What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Sweet Relief
I want apologize in advance for this week’s offering. I don’t usually resort to crude, juvenile humor two weeks in a row . . . make that four weeks in row . . . Oh, never mind. When I saw the photo prompt, courtesy of Erin Leary, I thought “how can I write something funny based upon such a gray, bleak scene?” After whining and wallowing in self-pity for all of thirty seconds, I decided to suck it up and act like a writer. Friday Flash Fiction was created to challenge us, make us write stories we wouldn’t ordinarily write, force us to grow as we learn from each other.
There’s your motivational speech for the week. Now, let’s move along.
In a few days, I will be asking you to Judge a Book by Its Cover. I will post two cover designs for my upcoming book. Please vote for the one you’d be the most inclined to pick up if it was crying out your name from a crowded shelf in a poorly lit bookstore. I will also include brief excerpts from four or five stories to give you a feel for the content. You don’t have to be a registered voter to participate. This offer is good on all seven continents and the District of Columbia.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the physician in charge of correcting gastrointestinal disorders caused by this blog is the esteemed Dr. Feelgood 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.
RHONDA: Bill hasn’t been himself lately, Marge. It’s like there’s a black cloud hanging over him and by six o’clock he’s totally sapped. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he won’t open up. It’s putting a real strain on our marriage.
MARGE: Does he feel bloated and have stomach cramps?
RHONDA: Yes, how did you know?
MARGE: From what you’ve told me, I’d say it’s a case of Classic Constipation.
RHONDA: Classic Constipation? No sh*t?
MARGE: I’m afraid so, Rhonda. Spike his cocktails with prune juice and feed him some roughage. In a few days, he’ll be as frisky as a young stallion.
RHONDA: Oh, Marge. You saved our marriage!
Music from Little Pink
Those of you from the Baby Boomer generation may remember of an album entitled “Music From Big Pink” by The Band. It was recorded in the basement of a rental in West Saugerties, New York. The most popular track on this album was The Weight, which topped out at #63 on the American charts and #21 in the UK. This song’s popularity was partially due to its inclusion in the movie Easy Rider.
What you’re about to learn is the story of two lesser known musicians who attempted to emulate The Band’s success by recording their own album in a renovated outhouse near Stony Point, Virginia.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the conductor of our orchestra of story weavers is Roberta Zimmerman 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.
Zeke and Virgil spent all morning mixing paint. Pink was hard to come by in their neck of the woods, but a tablespoon of fire-engine red in a gallon of white had rendered a such nauseating color that even the makers of Pepto Bismol were green with envy.
They slopped two coats on their new “studio” and broke for lunch.
“What does Levon mean when he sangs ‘take a load off Fanny?’” asked Zeke.
“Fanny means your butt, dumbass.” Virgil mumbled between mouthfuls of pinto beans and raw onion.
The boys listened to the playback of their first recording and flicked their Bics in enthusiastic approval.
A small cassette player was found miles from the explosion. Flatulence in A minor, written on the tape.
Bloodline Talent
For ages scientists have been trying to quantify how much of our talents, behaviors, and booger-pickin’ tendencies come from our DNA and how much is a reflection of the environment in which we’re raised. This makes me wonder what would happen to that new English prince, Baby George, if Kate and Will were willing to let him spend the first five years of his life on a chicken farm in south Alabama. I bet we can safely predict he’d learn to speak without that stuffy British accent and not be scared to get a little manure between his toes.
But at some point, he would probably discover that he was not the same as some of his neighbors. Things that come easy for him might be difficult for his playmates, and things they can do without thinking; such as belching the entire lyrics of Sweet Home Alabama, would be dang near impossible for his princely esophagus to utter.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Dean of Genealogy and the Queen of Historical Fiction is Gertrude “Bloodhound” 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.
HUURRY, HUURRY, HUURRY.
Step right up ladies and gentlemen and behold the world’s greatest dog-treeing human. For the unbelievable price of only one dollar you can witness the incredible talent of this gifted toddler with your own two eyes.
Guaranteed to track, trail, and tree anything from the tiniest Chihuahua to a gigantic Irish Wolfhound. Once she picks up the scent, it’s only a matter of moments till the dog is scurrying up a tree whimpering like a politician in a sex scandal.
