What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
The Dolly Madison Files
Drones have been in the news a lot lately. I don’t understand why someone who performs no work, produces no honey, and whose sole function in life to mate with the Queen gets so much ink. Sure, the old gal is getting up in years and has a few wrinkles, but still, it sounds like an easy job with great fringe benefits.
There are probably a lot of guys out there who would like to be a sex toy for Royalty. But from what I hear many of them object to being called Drones. They claim it’s demeaning and makes them feel less of a man. I say, “Get over it. Suck it up and do your duty for God and Country.” Perry, you go first.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the worker who tirelessly provides new photo prompts each week is Aunt Bea 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Listen to this.” Mario read the profile to Luigi. “Lovers have described me as old fashioned and uncomplicated. Soft to the touch and light as a feather. For an unforgettable night, drizzle warm chocolate over my tender flesh, add a dollop of whipped cream and a cherry”
“Sounds sticky. What else ya got?”
“Treat yourself to an evening of blissful pleasure. If you like firm peaches and ripe melons, I’m the dish for you. Naturally sweet, full-bodied, and guaranteed to temp, tease and tantalize. Let me fulfill your innermost desires.”
“I don’t know. I feel guilty cheating on Betty Crocker.”
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*For those of you not in the know, today’s offering is a parody poking fun at the Ashley Madison debacle. (The web site reportedly created for married people anxious to commit adultery.)
Killer Whales Attack KC
As a fledgling writer, I was often chastised for the use of “weak” verbs. My sentences were the proverbial 67 lb. weaklings who got sand kicked in their face by the bullies at the critique group.
Then I heard about Damitol. You may remember ads for this wonderful product (see below). Just one Damitol tablet before writing and my sentences come roaring out ready to kick the crap out of the harshest critic who dared challenge the strength of my verbs. Trust me, if a two-bit hack like me can earn the respect of editors and publishers, imagine what it can do for you.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Verb & Noun Tamer of our 100 Word Circus is Hermione Melville 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Kansas City, MO – A pod of Killer Whales came ashore earlier this week, leaving in their wake a path of destruction from Riverside to Kauffman Stadium.
“We’ve never seen anything like this,” said Missouri Wildlife Officer Ishmael Starbuck. “Why they chose to target the mid-west is difficult to fathom.”
Biologist Ahab Queequeg sites addiction as the cause. “The leader of the pod, Toby Dick, is obsessed with purple. He’s been known to devour tons of grapes, plums, and even listen to Purple Rain (sick bastard).”
The pod appears to be headed for the sleepy bedroom community of Belton, the internationally recognized epicenter of Purple.
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Best Laid Plans (of Clowns & Men)
Two months ago a Washington County road grader slashed our phone line in numerous places. To restore service, a technician draped 3,500 ft. of cable down the ditch, across the dirt road, through the pasture, and into our backyard. It has now been lying above ground, exposed to the elements and automobile traffic for over 6 weeks. On Monday, Connie phoned our land-line provider to ask when they’d d bury the cable.
If you ever need a lesson in poor customer service, I recommend you call Sage Telecom and ask for Julio Tiluestre. Not only is Julio a master at speaking undecipherable broken English, he will NOT allow you to speak to a supervisor, nor will he pretend to take any action that might resolve your problem. Despite his incompetence and unwillingness to help, he WILL end the conversation with “Have a nice day,” no matter how strongly you’ve cursed him.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Head of Customer Service at 100 word Grand Central who is famous for saying, “Jan—Come here.—I have a chore for you,” is Alexandria “Ma” Bell 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The job interview went better than he could’ve dreamed. Ray Kroc was so intrigued by his marketing strategy proposal that he encouraged Ronald to implement it at their busiest restaurant.
The focus would be on attracting and retaining young children as the primary customer base. Step one would be the development of small-portion meals containing a prize. Unfortunately, Ron relied on his degree in Entomology when selecting the contents.
Unsuspecting mothers shrieked in horror as live insects darted from their children’s lunch sacks. Angry complaints came pouring in.
Employees dubbed the highly unsuccessful and short-lived venture the ‘Grumpy Meal.’
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*As with our fearless Leader’s post, this is also a syndicated rerun from ages past.
Moondance (reprise*)
Early August in Northwest Arkansas brings with it the annual Tontitown Grape Festival. This year is the 117th celebration of the event which culminates with the crowning of Queen Concordia. Naturally, no such festival would be complete without grape stomping.
“We look for kids who have been circling the midway barefoot for hours, “says winemaker Joseph “Moe” Zaccanti. “A healthy crust of cotton candy between the toes, some caramel apple on the ankle, and a dusting of limestone gravel enhances the flavor and adds body to the wine.”
Mr. Zaccanti, his brother Curly, and cousin Larry Bandini are well known for their line of unique wines, which include; Purple Bunion Lambrusco, Bruised Heel Chianti, and Wrenched Ankle Sauvignon.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the sommelier of 100 word stories, and lover of all things purple (including toes) is Syrah Zinfandel 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Moonbeams danced through intermittent clouds above the scattered trees. Chad, Amy, Mark, and Veronica planned to spend the evening watching a meteor shower on the banks of Wildcat Creek. On the way, they stopped by One-Eyed Jack’s and picked up a quart of double-run moonshine.
