What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Location, location, location
For those of you expecting a lengthy intro this week—sorry, it ain’t gonna happen. Too much to do and so little time.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fiction, the queen bee of our hive is the lovely and talented, Flying Wallenda Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs
“Folks, this is the little starter home I told you about. It was built in 2012, features several compartments for a growing family, has numerous flower gardens nearby filled with juicy caterpillars, and is only a short flight from the entertainment district.”
“I don’t know,” said Wanda. “I was hoping for something with more of a view.”
“Just look at this rock work, ma’am. Beautiful, smooth, shiny stones, and running water just outside your door.”
“Are there many humans nearby?” asked Warren.
“Yes, it’s only two minutes from a golf course.”
“What do you think, Wanda?”
“Perfect. We’ll take it.”
The Dave Barry Experience
Last Friday evening, the Fayetteville Public Library had Dave Barry in town as part of their Famous Author series. My wife, Connie, and I attended the reception prior to the show where we ran into my cousin and fellow author, JB Hogan. The follow story is my personal recap of our “Dave Barry Experience.”
The Day We Had Our Photo Made
with Dave Barry—Well, Almost
“We were that close,” said JB, his forefinger and thumb spread apart the width of a blonde belly-hair. “I can’t believe that girl ran off after I gave her money.” His face flushed with anger and his eyes turned to camera-girl seeking missiles beneath a furrowed brow. Determined to locate her, he circled the room in long accentuated strides like Groucho Marx, minus the cigar. She could not be found.
I looked at Dave Barry and smiled. Oh well, maybe next time.
Another visitor stepped up to shake hands and rub elbows with the Funniest Man in America (according to the New York Times). Dave appeared cordial, but I could tell underneath that mask of professionalism, he was deeply hurt and disappointed.
Earlier in the evening, during our introductions, JB Hogan, my cousin and fellow writer, informed Mr. Barry that many people considered me to be the Dave Barry of Northwest Arkansas. To which Mr. Barry replied, “That’s interesting. Everyone considers me the Russell Gayer of South Florida.”
Dave noticed I had one of his books, “I’ll Mature When I’m Dead,” tucked under my arm. “Can I sign that for you?” he begged.
“Sure, that would be nice.”
“Is it Russell with two S’s and two L’s?”
“Yes, and you’d be surprised how many people can’t spell it correctly.”
“Well, I want to make sure I get it right,” he said, throwing open the book to the title page and scrawling his little note.
I was about to share some tips on writing humor with Dave when a porky, ex-politician shoved his way to the front of the line and interrupted our conversation. The only time those guys show any consideration is before you go in the voting booth. After election day, you’re just another grape to be trampled in vineyard of life.
Dave handled the situation with grace and dignity. He smiled, nodded his head, and shook the old boy’s hand like he really gave a crap what the guy was saying. I was impressed at how well he concealed his disappointment about missing out on the humor tips.
“What he’d write?” asked JB. I opened the book and showed him.
To Russell, my idol. – Dave Barry.
“Hey . . . that’s cool,” said JB. I could tell he was envious. It’s a good thing I’m such a humble person. A lot of people would let a compliment like Dave wrote go to their head.
After the missed photo op, we all went downstairs to hear Dave speak. We’d been seated ten or fifteen minutes when he finally walked into the room. Evidently, he needed some time to regain his composure after missing out on having his picture made with two of Northwest Arkansas’s finest authors. I felt bad for him, but the guy’s a real trooper. He kept the audience in stitches for an entire hour without showing how distraught he was over the photo.
I wish things could’ve turned out differently. There’s a big, bare spot on Dave’s web site that would’ve been the perfect spot for a picture of the three of us and provided a shot in the arm for his career.
Hell, I might even have posted it on my blog.
Planter’s Warts
Have you ever had an embarrassing medical problem that made you want to get on the internet and share it with the entire world? Me neither. But thousands of people do each and every day. I’m told that’s what Facebook is for—a place to share your pain and sorrow with others to help them avoid having to suffer through the same experience.
I bet people in Iceland are quite appreciative of photos of sunburned privates and the folks in China can’t wait to hear the details of your colonoscopy. In today’s story, a brave country farmer drops his drawers and bares the truth for the benefit of all you faithful readers.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, don’t get squeamish in the examining room. Our chief physician, Dr. P. Jewels Wisoff-Fields, has cured folks with worse problems than yours. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I got a bad case of planter’s warts, Doc.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“My wife and I bought this new fangled farm machine. The catalog said it would plant fifty acres a day. I’ve been riding it from sun-up to sundown for a month.”
