo, doo, doo it.”
The missing lyrics appeared as she stormed out the back door.
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For those of you not familiar with the song, this my version of how John Fogerty discovered the lyrics for “Lookin’ Out My Back Door.”
Death of an Icon
Did you ever notice how radio stations synchronize their commercials? This morning, while attempting to listen to music, I ran through all six pre-set stations on the car radio only to be bombarded by one ad after another.
The same holds true on television. I can enjoy relief from constipation on one channel, flip to a remedy for diarrhea on another, and complete my tour of the lower track by clicking the remote and landing on an ultra-soft cloud of Quilted Northern bath tissue. After all, no job is truly finished until the paperwork is done.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the spokesperson for our product, who squeezes every story to ensure 100 word softness, is Charlotte Whipple Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
America lost another super hero this week when the body of Henry Cabot Henhouse III, affectionately known as Super Chicken, was discovered in his Boston penthouse.
Authorities are ruling out fowl play*, but have ordered an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death.
“He was fond of the ‘Super Sauce,’” said archenemy, Salvador Rag Dolly. “He couldn’t chase down a June bug without sticking his beak in that damn martini glass.”
“Henry was a brave bird,” recalled butler/sidekick, Fred. “There were only three things he truly feared, Avian flu, Coccidiosis, and Colonel Sanders.”
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*not a typo, just an ugly pun
Portal of Disappointment
Several years ago, which I was much younger and even more immature, Luis Rivera and I decided to sing our version of some holiday classics over the print shop intercom. We entertained co-workers with a rousing rendition of “Rudolf the Brown-Nose Reindeer,” the tale of a despicable suck-up who was ostracized for ratting-out other reindeer.
Luis held a special penchant for girls with large derrieres and insisted we sing his personal favorite, “Wide Christmas.” The opening line went something like this, “I’m dreaming of a Wide Christmas, just like that girl I used to know…”
I’d love to hear your favorite fractured holiday song. Please include the lyrics in your comments so we can all sing along.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the conductor of this choir of writers (who insists we type in 4-part harmony) is Soprano Dianna Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Jack dreamed of being a loser. His father was a loser, his grandfather a loser, and the family expectation weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
The problem was, he couldn’t fail. In fact, he excelled at everything. Music, sports, mathematics, even literature, they all came easy. He put forth no effort and intentionally selected wrong answers to lower his scores. Nothing worked.
“Jack’s the only person,” lamented his father, “who can screw up screwing up.”
He decided to ask Felicity Warbucks to the prom. Surely, she would turn him down.
Felicity smiled. Another window of opportunity fled through the portal of disappointment.
Mount St. Molehill
The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but in Northwest Arkansas it falls on the hills and races down to flood the creeks (pronounced with a long E), wash out the roads, and confound the simple minded.
One thing that’s always baffled me is why they call these weather patterns El Nino and such. Why don’t they name them after evil step-mothers or school bullies? Here are a couple of suggestions, “The Scourge of Evelyn Jackson,” or “Billy Joe Bob Goes Postal.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the meteorologist whose weekly predictions are always on target is Alice Roker Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe going to the opera isn’t such a bad idea after all.” Bob slid his arm around Celeste and gave her a hug.
“Trust me, you’ll have a great time. A little culture will do you good.”
“By the way, what’s that spot on your face?”
“Spot?” Celeste ran to the mirror. “Oh my God. It’s a huge zit.”
“Forget I mentioned it. It’s barely noticeable.”
“What do you mean? It looks like Mt. Everest. I can’t go out looking like this.”
(The next day at work)
“Hey, Bob, how was the opera last night?”
“I got out of it. Something came up.”
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 