This child is a direct descendant of the world renowned Gertrude “Cold-nose” Blanchard, a three-time Grand Champion at the Greater Missouri National Dog-Treeing Finals.
HUURRY, HUURRY, HUURRY.
Tom’s New Job
A week in California was a real eye-opener for this country boy. We saw a lot of cool stuff and way too many homeless people. I’m told a lot of them migrate to LA because of the warmer climate. Whatever the case, the reality of the situation just broke our hearts.
One day, I wore my striped overalls to the UCLA dining hall, expecting to make a huge fashion statement. “Is there a train coming through here?” a lady about forty asked. Evidently, she didn’t recognize the upper-crust hillbilly look and mistook me for a common railroad engineer. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem to notice. With all the strange dress out there, I was just another nut in the fruitcake.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the host of our weekly fashion show of fine writing is Coco Chanel 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.
Everyone thought Tom was terrific. He was clever, entertaining, and had an outrageously wild imagination. Bob Keeshan gave him his first job, but the gig played out after only three years.
“You can only ride the funnel-thinking-cap gag so far,” said his agent. “Shape-shifters are a dime a dozen. You need to reinvent yourself.”
The next few years were tough as Tom tried to figure out what that meant. Out of desperation, he took a seasonal job downtown.
“How was your first day as a Christmas tree?” Manfred asked.
“Terrific!” said Tom, standing tall, his eyes beaming. “Until a dog peed on my leg.”
Stain-Glass Flipper
This week I’m writing from Westwood Villiage near the UCLA campus. Before we return home, I plan to do some serious research on the effect of Arkansans (Arkansawers to those of you in the know) on the native population. One thing we discovered right off the bat was no one here knows where anything is located. Ask them for directions and they get this blank look on their face like you asked them to explain quantum physics to a sock monkey (any resemblance between me and a sock monkey is purely coincidental).
Another interesting fact we discovered is that their squirrels are overly sensitive. Having some free time this morning, we decided to tour the Mildred E. Mathias Botanical Garden. There were signs all over the garden warning us not to TEASE the squirrels. Evidently, the tree rodents here wear their feelings on their fur and get all bent out of shape if you make comments like, “Your mother mates with armadillos, or, Why did the chicken cross the road? (answer) To show the squirrel it could be done.” I think a psychiatrist could do quite well here just catering to LA squirrels with self-esteem issues.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Headmistress of our College of Creativity is Madam Agatha Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness visit her site for complete instructions. To read 100 word stories by other authors click here.
Art began developing his reputation as a trouble-maker early on. In pre-school he would cut class to hang out with sharks, killer whales, and jelly fish.
When a YouTube video of him ripping a two-piece swim suit off an eighty-year-old woman went viral, Poseidon had had enough. He assigned the famous marine psychologist, The Incredible Mr. Limpet, to rehabilitate the rogue dolphin. Electric eel shock therapy failed and the crimes became worse.
A juvenile judge predicted, “Art, someday you’ll hang.”
After serving two years in a gift shop storeroom, Art found himself suspended over a kitchen window, dangling from a rope.
Open House
As a kid, I watched The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show religiously. What a great cast of characters, especially Boris and Natasha. 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 young, impressionable 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 studied 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.”
Peep Show
Remember when TV stations had local programing? You do? Then you must be as old as Perry Block. For those under forty, let me explain. Back in the golden era of television, stations would do anything to gain viewers and improve ratings. One of the most effective ways to accomplish this was by bringing local children into the studio for fifteen seconds of fame.
Every station in our viewing area (all three of them) had a “Santa Show” where the kids would sit on Santa’s lap and stare dumbfounded at the camera while Santa attempted to gain their attention long enough to learn who they were and what they wanted for Christmas. (A ridiculous premise since he’s already supposed to know those things.)
My favorite local show was Uncle Zeb’s Cartoon Camp. It came out of channel 8 in Tulsa. Uncle Zeb dressed like an old prospector and was forever popping adult oriented one-liners. If the temperature was below freezing, like it is here today, Zeb would proclaim, “Hey, kids, it’s Brass Billy Goat weather out there.”
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the host of our weekly program is Elmyra “Babs” 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.
“Hey, Randy, why do you think they boarded up the windows like that and spray-painted ‘No Trespassing’ on the building?”
“To attract attention. It’s a new marketing ploy.”