The couples lay in the bed of Mark’s truck listening to Van Morrison and passing a mason jar. Clouds obscured any view of meteors, but the liquid corn cast its own sparkle across the celestial canvas.
When the jar ran empty Chad hopped upon the pick-up cab, pulled down his pants and shouted, “Look everybody. It’s the moon over my Amy.”
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*This story is also a summer rerun from May 2012.
American Nose Pickers
Come with me, if you will, to a parallel universe created within the twisted mind of a sick humorist. A journey that will challenge your imagination and catapult you to a place where you can not only Pick your Friends and Pick your Nose, but can also Pick your Friend’s Nose.
A tale too long for its own good. So gross and disgusting that you will be tempted to repeatedly fire a squirt gun in one ear in hopes of flushing the wretched images from your mind. A fable that can only come from the deep recesses of that black-hole of juvenile humor known as the Half-Wit Zone.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the executive producer of our program is the acclaimed artist and author Rodette Serling 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
(cellphone rings)
“Hey Xanielle, whaddaya have for us?”
“There’s a guy off I-476 with a proboscis you could park a ’48 Packard in. He’s been collecting antique glassware for forty years and he’s ready to unload both nostrils.”
“What’s his name?”
“Karl Jimmy Durante Malden Streisand.”
“Any old rock-glass Shabbat sets in there?”
“Spike, why must you assume everyone with a cavernous honker is Jewish?”
(minutes later, they pull into a driveway)
“You must be Karl. I’m Hank and this is Spike. We’re pickers. Quite a schnoz you’ve got there. Mind if we poke around a bit?”
“Nah, go ahead.”
[100 WORD WARNING – LIMIT ACHIEVED – PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK]
“Wow, look at this Spike. An early 1950s Mobil gas pump with Pegasus on the globe.”
“Cool. What about this, Karl? It hard to tell with all the dried mucus, but it looks like a Mercury space capsule.”
“Yeah, that’s the one John Glenn orbited the earth in back in ’62.”
“This place is packed. What made you decide to part with some of this stuff?”
“It’s getting hard to breathe.”
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For those of you not in the know, today’s offering is a parody of the television show American Pickers. Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz scour America is search of antiques hidden in barns, basements, and nasal cavities (just kidding). Their cohort, Danielle, runs the store, Antique Archaeology, while the guys are on the road. She also calls them frequently with updates of possible sellers and new picking locations.
Baby, It’s Cold Down Here
We’re experiencing an unusual weather pattern in the Ozarks this summer. Normally, this time of year we are bombarded with torrential downpours of blistering sunshine and drought so severe that trees are chasing dogs in hopes of finding some much needed liquid refreshment.
The temperature still hovers near 100, but El Swampo has brought rain two or three times a week. Now, we have to carry a chainsaw everywhere we go just to cut through the humidity on our way from the house to the car and vice versa. If this continues, I may have to take an additional bath between now and Christmas.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the author who serves up more historical fiction than her namesake does fruit salad is Carmen Miranda 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Satan felt a draft.
“Dameon, get in here,” he bellowed. “Where is all this cold air coming from? Some of our condemned souls are getting downright comfortable. The serial killers and pedophiles are cracking jokes about sweaters and coats. Sinners are even questioning my ability to maintain a tortuous environment.”
“We believe the source of the problem is a woman named Sharon Cox, Your Evilness.”
“Hmm…, didn’t we break her heart a few years ago?”
“Yes, My Lord, and she vowed Hell would freeze over before she fell in love again.”
“Well…?”
“It appears she has met someone special, Sire.”
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I hope you don’t think I’m going soft just because I added a hint of romance to this week’s story. After seeing the photo, I felt like an idiom, especially in the wake of all the great comments from two weeks ago.
And no, Perry, I will not give you Ms. Cox’s phone number or email address.
Running of the Chickens
Let’s have a show of hands. How many of you know what chiggers are?
For those who don’t, the internet defines chiggers as the juvenile form of a certain type of mite of the family Trombiculidae. Personally, I could care less about their lineage and pray that none ever reach adulthood. In plain English, they are tiny red insects that leap from weeds and grass to burrow into your skin and feed on human flesh. The result is raised bumps that itch like hell.
I became personally acquainted with a few of these juvenile hitchhikers the other day while picking up trash along our road. This seems a high price to pay for performing community service, especially when I hadn’t been convicted of committing a crime. After all, I’m not that big of a celebrity.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the exterminator who captures and relocates rogue pronouns and adverbs is Olive Orkin 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Spectators peek through windows and dangle from second-story balconies, cheering on the daring competitors.
Piercing screams echo from the brick facades of ancient buildings while terror runs rampant down the narrow corridor. In its wake, the street and sidewalks are speckled with blood. Feathers float like snowflakes on the warm summer breeze.
