While waiting in line at one of those drug, candy, hardware, grocery, film, all-in-one stores the other day, I felt a little giddy. It was like the first time I had ever seen two cashiers checking out customers with less than ten people waiting in line. Wow, I thought, only three of us and two of them. I just might get out of here in less than the usual ten to fifteen minutes (which is my limit for waiting for anything). Then the roof caved in. The first customer with the register tied up decided to do some more shopping and ran to get this and that and whatchamacallit-you-know on isle five. Not to worry-one cashier left and two of us, I still can break the fifteen-minute barrier. Oops, spoke too soon-the manager comes over and asks the remaining available cashier how her son is doing with his cold and did she have a good time over the weekend? Now the three of them get into a conversation about nothing. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes. I leave the antacids I was buying on the counter and as I walk out can hear one of the cashiers saying, “What’s his problem?”
Don’t Forget The Advertisers!

This month we unchained, er, gave our regular columnists some time off for vacation and devoted the issue to spotlighting new writers. By “new” we mean new to Foolish Times (or fairly new-four of these writers have published only once in our pages, the other ten are making their official debut). Many of these “new” writers have actually been writing for years and have published their work either in print or on the Internet (whatever that is-we keep meaning to look into it). One thing all of these writers have in common is a talent for making their readers laugh. That’s where you come into the picture, dear reader. Enjoy the issue, enjoy your July, and remember-light fuse and run away!

By Deborah J. Rebolloso

From departure drop-off to arrival survival, airports provide stiff competition to big-ticket flicks for eye-opening, ear-splitting, heart-pounding drama. For the pittance price of admission, you’re guaranteed a thrill-packed, “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night,” run for your money.

Gone are those carefree days when one merely showed up, flashed a ticket, and boarded the plane. Those were gentler times, when revolvers and other villainous weaponry wasn’t confiscated, much less ChapStick or bitty nail nippers.

The first stop on your adventure is the interminable line at the Baggage Check area, Basic Training for the non-stop queuing to follow. Here you’ll encounter an astonishing array of frozen faces and glazed-over eyes, rivaling the relaxation quotient of root canal patients.

As you snake back and forth between the ropes, take a good look at your fellow snakes. You’ll be spending the better part of the day (or night) packed in the same can. If troubled by any aspect of their appearance, deportment, or aroma at this early juncture, why not abandon your plans and add yourself to another line featuring more tolerable traveling companions?

Once your luggage has been dispatched (hopefully matching your destination), join your fellow detainees at the security lineup, where you’re analyzed for hidden dangers. If the scanner remains mute, personnel can rest assured that no Uzis lurk in your socks.

Go figure! Gel shoe inserts have been added to the list of on-board Prohibited Items. Yet, gel-laden bras pass security with nary a glitch. Apparently, squishy underwear poses no threat, whereas squishy shoes bode ill.

After earning a passing grade, proceed to your assigned gate (invariably farthest from security), attempt to locate a seat, and patiently await “boarding instructions” (euphemism for yet another lineup). Here you’re allowed to purchase a beverage, at this point lacking access to labs for nefarious arms-building purposes.

Comfortably ensconced in your chosen seat (a preview of coming attractions), relax and read, eat, sleep, or watch the scene changes, while simultaneously keeping your eyes glued to your stuff, ever on the alert for attempted kilo drops.

A recent gate wait featured a captivating floor show, distracting us from the pandemonium of milling throngs and static-laden announcements.

1. A chic chick toted her possessions in a trendy (soiled, no less) pillowcase.

2. Two dudes pranced about in miniskirts. If they weren’t flitting off to Scotland via Albuquerque for a Highland Fling, they had some serious explaining to do.

3. An amazing assortment of wiggling, shrieking toddlers appeared to be primed with Pop-Tarts, ‘cause they were poppin’ long before takeoff.

Happily wrapped in a Dramamine-induced semi-coma, I remained insulated against the worst of the lunacy.

After boarding, locating a cushy center seat, and obediently storing all carry-on baggage in the overhead compartment, I shot furtive glances at the scraggly line of passengers still searching for a place to store their backsides. As feared, all potential seatmates were doused in scent, generating obnoxious nose and throat noises, or sporting major body overhang.

When the stampede dust finally settled, all hopes for a joyride faded as I found myself cozily surrounded by seat kickers, sleep droolers, bronchial coughers, and high-decibel yakkers.

Rivaling Maria Callas, an infant hit High C during takeoff and held the note for the duration. Another charming tot gazed out the window and squealed, “Mommy, I see a real plane!” So, what, pray tell, are we strapped into (“pray” being the operative word)?

Safely (s)trapped in a pint-sized compartment boasting a scenic seat-back view, one can’t help noticing that the plane is fitted with all the comforts of home, albeit in miniature.

For your reading pleasure, a touch of a button bathes you in a laser beam of light.

To compensate for being forced to breathe stuffy air until cruising at 10,000 feet, a nozzle blasts exhalations from fellow passengers onto the top of your head.

Peewee pillows provide cushioned comfort for the 6″ x 3″ rectangle between your ears, as you recline at a modest 45-degree angle so as not to land on the tray table behind you.

Far be it from me to yammer about my generous 15″ seat width, but my right arm proved to be securely wedged against Luv’s left, leaving little maneuverability. I proposed what seemed a reasonable solution. “Would you kindly store your arm in the overhead compartment?”

He would have none of it, selfishly claiming that all bins were full. “Okay,” I hissed, “how about spilling into the aisle a tad? I’m writing a column about the travails of travel, and if you refuse to cooperate, instead of Chicago, you’ll find yourself landing in deep doo.”

