What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Gilded Gossip
People in the workforce get one to two days off every week and vacation time based on their years of service. I have been retired now for over 16 months without a single day off. I can’t even call in sick and sneak off fishing. It’s ridiculous and unfair.
With the amount of stuff retired people have to do, and the limited number of hours we have to work with, you’d think the Department of Labor would step in and rectify this terrible injustice. After all, we spent our entire life working and paying taxes, and just because we’re retired doesn’t mean they can walk all over us.
I encourage all of you, retired or not, to contact your representatives in Congress, Senate, Parliament, etc., and urge them to pass legislation to address this critical issue.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our on-site bloggers rights activist is Susan Bee-ann “Tony” 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Linda put on her best plastic smile and edged closer to Michael as they pretended to mingle.
A few of the women offered pathetic smiles, then turned to gossip with the nearest prima donna about the little tramp across the room who didn’t know the difference between dressing sexy and looking like a slut.
Two hours into the affair, the delusional beauty queens let down their guards. One even pretended to be nice.
She tried to convince Linda that she was no longer a member of the Wicked Step-Sister Sorority—Stab-Ya, Stab-Ya, Die.
But it was just the wine talking.
Dinner & Drinks
Bumper stickers have long been a part of American culture. People apply them to their automobiles to express their political views, advertise their sexual preference, brag on their honor roll student, or just to say, “Hey, look at me. I’m an Idiot.”
While you won’t see one on my automobile, I do enjoy the ones that are cleverly worded and funny. Here are a few of my favorites.
- The weather is here, wish you were beautiful
- My kid can beat up your honor roll student
- Horn broken, watch for finger
What are some of your favorites?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Blog Donna (who made the “Good Behavior” list at Jackson County Correctional Facility) is Gertrude Lythgoe 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
On camping trips, a lot of families opt for simple dinner fare such as hotdogs or cold-cut sandwiches. Not us. To ensure that our children got to enjoy a genuine camping experience, Connie insisted on charred animal flesh grilled over an open flame.
Nothing heightens the bliss of a weekend excursion more than hunkering over red-hot coals on a 104-degree day.
After supper, the mosquito clan dropped by for cocktails. It was a rather large family reunion. All their kinfolks from surrounding campsites buzzed by for a quick bite and a double-shot of Bloody Connie, Bloody Russell, and Bloody Kids.
*the above is an excerpt from “Adventures in Camping”
Steamy Windows
Who remembers when they saw or heard their first phone pager? My first question was who needed one and why?. When a pager started beeping or buzzing in a crowd, everyone assumed it must belong to a doctor or some other critical profession where being able to contact that person was a matter of life or death. Otherwise, why would anyone want to be tethered with such a short rope?
It’s interesting how attitudes change and how quickly the public can embrace new technology. In today’s world, being “connected” is considered an absolute necessity. And if you fail to answer your phone or respond to a text within three minutes people accuse you of intentionally ignoring them. Standard excuses for not responding immediately include;
- My phone was on the charger
- I was on the pot
- Wheel of Fortune was on
What’s your favorite “go to” excuse?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Gorilla Glue who holds this band of misfits together is Koko No-Go 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“There used to be a drive-in theater right here.” Mr. Carroll made a sweeping motion with his right hand.
“The concession stand and projector room was there.” He pointed to a pile of rubble. “And the screen stood at the far end of that thicket.”
“Wow,” whispered his grandson. “People watched movies outdoors?”
“Yeah, but most of the action took place inside the cars.”
“You mean like virtual reality?”
“No.” Mr. Carroll chuckled. “See that old car? That’s where Speedway Randy was conceived. I still remember what was showing that night.”
“What was it Grandpa?”
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”
Subtle Aspirations
Last week we tackled the delicate issue of how to eat an animal cracker. Today, we’ll address a less violent act of dining, how to use a paper napkin. Upon observing a group of diners last night, I can say with absolute certainty that most napkin users fall into two categories; the Folder, and the Wadder.
