My friend Bill in New York goes to a big-name bank to withdraw $8,000 from his account. He’s told by the teller to see Mr. So & So. Mr. So & So explains to Bill that the bank doesn’t have $8,000 cash, but he would be glad to give Bill a cashier’s check for the $8,000. Bill laughs and says, “You’re joking, right?” The banker gets indignant and huffs out, “Banking is serious business.” Mr. So & So gets the cashier’s check, gives it to Bill, and says, “How would you like to pay the $45 check fee?”

What’s wrong with this picture?

Don’t Forget The Advertisers!

I don’t know why people are so worried about the economy these days. Why, after scoffing at my New Age friends for saying things like “Trust in the Universe, it will provide” and for their insistence that I read the bestseller The Secret and watch the accompanying video, I now have more money than I know what to do with. I scoff no longer.

Just last month, I returned from South Africa with my 40% share of $6,750,000 (plus 3% for expenses) for assisting Dr. Themba Ndlovu with a pesky banking problem at The Amalgamated Banks of South Africa (ABSA).

On my way home, I stopped over in Ghana to meet with the nineteen-year-old, orphaned Kelvin Clark to help him retrieve two silver boxes which were left to him by his father, the late Captain Gordon Clark, who was sadly killed in the war with Liberia. Sigh.

What’s a good Samaritan to do? All Kelvin needed was for me to pay for the demurrages incurred for the storage of these silver boxes. I, of course, did so, and was paid handsomely from the contents of the boxes: “250 kgs. of Raw Gold, 50 Carats of purple rough-cut diamond gemstones of Diamond Creek, Lofa County Origin, and $10.5 million U.S. Dollars.” I passed on the gold and diamonds, but graciously accepted my 43% share of the cash.

After viewing The Secret a second time, I was soon informed by David Smith, Esquire, and Associates of London, that I was named as beneficiary in the will of the late Jurgen Krugger. Poor Jurgen. We had lost contact over the years, and I had no idea he planned to leave me anything, certainly not $30,100,000.

You see what positive thinking and creative visualizations can accomplish?

Next, I received an urgent email from Mr. Ban Ki-Moon, U.N. Secretary General, informing me that the United Nations had decided to compensate all those unfortunate people who have been scammed by the no-good-niks of the world and that my share would be $2,500,000. I thanked him very kindly and told him I would be delighted to take possession of the ATM card he offered.

You’re probably thinking, “Well, what makes HER so special? Why haven’t I been so blessed?” All I can say is that you’re probably not doing your homework—you’re not yet a believer.

You see, according to Miss Stella Hernanos, whose late father, Johnson Hernanos, was tragically killed when his Air France flight crashed into the Brazilian sea last month, she was directed by Almighty God to present me with an opportunity to be of service to her in retrieving her father’s money. It had been unfortunately held up for want of a foreign partner—$15,700,000 to be exact. Since I was raised by my parents to believe in the Golden Rule, I, of course, sprang into action for this unfortunate young woman and was handsomely rewarded. Really, it was the least I could do.

I have to say that the only time I felt the Universe might have been playing a little trick on me was when Adekunle Elvis, “a computer scientist working with central bank of Nigeria,” came to my door and told me that he had “come across (my) file which was marked X and (my) released disk painted RED and realized that I had paid all fees and yet the fund had still not been released to me,” I grew a bit skeptical. However, when he assured me that all I had to do was obtain the “Anti-drug/terrorist clearance certificate which will be tendered to any of your nominated bank and the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) for clearance of the transferred amount in your account,” I replied, “No problem!” Just for answering my door, I pocketed a tidy $15.5 million! I’ll never doubt the Universe again.

By now, you are probably muttering to yourself, “Well, that’s fine for her, she’s got all this money, but what about me? Who is going to help me?” Well, lucky for you, my parents, the late Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, taught me to share. All you have to do is provide me with your name, address, phone number, bank routing number, social security number, and maiden name (if female), and I’ll get right back to you.

Blessings to you and yours.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

If we weren’t meant to be separate, God wouldn’t have created skin. It keeps our mushy stuff inside and other people outside (unless they are invited in, figuratively and literally). Where my skin starts, everyone else stops, or they should. Sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes I have strange thoughts. When I’m safely alone (and this could be a damn good reason why I AM alone), I let them take me wherever they want on a Bohemian magical mystery tour inside my head. And sometimes those thoughts actually begin to make sense after a while, like the ones about skin.

