What's So Funny?
Russell Gayer, author speaker
Dear Tabby,
How many of you grew up wanting to write an advice column? Okay, okay, Randy, you can put your hand down now. We all know you’re dying to be the next Dr. Phil, but this is my blog so save your gems of wisdom for the comments section.
In my lower-middle-management supervisor position, people invade my office from time to time to tell me about a “friend” who’s knee deep in kitty litter and just discovered the little treasures they’re turning over aren’t Chicken McNuggets. That’s when I refer them to authority on the subject, Tabby.
The Friday Flash Fictioneer photo for this week is courtesy of Scott L. Vannatter. To read other fascinating cat-tales visit our hostess, Raquel Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
Dear Tabby,
My caregivers, Mistress Anne and Servant Bob, act like I don’t exist when Christmas comes. They run from one event to another like gravy through a goose, all the while ignoring the center of their universe—ME. How can I get them back in line? – Felix in Phoenix
Dear Felix,
It’s time to slam down your paw and extend the claws. A little spray in Bob’s truck or golf bag would send the message that you own him—for life. Shred a curtain and drop Anne a few unexpected gifts in hard to reach places. After all, it is the season for giving. – Tabby
Mayan Calendar Bucket List
I have a friend who absolutely loves lists. Arrange a group of random items in a single-file, alphabetical or numerical, by order or importance or stupidity (it doesn’t matter), and she’s as happy as Viagra salesman at a lingerie party.
My experience with lists is a series of dreaded encounters, none of which increased my joy or happiness. The majority of these lists consisted of tasks I was required to perform or items to purchase. Both of which rendered a feeling of helplessness. Here I was, a slave to a piece of paper—couldn’t wipe my butt with having one in my hand.
But age has a way of making a man look at things differently. After awhile, you quit counting the years you’ve lived and start a lottery pool on how many you have left. This is a heavy burden on the mind of many. Thankfully, I only have a mind of one.
The popularity of the “bucket list” hit a home run with a lot of Baby Boomers. I’m usually one to buck the system, but with the Mayan calendar bearing down on us like a racehorse in the home stretch, I decided to devote my remaining time to the betterment of humanity—including myself. Here, in no particular order, is my list;
- To be abducted by aliens: I’ve always wanted to see the galaxy and a little probing might help relieve the gas I’ve been experiencing lately.
- World peace: I realize war generates revenue and stimulates the economy, but let’s just try one day with out it and see how it goes.
- An all nighter: (a night without getting up to pee). This may seem trivial to you younger folks, but if you live beyond Friday you’ll eventually learn to appreciate this.
- To fly in a hot air balloon: Several politicians have attempted to get me airborne by blowing hot air up my butt, but so far their promises have left me flat and unfulfilled.
- Compete in a 40 yard waddle: Who knows, I might win gold at the Obese Olympics.
- Learn sign language: I’m already familiar with a couple of hand signals . . . .
- Take up some more bad habits: If you’re gonna die in 24 hours, may as well have some fun, right?
- Try to worry more: People say I don’t have a sense of urgency. You know what? They’re right. I’ll have to do something about that in the next life.
- Make the cover of RQ Magazine: On second thought I’ll probably turn them down. I’m just too damn humble to allow myself to become “eye candy” in Redneck Quarterly.
Well, that’s probably more than I can get accomplished in a day and a half, so we’ll stop here. I hope this list inspires you to consider your pending mortality and what you hope to accomplish while still in the flesh. Best wishes for a speedy and painless demise.
Disco Golf Luau
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, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
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.”
Houston, We Have a Problem
This week’s photo prompt inspired me to take a brief respite from the laborious task of writing humor and take on one of the most serious challenges facing our society today—addiction. Not a single family on the face of our planet has escaped the unscrupulous chokehold of dependency. Alcoholism, gambling, drugs, and even sex addiction are some of the most common.
Today’s story is an effort to raise awareness to a lesser known affliction and simply say, “You are not alone.” If you or someone you love is suffering from addiction, please get help.
This week’s photo is courtesy of Rich Voza. To read more stories, visit Roberta Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links other author’s blogs.
“Where is she?”
“Last door on the left, room 2213.”
“God, I feel so guilty about admitting her. We tried so hard. I feel like a failure (choking back tears).
“Now, now, (placing a hand on his shoulder) don’t beat yourself up. You did everything you could, and bringing her here was the best thing for both of you.”
“Can you cure her, doctor?”
“This is the best addiction treatment center in the Ozarks. We can help her, but she’ll always be a recovering addict.”
