What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Swing for the Fences
When Connie and her sister were teenagers, they lived half-a-mile from Dickson Street, which was party central in the college town of Fayetteville, Arkansas. After Mom and Step-Dad had gone to bed, the girls would out slip out their bedroom window and hang out with friends until the wee hours of the morning.
Before they left, the girls would place a folded strip of paper in the door jam. If the paper was there when they returned, no one had entered the room. Paper on the floor meant someone had opened the door and they could expect to be beaten with a belt by their step-dad at breakfast. It was a risky venture, but sounded like a good idea at the time.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our in-house security guard who monitors paragraphs for dotted “I’s” and crossed “T’s” is Pauline Blart 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.
Living across the street from a softball field is nothing to brag about, especially in this neighborhood. The lights stay on until after midnight, people scream, cars peel out, and the place smells of soured beer and urine.
Last week, out of boredom, I decided to forgo watching another rerun of Antique Roadshow and take in a ballgame instead. A couple of teams from the Women’s Industrial League were on the field.
Lo and behold, Rachel Crofton was playing third base for Kawneer. She caught me looking at her and smiled. Walking off the field, her butt swung back and forth like a rusty gate.
Skiing Lake Loggerhead
When the sky would blacken with storm clouds and the sound of thunder shook the very ground we stood on, my father was fond of saying, “Looks like it’s fixin’ to come a turd-floater. You boys better get inside before you wash away.”
This only gave credence to the ugly rumor that my ancestors floated to the Ozark Hills from Indiana in one such rainstorm a hundred and seventy years ago. Good thing we’re a buoyant people.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the little mermaid who choreographs our synchronized writing program is Esther Williams 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.
“I thought you said you had a ski boat?”
“I do.”
“But that’s a canoe. You can’t pull a skier with that.”
“Sure you can. The rower just needs the right motivation.”
“And how do you accomplish that?”
“If my wife is paddling, I attach a couple of Cottonmouths to the stern on four-foot leashes. She’s been clocked at forty miles per hour.”
“What if she won’t go?”
“Then I fill Junior up on sweet potatoes, boiled eggs, and beans and have him push the boat. Ski to the left or right. You’ll want to stay clear of the exhaust.”
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It’s been a while since I’ve given you a dose of good, juvenile humor. Read twice and comment in the morning.
Airing It Out
Since getting rid of satellite TV, we’ve been watching a lot of cooking shows on PBS. These folks cook everything from mouth-watering steak to three-layer apple pies. I swear I’ve gained six pounds without lifting a fork.
This morning, I got an idea for a new cooking show starring prison inmate Benny Caruthers. It’s called ‘Benny the Meth Chef.’ He’s traveled extensively throughout the South in search of the lowest quality ingredients, and always managed to stay one step ahead of the competition. “Judges in five states rave about my cooking,” brags Benny.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the girl wearing the Birthday Hat this week and playing Pin the Tale on the Photo is Molly Jones 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.
“What’s that smell?”
“Something’s burning in 302. A couple of Boomers live there.”
“Boomers? I’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah, their generation caused quite a stir back in the day. They held sit-ins and claimed to be about peace, love, and all that jazz. The young men burned draft cards, women burned their bras, and they burned a whole lot of grass. Now, they’re mostly gray-headed or bald, losing their vision and hearing. Listen to that music. It’s the Beatles.”
“What do you think they’re burning today?”
“Smells like cake. One of them is probably having a birthday.”
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.
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What's So Funny? 