Speaking of doo, here’s a clever strategy for avoiding lengthy loo lines. Devour scads of complimentary salt-laden snacks. The resulting body bloat negates need for frequent wees.

While we’re on the subject of the complimentary gourmet snacks, a degree in Breaking and Entering would come in handy for breaching the package seals, what with having been forced to abandon all hatchets at security.

If you’re unfortunate enough to require a trip to one of the casket-sized cans, prepare for extended wait time while those ahead of you bathe in the Lilliputian sink, brush and floss, execute total make-overs, and evacuate all food and drink consumed in the preceding 48 hours.

Lavatory-bound and in need of assistance? A help button features an attendant grasping a beverage. One can only hope at this point that the airline’s rescue beverage of choice is a snifter of scotch.

As we neared the end of our thrill-packed ride, a perky flight attendant cavorted down the aisle dragging a fully-loaded hefty bag. “Trash?” she queried. “No, but thanks for offering. I have sufficient,” I beamed.

Suddenly, the pilot’s voice alerted us that our destination was in sight. “Touching” down with a series of hair-raising plonks and thunks, he exceeded our “bumpy night” expectations.

What a relief to be rescued from a daymare featuring me bobbing in the ocean clutching my seat bottom (pulling double-duty as a flotation device), alive but salty-snack bloated beyond recognition.

* * *

Deborah J. Rebolloso writes monthly humor columns for http://healyourselftalk.com/magazine (Humour) and http://alongstoryshort.homestead.com (Humor Me!). Her website is www.DebRebollosohumorme.com. You can reach Deborah at debreb@cox.net.

By Tracy Farr

Recently, while I was waiting for a Blue Coconut Cream Slush at my local Sonic Drive-In, I pulled a $1 bill out of my wallet and actually took a good long look at it. And do you know what I noticed? I noticed that George Washington could have been a great trumpet player.

It was his lips that gave it away. They’re on the thin side. He could have played the French horn or the oboe, but I think if it had been up to George, he would have chosen the trumpet.

Trumpet players are outgoing, they are natural-born leaders, unafraid of the limelight, able to play “Charge!” at the drop of a hat-anybody’s hat. And that’s why I believe the trumpet would have been the perfect instrument for good ol’ George.

“But what about the other presidents?” I hear you asking me. “Is it possible they, too, could have had wonderful careers as musicians?”

Well, of course. Just take a look at Abraham Lincoln on the $5 bill. Our tall, lanky, sixteenth president would have been a great clarinet player. And how do I know this? Because he actually looks like a clarinet. Don’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind. Of course it has.

Let’s move on to the $10 bill and Alexander Hamilton. Now, dear cousin Al never was a president (he served as Secretary of the Treasury from 1789-1795), but if you take one look at his brow, the way he holds his head, and his fancy attire, you’ll see that he could easily pass as a drummer. Well, maybe not one of today’s drummers, but it’s not hard to imagine him back in the day walking around with a pair of sticks, the girls following him everywhere, and him thinking, “I am drummer, hear me roll.”

Now, if you so happen to have a $20 bill in your wallet, pull it out right now, take a good look at Andrew Jackson, our seventh president, and see if you can figure out what instrument he could have played. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

(Being able to guess what instrument a person might be good at playing is great for helping beginning band students, but lousy for picking up dates at a bar. As soon as you say, “Excuse me, has anybody ever told you that your lips are perfect for playing the tuba?” the chase is over and you didn’t win.)

Okay, back to Jackson. Did you notice the long face, the messy hair, and the full lips? Sure signs that Andy could have been a monster trombone player. If the image of him holding a slush-pumper didn’t jump out at you, then don’t worry. With practice, it will. Oh, and by the way, don’t you owe me $20? No? Well, I thought I’d ask.

Moving right along, have you ever noticed that Ulysses S. Grant, our eighteenth president, looks like he just got home from playing the tuba at Oktoberfest? You’ve never noticed? Well then, grab a fifty and see for yourself. I’ve known a lot of tuba players and every last one of them could pass for Grant-except for Sheila Knudsen (there’s always an exception for every rule). Oh, and by the way, Ulysses would never go by his first name. He’d want to be called Grant. All you tuba players out there would agree with me 100 percent.

Finally, did you know that Benjamin Franklin is on the $100 bill? I see so few of them myself that I wouldn’t have bet on it, but he is. And without a shadow of doubt, I know he would have been a great banjo player. Don’t believe me? Then pull out a Bennie and see for yourself. He looks like he’s just about to tell a joke. And with that bald head, long hair, and hint of a grin, he wouldn’t have been taken seriously for anything BUT a banjo player.

So, let’s see what we’ve got. George on trumpet, Abe on clarinet, Andy on trombone, Grant on tuba, Al on drums, and Bennie on banjo. I could be wrong, but that sounds like one heckuva Dixieland Band to me. They’d call themselves “The Founding Fathers” and play every Friday night at Willie’s Tavern.

And to think, all this came about because I was thirsty for a Blue Coconut Cream Slush.

* * *

To read more stories by Tracy Farr, go to his website at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

Editor’s Note: The limerick wars between Foolish Times fan Kiri and Gene, Gene, the Limerick Machine continue. Last month we printed Kiri’s response to Gene’s anti-Barry Zito limerick; this month Gene responds. For those who don’t know, Barry Zito is a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. Well, Kiri thinks so, but Gene thinks otherwise. Anyway, to see the previous limericks, check out the website.

