What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Redneck Mythology (reprise)
Did you ever wonder why there were no mythological Gods of Redneck Folklore?
Me neither.
In the rural south, we have a rich history of idiots who have attempted feats beyond explanation, some have even lived to tell about it. Therefore, there’s no need to fabricate stories about fictional heroes in an attempt to create a rational account of things we don’t understand. Why waste a perfectly good Saturday night gazing at the stars asking, “Why?” when you could be sayin’, “Pass me another beer.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Scout Master responsible for providing the fuel for our virtual campfire of story tellers is Gabby Jo 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.
Billy Bob was half goat/half man. We won’t go into his genealogy, but trust me, his kinfolk still appear on tabloid TV.
One day, Billy Bob peeped over the fork of ash tree to spy on the Duke sisters (Daisy and Dixie), skinny dipping. Little did he know this particular tree was a Venus Fly Ash.
Bubba saw him and cried out, “Billy Bob, pull your head out of that ash!” But it was too late. The tree snapped shut on Billy’s head.
“He could’ve been President,” lamented Bubba. “Not everybody can stick their head that far up their ash.”
Back to School
Baseball was my first love. As a small boy, I remember evenings spent curled on my Dad’s lap listening to the familiar voices of Harry Carey and Jack Buck on the radio. The St. Louis Cardinals had an awesome team in those days, featuring stars such as Lou Brock, Curt Flood, and future Hall of Famer, Bob Uecker.
I ordered a baseball uniform from Montgomery Ward and would dress-out every afternoon and practice hitting, pitching, and perfecting my hook slide. Desire and determination was my strong suit. I had everything it took to become a major leaguer—except talent. The rest, as they say, is history.
This week, as our relentless leader of FFF takes a much deserved holiday, I’ve decided to pay tribute to those much maligned Boys of Summer. No, not the guys who make millions for playing a kids game, but the Men in Blue who work so hard to protect the integrity of the sport I love and have nothing to show for it but verbal abuse and death threats—the umpires. As always, if you’d like to visit other FFF sites click here.
Have you always wanted to be a baseball star, but could never make the grade? Perhaps you’re slow afoot, dim-witted, or visually impaired. Well, now’s your chance to shine.
At the Helen Keller School of Umpiring College, we can teach you to overcome those challenges. How do we do it? By focusing on the five senses that make a perfect umpire; sound, smell, taste, touch, and fear.
Countless HK-SUC grads have found success at the collegiate and major league level and you can too.
Don’t be a wanna-be any longer.
Call 1-888-ISUC and start calling games like a professional.
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If you’re a baseball fanatic–and a history buff–like me, head on over to JB Hogan’s site and pick up a copy of Angels in the Ozarks. It’s a great read.
Eerie Root Canal
Sunday is Father’s Day and I sure miss mine. My favorite quote about Fathers is from Mark Twain. “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”
Both my children are now in their early thirties and still waiting for their old man to gain some wisdom. Hopefully, I’ll get a little smarter before it’s time for them to make that coin-toss decision on whether to send me to a nursing home or insane asylum.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who inspires us with her wit and wisdom every week is The Kansas City Sage, Margaret Twain 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.
“You really shouldn’t wait so long between cleanings.” Debra’s tone was stern. “It makes this job harder for both of us.”
Mack slumped in the chair. He hated these damn lectures.
“Turn this way and open wide.”
He closed his eyes and blindly obeyed. Vibrations from the jackhammer shook his entire body. She flushed his mouth with water, vacuumed the chunks of fibula, and repeated the procedure over and over again.
“Try flossing—like I asked you to.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks as Debra whisked the thick cord back and forth between his teeth.
“A Great White with a pretty smile,” she said, admiring her handiwork.
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*disclaimer – this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the dental hygenist in this story and Debra at Dr. Grace’s office is purely coincidental.
Idaho Gnomes and the Search for the Golden Spud
On Tuesday, I had the great joy and pleasure of being recorded for a Mutual of Omaha “aha” moment. They have a mobile studio inside an Airstream trailer and are on a 20 city tour capturing the voice of America.
I spent the last two weeks agonizing over what to say and how to say it in twenty-four seconds. That’s not the way it works. They prefer to film a 10 minute interview and cut and paste to suit themselves. The crew was young and energetic, and a lot of fun to work with. After spending 20 minutes with me, they’ll probably remember their trip to Fayetteville as an “uh-oh” moment.
It’s too bad Mutual of Omaha wasn’t searching for a new Marlin Perkins. I would be a perfect fit for the part. For our first episode, we could float the Elk River in southern Missouri. I guarantee you, that’s a “wild-life” adventure you’ll never forget.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who inspires us with startling revelations every week is Mojo Doctor 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.
