What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Born in a Barn
For those of you tuning in expecting to read a FFF post, I’m sitting out this week.
Rather than bore you with a hundred rambling excuses, I’ve prepared a little eye-candy for your viewing enjoyment. Here’s a copy of the Christmas card Connie and I are sending this year.
Feel free to leave a comment. I should be back in the saddle next week.
Jilted Lover
I think of the Thanksgiving holiday as boot camp. Just a few days of intensive training to get you ready for the real thing. Over the next four weeks my stomach muscles will be sorely tested. There will be parties to attend, company dinners at work, potlucks, and trays of sweets shoved down my throat like a steam engine gobbling coal. Without proper training even the strongest are doomed to failure.
The hardest part of it is the mental aspect. Modern society—that two faced hussy who tells us to exercise and take care of our health, and then in the next breath spews an endless onslaught of ad for rich food, dark beer, and erectile dysfunction. Why don’t they ever show fat people in those bathtubs? It irks me. We need a bath now and then too.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the little elf who unwraps a new photo prompt for us each week is Ginger Ali 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.
“Heidi, you look so down. What’s the matter?”
“Men. They’ll steal your heart, then disappear.”
“When did it happen?”
“Two days ago. It came a heavy snow. Kids were playing in the yard. I looked up and there he was.”
“And you fell in love?”
“I couldn’t help it. The way he looked at me with those big dark eyes, his crooked smile, and wearing that silly hat.”
“And he just disappeared?”
“I guess you could say that. He faded away, right before my eyes, like an apparition.”
“What was his name?”
“Frosty.”
“Don’t worry, dear. He’ll be back someday.”
Well Red . . . I mean Read
Contrary to popular belief, we DO have more than one book in our library. I know this to be true because my good friend Nancy Hartney, who works at the Fayetteville Public Library, donated her copy of “The Perils of Heavy Thinking” to that fine institution. This probably explains why, after 90 days on Amazon, I have yet to sell a single copy. Remember dear readers, books make excellent Christmas gifts.
While I’m at it, I’d like to debunk another theory. NO, we are NOT having baked hen for Thanksgiving. Don’t even think about it. Connie’s hens will all die of old age and natural causes. I don’t know what kind of meat we’ll be serving—whatever the Good Lord provides on the highway I suppose. Hopefully, it will be raccoon or groundhog as I’m getting rather tired of possum.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Pilgrim who sets the table with a photo prompt for us each week is Charity Hope 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.
“Wake up, son.” Officer Ridgley nudged the young man’s ribs with the toe of his boot.
“Uh . . . okay.” Abram rolled into a sitting position, head hung low.
“Look at me. Your eyes are glassy and red. How much have you had to read?”
“Only a book and a half—and they were short stories.”
“Uh huh, I see. What’s in that backpack?”
Abram dumped the contents on the ground.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Ridgley fanned three textbooks across the grass. “Science, literature, calculus. Pretty heady stuff, kid. Sorry, but I’m going have to book you.”
“On what charges, Officer?”
“DOK—drunk on knowledge.”
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I’m apt to get arrested this week for exceeding the word limit. This story was clocked on radar at the obnoxiously high rate of 108. The good news is I’ll never be accused on being drunk on knowledge, and as far as I know, being dense as a block of granite is still not a crime.
A Case of Mistaken Identity
The chicken “spa” is now fully operational. Last weekend, we dug a trench and ran electricity 175 feet from the old shop building to the upscale apartment complex formerly known as the chicken house. The ladies can now bask in the soothing glow of infrared heat, wallow in a dust-bath, or enjoy other amenities at the low cost of only a few eggs per week.
“Miss Connie gives the best deep-tissue massages,” says Hilary, a young Rhode Island Red. “She really knows how to work her fingers up under your feathers and release all that tension and stress. Plus, there a great fruit bar here with watermelon rind and fresh persimmons. Next week, she’ll begin decorating for Christmas. I can’t wait to see what’s in my stocking.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the concierge who can direct you to some of the best writers in the blogosphere is Henny Penny 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.
“Can you describe the assailant, Ma’am?” Detective Lowry tapped the touchscreen of his iPad.
“Well, he attacked me from behind, so I didn’t get a real good look at him. But his arms are white—white as snow.”
“Anything about his voice or mannerisms that might help us identify him?”
“He had this cute little giggle, like he was really enjoying himself—the pervert.”
“We’ll put some posters up based on your description. Do you think you could pick him out in a line-up?”
“Absolutely. He puffs a little white cloud every time he breaks wind. I’ll never forget that smell.”