Dear Kiri,

You must know that was written last year
When we were all shedding a tear
But you must surely admit
He’s not worth a s**t
for 19 million a year

Yes, he won a Cy Young
but then he was very young
He’s not the great pitcher of lore
He’s just pitcher number 4
and his signing was really just bung

Lincecum, Cain, and Randy
have made our staff just dandy
Johnson took off the heat
So Barry can compete
And not be just Sabean’s eye candy

Go Giants!

-Gene, Gene, the Limerick Machine

By Cristy Shauck

Thanks for bein’ there-
just hangin’ around
keepin’ my fibula from fallin’
on the ground.

Seven little screws
driven into that bone
keepin’ the plate attached
so I could walk alone.

The bones knitted nicely-
thank you very much-
but the two-inch screws
got to be oh, such
a royal pain
I had them all removed
by surgery again.

Now I keep them in my office
hermetically sealed
and show them off to guests
so all will be revealed.
* * *
Cristy Shauck, a freelance writer (co-author of The Healthy Lunchbox, published by the American Diabetes Association), editor, and poet, recently moved to Salinas from Golden Colorado (home of the nation’s [possibly the world's] largest single-site brewery-Coors!). She’s putting the finishing touches on her first novel, a mystery set in Golden. She seeks connection with fellow writers of any genre in quiet venues or wherever they hang out around here.

By David Elder

This is a story of neighbors who were dear friends of my family when I was growing up.

The Steeds wore their name as an unfortunate reminder of the unmistakable resemblance they bore to members of the horse family. Mr. Steed, having brought nothing to the table in terms of genetic dominance, was the only “normal” looking individual in the bunch. With his moon-shaped face and his gentle smile, he was like the proud father swan surrounded by his ugly ducklings.

Mrs. Steed, as well as her daughter and son, were stamped from the same mold, having very large elongated heads with harsh features and big teeth. This did little to detract from their amiable likeability or their friendliness. One couldn’t help but wonder, however, if Mr. Steed has chosen his wife with the unconscious desire to wed identity with form.

Providence and traditionally accepted standards of appearance were the happy consequence of their son, Jim Steed. Having strong features and an outsized head are acceptable and even desirable attributes for a man, as evidenced in the casting of some dynamic actors. Regrettably, the only actor that Jim closely resembled was Mr. Ed.

Women with harsh features are less likely to be accepted, largely due to the glamorization of feminine beauty in the media, and for Jinny, that usually meant rejection rather than approval.

Jinny seemed unaware of her lamentable looks, though, virtually oblivious to her misfortune until she entered school. Jim was kept busy during those latter days by defending his younger sister because of the taunting of boys on the bus or playground, who cruelly changed her name from Jinny to the more descriptive “Whinny.” Luckily, Jim’s muscles were proportionate with his head, and he soon made those bullies regret their invention.

We secretly empathized with the Steeds through their difficult times and wished that others could appreciate the qualities that we saw in them.
There was one occasion that stands out in my mind, of a trip that threatened to destroy the close relationship enjoyed by our families.

We had been invited by the Steeds to accompany them on a weeklong stay at their cabin in the mountains. The setting was magical, like something out of every boy’s dream, complete with a private lake and gigantic frogs, ripe for the catching. Their cabin was located high on a ridge that overlooked the valley and lake below. I can still remember the feel of the sun on my bare back as my brother and I excitedly checked out every log and chased rabbits through the brown grass of the hillside.

We were all very close in age, with my brother and Jim twelve, and myself only two years their junior. My brother was a pitcher for a Little League team back home and was always trying to show off his arm by initiating rock-throwing contests. He had a unique way of whipping his arm right before he released the stone that ensured his throw would be the longest. Even though my brother was much smaller than Jim, his tosses reigned supreme.

We were all so intent on the contest that we hadn’t noticed Jim’s mother calling us for lunch. Frustrated at having to repeat herself, she unwisely stepped in front of us to get our attention, just as my brother was releasing his most Herculean hurl thus far. With a resounding THWACK the stone hit her squarely in the head.

From the sound of the impact, it was obvious that any person with a normal-sized head should have died right on the spot. Mrs. Steed, with her enormous horse head, simply absorbed the blow without even losing her footing. For what seemed like an eternity everyone stood in silence, expecting her to topple like some ancient redwood, felled by the woodsman (played by my brother), who gave no respect to her majesty. Indeed, the sheer weight of her massive noggin should have ensured her swift decent to the ground.

When it became apparent that she was going to survive, Jim decided that my brother needed to pay for trying to murder his mother. Picking up a watermelon from the picnic table, Jim began chasing him, screaming for blood with the melon raised high above his head.

By this time Mrs. Steed had recovered, and with the help of the other adults, was able to control Jim long enough to save my brother from Death by Watermelon. Needless to say, my parents felt that our departure was advisable, so we packed up the car and drove home.

I can’t really say the relationship between our families was ever quite the same after that, and I always thought that Jim was just biding his time, secretly growing a gigantic hybrid melon to exact his revenge upon my brother. As for Mrs. Steed, other than a quickly fading black eye, there was no evidence of her nearly fatal mishap.

Time passed, and eventually Jim left home and became a success in business. I suppose his achievements were due in part to his appearance, which communicated confidence to those around him.

To everyone’s delight, Jinny found a man who was able to look beyond what others saw, to the charming and striking woman below the surface. Not long after their union, Jinny and her husband blessed the world with more of the same equine-featured offspring who, as they grew from Shetland to Clydesdale, gained the knowledge that a far more precious and unbridled beauty resides in the soul.