“Vell, Gnomes, ve meet again.” Bothe’s thick German accent dripped with sarcasm. “Hand over de spud or ve kill de girl.”
“I don’t have the spud, but I can take you to it. First, let the girl go.”
“No. Ve all go together. Once I have de spud, the girl is yours.”
“Don’t do it, Idy,” cried Janet. Her heaving breast strained against the fabric of her thin cotton blouse.
“We’ve got no choice,” said Gnomes. They followed a path of arms, legs, and discarded hats deeper into the cave.
“There it is.” Gnomes pointed to a half-buried, wooden chest. [100 word limit – proceed at your own risk]
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Bothe shoved Gnomes aside, grabbed the box, and cocked his pistol. “Tanks, Idaho. Too bad you and de girl have to die. Ha, ha!”
“Oh, Idy,” gasped Janet. The top button shot from her blouse and hit Bothe in the eye. He fell to his knees, writhing in pain.
Gnomes grabbed Janet’s arm and they raced from the cave.
“But what about the Golden Spud?” Janet panted between breaths.
“Don’t worry.” Gnomes flashed his trademark smirk, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Mr. Potato Head. “It’s right here.”
(My apologies for doubling the word limit, but this story was just itching to be told.)
Gruel School
Do you ever watch cooking shows on TV? We do occasionally. That’s where I go the idea for Deer Balls. Start with two pounds of ground venison; add a cup of oatmeal, half a cup of milk, one egg, chopped jalapenos and cilantro, some Worcestershire sauce, and throw in whatever spices you find in the cupboard. Roll ‘em out in balls and bake at 350 F. for about thirty minutes.
We could just call them meatballs, but where’s the fun in that? They go over big at potlucks and work well with spaghetti or dipped in BBQ sauce.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person whose brain is always cooking up a literary delicacy is Chef Marie Callender 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.
McDonald’s opened its first specialty restaurant this week near the Abbey of Self-Denial outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
The Trappist monks who live there have taken vows of silence and follow centuries-old traditions of manual labor in pursuit of the simple life.
“We’ve streamlined our menu to meet their needs,” says manager Walt Jablonski. “Our number one combo is a bowl of cold gruel served with a side of stale crackers and a cup of warm water. After a hard day in the brewery, these guys are starving for a tasteless meal with no nutritional value.”
The monks have refused to comment.
Peckerwood Road
This weekend, the Fayetteville High Class of 1974 will hold a reunion that in no shape or form will remotely resemble the parties we attended 40 years ago to celebrate graduation from that renowned institute of lower learning. The smart kids went on to college , determined to make something of themselves, while the rest of us wandered aimlessly like a herd of goats who couldn’t decide whether to shit or go blind.
Our graduating class featured the usual caste system. Social standing was determined by which group (i.e. clique) had accepted you as a member. There were Jocks, Suzies, Nerds, Goat Ropers, and of course, Hippies. My group, the Ne’er-Do-Wells, was a subset of the Hippie caste and ranked barely ahead of whale dung on the social ladder of life. We had adopted the Alfred E. Newman motto, “What? Me worry?” It has served me well.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the person who worries and frets over which photo to post each week is Professor Blanche DuBois 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.
“Wendell, I’m not happy.” Elsie shifted her cud from one side to the other and stared across the highway.
“What? Elsie, you’re knee deep in clover, have a spring-fed pool to drink from, and plenty of huge oak trees to provide shade all summer. You should be the most contented heifer on Peckerwood Road.”
“I know, but I can’t help but wonder what’s beyond this fence. What it must be like to wade through tall grass in other pastures.”
“Well, you know what Old MacDonald says,” Wendell swished a fly with his tail. “The grass may look greener, but it’ll still give you diarrhea.”
Mutton, Honie
Those of you in the same age bracket as Perry Block probably remember Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop. For those under age thirty-nine—No, it wasn’t a cooking show (although some considered Shari to be quite a dish). Shari, whose real name was Sonia Phyllis Hurwitz, was a ventriloquist and puppeteer. Here’s a photo for future reference.
This weekend, Ozark Writers League will hold a quarterly meeting in Branson, MO. The Pennells are car-pooling with me and Connie and Kim has gleefully referred to this expedition as a “road trip.” It should be a blast. I’ve even promised to leave my blue hair-dye at home and stop acting my age.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the shepherd responsible for minding the flock and rounding up strays is Heidi 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.