Romantically speaking, symbiosis can feel good. Boundaries disappear. You blend into me, I blend into you. Two become one, and so on. It can feel safe, warm, and secure, but unless it’s wanted by both parties, it can feel like a violation.

Underneath it all, in spirit, I am sure that we are all interconnected, but there has to be a reason for our identifiable characteristics and individuation, otherwise we would be one pulsing, Java-the-Hutt entity in a self-contained orgy. We are each unique in our own encapsulation, in spite of the humanity we share.

We are also recognizable by how our skin fits on our face and body. I once heard the opinion of a spiritual teacher who dissuaded sexuality and attraction by reminding his students that under everyone’s skin was simply a mass of blood and guts. Great image, I know, but it’s one of those things that stick in your head and it did actually make me nauseous for a while, so I guess it might work if I started to visualize every man I was attracted to skinless. Then again, I have trouble enough with my attraction apparatus, so I need to put the skin back on my guys (who seem to like seeing more of mine).

It’s interesting how we classify people as good-looking or not because of skin and the outer appearance. We’ll deny this, of course. “Oh, but I love his eyes,” we’ll say. Picture him and his beautiful eyes without his skin for a minute.

It is only one elastic organ (yes, the largest), but we put so much emphasis on it. We have firmly ingrained opinions based on the color and the condition of skin.

Some people tattoo and pierce their skin (hopefully theirs is the thick kind) while others spend tens of thousands of dollars to have it stretched, lasered, and poked in a desperate search for a youthful appearance and instead come out looking like an alien-wannabe-human. Some of us would sell our souls to have it look and act like it did when we were young, although we are always shedding our old skin cells all of the time and regenerating new ones, so I still don’t understand why we grow older and wrinkle. Maybe our insides shrink?

Again, judgment follows skin like a five-o’clock shadow. Do you remember the big deal that was made over the untouched Newsweek cover of Sarah Palin that showed pores and facial hair?

Skin accommodates us and stretches and expands without popping, no matter how big we get. It starts out covering our baby body and keeps on growing (sometimes too much). It gets scratched, cut, and burned, and it keeps on healing.

We underestimate this 1.5 mm-thick organ. It can give us incredible pleasure or the most excruciating pain (kind of like love). It can be an indicator of sexual and romantic chemistry (I remember buzzing every time a particular man touched me) and pheromonally speaking, the scent of a person’s bare skin can be intoxicating or enhanced by cologne or perfume. Skin also regulates our body temperature so that we don’t get too hot from all of this.

So what is the real thick and thin of skin? Thin-skinned refers to a person who is emotionally sensitive (I’ve been accused of this). Thick-skinned means that he or she is able to let more go by without reacting to it, like criticism, sticks, stones, shoes, whatever.

But what lies beneath a person’s skin, other than the guru-inspired forensic images mentioned above, is what counts. Values, ethics, feelings, compassion, and personality all live under our skin. Our hearts, souls, and spirits live inside of it.

It should always be a conscious decision as to whom we will invite into our bodies (as women), our hearts, and our minds. Skin serves as a boundary that we have been gifted with and ultimately it is up to us to decide whom we will let get under ours. I believe that we should be very selective in this process and consider what is really under his.

Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

Rex had that look in his eyes. I had seen that look before—it was the look that he had done something bad and knew he was going to get caught.

“Reeeeeeeeeexxx, what did you do? What are you up to? What’s going on? Why that look?”

I had decided to give him four questions, allowing him to answer any one of them. He answered none of

them. He just looked at me with those dark eyes, conveying the message of knowing he was going to get caught and scolded, or worse, maybe cut off from ice cream and Costco pizza for a month.

I fed him his dinner and decided to hunt around for the evidence.

I checked the legs of the kitchen table. On occasion he will lift his leg against a table leg to convey his displeasure with something I’ve done. Nope. Kitchen table legs were dry.

The azalea bushes in the back yard! Bet that was it. On the porch, I surveyed the back yard for signs of disruption. He will frequently rip out a few bushes, especially the azalea bushes, if he finds one of my decisions to be incongruent with his worldview. Bushes were fine. His squeezie toy was pretty tattered, but that was from usual wear and tear.

Maybe he had made another tunnel to Millie’s yard. I have always allowed him two tunnels: his “main” tunnel and a backup tunnel should the main tunnel suffer from collapse or cave-in. In checking the fence line, I found no signs of his undertaking another tunnel project.