* * *

David Elder is a lifelong resident of the Monterey Peninsula and in recent years has begun pursuing his passion for writing. His main interest is in writing fictional short stories, although he also writes factual articles for publication and is presently working on his first novel. He is the site steward for short stories at Helium.com, and has his own blog as well as being editor of several other websites. He offers monthly short story contests online, which have no monetary reward other than free exposure for anyone who participates. Winning short stories from the contest are featured on the contest site for one month. For more information on entering his short story contest, please visit www.helium.com/zone/986-tantalizing-tales-. To read more of David Elder’s work, please visit www.helium.com/users/303553.

by Tony Deakin of
The Crown & Anchor Pub
(Franklin Street’s Favorite Pub)

At 3 a.m. a desk clerk at a hotel gets a call from a drunk guy asking what time the bar opens. “It opens at noon,” answers the clerk.

About an hour later he gets a call from the same guy, sounding even drunker. “What time does the bar open?” he asks.

“Same time as before-noon,” replies the clerk.

Another hour passes and the guy calls again, plastered. “What do you say the bar opens at?”

The clerk then answers, “It opens at noon, but if you can’t wait, I can have room service send something up to you.”

“No,” the man says. “I don’t wanna get in… Ah wanna get OUT!!!”

By Martin Dodd

“Never argue with a fool, people passing by may not know who is who.”

My father-in-law told me that. I wish I had always followed it.

My father had a similar piece of advice: “Son, when God molded people out of the clay of earth, he stacked them against the wall and went to the refrigerator to get their brains. While he was gone, some of the people walked off. Don’t waste your time with the ‘walk-offs’.”

Again, good advice that I wish I had followed.

I often shared these little proverbs with my wife and children. They usually just stared at me, or ignored my passing down wisdom of the ages.

Also, from a good friend, I had learned another pearl that I did have the opportunity to use in open debate.

Almost every organization has a fool or a walk-off. My homeowners association is no different.

Some years ago, I was president of the association. A matter of moment had energized our community, bringing out ninety percent of the owners to a meeting.

One particular irascible owner, Fred, who had the self-appointed role of gadfly and nitpicker, became highly agitated over angel pinhead-dancing. He and I engaged in a lengthy verbal duel over the finer points of homeowner rules and restrictions.

At a peak moment, my friend’s adage came to mind. I paused (for effect), then delivered my debate stopper: “Fred, this is getting us nowhere. A friend once told me that you cannot reason a person out of a position that he did not reason himself into.” It ended the argument, and I felt somewhat smug.

Later that night, I asked my wife, “What do you think of the way I handled Fred?”

She gave me a third-grade-teacher smile and replied, “Dear, our fathers were right, it was a waste of time, and I couldn’t tell the fool from the walk-off.”

* * *

Martin lives in Steinbeck Country: Salinas, California. Following his retirement from community service, he began creative writing in 2002 at age 67. His work has appeared in Cadillac Cicatrix, Hobart Journal (web issue), several issues of Homestead Review, Holy Cuspidor, Foolish Times, and Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul (poem). He has won, or received recognition in, various contests: St. Louis Short Story Contest, Writer’s Digest, By Line Magazine, Glimmer Train, Inkwell Journal, Writers Weekly, Central Coast Writers (California), East of Eden Writers Conference, and NorthernPros.

By Heather Baxter-Ewing

At some point fairly recently I went from being attractive to looking good for my age.

Some people might still think it’s a compliment to “look good” for their age. Those people probably are desperate for any compliment. It’s as if one is saying, “Wow! You’re old…but you could look older considering that advanced life stage you’re in.”

I’m thirty-eight years old and I take a birth control pill that has estrogen in it. My body doesn’t produce enough of it anymore, along with tolerance. I was taking a different pill and my body was rebelling against it. Apparently, it was a “young” woman’s pill. I was having a cosmopolitan when I should’ve ordered the extra dry martini (which I would send back because I am a crotchety old woman). I clearly require a pill that not only prevents pregnancy, should I actually still be fertile (which is unlikely), but I also have to have one that reduces night sweats and sleeplessness. I’m not sure if it helps Alzheimer’s, but I certainly hope so.

I have several paradoxes settling in. My face wash prevents acne and wrinkles. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it was effective. Last week, I noticed a pimple forming in one of my wrinkles. It was the one on my forehead with which I impress people at parties. It is more of a crevasse (don’t confuse that with the smaller crevice) and I’m able to store spare change in it, including the fifty cent piece.

I decided the pimple and wrinkle were conspiring against me and I was planning my revenge when I was told by my cashier that I “looked good” for someone in my age group. “Age group” made it sound like I was member of AARP. She knew my age because I ridiculed her while she rapidly hit the override button after scanning my wine. I reminded her that the sign over customer service clearly states, “We card everyone under 35.” Granted, I’m thirty-eight, but I feel I’m close enough to thirty-five to warrant a good hard look or maybe a passing glance. I told her so, and she looked up, fiddling nervously with her nametag that claimed she likes cheerleading, and flippantly replied, “You look pretty good for thirty-eight.”

My retort was brewing in my mind as I clutched my environmentally safe canvas bags. I bagged my own groceries and she said I look “pretty good” for my age. First, when did I start needing to know that Sydni (with an “i”) is a cheerleader? I could’ve come up with that without the footnote on her name tag.

Secondly, the customer is always right and I think you should card everyone who looks under forty.

Lastly, if I’m doing something nice for the environment and I bag my own groceries, the least you can do is give my pimple a second look and think…maybe it would make this wrinkly old lady with acne feel good if I carded her.

* * *

Heather Baxter-Ewing is an English and Creative Writing teacher in St. Petersburg, Florida. She has a B.A. in Psychology and an M.A. in English Education.