“That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Sure it does. Anytime you tell people NOT to do something, they can’t help but do it. For example, hang a ‘Wet Paint’ sign on a park bench and see how many people touch it to see if it’s wet.”
“Ah, that explains the gaps between the plywood.”
“Exactly, they’ll line up in droves to peek through those cracks.”
“But isn’t that the home of a supermarket gossip rag?”
“Yep, The National Inquirer.”
The C-Flat Diner
The dry-erase board in my office has the words “Attitude of Gratitude” written across the top. They’ve been there for at least a year and I have no plans to removing them. They serve as a constant reminder to count my blessings, not just at Thanksgiving, but every single day of the year.
We all have good number of things to be thankful for. In addition to my health, family, and neighbors, I’m extremely grateful for all of you and your sense of humor. Thank you for stopping by, reading, commenting, and occasionally snickering at something I’ve written. Your presence, patience, and perseverance is much appreciated.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Anniversary Girl and Jan Wayne Field’s “Diva of Desire” is the irrepressible Esmeralda 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.
The C-Flat Diner had everything going for it except customers, waiters, cooks, and food. The tables were spotless, the view spectacular, and the leather-clad menu, elegant.
Chrystal champagne glasses dangled from a rack above the bar. Mouths agape, their silent cries echo down the empty hall of a would-be morgue.
Evening falls and the hardwood floor blushes with embarrassment, devoid of the rhythmic cadence of stiletto heels. Yawning seats long to caress the curves of soft, smooth derrieres. But no one comes.
Where is everyone?
They’re all at home spending time with their families, you idiot. It’s Thanksgiving.
I Fall to Pieces
Last Friday night I had the great pleasure of being in the company of seven (count ‘em – 7) fellow Fictioneers. To my knowledge, eight is largest congregation of Fictioneers ever assembled in the same venue at one time. I kept looking out the window, expecting national media coverage, or at least to see the folks from Publisher’s Clearing House pull up in front of Ye Olde English Inn and offer a 3-book deal to each of us along with a $500K advance.
Then one of the “real authors” at the banquet busted my bubble by telling me that Publisher’s Clearing House wasn’t a book publishing house at all, just an outfit that entices people to buying magazines in hopes of winning a million dollar sweepstakes. Boy, if that ain’t like having a bucket of frozen fish guts dumped down your underwear.
All in all it was a very good party. Connie only had to call me down twice, so I guess my loud and obnoxious behavior didn’t embarrass her any more than usual. ~ That gal is an angel.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our Big Chief teller of tall tales is Paula “Don’t step on my Bunions” Wisoff-Fields (along with her sidekick, Kent, the Blond Ox). 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.
They told me it would never last.
My friends, family, even my employer—they all tried to dissuade me.
“She’s got issues,” they said. “Been through too many break-ups.”
But I wouldn’t listen. We were young and in love. Nothing else mattered.
I had a good job at Macy’s and she worked in the automotive industry.
She told me her job was stressful, dangerous, and her employer often abusive. When I heard about the accident, I fell apart—literally.
I can still see that cute little circle on her forehead.
They were right. Never fall in love with a crash test dummy
Safety First
I was walking on a 4-wheeler trail in the woods the other day when, for no apparent reason, I pulled a muscle in the calf of my right leg. There were no rocks in the path, the terrain was flat, even, and clear of obstacles. The only reason I can think of is my body wanted to remind me what excruciating pain felt like. In the words of President Geo. Dubya Bush, “Mission accomplished!”
In hindsight, perhaps it was to remind me that I have two good legs and all of my other parts are in reasonably good working condition considering their age. Many people are not so blessed and I should not take my good health for granted—message received.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the guardian angel of the Fictioneers is Aunt Matilda 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.
“Hey Dad, someone’s at the door.”
“I wish those Watch Tower people would find another castle to call on.”
“No, it’s the men in suits who were here last month.”
“Good morning Mister . . . I mean, Count . . . .”
“Never mind the formalities,” snarled the Count. “Vat do you vant?”
“Just a follow-up visit regarding handicap accessibility to the don-jon. At OSHA, we take these things seriously.”
“Very well. See for yourself.”
“And the torture chambers—have they been modified?”
“Yes, yes, the roller, cutters, rack, and kneading machine—all up to specification. No lumpy, half-baked employee can accuse Count Monte Crisco de Pillsbury of not making reasonable accommodations.”
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 