A combatant reveals the beak-marks on the back of his neck and the streaks of blood racing down the calves of both legs.
“What was it like, running from chickens?” asks a reporter.
“Terrifying. I’ve never been more scared in my life.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Absolutely.”
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The above is an excerpt from a 4,200 word short story, Running of the Chickens, which will be included in my next book, projected for release some time in 2017.
So Easy an Idiom Could Do It
Computer networks have been crashing left and right the past few days, grounding airplanes, disrupting Wall Street, and totally blacking out every other word in Hilary Clinton’s personal emails. Fears of hackers and cyber attacks have people pointing fingers and placing the blame on everything from same-sex marriage to the Confederate flag.
I hate to burst your iCloud, but these problems were not caused by a Supreme Court ruling or a piece of striped cloth. The epicenter of confusion began in Havertown, PA with the purchase of a new laptop by one Perry Block. Within hours, Mr. Block had spilled coffee on the keyboard, downloaded malicious malware, and busted the screen. Hence setting off a chain of events that has crashed servers and destroyed corporations around the globe. Read the full scoop at PC Calamity Times Three.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the PC Guru who successfully posts new photo prompts each week is Billie “Gatemouth” 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Ian was eleven when his parents moved to the not-so-deep South. His anxiety about fitting in and making friends was put to rest during his first few days at school.
The children were friendly and accepting. His biggest hurdle was one he didn’t expect—the language. No one spoke plain English. Every sentence was a series of phrases, difficult to decipher, and unrelated to the subject.
“Sometimes I feel like a square hole in a round peg,” he told his mum.
“I understand,” sighed Mum. “Your poor father feels like a fox guarding the cathouse when managing the secretarial pool.”
Dr. Uberstone, I presume?
Last Saturday, Connie and I took our first Uber ride—and what a ride it was. Our driver came to America from Iraq over ten years ago, but had only been driving two weeks for Uber. He typically drove past every stop at least once before realizing he missed it and turning around.
We’d probably still be in California had it not been for the other passenger he picked up (after driving past her, of course). She’d lived in LA for twenty years and proved to be an extremely gifted and talented navigator. Mr. Driver yakked non-stop from Hollywood to LAX, giving us his entire life story whether we wanted it or not. Connie said he reminded her of Leonard from “Much Nothing About Ado,” (see page 119 in The Perils of Heavy Thinking).
Upon arrival at terminal 4, I presented our navigator, now officially dubbed LA Woman, with a signed copy of Perils as a token of our appreciation for getting us to the airport in time to catch our flight.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the navigator who will safely direct you to the correct photo prompt is the unflappable TomTom Garmin 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Born in the 1950s, Gidget’s coming-of-age party occurred during a period of turbulent social change.
She loved the freedom of the open road, all-night parties, and smoking. God, how she loved to smoke.
As the years rolled by many of her friends settled down, took the slow road. Some even complained about her smoking. Said the fumes burned their eyes, made them cough. Gidget laughed from her rearview mirror. Losers.
One day her mechanic came with bad news. “Pistons busted, valves burned, and you’ve lost all compression. It’s the end of the road, Sister.”
Refusing to listen, Gidget buried her head in the sand.
Leave the Light On
Yes, it’s true. Connie and I are being flown to California to film a testimonial commercial for AARP Hartford Auto Insurance.
This unusual chain of events began as a result of our collision with a pedestrian deer on the evening of January 20, 2015. Even though the deer was clearly at fault (not crossing at a designated deer crossing, leaving the scene of a motor vehicle accident, and possibly drunk on fermented deer corn), we still had to bear the burden of having our car fixed.
Not long after our vehicle was repaired, I received an email from The Hartford asking if we would share a testimonial of our claims experience. I submitted the details of the incident and it was selected from a large group of entrants (possibly more than four) as a finalist in their contest.
After a series of emails, phone calls, and ogling our Christmas Card photos, they jumped at the chance to fly us to Hollywood and put us up in a twelve bedroom condo next door to the Drysdale place (rumor has it a family named Clampett used to live there).
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Producer/Director of epic mini-adventures is Cecilia B. DeMille 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 FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
The poor little peeve appeared scrawny and malnourished when Cain first brought him home. It was so cute to watch the two of them play, Cain stretching on tippy-toes to turn on every light in the house.
Our electric meter spun like a roulette wheel on steroids. When Father saw the utility bill he blew a fuse. After a brief family meeting, it was decided “Leave the Light On” had to go.
The president of a motel chain dispatched some fellow named Tom to pick up the peeve. Apparently, it’s worked out well for both of them. Tom and “Leave the Light On” have become inseparable.
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The 106 words above are a much-edited excerpt from “Peeves I Love to Pet,” which you can read in it’s entirety between the covers of The Perils of Heavy Thinking. For those of you abroad, this is a parody of a long-running series of Motel 6 ads in which their spokesman, Tom Bodett, promises, “We’ll Leave the Light On for You.”
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What's So Funny? 