Missing Husband
A lady calls the police to report her husband missing. The police arrive and ask for a description. She tells them he’s 6 foot 2 inches tall, with wavy blonde hair and a smile that charms everyone.

The police then go to the next-door neighbor to verify this report. The lady next door tells the police, “You can’t believe her. He’s 5 foot 4, bald, and wears a perpetual frown.”

Later, the next-door neighbor goes and asks the lady why she gave such a false report.

She replies, “Just because I reported him missing doesn’t mean I want him back!”
The Farmer
A farmer named Bill had a car accident. In court, the trucking company’s fancy lawyer was questioning him.

“Didn’t you say, at the scene of the accident, ‘I’m fine!’?” asked the lawyer.

Bill responded, “Well, I’ll tell you what happened. I had just loaded my favorite mule, Bessie…”

“I didn’t ask for any details,” the lawyer interrupted. “Just answer the question. Did you not say, at the scene of the accident, ‘I’m fine!’?”

Bill said, “Well, I had just got Bessie into the trailer and I was driving down the road…”

The lawyer interrupted again and said, “Judge, I am trying to establish the fact that, at the scene of the accident, this man told the Highway Patrolman on the scene that he was just fine. Now, several weeks after the accident, he is trying to sue my client. I believe he is a fraud. Please tell him to simply answer the question.”

By this time, the judge was fairly interested in Bill’s answer and said to the lawyer, “I’d like to hear what he has to say about his favorite mule, Bessie.”

Bill thanked the judge and proceeded.

“Well, as I was saying, I had just loaded Bessie, my favorite mule, into the trailer and was driving her down the highway when this huge semi-truck and trailer ran the stop sign and smacked my truck right in the side. I was thrown into one ditch and Bessie was thrown into the other. I was hurting real bad and didn’t want to move. However, I could hear ole Bessie moaning and groaning. I knew she was in terrible shape just by her groans. Shortly after the accident a Highway Patrolman came on the scene. He could hear Bessie moaning and groaning so he went over to her. After he looked at her, and saw her fatal condition, he took out his gun and did the humane thing.

“Then the Patrolman came across the road, gun still in hand, looked at me and said, ‘How are you feeling?’

“Now,” Bill asked the lawyer, “what the hell would YOU say?”
Anniversary
An elderly couple was celebrating their sixtieth anniversary.

The couple had married as childhood sweethearts and had moved back to their old neighborhood after they retired.

Holding hands they walked back to their old school. It was not locked, so they entered, and found the old desk they’d shared, where Andy had carved “I love you, Sally.”

On their way back home, a bag of money fell out of an armored car, practically landing at their feet. Sally quickly picked it up, but not sure what to do with it, they took it home. There, she counted the money-fifty thousand dollars!

Andy said, “We’ve got to give it back.”

Sally said, “Finders keepers.”

She put the money back in the bag and hid it in their attic.

The next day, two FBI men were canvassing the neighborhood looking for the money, and knocked on the door. “Pardon me,” one of them said, “but did either of you find a bag that fell out of an armored car yesterday?”

Sally said, “No.”

Andy said, “She’s lying. She hid it up in the attic.”

Sally said, “Don’t believe him, he’s getting senile.”

The agents turned to Andy and began to question him.

One says, “Tell us the story from the beginning.”

Andy says, “Well, Sally and I were walking home from school yesterday when . . .”

The first FBI guy turns to his partner and says, “We’re out of here.”
The Hit Man
Arty was a real loser. Every job and every idea he ever had turned out wrong. He thought, if I go into business for myself, maybe, just maybe I can do well.

He thought and he thought-what could he do? Then it came to him-he would be a hit man.

The next day he put a classified ad in the newspaper reading, “I will be your hit man. Give me a call and I will rub out anyone you want.”

Well, that very day, Arty received his first call. The caller asked if it were true that Arty would indeed kill anyone, and Arty assured him that was the case.

The man told Arty he wanted his wife killed. Arty said, “Fine, but how much will you pay me?”

The man replied, “$1.”

Arty said, “No way.”

The man replied, “Take it or leave it.”

Arty thought it over and figured he could use the practice, so he said, “Okay, where can I find your wife?”

The man said, “In the produce department at Food-Mart. Every day at four o’clock she’s there complaining about the produce.”

Sure enough, Arty goes to Food-Mart and there she is, in the produce department, complaining about the fruit being either too hard or too soft.

Arty waits till just the right moment, then he jumps out and puts his hands around her neck. But he’s not quick enough, and she lets out a scream. The manager of the produce department sees what’s happening and calls out. So Arty forgets the man’s wife and lunges instead at the manager, trying to choke him. But another lady sees what’s happening and screams. So Arty forgets the manager and goes after her. By this time, everyone’s running toward Arty, so he says “Forget it!” and dashes out of the supermarket.

He is captured a block away.

The next day the newspaper headline read, “ARTY CHOKES THREE FOR A DOLLAR AT FOOD-MART!”
Bedside Manners
Susie’s husband had been slipping in and out of a coma for several months. Things looked grim, but she was by his bedside every single day.

One day as he slipped back into consciousness, he motioned for her to come close to him. She pulled the chair close to the bed and leaned her ear close to be able to hear him.

“You know,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears, “you have been with me through all the bad times. When I got fired, you stuck right beside me. When my business went under, there you were. When we lost the house, you were there. When I got mugged, you stuck with me. When my health started failing, you were still by my side.”

She stroked his hand.

“Do you know what I’ve truly, deeply realized?” he asked.

“What, dear?” she replied, smiling to herself.

“You’re bad luck.”