Hmmmmmmm. I wandered into the living room again to check the sofa pillows. In the past, when in the process of actively hating me for some indiscretion, he would destroy a sofa pillow. His incisors could lacerate a sofa pillow in the blink of an eye. Once one went missing and was never found. My conclusion: he ate it to hide the evidence. (Once my wheelbarrow went missing, but I couldn’t envision his eating a whole wheelbarrow.)

Later that evening I sat on the couch watching a PBS special (“Rust: Friend or Foe?”). Rex sat in the corner of the living room and continued to look guilty. The sofa legs! Once he had gnawed off an entire sofa leg because I made him wear a rhinestone collar in the Pet Parade. I got down on my hands and knees and checked the remaining three legs—the missing leg having been replaced by a brick. Nope. Nothing amiss. I did find half a dozen dust bunnies, but decided to leave them until my biannual vacuuming.

I also spotted a pair of my underwear under there. That was either a result of my four-keg Fourth of July party, or the lost weekend when Kimmie the CPA brought over those six bottles of tequila. Next to the underwear I noticed a bottle cap and two pairs of handcuffs, so it was probably from the Kimmie incident. (She’s in AA now; I’m still in denial.)

“Rex. Rex, what did you do? I’ve looked everywhere. You don’t look like that unless you’ve done something bad. Fess up.”

Rex did not fess up. He lowered his head, looked up through his eyebrows in a form of canine contrition.

Nothing from Rex except an almost unnoticeable quiver. That worried me. The last time he quivered was the time he pooped on the sofa during the Super Bowl party. That was bad enough, but Stinky Felix didn’t notice it—he doesn’t have a very good sense of smell (neither do I) and he plopped down in the couch smack dab in the middle of it. The scene was very disruptive, and most of my guests left except Kimmie, who was passed out in my bathtub in her underwear.

I checked the spare bedroom before I went to bed. Nothing out of place; the Bowflex, treadmill, weight machine, and the Pilates Reformer all covered in a fine layer of dust from non-use.

“Come on, Rex, let’s head for bed. I’ve got to get up early to help Del and Estelle set up their Amway stall at the flea market. Coming to bed?”

Rex stayed in the living room, which was uncustomary. As I walked around to the nightstand on the far side of my bed to set the alarm clock, I stepped in something that had cooled but was still very wet and slippery.

“RRRRRREEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXX!!!!!!!!”

***

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Dude. Ever notice that LIVE spelled backwards is EVIL? Whoa….

On the lighter side, here’s an exercise from the Grammar Goddesses, a member of who I are. Can you shrink the word Little and correctly punctuate it? We see the word all the time with apostrophes flung anywhere. Hint: An apostrophe is like a mud print left by one or more fleeing letters.

Apostrophes appear in contractions, when is not drops to isn’t or do not shrinks to don’t. Now, some shocking news: Plurals do NOT generally need apostrophes. Yikes!! This may bother some people, but hobos, ballerinas, and anacondas can scamper naked through sentences in all fifty states—legally! Toss in a little ownership and suddenly we’re up to our loofahs in hobos’ pajamas, ballerinas’ tattoos, and anacondas’ knees.

Please don’t leave, I have better material. The Smiths breed llamas and pumas for zoos, but the Nelsons and Joneses remain childless. Looser jeans might help. Anyway, all the plurals are correct! I know you think they don’t look right. Just put down the pen, sir. Slooooowly. Now step back. Easy…I’m here to help.

Forming plurals can be tricky with words that already end in S, such as businesses, princesses, and what’s that other one…oh yeah, feceses. Linguists debate this last plural, so I say we go with poop.

Apostrophes also show ownership, assuming they keep up with the payments. Bill has a tutu. We shorten this to Bill’s tutu. And if Bill owns more than one tutu, we say Bill’s tutus. Tutus—can that be right?? Oh, you betcha! Bill can wear dozens of tutus and needs no apostrophe from anyone. Some might say Bill’s bananas. Do they mean he has bananas? Now why would anyone think he has bananas when we’ve been talking tutus, for pete’s sake! Or do they mean Bill is bananas? Dunno. And with my history, I’m in no position to call anyone bananas.

If we don’t squander apostrophes on plurals, we’ll have oodles left to mark where letters slithered out of other words. Those missing letters are often but not always vowels. We of the literary upper crust refer to this malady as Irritable Vowel Syndrome.