“Where are these warts?”
“On my bee-hind. It hurts to sit down, and they itch something awful.”
“Pull you pants down and bend over that table. I’ll have look. Those aren’t plantar warts. They’re hemorrhoids, Mister . . . .”
“Fingers, Wallace Fingers, but everybody calls me Stinky.”
* * *
Great news! Dave Barry is coming to the Fayetteville Public Library tonight. It’s not often we have a great writer, particularly one of America’s premier humorist, visit NW Arkansas. I’m excited about going to see him, and hopefully some of his talent will rub off on me!
You call that a tree?
Some of our politicians in Little Rock have expressed concern over Arkansas’ public image. They believe that many outside our fair state have the perception that we are a bunch of barefoot, buck-tooth (singular), inbred hillbillies with no ambition.
My answer to that is – GOOD! If it keeps ‘em from moving here, I’m all for it. The ones that do come make no attempt to fit into the culture. They refuse to wear overalls and won’t let their daughters marry until after the eighth grade. No wonder we’re next to last in education (thank you, Mississippi).
If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, don’t let me scare you away. The source of keen insight and the facilitator of this exercise in brain surgery is the renowned Dr. Ophelia Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness, head over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
Alexandria inspected and rearranged the table settings for the twelfth time. She checked the pot roast, her father’s favorite dish, slow-basting in the oven. Tonight, she would introduce her parents to Luke and announce their wedding plans.
Father often boasted of family ties to the old world. A rich ancestry filled with war heroes, business tycoons, inventors, and medical pioneers. The roots of their family tree ran deep, its branches heavy laden with generations of noble individuals who’d contributed greatly to society.
What would they think of Luke, whose family tree was a two-limb pole with a few deformed twigs?
Criminal Mimes
I have a blog buddy in NYC who often volunteers to usher at theaters. The primary perk being that she gets to see a lot of great performances (and occasionally a bad one) absolutely FREE. One of the reasons I enjoy her blog is that she shares her theater experience, including the interaction with obnoxious idiots, with her readers. She also takes us on excursions around the city to show us statues that pigeons have crapped on, fascinating architecture, and favorite local watering holes.
The last time I exposed myself to art, I was arrested for indecent exposure and destruction of public property. Who knew that a 300 yr. old marble statue could laugh? When I threw open my trench coat in front of the sculpture it cracked up—literally. I’m just glad the Mona Lisa wasn’t there. They’d still be trying to get that toothy grin off her face.
If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, the curator of Literary Art is the esteemed Claudette Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness mosey on over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
Lucinda unlocked the back door and entered the kitchen. The furnishings had been rearranged and the oil lamps were burning. An eerie glow filled the room.
She took a quick inventory of her belongings. The only thing missing was a large invisible box she kept next to the refrigerator. Who would steal that?
The police dispatched Detective Lowry to investigate the crime. He checked for fingerprints. They must have worn gloves. After taking Lucinda’s statement he started to leave, then noticed a white smudge on the mirror. It was face-paint.
“Damn those mimes,” he muttered. “I should have known.”
Horse Feather Boa
I have never had a positive experience with a horse. At age five, I was almost trampled by a pair of gigantic work horses. At twelve, an oversized Shetland tried to decapitate me by darting under low-hanging braches. And just last week, I had the most dramatic, near-death experience of my entire life.
I was sitting astraddle a gray mare when she decided to take off unexpectedly. I was thrown to the ground with my left foot entangled in the stirrup. With every beat of her thundering hooves my head banged off the pavement.
I screamed, “Whoa!,” and hollered for help, but she only ran faster. The Grim Reaper laughed and leaned on his scythe. Then, just as I was about to lose consciousness, the store manager came out and unplugged the machine. I swore right then and there, I’d never get on another horse.
This week’s photo prompt is courtesy of my good friend, Douglas MacIlroy. If you haven’t read his masterpiece relating to this picture you need to—I highly recommend it. If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, the leader of our cavalry squadron is Colonel Do-Write Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate in this weekly exercise in madness mosey on over to her blog for instructions. After which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
It’s time to water the humans.
They’re unsightly creatures with only two legs and no hooves or tail. In fact, their appearance is so hideous that I’m forced to cover my eyes when dealing with them.
We keep them behind a fence for their own protection. When allowed to run free, they often throw large leather appliances on our backs, strap them to our mid-sections, and insist we carry them around as if they were royalty.
