What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Mercury Blues
It’s not uncommon in America for parents to attempt to fulfill their own busted dreams of Superstardom by living variously through their children’s activities. Most of the time it involves sports, but could just as easily be music, art, or even more thrilling activities such as mathematics, literature, or in my case—study hall.
I guess it wasn’t fair of me to put such high expectations on our kids. While they both did very well in others area of their academic life, neither of them excelled in study hall. Despite my constant coaching, they were never able to produce a halfway decent spitball. Even now, years later, I haven’t fully recovered. The good news is I have four grandkids. Hopefully, at least one of them will become a Study Hall legend in his/her time.
In this week’s story, Mercury is hoping to excel on the football field and earn the adulation of his friends and family—especially his father, Herman. This is an excerpt from a short story in my upcoming book “The Perils of Heavy Thinking” which will be released sometime next year.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the head coach of the Fictioneers is the legendary Marion “Mad Dog” 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 schedule said we were to play the Giants, but I had no idea they meant that literally. My confidence began to wilt. The adrenaline crawled out of my veins and went scampering down a yellow streak that had once been my spine.
On the first offensive series, I tried my best to “get in the way” of the 340 pound behemoth that loomed across from me. None of my tactics worked. My opponent looked like he had just escaped from a maximum security prison and had the attitude of an angry moose.
He didn’t go around obstacles—he went through them. After the first three plays, I was more trampled than the grapes of wrath
Fifty Ways
To say my dad loved to fish would be an understatement of epic proportions. As a youngster, I remember watching him put in ten to twelve hours of hard labor on the farm, then, after supper, gather his bait and tackle and head to the river for four or five hours of fishing.
After he retired, I heard a man ask him, “Pug, do you still fish as much as you used to?”
“Nah,” replied Dad. “I’ve cut down to once a day.”
Like Dad, I’ve spent a lot of time baiting my hook, but have not yet become a Master.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the leader of this shoal of mackerels is Bianca “Bubbles” 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.
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Happy Halloween to friends, followers, and fellow Fictioneers. Today, I’m masquerading as a “serious” writer. I hope you find this week’s offering more of a treat than a trick.
Roy was mesmerized by her beauty. Her eyes, her lips, the way her body swayed so gracefully. In his eyes, Wanda exemplified perfection.
What Roy lacked in self-confidence, he made up for with low self esteem. The only thing they had in common was the school. She was near the top of the social ladder and he was a lowly bottom feeder. Why would she even give a boy like him a second look?
Weeks turned into months. Roy prayed for the courage to swim against the social current. His best friend and confidante, Mack, told him, “Don’t be so coy, Roy. Just ask her out.”
More Than One Way
I just got back from spending four days wandering the hills of Madison County (Booger County according to the internet). While there, I spent a lot of time sitting on a rock with a rifle draped across my knees. This was to give any passers-by (including wildlife) the indication that I was deer hunting, when in fact, I was busy writing my next New York Times bestseller, “More Than One Way to Skin a Skunk.”
Not only do I plan to release this on Kindle, but there will also be a first-of-its-kind specially scented hard copy version available for those of you who want to experience the world’s first olfactory thriller. Just look for the black cover with a white stripe down the spine.
This week at Friday Flash Fiction, we celebrate the one year anniversary of Trixie Wisoff-Fields taking over as bus driver. She’s done a good job keeping it between the ditches and dealing with the ne’er do wells in the back of the bus. 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
Rocky loved polka. He’d seen a blonde-haired northern girl on TV with a squeeze box on her chest and immediately fell in love.
“Tennessee hill folks don’t cotton much to that racket. Getcha a mandolin and play bluegrass,” advised his Pa.
Still, Rocky couldn’t get the in-an-out image of the squeeze box out of his mind. “I’ve got to have me one of them accordions,” he declared. None being available, he attached a keyboard to an old blacksmith’s billows.
On stage, he stuck out like somebody wearing shoes at a cow patty stomping contest. But the crowd went berserk when Rocky played The Moonshine Barrel Polka.
Those Beaches!
Have you ever noticed how inanimate objects gossip about each other? Just look at the picture below. Judy and Wanda are over in the corner whispering about poor Carol. Perhaps one of her wheels spins in a circle or flops like flat tire. Maybe she has some rust and corrosion on her frame or the latch is busted on her child safety belt.
Whatever the case, pointing out Carol’s flaws makes Judy and Wanda feel a little bit superior about themselves. Little do they know that Carol is about to be adopted by a homeless person and will receive more love and attention than they can ever imagine. Meanwhile, both Judy and Wanda will be slammed by teenage drivers and end up at the bottom of a ravine, twisted and warped beyond recognition, and left to die against concrete barrier with only some illegible graffiti to mark their final resting place.
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already!
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, let me introduce you to one person who will never speak evil of you and will always be a constant source of support and encouragement. Not only that, but if you forget to zip your fly she will tell you discreetly so that you don’t suffer public humiliation. I’m talking about our bus driver, Georgette 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 Authors Block click here
Raul was pissed. Why hadn’t he listened to his father?