By Dan Woods

Although it’s easy to view Congress as nothing more than a gang of self-serving, dishonest, “say-anything-to-get-elected” semi-hoodlums, the truth of the matter is that most of our elected officials really want to do the right thing and make America a better place.

Oh, sure, every once in a while we read a newspaper story about the occasional Congressman who is caught with $100,000 in cash in his freezer. But how many of us can honestly say that we’ve never taken a pencil home from work that didn’t belong to us? When your “work” owns the Federal Mint, you end up using $100 bills as Post-It Notes. And sometimes an extra stack or two of C-notes is just going to wind up in your briefcase. It’s inevitable.

The real issue with Congress is that all the important stuff has already been done.

Congress’s job is to make laws and establish budgets. But the early Congresses already did the really essential work. Heck, the Bill of Rights was written during the very first Congress. After the Freedoms of the Press, Religion, and Pursuit of Happiness, it’s all downhill. That’s why recent Congresses have been reduced to debating the merits of a national law requiring digital cameras to go “click” and whether our national flower should be the Mountain Laurel instead of, say, the dandelion.

As far as budgets go, earlier Congresses got to debate spending for things like roads, national defense, and the Louisiana Purchase. These are serious things that everyone agrees that the country needs-especially during Mardi Gras.

Lately Congress has really had to stretch themselves to find things on which to spend money. That explains how they spent several million dollars in 2007 on “The Center for Instrumented Critical Infrastructure”-which a member of Congress admitted may or may not actually exist. And when they run out of imaginary institutes to fund, Congress has even been known to vote themselves a pay raise out of sheer desperation.

That’s why Congress loves new aircraft carriers and fighter planes. As soon as a new one is developed, Congress rushes out and orders a couple of gross-plus a complete set of spare parts, owner’s manuals, and the optional undercarriage rust-proofing. Then they slap themselves on their backs and high-five each other in the corridors of the Capital Building. Now there’s some spending you can sink your teeth into!

Although it may seem tremendously appealing to dissolve Congress and send everyone back home to get real jobs, that’s not the answer. We might actually need Congress in the future to make a law about something we haven’t anticipated yet-like whether it should be illegal to beam “Carrot Top: The Comeback Tour” into your home on holographic TV during primetime.

In this regard, Congress is a little bit like your volunteer fire department. You hope you never need them, but it’s nice to know they’re there if you do. Both organizations are full of eager, capable men and women who are just itching to go out and help the community. And, of course, play with their nifty equipment. For firemen, that means things like two-way radios, the jaws-of-life, and high-pressure hoses. The problem is that in Congress’s case, their “equipment” includes things like the Federal Reserve interest rate and the Tax Code.

Everyone likes their local fire department and Congress could take a valuable lesson from them: Fire departments routinely set small, controlled fires and practice putting them out. This is how they keep their firemen ready for action without endangering the community.

Therefore, I propose that we set up a fake government. This will give Congress something to practice on so they leave our real government alone. Congress could tinker to their heart’s content on the ersatz government’s Interstate Commerce Laws, run up a zillion-dollar deficit, and invest all the money in the Social Security Fund on Beanie Baby collectables without actually mucking about with the real world in which the rest of us live.

It’s the perfect answer to keep Congress poised for action without actually letting them do anything. I’d even be willing to give everybody in Congress a couple of stacks of ersatz dollars to keep in their freezers.

* * *

Dan H. Woods has recently moved to France with his wife, two sons, three cats, and a Golden Retriever. His hobbies include woodworking and running marathons. At one time, Dan was also a Certified Beer Judge from the American Homebrewers Association. (It’s good work if you can find it.) Dan has lived at various times in Connecticut, Vermont, New York, Minnesota, Florida, and France. Dan is quick to point out that Minnesota is by far the coldest. Dan writes a weekly humor column called Tomfoolery & Codswallop. You can visit Dan’s website at www.tomfooleryandcodswallop.com where he welcomes your comments and suggestions for future columns.

Three Mysteries-Can You Solve Them?

MYSTERY NUMBER ONE

A man was found murdered Sunday morning.

His wife immediately called the police.

The police questioned the wife and staff and got these answers:

The wife said she was sleeping.

The cook was preparing breakfast.

The gardener was gathering vegetables.

The maid was getting the mail.

The butler was polishing shoes in the pantry.

The police instantly arrested the murderer.

Who did it and how did they know?

MYSTERY NUMBER TWO

A man walks into his bathroom and shoots himself right between the eyes using a real gun with real bullets.

He walks out alive, with no blood anywhere and no, he didn’t miss and he wasn’t Superman or any other crusader wearing a cape.

How did he do this?

MYSTERY NUMBER THREE

Old Mr. Teddy was found dead in his study by Mr. Fiend.

Mr. Fiend recounted his dismal discovery to the police: “I was walking by Mr. Teddy’s house when I thought I would just pop in for a visit. I noticed his study light was on and I decided to peek in from the outside to see if he was in there. There was frost on the window, so I had to wipe it away to see inside. That is when I saw his body. So I kicked in the front door to confirm my suspicions of foul play. I called the police immediately afterward.”

The officer immediately arrested Mr. Fiend for the murder of Mr. Teddy.

How did he know Mr. Fiend was lying?

ANSWERS:

1. It was the maid. She said she was getting the mail, but there is no mail delivery on Sunday.

2. He shot his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

3. Frost forms inside of the window, not the outside. So Mr. Fiend could not have wiped it off to discover Mr. Teddy’s body.

Did you get them right?
A Lesson in Financial Planning

Dan was a single guy living at home with his father and working in the family business. When he found out he was going to inherit a fortune when his sickly father died, he decided he needed a wife with whom to share his wealthy future.