The Folder gently folds his napkin in half, or quarters, before gently wiping his mouth. This method allows the user to refold the napkin multiple times, always having a clean surface to work with. The Wadder scrunches the napkin into a ball and swabs at his mouth as if he’s polishing his favorite pair of shoes. He rotates the ball after each swab, always having a clean surface to work with.
Both methods prove to be effective. How do you use a napkin?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the resident authority on 100-word count etiquette is Elizabeth Post-Toasties 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“Keith, why the duct tape on the door?”
“My neighbor has been spying on me, Neil. She’s a young widow, very attractive.”
“Why would she be spying on you?”
“Recently, I’ve been flirting with the idea of joining a nudist colony. So I thought I’d get comfortable by practicing at home.”
“But why just use patches of tape? She can still see in.”
“Based on the angle from her window, she can only see part of me. The taped section hides my modesty.”
“Has it proved to be effective?”
“Yes. So far, she’s brought me two pies and bread pudding.”
The Lottery
Recently, I got into a debate with my grandchildren on a very serious issue—the proper way to eat an animal cracker. One of the girls took the position that you should bite the head off first, this way the animal in question can’t bite you back—plus, in her mind—it was more humane.
A grandson countered that you should nibble off the legs first, so the vicious tiger, elephant, or giraffe couldn’t escape. The girls declared this method cruel, but not necessarily unusual, punishment for such a cracker.
To resolve the issue, they gave their grandmother a camel to see how she would eat it. Grandma promptly tossed the sweet, flakey cookie between her molars and ground it to bits. Evidently, there’s more than one way to kill an animal cracker. What’s your favorite method?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Ringmaster of this circus of 100-word stories is Kristen Michelle 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“God, this is embarrassing.” Andrea raised a cupped hand to her forehead to shield her eyes.
“Which one of you is going to tell him?” asked Sandra.
“Not me!” said Iain. “He killed the last messenger who brought him unpleasant news.”
Dale rubbed her chin. “Shelley should do it. She’s the one in charge.”
“No way.” Shelley shook her head. “We’ll draw for it.”
Plaridel pulled a slip of paper from the jar and read the name aloud.
Shelley smiled. “Red Nose, it looks like you’re elected. Now, go tell C.E. his pants are unzipped.”
Reintarnation (reprise)
“What in tarnation are you up to?” This question came up frequently when I was a child. For some reason, Mom felt the need to question my actions and scrutinize the purity of my motives. Ideas were sent hurtling across the vast expanse of my young mind at the speed of a sloth wading through molasses. So many in fact, that I had to plug my ears to keep them from spilling out onto my shoulders—especially when Mom used that dreaded word, “tarnation.”
Flash forward fifty years. ~ My wife revises Mom’s line of questioning to ask, “What in tarnation are you writing about now?”
The repetition of this word brings me to the conclusion that there must be nation called Tar (located somewhere between my ears) responsible for the generation of brilliant ideas. Thoughts passing through this country more than once are subject to a process called reintarnation—a form of cerebral enlightenment.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Queen of Cerebral Enlightenment is the fascinating Lady Victoria Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF “Hollywood Squares” author seating chart click here.
As a kid, Billy spent a lot of time hanging out in the cemetery performing maintenance. Originally hired to keep down grass and control weeds, he found removing artificial flowers to be the most fulfilling part of the job.
Most of the time, Billy could be found lounging in the shade of a tombstone erected to the “Loving Memory” of Alfonso Spade.
Despite his billing, Spade, a reputed curmudgeon, was neither loved nor remembered. Visitors referred to him as an “old goat.”
Sensing a lack of family respect, Billy took it upon himself to water and fertilize the grave daily.
Open House (Reprise)
As a kid, I watched The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show religiously. One of my favorite segments was “Fractured Fairy Tales.” At the time, I never thought about the writers who created the story line, but looking back, I realize what a sick bunch of twisted individuals they must have been, and the impact they had on my impressionable you mind.
Now, it’s fifty years later and you poor souls (my faithful readers) are being exposed to the fallout from the nuclear explosions that happened in my brain so long ago. I’m not apologizing, mind you, just a little background information for those of you who slept through psychology in college.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Fairy Godmother of our weekly tales is Queen Lurline 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.