“Do not open an all-night Quicki-Mart so close to beach, my son. It will bring you nothing but pain, hard work, and unhappiness.”
His father was right. Everyone he hired for graveyard shift fell under some strange spell. Sunrise would find them wandering around the store wild-eyed and mumbling, “It’s true. It’s true.”
It was true all right. Sand and water was all over the floor. The worst part was retrieving the shopping carts. Raul decided to add quarter locks to the carts—like Aldi’s.
“That’ll teach those mermaids,” he muttered.
Strange Brew
As I mentioned in my last post, I spent the weekend attending the Ozarks Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, AR. The conference featured several great speakers including Kevin Brockmeier, considered one of the best young authors in the south today.
To read an excellent recap of this event visit Staci Troilo’s site.
Every year they have a “surprise contest” that they announce during the opening remarks. The theme for this year’s contest was Witches Brew and the rules were the flash fiction story (100 words or less) must include the words “rainbow” and “pogo stick.”
Here is my entry, which happened to bring home 1st prize and $25 cash (which incidently was just enough to cover our tab at the cash bar before the banquet).
“Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart.” Brunhilda leaned toward the TV camera and flashed a picket-fence smile.
“Today, we’re cooking up something special for adult trick or treaters. I call it, Rainbow Amore’.” She let out a high-pitch cackle, her body bounced with laughter as if she were riding a pogo stick.
“And now for the secret ingredient.” She winked at the camera, plucked a couple hairs from her armpit, and sprinkled them into the boiling cauldron.
The studio audience groaned a collective, “Yuuuk!”
“Just a couple of sips,” said Brunhilda, “and you’ll become a best selling romance novelist.”
Hans Solo – Act 1
You may have heard the oft quoted line, “Life is a stage.” But when reviewing MY performance one spectator remarked, “You should to be on the stage. There’s one leaving in five minutes.” While that joke may be as old as the American West, there are still plenty of public transportation options available when running a comedian out of town.
There’s a fine line between being funny and being offensive. The trick is to determine exactly where that line is and get as close as possible without going over. Should the audience feel their humor trust has been broken, they’ll dump the once-funny offender and find another jester who can tickle their funny bone without causing a rash to break out on their backside. Like the old adage says, “Everyone likes a little ass, but nobody likes a smart ass.”
And that, my friends, concludes this week’s lesson on how not to write comedy.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, let me introduce you to one person who will never let you down or violate your trust as a faithful reader, the director of our world-wide weekly production, the effervescent Chi Chi Von 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 Authors Block click here.
Hans was ecstatic when his agent called to inform him of the upcoming engagement.
“Finding gigs for Aerophone players is tough,” said the agent. “You got lucky. This is a very influential crowd. If this show turns out well, expect to have a lot more bookings.”
Hans practiced day and night, fine tuning his performance.
After the show, socialite snob and gossip columnist, Florence Dubois, was quoted as saying, “His tiny instrument left me totally unfulfilled.”
To which Hans replied, “I would have brought a bigger organ if I knew I was going to be playing an amphitheater.”
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Thank you for staying with me all the way to the end on this one. I will be slow responding to comments and visiting blogs with weekend as I will be attending Ozark Creative Writers conference in Eureka Springs, AR this Friday and Saturday. Hopefully, I’ll learn something that will make my writing a little more entertaining. 🙂
Filthy Fowl
The origin of a nickname is often based on a physical characteristic or something a person said or did as a child. My father got his nickname, Pug, as a small boy when someone asked him about his political views and he declared himself a “Puglican.” That must be a branch of the Bird Party because most of the candidates Dad voted for were real bird-brains.
Growing up, Clifford lived next door—a half a mile a way. We were inseparable as youths. Due to his snow-white hair, Dad dubbed him “Cotton Top.” As Clifford grew older, the boys at school chopped his name into two syllables and pronounced it Cliff-turd. Teachers deemed this moniker inappropriate for public enunciation so the nickname counsel held a short meeting and came up with “Dirty Bird.” One of our more sophisticated classmates felt the name was too crude and redneck and offered the aesthetically pleasing sobriquet (thank you Warren Zevon), “Filthy Fowl.” We loved it!
Speaking of names, the facilitator of Friday Flash Fiction has more handles than a hotel full of truck drivers at a CB Radio convention. Often imitated, but never duplicated, the world’s greatest cat herder, Wandean “Backscratcher” 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 Authors Block click here.
This week there has been a lot of squawking about the United States government shutting down. Let’s examine how it affected some of America’s feathered citizens.
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Bald Eagle: I’ve been America’s symbol of freedom for over 200 years, now I’m classified as “non-essential.” That’s a real slap across the beak.
Dove: Our country has been at war this entire century. I can’t remember the last time I even saw an olive branch. Thank God they haven’t cut Seed Stamps.
Pigeon: When the government shuts down we shouldn’t have to pay taxes. I work second shift defacing statues in New York City. For a while, I was sleeping under a window air conditioner on the Upper West Side until some lady started posting pictures of me on her blog—probably an IRS employee. Maybe now I’ll get some sleep.