Horace was worried. After two years of begging, the network had finally agreed to let him create and host a reality TV show. Unfortunately, the guidelines and limitations they imposed infringed upon his vision of scantily clad sorority girls pummeling each other with feather pillows. A popular ex-president had even volunteered to co-star in the opening episode to give the series credibility.
Now, Animal Planet had taken over his idea and supplied a cast that could not speak English and were unwilling to follow simple direction. Monumental failure loomed on the horizon.
Who, in their right mind, would watch EweTube?
The Sinking of U.S.S. Mother-In-Law
Mother’s Day is Sunday and it’s only fitting that we pause and pay homage to the women who have made our lives heaven, hell, or some combination thereof. My own dear mother was a sweet Christian woman, naïve to the ways of the world, who generally thought the best of everyone. I didn’t realize until I left home how truly fortunate and blessed I was.
Not all women are cut out to be mothers. Some are better suited dishing out torture in prison camps, writing hate slogans for the Ku Klux Klan, and vaccinating patients at the doctor’s office. A good rule of thumb is DO NOT marry a child of one of these women. If you hurt their baby, they will track you to the ends of the earth and tear you apart limb by limb.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Grand Marshall for this Mother’s Day Parade of blogs is Roseanne Rosannadanna 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.
She was a proud boat. Her magnificent deck measured 284 square feet. Made from the finest South-Pacific bamboo, she was lovingly lashed together with over 3,000 feet of vine.
“What cha gonna name her, Skipper?” asked the mate.
“She’ll be named after a woman I’ll never forget, my mother-in-law.”
“Is that because she is supportive, dependable, and concerned about the welfare of her loved ones?”
“No, Gilligan. It’s because her sail is full of hot air and her deck croaks ‘nag, nag, nag’ every time I take a step.”
“Oh no, we’ll never get off this island,” moaned Gilligan.
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Here’s a great Mother’s Day song for y’all to enjoy.
If You Can’t Stand the Heat . . .
On Tuesday I fulfilled my civic duty by serving on a jury in a civil trial. One party was suing another over medical expenses related to a vehicle accident. I was hoping go get some good writing material from this experience for a future story. Unfortunately, they kept repeating boring stuff like facts and details (which they referred to as evidence), while we jurors were forced to employ match sticks to keep our eyelids from slamming shut.
I did meet some interesting people and shamelessly promoted “The Perils of Heavy Thinking” to the rest of the jury. They looked at me like I was from another planet and rolled their eyes. But when the time came to elect a foreman, I was the only nominee. I found out later this was an act of self-preservation as unhappy litigants often kill the foreman first.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Hanging Judge who hates dangling participles is Chief Justice Bobbi Jo 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.
Jake’s mother constantly warned him about the dangers of fire. She refused to let him go camping with other boys his age.
“Nothing good can come of it,” she said. “Those boys will poke you with a stick while sitting around a campfire.”
She really threw a hissy-fit when a neighbor girl invited him over to make Rice Krispy treats. “Of course she says you’re sweet and that she loves you,” said Mom. “She just wants your body.”
Tired of her overprotective ways, Jake Stay Puft attended a wedding reception. Unfortunately, Mom failed to warn him about fondue pots.
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For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man here’s a picture.
G-String Boogie
One of the interesting things about playing in a band is the people (and behavior) you see on the dance floor. Mix one part pounding beat with four parts alcohol and inhibitions waltz right out the door. What’s left resembles the mating ritual of flightless birds as they attempt to entice a mate prior to breeding season.
Once the birds were paired up, we slowed the tempo and played what we referred to as “belly-rubbin’ music.” These slow, romantic dances generated a great deal of body contact between the participants including groping and bumping of beaks. After which, many of the pairs would immediately leave the club in search of nesting grounds.
Occasionally, a couple of the males would get their feathers ruffled while in competition over a female with particularly attractive plumage. Sometimes a third male would swoop in and steal the prize while these two idiots battled for testosterone supremacy.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the conductor of this Orchestra of Keyboard Clickers is Maestro WillamenaWisoff-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.
Eureka Springs, AR – Police and emergency personnel responded to a 911 call last night at the Rowdy Beaver on Hwy 62. One of the patrons collapsed on the dance floor and appeared to stop breathing.
“It was scary,” said bartender, Anita Drink. “The band was going into the chorus of Mustang Sally when this guy went down like he’d been shot with a gun.”
Evidence collected at the scene indicates the guitar player may have been responsible for the incident.
“It was an accident,” swears guitarist, Fret Boardman. “I hit C-major and Bam!—down he went—struck by a chord.”
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 