Irritable Vowel Syndrome often afflicts writers, producing cramps in their writing style, bloated paragraphs, and irregular word flow. Writers’ prose may become either so blocked up or so loose that authors dare not leave home. Yes! Writer’s block! Journalists understand that colon motility is linked to vigorous, timely vowel movements. Ergo, respect the colon: dots with clout.

O mine readers, art thou weary of picky grammar rules? Amen, brother! Does thee long for complete words? I hear ya, sister!! Don’t y’all be cryin’ ’n thinkin’ you’re alone, ’cause you ain’t!

What to do? Identify specific triggers for your irritable vowels by learning common possessives and contractions. Plan ahead, allowing extra time for punctuation. Avoid embarrassment by writing short sentences at smaller intervals. When traveling, note the locations of all English teachers. And accommodate those frequent, urgent trips to the pencil sharpener by always choosing an aisle seat.

Okay, amigos, wanna try the high dive? Buffy could of left some potato’s for us, but no. Hmm. Buffy could of?? I think the Buffster could’ve kept her greedy mitts off the potatoes. Also, I wish she’d ’ve aten the apostrophe. To, you know…aid her vowel movements.

We return now to the Little contraction thingy. No, really, ’twill be great fun. What do you mean, this is boring? C’mon, sling them apostropheses!

Oy vey. Im run’n out of patient’s, but were goin to finish this if it kill’s me. Okay, hear go’s! The contraction of Little is: (1) ‘Lil (2) Lil’ (3) ‘Lil’ or …wait! Are you leaving??

Oh hell, let’s change Little to Small and call it a day. Living with irritable vowels is no picnic, and grammar accidents will happen.

’Tis ’nuff, li’l darlin’, to make us all freakin’ cuckoo.

Copyright 2009 by Mary Tompsett

* * *

Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

A Healthy Life

Grandpa John was celebrating his 100th birthday and everybody complimented him on how athletic and well-preserved he appeared. “Gentlemen, I will tell you the secret of my success,” he said. “I have been in the open air day after day for some 75 years now.”

The celebrants were impressed and asked how he managed to keep up his rigorous fitness regime.

“Well, you see, my wife and I were married 75 years ago. On our wedding night, we made a solemn pledge. Whenever we had a fight, the one who was proved wrong would go outside and take a walk.”

Johnny’s Church

Johnny’s mother looked out the window and noticed him “playing church” with their cat. The cat was sitting quietly and he was preaching to it.

She smiled and went about her work.

A while later she heard loud meowing and hissing and ran back to the open window to see Johnny trying to put the cat in a tub of water.

She called out, “Johnny, stop that! The cat is afraid of water!”

Johnny looked up at her and said, “He should have thought about that before the baptism.”

A Father-and-Son Talk

Son: “Is it true, Dad, that in some parts of Africa a man doesn’t know his wife until he marries her?”

Dad: “Actually, that happens in most countries, son.”

Elderly Couple Engagement

Jacob, age 92, and Rebecca, age 89, living in Florida, are excited about their decision to get married. They go for a stroll to discuss the wedding, and on the way they pass a drugstore. They decide to go in.

Jacob addresses the man behind the counter: “Are you the owner?”

The pharmacist answers, “Yes.”

Jacob: “We’re about to get married. Do you sell heart medication?”

Pharmacist: “Of course we do.”

Jacob: “How about medicine for circulation?”

Pharmacist: “All kinds.”

Jacob: “Medicine for rheumatism?”

Pharmacist: “Definitely.”

Jacob: “How about suppositories?”

Pharmacist: “You bet!”

Jacob: “Medicine for memory problems, arthritis, and Alzheimer’s?”

Pharmacist: “Yes, a large variety. The works.”

Jacob: “What about vitamins, sleeping pills, Geritol?”

Pharmacist: “Absolutely.”

Jacob: “Everything for heartburn and indigestion?”

Pharmacist: “We sure do.”

Jacob: “You sell wheelchairs and walkers and canes?”

Pharmacist: “All speeds and sizes.”

Jacob: “Adult diapers?”

Pharmacist: “Sure.”

Jacob conferred briefly with Rebecca, then addressed the pharmacist. “We’d like to use this store for our Bridal Registry.”

Bingo

“Let’s go to bingo!”

“Um. Okay.”

I didn’t know that young people could play bingo. I thought there was an age minimum, a picture of grandma reading, “You must be this old to enter building.”

As we pulled into the church parking lot, I wondered how gambling fit into the scripture. And what it had to do with the farmer’s dog. And why the woman beside me had shown up in curlers. Did bingo catch her unawares? I mean, at that point you may as well carry a toothbrush.