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Here’s the police line-up.
California Scheming
The first cold front of the season moved into NW Arkansas this week. Connie dug our long-handles out of the dresser. I get to wear them Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and she gets ‘em Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday—wash day is on Monday. If the temperature drops any further, we may have to start wearing shoes.
Poor Connie’s been worrying day and night about her hens getting too cold. I suggested she knit each of them a sweater and some fuzzy mohair stocking for their little feet. She seems to think a couple of heat lamps is a better solution. Maybe so, but it doesn’t make much of a fashion statement.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who wrote from Kansas City to Hollywood with a laptop on her knee is Susannah Clementine 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.
Look! Up in the bird. It’s the sky. It’s a plane. It’s Dyslexia Man.
Slower than a mentally challenged sloth wading through molasses.
Weaker than single-ply bath tissue.
Unable to infuse short sentences with a single noun.
Yes, it’s Dyslexia Man, backwards visitor from the hills of Arkansas who came to Bloggywood with the power and ability to render the English language incomprehensible. Dyslexia Man, who can alter the meaning of common phrases, blend two-syllable words into inaudible gibberish. And who, disguised as Enos “Skin” Flint, half-witted blogger for Friday Flash Fiction, fights a never ending battle for humor, foolishness and the Redneck way.
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We can only hope our hero’s arch enemy and lifelong nemesis, Grammar Girl, will stop by to save us from the twisted vernacular and nonsensical jabbering of Dyslexia Man. Please hurry, Grammar Girl!
Time to Stop Digging
Well, I hope everyone got what they wanted for Halloween—not what they deserved.
Oh . . .? Connie just reminded me that Christmas is when people get gifts, not Halloween. Sorry, wrong holiday, my bad. These days they start promoting Christmas right after the Fourth of July so I have a hard time keeping up with when the event actually occurs.
I am thankful to be rid of political ads for a while. I’m much happier watching people walk around with no pants bragging about their Depends. Too bad the politicians weren’t wearing Depends over their mouth while they were spewing all that nasty filthiness about their opponents. That would have made ads worth watching.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who can help you get into the spirit of writing 100 word stories is Hanukkah Harriett 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.
Max and Cheryl were playing cards at Chip and Mindy’s house.
“Are you girls going shopping tomorrow?” asked Max.
“God, I hope not,” said Chip. “Mindy can’t leave home without spending at least two hundred dollars.”
“What?” The hair rose on the back of Mindy’s neck. “You know that’s not true. And I never buy anything over fifty dollars without asking your opinion.”
“Last week she came home with one of those ridiculous Christmas sweaters,” Chip continued. “Where’s she going to wear that? To a dog fight?”
“You said you loved it,” stammered Mindy.
“Probably to your funeral.” Cheryl grinned.
The Blind Date
Halloween is upon us and the question on everyone’s lips is, “What’s up with those ‘FUN SIZE’ candy bars?” For decades, we’ve been fed the age-old mantras of size matters and bigger is better. Looks like we’ve finally come full circle—less is now more.
This is great news for those who were on the far side of the galaxy when God was dishing out physical endowments. Parts of the anatomy that were once referred to as little, too short, or small can now be classified as FUN SIZE. Those of you who are single may want to update your on-line profile.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the leader of our Trick or Treat brigade is Howlin’ Wolf 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.
Apprehension gnawed at Judi as she approached the café.
“Steve’s a great guy who loves science,” her BFF and wanna-be matchmaker, Wanda, had said.
Someone bumped into Judi from behind.
“Oops, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.” The man’s voice was deep and strong, yet friendly.
It’s my fault,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t be standing in the aisle.” The scent of his cologne wafted over her shoulder, teasing her senses.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes. We’re supposed to meet here.”
“You must be Judi.” She turned, but saw no one.
Steve laughed. “Wanda didn’t tell me you were invisible. What a coincidence.”
The Shallow End of the Gene Pool
Well, I made it back from my four-day sabbatical in the wilderness. Unlike Jesus, I didn’t fast for forty days, but I was tempted by the Devil. He showed up with some beer and started ragging me about all the poor, hard-working Americans at the brewery who count on me for a paycheck.
Then he quoted Babe Ruth and said, “If you don’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams will be shattered. It’s better for you to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about your liver.” How can you argue with logic like that?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our emcee—beginning her third year as hostess with the mostest—is Alexis Trebeka 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.
*CJH WARNING – The post below contains crude, juvenile humor.
Arvel loved submarines. As a youngster, he used to lie on his back in the bathtub and holler, “Periscope up!”