“Is she making progress?”
“Yes, Mr. Fields. She readily admits to being addicted to purple.”
Shamash; the Final Candle
Very few people know (except Rochelle, of course) that six hours before Ian Fleming finished the first draft of Casino Royale (released in 1953), a little known Ozark novelist, Hershel “Jim Bob” Frugalstein, submitted an original spy-thriller manuscript to New York publisher Shyster & Ponzi. Editors and agents agreed the book was destined for the best seller list, and quite probably book of the year.
Unfortunately, negotiations broke down over movie rights to the story. Jim Bob insisted on playing the lead role and personally hand-picking the female cast members. The Publisher and Hollywood both rejected the notion, citing the fact that Frugalstein’s only experience as an actor was a non-speaking role as “Jim” in a third grade production of Huckleberry Finn.
Today’s Friday Fiction installment is a 100 synopsis of the original novel. Remember, this is a work of fiction and any character resemblance to modern-day Fictioneers is purely a figment of your imagination.
This week’s photo is courtesy of our bus driver, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read more stories, visit her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links to other less ridiculous offerings.
Shamash; the Final Candle
By Hershel “Jim Bob” Frugalstein
Israeli intelligence discovers B.O.W.D.* mastermind, Randal Gnomes, plot to destroy the world’s supply of candle wax, darkening menorahs and crushing Jewish morale during the Festival of Lights.
The Prime Minister dispatches the country’s top spy, Percy (formerly cute) Cube—code name 005, to intercept Gnomes and castrate his evil plan.
Percy is captured breaking into Gnomes lair by the cunning and voluptuous Rowena Vermouth. Vermouth finds her emotions both shaken and stirred by her animal attraction to Percy.
As the countdown to Hanukkah begins, Gnomes dangles Percy above a cauldron of hot wax. Rowena must decide which wick to dip.
*(Bent on World Destruction)
Black Friday the 13th
I am among the few remaining sub-species of dinosaurs who still subscribe to a newspaper. A few years back, newspapers used to give their employees holidays off, but now, like everyone else, they call them “associates” or “team members” and force their noses to the grindstone 365 days a year. I could rant and rave about this from now until the Mayan calendar expires, but it still wouldn’t return us to those thrilling days of yesteryear, so I’ll just shut up and move on.
When I went out to the paper box yesterday morning (Thanksgiving Day), little did I know it was going to require a crane and forklift to remove it from the box and transport it into the house. The paper carrier must have forearms like Popeye the Sailor (or good medical insurance) to shove several hundred of those giant round-bales of print into tiny plastic boxes.
Yesterday’s edition consisted of 4 ½ ounces of news, sports, classifieds, etc., and 492 lbs. of advertisement. I’m sure millions of Americans spent yesterday morning devouring these ads like piranha in feeding frenzy, plotting their attacks against these poor retailers in their moment of vulnerability to snatch up bargains galore. After all, everyone is a sucker for a bargain—even the MC in today’s story.
This week’s photo is courtesy of Joyce Johnson. To read more stories, visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links to other author’s offerings.
Black Friday the 13th
Jason had camped outside the big box store with hundreds of others. Moments before the doors opened, he surveyed the crowd for potential future victims. Teenagers, old folks, and minorities were all equally represented. He smiled.
The sale paper proclaimed “below cost” pricing on chainsaws, machetes, broadaxes, and even hockey masks—all the tools of his trade.
Once inside, he headed for the hardware section. Rounding a corner, a middle-aged woman slammed her cart into his. Another grabbed the last remaining chainsaw. Four more surrounded him, their eyes like flaming embers, growling, cursing, and gnashing their teeth.
Suddenly a warm, wet spot appeared on the front of his blue jeans, and for the first time in his life Jason fully understood the meaning of the word . . . terror.
Not the Strongest Battery in the Bottle
After reading one of my short stories, non-writer family members and friends often ask, “Where did that idea come from?”
Thanks to this week’s photo by Sean Fallon, I will not only explain where they come from, but also why some are better than others.
To read more stories, visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links to other author’s offerings.
Not the Strongest Battery in the Bottle
“You know how cartoons show a light bulb coming on when someone gets an idea?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever wonder what powers that light bulb?”
“No, can’t say that I have, Forrest.”
“And you know how some people have really bright ideas, others shine dim, and some poor folks can’t even make the bulb come on?”
“Yeah, I’ve known a few of those.”
“Well, those light bulb ideas are powered by batteries.