Soon one evening at an investment meeting he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her stunning beauty took his breath away. With his heart beating wildly, he went up to her and said, “I may look like just an ordinary man, but in a few short years my father will die, and I’ll inherit $200 million.”

Impressed, the woman obtained his business card, smiled, and kissed him on the cheek.

Three days later, she became his stepmother.

Women are so much better at financial planning than men.
Signs That Your Dog Is a Furry Child

1. You always carry a picture of your dog in your wallet, and you show it off often.
2. When buying a vehicle, you specifically shop for one that will comfortably accommodate your dog.
3. Your dog has his or her own stocking and gifts under the Christmas tree.
4. Before going out into the cold, you dress your dog in the proper gear.
5. There is a seatbelt or car seat in your vehicle for your dog.
6. You always keep dog biscuits in your purse.
7. When cleaning out your pockets before doing laundry, you find doggie-doo bags.
8. The plant life in your home includes pet-safe plants.
9. Your dog has birthday parties.
10. Instead of the kennel, your dog goes to Grandma’s house.
11. On the way to and from work, you stop at the doggie daycare.
12. Your dog has health insurance.
13. There are arrangements in your will for your dog.
14. You have been known to take your dog to the mall in a stroller or a papoose.
15. Your friends threw you a shower when you got your puppy.
16. You’ve called off work because your dog is ill.
17. Spending quality time with your dog every day is a priority.
18. Kisses from your dog are not gross, they’re welcomed!
Real Doctor Names
The following are real doctor names, contributed from a medical editors’ website:

Chiropractor: Dr. Bone

Child Psychiatrist: Dr. Seuss

Dentists: Dr. Yiping Fang, Dr. Sugar, Dr. Tusk, Dr. Yankem, Dr. Les Plaque, Dr. Lippin

Dermatologists: Dr. Wolfgang Pimpl, Dr. DeMento

Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor: Dr. Hock

Gastroenterologist: Dr. Butt

General Practitioner: Dr. Malady

In vitro fertilization: Dr. Studd

Neurologists: Dr. Brain, Dr. Daze, Dr. Hurt, Walter Russell Brain, Baron Brain of Eynsham (British)

Ob/Gyns: Dr. Virgin, Dr. Grewcock

Oncologists: Drs. Balls and Dichy (pronounce “ch” in Ditchy as “k” sound)

Opthamologists: Dr. Blinder, Dr. I. Glass

Orthodontists: Dr. Crook, Dr. Grille

Orthopedic Surgeons: Dr. Doctor (always funny to hear him paged), Dr. Duck (her license plate was something like “1 QUACK”), Dr. Bonebreak

Podiatrist: Dr. Smelsey

Pain Specialist: Dr. Payne

Pediatricians: Dr. Childs, Dr. Kidd

Psychiatrist: Dr. Crane

Psychologist: Dr. Strange

Surgeons: Dr. Ripps and Dr. Nipper (apparently a surgery team!), Dr. Van Cutsem (hailing from Belgium), Dr. Slaughter, Dr. Butcher

Urologists: Dr. Dong, Dr. Small, Dr. Leak, and Wellington Hung (he requested that no one shorten his first name)
You Know You’re Grown Up When…

Your houseplants are alive, and you can’t smoke any of them.

Having sex in a twin bed is out of the question.

You keep more food than beer in the fridge.

Six a.m. is when you get up, not when you go to bed.

You hear your favorite song in an elevator.

You watch the Weather Channel.

Your friends marry and divorce instead of “hook up” and “break up.”

You go from 130 days of vacation time to 14.

Jeans and a sweater no longer qualify as “dressed up.”

You’re the one calling the police because those %$#&*^ kids next door won’t turn down the stereo.

Older relatives feel comfortable telling sex jokes around you.

You don’t know what time Taco Bell closes anymore.

Your car insurance goes down and your car payments go up.

You feed your dog Science Diet instead of McDonald’s leftovers.

Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.

Dinner and a movie is the whole date instead of the beginning of one.

Eating a basket of chicken wings at three a.m. would severely upset, rather than settle, your stomach.

You go to the drugstore for ibuprofen and antacid, not condoms and pregnancy tests.

A $4.00 bottle of wine is no “pretty good.”

You actually eat breakfast food at breakfast time.

“I just can’t drink the way I used to” replaces “I’m never going to drink that much again.”

Ninety percent of the time you spend in front of the computer is for real work.

You drink at home to save money before going to a bar.

When you find out your friend is pregnant, you congratulate her instead of asking, “Oh, crap, what the hell happened?”

Bonus: You read this entire list looking desperately for one sign that doesn’t apply to you-and can’t find one.

By Carol Murphy

My son was born with a head of hair that took over his whole face. He was also squishy looking because of the effort he had to put in to arrive. In fact, my mother’s first act when she saw him was to turn away in tears because she thought there was something awfully wrong with her first grandchild. In her day, women were put to sleep and when they woke up, there was a cute little bundle of joy, not the hairy pruneface she saw when she looked in the nursery window at Ryan.

Anyway, he had a grand head of hair. As he grew, his hair was a constant source of comments from friends, family, and sometimes even strangers. People I didn’t know would see him in his stroller and make comments like, “Boy, when you get that cut, I hope I’m there.” Or, they would sing a bar or two from the play, Hair!, or ask, “Is this a boy or a girl?”