For the most part, they’re more trouble than they’re worth. But occasionally they show up with some oats or an apple.
I appreciate that.
Dragonslayer
Last Tuesday night, I had the great privilege of reading one of my short stories on Tales From the South, a weekly public radio show syndicated by World Radio Network. This program airs around the globe making it available to more than 130 million listeners worldwide.
This piece was originally titled “My First Day of School.” I hope you enjoy it.
Lily Livered Limbo
It is not uncommon for teenagers to experiment with alcohol before reaching the legal drinking age. In fact, many of the backwoods hillbillies I ran with skipped the test tube and beaker steps completely and went straight to the consumption phase in their quest for scientific knowledge.
*One note of caution; when conducting these experiments it’s a good idea to have one person remain sober to serve as the “control sample.” This breathing petri dish is responsible for documenting the behavioral changes among the test group and ensuring that all members of the panel make it home safely.
This week’s photo from Lora Mitchell shows just how far young people will go to satisfy their cravings for alcohol. If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, the Dean of our College of Contributors is Professor Raphaella Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
Underage drinking has reached epidemic proportions in today’s society. Teens can be very resourceful when acquiring alcohol.
“We’ve always kept our liquor cabinet locked,” said one mother. “When I found the bottles under Cindy’s bed, I questioned her, but she refused to reveal her sources. My husband set up a video camera. This is what we found.”
“I feel horrible,” said Cindy’s father. “Here I was blaming Hugo, the neighbor’s St. Bernard, when all along it was Lily sneaking booze to our kid. She betrayed our trust. It was like being stabbed in the back with a plant food spike.”
Distasteful Voyage
One of the first movies I watched in a theater was Fantastic Voyage, the 1966 sci-fi film in which a submarine and crew of scientists were shrank to microscopic size and injected into a neck artery for the purpose of destroying a blood clot. The special effects were primitive by today’s standards, but to an eleven year old boy who made poor grades in science, they were terrifyingly realistic.
When I saw this week’s photo prompt from Jennifer Pendergast, I knew it was time to transport my readers forward in time for a similar excursion inside the human body. If you are new to Friday Flash Fictions, the mad scientist in charge of the program is the ever-vigilant Dr. Ruthenstein Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
Captain’s log, June 14, 2025. The HMO Penetralia, has been dispatched to an asteroid galaxy directly above Uranus. In preparation of our arrival, Central Command directed a unit from the GoLytely division to flush the area of foreign debris.
Our orders are to engage and destroy all alien life-forms attempting to create settlements within the region. Thus far, we have only encountered token resistance from scattered, nomadic Polyps.
The ship stops unexpectedly.
“Captain to engine room. MacIlroy, what’s going on down there? We need more power.”
“Apparently Captain,” said Mr. Block, “we are in the clutches of a giant tapeworm.”
My First Date
Welcome to another installment of Friday Flash Fiction. This week’s thrilling episode is the work of guest blogger, Rachel Crofton, the internationally published author and creator of The Food Triangle, the critically acclaimed and scientifically balanced approach to weight loss.
Thank you. ~ When Russell came crawling on his elbows and knees, begging me to fill in for him, I knew something was up. He’d seen the Award Winning photo from Beth Carter (one of my favorite authors) and was having a brain fart. The old cuss started opening closet doors and drug out the skeleton of Delbert Leroy Watson (known as Junior), the first boy I went on a “real” date with. Sure, I’d held hands and claimed to be “going with” a boy or two, but had never been alone with one in his own car. Daddy wouldn’t let me date until I was fifteen. By then, the best of the crop had been picked over. Junior was beanpole with greasy hair and a buck-tooth grin. But he had a car and ten bucks. That was all I needed to know.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our chaperone and person in charge of monitoring hanky-panky in these stories, is the incomparable Alexandra Wisoff-Fields. To learn how to participate, in this weekly exercise in madness, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ after which, scroll down to the blue In links critter and follow the links to other author’s blogs.
After a thirty-point inspection by my father, Junior escorted me to his car.
“It’s a convertible.” He grinned. “I made it myself.”
“Yes, it’s very . . . unique.”
We rumbled up College Avenue to the 71 Drive-In. The old lady in the ticket booth peered over her glasses and smacked her gum. “Five dollars,” she barked.
Junior bought popcorn, cokes, and some Dentyne. Half way through the movie Mr. Cinnamon Breath leaned over and kissed my cheek. I squirmed in the boat seat.
“These seats recline. We could lay down.”
I smiled. “Oops.” My icy coke flooded his lap.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 