Mama says, ‘Life is like a jar of batteries. Sometimes you get lithium ion, sometimes you get alkaline, and sometime you get a dud.’”
Frosty the Fireball
I’ve always wanted to use the name Madge in a story. Thanks to Rochelle, and her intriguing photo, I finally get my chance. Some of you may remember Madge as the beautician who soaked her client’s fingers in Palmolive dishwashing detergent to make them soft as a baby’s ear (or was it a lower region?).
No palms or olives were injured in the fabrication of this week’s installment of Friday Flash Fiction.
To read more stories, visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and click on the little blue InLinz critter to find links to other author’s offerings
Frosty the Fireball
(phone rings)
“Good morning, Irma, this is Flossie. Do you know what’s going on with Madge?”
“No. Is she all right?”
“Well, something’s going on. She’s too busy to talk on the phone, so I went over there. She kept watching the clock and practically shoved me out the door at 3 o’clock. Minutes later, a gray-haired man arrived and stayed for two hours.”
“That must be Paul. What else did you see?”
“Not much, her windows fogged over. He looks twice her age.”
“Well, Madge told me, ‘Just because there’s frost on the roof doesn’t mean the fire’s gone out.’”
BONUS ROUND BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL
READ FLASH FICTION STORY AND GET ONE POEM FREE – THIS WEEK ONLY!
THE ICE WOMAN COMETH
I’ve never met a woman
who’s more like the weather.
Her disposition can change
like the swish of a feather
Forget that the forecast
calls for 90 and sunny,
better put on your coat
The Ice Woman cometh
Like an icy arctic front
sweeping down from the North,
the temperature drops
when she walks through the door.
Suddenly you remember
what you like about summer,
better put on your coat
The Ice Woman cometh
Don’t try to console her,
you’ll never be a hero.
The stare “chill factor”
is twenty below zero.
With a silence so deafening
it sounds like thunder,
better put on your coat
The Ice Woman cometh
Like any winter storm,
we know it won’t last.
We fear its approaching,
we rejoice when it’s passed.
The movement of time
slows to a crawl
while we patiently wait
for the Ice Woman to thaw
Moanin’ after Midnight
Be forewarned, this is a real groaner. Thoughts poured through my pea brain like boulder sized kidney stones passing through a narrow urethra. It took two rolls of paper towels to clean up the perspiration generated by umpteen hours of hard labor giving birth to this ugly baby.
For maximum effect, hold a coffee mug to your lips while reading the story. Photo by Ted Strutz.
To read more stories, visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and find links to other authors under the comments section.
P.S. ~ If you’re not a regular Friday Flash Fiction reader, save yourself some confusion and stop before the last line.
Moanin’ after Midnight
“Son, I say son,” a booming voice sliced through the night like a Daboll Trumpet off the coast of Cape Cod.
“Where’s the flying pigs? The widow’s boy loves them scientific gadgets.”
“We’ve got airplanes, helicopters, and space ships, but no pigs,” said the vendor.
“Then how about a pair of them X-rated glasses?”
“You must mean X-ray glasses, sir. I’m sorry, we only have sunglasses.”
“What am I going to do with you, boy? The sun ain’t even shining. (whispers) Poor kid, a big barn but an empty loft.”
“Check out our clearance rack, sir. Ted Strutz coffee cups.”
Does this decanter make me look fat?
If restaurant table condiments could talk, what tales they would tell. Secrets of illicit lovers, confessions of criminals on the lam, and horror stories of pranksters who leave the salt lid unscrewed for the next diner. This week’s episode features a 100 word rant by someone who’s a little self-centered. You might even say she’s ‘sweet’ on herself.
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for a great photo full of endless possibilities.
To read more stories, go to her blog, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ and find links to other authors under the comments section.
Does this decanter make me look fat?
Back in the old days it was just me, S & P, and maybe a bottle of Heinz. The kind that was so thick it couldn’t be pounded out with a jackhammer—and remember the song, “Anticipation?” I laughed my pour hole off.
Then people got weight conscious and some smarty-pants scientists invented artificial sweeteners. Now they park their little pink, yellow, and blue packets right on the table next to us. It’s insulting.
Try calling your lover Nutra-sweetie, or say their kisses are Splendalicious—see how far that gets you!
I’m from Hawaii and 100% natural. Kiss me, Sugar.
Purchase ‘One Idiot Short of a Village’
Purchase ‘The Perils of Heavy Thinking’
What's So Funny? 