One person in the family liked his hair. My father’s mother had hair she could sit on and she would make a big deal out of braiding it and then winding it around her head like a crown. She always maintained that Ryan took after her, although she would often forget his name. She’d inevitably ask, “How’s his hair?” using the pronoun “his” instead of his name. “Ryan,” I would counter. “His name is Ryan, Nana.”

“Sure it is, honey. How’s his hair?”

“Just the same. I’ll let you know when I cut it.”

The rest of the family had formed a consensus that I should cut it, because, well, after all, he had so much. Of course, that was the issue-when were we going to cut Ryan’s hair? I knew it was their opinion because at family gatherings there were comments like, “Boy, it’s getting long!” or “You should see the cute little boy’s haircut I saw on a kid about Ryan’s age.” It was really annoying.

Even though I loved his hair, the day did come when even I knew it had to be cut. My husband decided that I should go to a barber shop in a nearby town, owned by a barber he had once played golf with, since in his opinion a golf game was the ultimate test of everyone’s character and ability. So, I put Ryan in the car seat and took myself a good book and off we went.

It was an old-fashioned barber shop with the striped light out front and several chairs inside all filled with men getting haircuts or shaves. I looked at Ryan’s hair one last time, letting the beauty of it sink into my mother’s memory bank, and put him in the chair.

“How do you want it cut?” the barber asked.

“My husband said to tell you a regular boy’s haircut.” I wished I had brought a camera. His hair was a beautiful chestnut brown, wavy and thick. I got a little teary, but I was resolute. He needed to look like a growing boy. But, to avoid watching it being cut, I did have the book to read. That was my mistake.

After several minutes the barber asked, “Well, what do you think?” I looked up to see a miniature soldier sitting there in that big chair. He had no hair! His tiny toddler head had been shaved! All of his wonderful hair was on the floor! I was horrified.

“What did you do? You cut off all his hair! There’s nothing left! He’s bald!” And I jumped out of my chair, threw money on the counter, grabbed Ryan, and ran sobbing from the shop with several pairs of bewildered eyes staring at me.

Ryan fell asleep in the car riding home, looking like a miniature Telly Savalas. (If you don’t know who he was, just think of a wrestler with a hairless head.) However, his hair, or the lack of it, did not bother him in the slightest, although, now that I look back, perhaps he was in as much shock as I was and had passed out from the stress. I would have thought he might be cold or get some virus with no hair to cover his poor little head.

In any event, it was amazing I even made it home in one piece because I cried all the way. Ryan was still asleep in the car when my husband Bill came home and asked right away, “How’s he look?”

But, he saw my tear-streaked face and said much more grimly, “Where is he?”

“In the car,” I sniffled.

He determinedly walked out of the kitchen and through the connecting garage door, but immediately stomped back. “I’m going to see that barber.”

The part I have to tell next is hearsay because it came from my husband. But, as he tells it, he walked into that barber shop with the car parked for a quick getaway. “Who the hell cut my son’s hair?” he demanded. All the patrons looked up. One barber with a straight razor in his hand said, “I did.”

“I want my money back!” my husband demanded. “I haven’t seen anything like that since I saw a new recruit leaving Fort Ord!”

“No way!” retorted the owner, who had to stand his ground with all his patrons looking.

As Bill tells it, he just happened to be standing next to a bookcase where someone had displayed sale pottery. He looked at an ashtray nearest to him, picked it up, and threw it to the floor, where it broke into bits, saying something like, “Well, that’s the haircut!”

But no one moved. I guess they were all in some kind of daze.

So he picked up another ashtray and yelled, “And that’s the tip!”, running out the door to make that fast getaway.

I later pictured the scene almost like a Keystone Cops movie in which the barber and all the men ran chasing after him as he ran down the street to his car, the car tearing out and rushing to the freeway. I have a vivid imagination.

Just as my mother was driving up to come over to see the haircut, Bill was getting home, screeching into the driveway. It would take years for them to begin to appreciate their shared characteristics, and this day was way before that happened. So, my mother just frowned at my husband as they both walked up the steps. “Well, I took care of that!” Bill announced as he flew in.

My mother could be diplomatic when necessary, so all she said was, “I came to see Ryan’s new haircut.” Funny thing was, she liked it. “He looks like a little soldier,” she babbled sweetly at Ryan when he toddled in.

“That’s what I said to the barber,” I replied quietly. I knew better than to dwell on this too long with Bill still fuming and my mother still cooing.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Several months later, Bill and I with Ryan in tow, were shopping in Sears when way over in the large appliance section Bill spotted a man he knew and waved. “Hey, I know that guy,” he said, all smiles. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Bill thinks he knows everyone from golfing with them, seeing them at the golf course, or hitting golf balls. This time that was only half true.

When we got close, Bill said in a much lower tone, “Hey, I know you!” Guess he realized a little too late that the man wasn’t a fellow golf buddy-at least, not anymore.

All the guy said was, “How’s his haircut now?” It was THE barber! And he was laughing.

I started pulling Bill away as the barber’s laugh seemed to echo throughout Sears. We weren’t even close to the getaway car.

But that’s not the end of the story either.

Several years later when Ryan was in college, I was eating lunch in the teacher’s room of one of my schools when the subject of haircuts came up. “Boy, have I got a story for you!” I said and I proceeded to tell the story. All the male custodians and teachers listened in rapt attention until the very end when one of them said, matter of factly, “So that was YOUR husband?”

“You were THERE?” I stuttered.

“We wondered about him. We talked about him for years! So, how’s Ryan’s hair now?”

The world is small even when it comes to haircuts.

* * *

Carol Murphy is a Speech-Language Pathologist who currently is supervising graduate students in Monterey County. She lives in Santa Cruz County with her husband and an English bulldog and two horses.