Break on Through
I was a framing carpenter for about three years in the late 70s. There were three of us on the crew, me, my cousin Mac, and Greg, whom we called Dred, in honor of Vlad the Impaler (don’t ask me to explain). Mac and I were also aspiring Rock ‘N Roll musicians, while Dred was an accomplished belcher. He came from a town in Colorado where belching was considered an art form. In fact, they held an annual contest to crown the King and Queen of Belch. Dred was rather modest about his talent, but would often belch the entire alphabet, and sometimes the Star Spangled Banner, as part of his regular training ritual for the contest.
The houses we build were small, wood frame structures in rural locations (i.e. “out in the boonies”). This was probably a good thing because Dred and I were known to make up ridiculous lyrics to popular songs and howl them at maximum volume in out-of-key fashion. Mac threatened to wear ear plugs, but I think secretly he was humming along.
All of these houses featured at least one porch. The last task in completing a house was to build a set of steps leading up to the porch. This hallowed event was like completing the final brush stroke on a masterpiece or adding an exclamation point to the phrase, “Oh, Shit!”
I lobbied to build steps the first day on the job, but Mac was the lead carpenter and would have none of it. I think he was worried that Dred and I would scale the perch and assault with mountains with off-key song and belching. Upon seeing this week’s photo prompt I’ve reconsidered and now believe we should have hung the doors first and built the house around them.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Dean of our Architectural School of Scribes is the esteemed Francine Lloyd Write. 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 Authors Block click here.
Everyone thought Jim was a little “out there.” Often categorized as rebellious, egotistical, eccentric, or even creative genius, he wrote poetry to the music playing inside his head.
His unpredictable behavior made it difficult for his co-workers, Ray, Robbie, and John, to get their work done on schedule. They were inclined to start every project at the beginning while Jim was infatuated with The End.
“People Are Strange,” he remarked, responding to criticism from those who ridiculed the Hyacinth House for having no walls. “If they open the Doors of Perception, they can hear the Cars Hiss by My Window.”
Mail Order Bride
This week, I decided to go with an afterword instead of an intro. (Hint – read the story in the voice of Jim Backus)
Quincy squinted at the sign above the door. “Here we are, Bus Depot. Well, hello my dear, you must be Alexandria. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
(no response)
He grasped her hand. “My goodness, you’re frozen stiff. The long trip from Russia must have been horrible.
(no response)
“What a beautiful dress. Do all mail order brides come packaged for the wedding?”
(no response)
“Oh, you’re shy. I understand. Let’s find a quite restaurant and get acquainted over lunch.” Quincy slipped his arm around her waist and escorted her to the door.
“Hey Gramps, come back with my mannequin!”
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A few years back, I noticed a change in the world. Tree leaves lost their shapes and morphed into green blobs. The people who make street signs and highway markers began using a new font called “fuzzy” which made the letters run together into an illegible mess. Even friends and family members became to lose their harsh edges and take on a smooth, soft appearance.
I was hesitant to say anything, but assumed it had something to do with global warming.
Then, a few months ago, I went in for an eye exam. After forcing me to guess at various letters from the alphabet, the optician led me to the front door and asked me to hold a glass lens in front of each eye. Evidently, during my exam, someone changed the street signs, for now they were clearly legible from two hundred yards away. They even went to all the trouble to put individual leaves on every tree. Everything was in high-definition.
This experience reminded me of a cartoon character from the sixties named Mr. Magoo. He was an extremely near-sighted gentleman who often mistook parking meters for people and was known to strike up conversations with a variety of inanimate objects (like some of my writer friends).
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the Executive Director of our Cartoon Camp is Hanna Barbera Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To read stories from other authors visit the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block .
Methuselah Comes to America
It’s not everyday someone you know has a four-digit birthday. In fact, most people would consider crossing the century mark quite an accomplishment in longevity. But like Methuselah says, “After three or four thousand years, who’s counting?”
At his age, finding health insurance is almost as challenging as finding a date. Although, for enough money, he can purchase limited coverage. The female companionship however, remains in question.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, your Entertainment Director on this Cruise of Creativity is Julie “Twinkle-toes” 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 “Collection of Authors” click here.
In the days before color (known as BC), Methuselah decided to emigrate to America. He’d spent twelve lifetimes herding goats in The Holy Land, and was looking for a nice place to retire.
His cousin, Hershel, sent him a brochure advertising an Eden in the new world called Florida. Allegedly, there was a Fountain of Youth hidden somewhere in this paradise of white, sandy beaches covered with beautiful bouncing babes. Methuselah threw on his kippah and boarded the first ship headed west.
Unfortunately, he made a wrong turn at Philadelphia and ended up in Havertown, PA. The rest, as they say, is history.
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Today’s post (my 118th if anyone’s counting) is a birthday tribute to one of the funniest bloggers in America, my good buddy, Perry Block.
BTW, Perry – Scarlett Johansson said to tell you “Hi”
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 