He joined the navy right out middle-school, having completed each of the last three grades twice. Arvel had no problem treading water and could float like a piece of driftwood, even propelling himself along, providing his diet contained the optimum mixture of broccoli and beans.
The highlight of his military career came while stationed in New England. Arvel led a group of drunken sailors protesting higher beer taxes in what later became known as the famous Boston Pee Party.
Money Talks—an interview with Benjamin Franklin
I’m going to be away from my computer and the internet for a few days starting Friday afternoon, so I decided not to participate in Friday Flash Fiction this week. However, I do encourage you to check out the fine stories posted by those authors by clicking here.
This week, I had the pleasure interviewing Founding Father, noted author, inventor, printer, and much quoted world traveler, Benjamin Franklin.
WSF – Mr. Franklin, welcome to What’s so Funny? Our nation is going through a difficult economic period right now. You have a reputation for being very frugal. What advice do you have for the American people to help them cope with inflation and high unemployment?
BF – Thank you, Russell. I went through some tough times myself, especially as a young man. I wrote volumes of one-liners, proverbs if you will, on the importance of fiscal responsibility. People used to follow my advice and live comfortably. Today, too many Americans overextended themselves. They think the word “save” means buying at a reduced rate. One woman I knew went to so many shoe sales that she saved until she was broke.
WSF – So, we should all adhere to the “penny saved is a penny earned” adage, is that what you’re saying?
BF – Absolutely, except now, with the devaluation of our currency and the fact that it costs more than one cent to make a penny, I’m rephrasing the quotation to say, “a Benny saved is Benny earned.”
WSF – I know you have some interesting opinions regarding religion. Do you ever attend church?
BF – Occasionally I’ll visit a church, but you’ll never see my face in the offering plate. George will be stacked ten-deep in there, a few Abes, one or two Hamiltons, and maybe a Jackson on Easter. Ulysses and I stay parked firmly in the wallet until we get to Walmart or the liquor store.
WSF – Speaking of alcohol, I’ve seen the T-shirt with your quote “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
BF – I was seriously misquoted on that one. People steal your words and twist them to make a few dollars for themselves. What I actually said was, “Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards, there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine, a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.” It means the same thing, but won’t fit on a T-shirt.
WSF – Much has been made of your affection for the ladies, especially during your time in France while raising funds to support the revolution.
BF – Yes, I’ve been labeled a womanizer when in fact I was more of a flirt and a tease. Women control 90% of the money and 100% of the sex. Raising money for a fledgling country that might fail was not easy. The only way to get the money was through the women. In times of war, men are called upon to make sacrifices for their country. I did what I had to do.
WSF – So, you were an eighteenth century James Bond?
BF – More of an Austin Powers actually. Why do you think my picture is on the one-hundred dollar bill?
WSF – Thank you, Mr. Franklin, for making time for this interview. I’m going to put you back in my wallet until we get to Walmart or the liquor store.
The Flop Factory
I must have been ten or eleven when I got my first record player. Dad rolled his eyes and prophesied, “That thing will be nothing but a constant expense for you.” He was right. My music addiction would become a costly habit. With albums running close to four bucks and singles at a dollar, I was forced to make hard decisions at the record bin. Which two new songs would I play over and over till the vinyl gave out?
Like every other kid who ever picked up a guitar, I dreamed of being a music star. After all, how hard could it be? If people with names like Mick, Ringo, and Ross Bagdasarian, Sr. could make it, why not Russell? Unfortunately, that dream sputtered and crashed before it ever got off the runway. Now, I dream of mediocrity and revel in the pure, unadulterated bliss of being an underachiever—proving that dreams can indeed come true—providing you have the right dream.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the fairy of sweet dreams who casts pixie-dust over all our prose is Olive Cattree 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.
“Wow, I’ve never been in a recording studio before. Have you released a lot of top-ten songs like that place in Detroit?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“But you do have state-of-the-art audio components and a bevy of the worlds’ greatest studio musicians, right?
“Well, not exactly.”
“I bet your mixing engineering is a master at over-dubbing to achieve that rich, full sound like those guys in New York.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“What are the chances of my record breaking into the Billboard Top 40?”
“Not good. This is the Flop Factory. Hitsville USA is the studio next door.”
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My apologies to Hertz car rentals – Well, not exactly.
Friday and Saturday I will be Ozark Creative Writers’ conference in Eureka Springs. This will slow down my response time on replying to comments and reading your posts, but I promise I’ll get to them as soon as possible.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 