“Hello, I’m calling about the cottages for rent.”
“Yes, Ma’am. We have two units available.”
“Where are they located?”
“These are portable units. You can lease a space from us, or set them up on your own lot.”
“They sound nice, but I’m a single mother with a large family. I’m not sure I can afford it.”
“Don’t worry Ma’am. There’s government funding available to help elderly women in your situation, and the more children the better.”
“My kids won’t eat their broth. Any suggestions?”
“Spank them soundly and put ‘em to bed.”
“Shoe Apartments sounds like a perfect fit.”
Disco Golf Luau (Reprise)
I’d like to start this week’s intro by saying I have the utmost respect for Mr. Fred Rogers. He brought a gentle, comforting presence into the lives of millions of children and the world is a better and happier place for him having lived in it.
When I was young, we used to watch the Dean Martin Show every week. My favorite episodes featured Jonathan Winters squeezing into a room stuffed with random items (not unlike my garage). He would pick up an item, such as a ball glove or carburetor, immediately jump into character, rattling off the funniest story you ever heard—totally spontaneous and unrehearsed.
Something similar, only different, happened to me today as I wrote this story. The Friday Flash Fictioneer photo for this week is courtesy of Doug “Flying Disc Man” MacIlroy. To read other far-fetched offerings, visit our hostess Ruby Slippers Wisoff-Fields‘ blog. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Disco Golf Luau
“Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to Mr. Roger’s workshop. Today we’re going to build a disco ball for our friend, Mr. Mac, in Hawaii. Can you say that . . . disco?
First, we soak strips of paper in paste and cover a beach ball with them. This is called papier-mâché. When the ball is dry, we’ll glue on thousands of tiny mirrors.”
“What’s Mr. Mac going to do with it?” asked Ruby.
“He wants to put it on his red bucket and take it to the disc golf course.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s on his bucket list, Ruby.”
The Cow Catcher
Have you every taken something important and put it in a “Special Place” to make it easier to find the next time you needed it? This simple act is a reflection of your highly advanced organizational skills, forethought, and planning.
However, it is also the best way I know of to lose something permanently. There must be at least twenty-five things in this house that I’ve hidden from myself and can’t find. The problem lies in remembering where the “Special Place” is. And as soon as I go to the time, trouble, and expense to replace the missing item, it immediately turns up. I call this Murphy’s Law of Outsmarting Yourself.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the little chickadee who fluffs her nest with 100-word stories is Flower Belle Lee 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
A passenger train, The Cornish Scot is creeping along at a snail’s pace. Finally it grinds to a halt, and Sandra sees Conductor Ayr walking by outside.
“Why are we stopping?” she yells out the window.
“There’s a cow on the tracks, Madam!” he replies.
Ten minutes later, the train resumes its dreadfully slow crawl.
The train had barely gone one kilometer when it creaked to a halt once more. Sandra sees Conductor Ayr passing her window again.
She leans out and yells, “What happened? Did we catch up with the cow?”
Squeaky Wheels
Bad news. I fear our new puppy, Liza Jane, is becoming a mime. Every morning she shows up at breakfast wearing white-face and black lipstick. She won’t talk when spoken to. She responds only with sarcastic body motions and exaggerated facial expressions.
To make matters worse, three times this week I caught her trying to rip the Do-Not-Remove tags from her toys. Heaven help us when she grows to seventy pounds and can lift furniture and mattresses.
I’m just praying Santa doesn’t bring Liza a striped shirt and beret for Christmas.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, you can trust your 100 words to the gal who wears the star, The Big Bright FFF Star, “Oil Can Boyd” 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 ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
“All this skateboarding will catch up with you someday,” Mom said.
Fifteen-year-old Jesse smiled. What does she know? Sure, he’d taken a few falls and wrenched an ankle or two, but no broken bones—as yet.
Thirty years later just getting out of bed became a chore. It always took a couple of doses of lubrication to loosen the stiffness in his joints.
Bending to change a tire, lightning bolts of pain flashed through both knees and up his back. Finishing the job, he rose to his feet, staggered, and grimaced.
Maybe Mom was right after all.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