Regulars bided their time with raffle tickets, scratchers, odds on the trifecta…

“Do you have a dabber?” said the cashier.

“Isn’t that a personal question?”

She pointed to the dabbers in the cafe, where they sold hot dogs, nachos—any number of foods that aren’t useful to your body. I bought a pink dabber for my teammate, Yahaira, which meant that I’d have pink bangs before the night was over.

Across the table, a frizzy woman played 16 cards at once. I don’t know what she was on—I’m not a pharmacist—but she muttered to herself as might a small animal if it had the power of speech. I was afraid that if she didn’t hit a bingo soon, she’d jump onto the table and rob us all at gunpoint.

The bingomaster announced the first game: Winnemucca on the brown four-on. “You’ll need a hardway bingo on three of the four cards.”

I looked for explanation to Yahaira, who said, “And Bingo was his name-o.”

The bingomaster called numbers quickly before the natives could organize against him. I was still looking for my “brown four-on” when a woman screamed, “BINGO!”

Three hundred people cursed the winner with her stupid little … rabbit feet. A bingo marshal verified her numbers, and the caller displayed the “crying ball” so that people could get more angry. One man said horrible things about Gosh.

Yahaira placed a spell on our sheets to will us a victory. Her shaman’s dance ended with pink dabber on my forehead. So it goes.

As the night wore on, I became known as Mr. One-Away. The word “bingo” made my stomach knot up and knuckles turn white. And in the midst of the torment, I realized something: You’ve either got the winning card or you don’t. Why turn it into a striptease? We could draw numbers out of a hat and save me the ulcer.

Same thing with slot machines: Instead of cherries and sevens, why not little messages: “You win.” “You lose.” “Go home.” “Get help.”

By night’s end I was out eighty bucks, which is fine because I was just going to blow that money on food and shelter anyway. I’m not old enough to cross dabbers with women who scan 16 cards at once like Robocop. And every time they scream “bingo,” a little part inside me dies.

So I gave up bingo in favor of more familiar forms of gambling, beginning with hot dogs and nachos.

* * *

Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

Paula Poundstone is one of the top comedians of her generation. A brilliant standup comic who tours regularly across the country, her spontaneity with the audience has become the stuff of legend. We talked with her on a “chaotic” morning involving a plumber, a sick cat, and the whirlwind of activity that precedes the sending of a child off to camp. Nevertheless, she patiently answered our questions with the charming amiability that is a hallmark of her performances. Following are highlights from our interview. For the full interview, go to www.foolishtimes.net. Be sure to visit Paula’s website at www.paulapoundstone.com.

FT: When did you know you wanted to be a comedian? Was there a particular moment or event?

Paula: The first sentence of the summary paragraph written by my kindergarten teacher in May of 1965 says, “I have enjoyed many of Paula’s humorous comments about our activities.”

FT: And that kind of did it for you, right there?

Paula: I was definitely impacted by it. I loved the fact that an adult responded to my sense of humor. … Growing up I loved comedy shows. Dick van Dyke and “I Love Lucy” and the Three Stooges and on and on. Mary Tyler Moore, Lily Tomlin. I think I wanted to be Carol Burnett. But I’m not. One of my regrets of my career—and it’s been a lovely career, and I’ve been lucky to do this for 30 years—is that I never did ensemble stuff or character stuff. I sort of wish I had been Carol Burnett in that way, on TV or SNL or something. On the other hand, there is no place else I would rather be than with my children or on stage telling my jokes.

FT: So you’re living your ideal life.

Paula: I actually am. The only difficulty, and it’s the only difficulty every parent faces, is striking that balance. For example, in terms of work, you kind of have to take what you got when you got it, so some weeks I’m home all week, and then a week will come up when I have to be gone three nights, which doesn’t happen very often, but that part is hard. Make sure you’re paying the rent. My job, I find if you don’t do it, you get kind of rusty.

FT: When did you realize that you had this talent for interacting with your audience? Was it something you stumbled on or something you were forced into at a particular point?

Paula: Definitely forced into. Because I have a terrible memory. So from the very start I would plan my goofy five minutes, when I would go to do open-mike nights, and I would go onstage and invariably within a few seconds go blank. Or be distracted by something in front of me. I lock on an audience member’s face or something at their table, and everybody at a nightclub is competing in a way, with the waitresses walking through the room bringing the food and the drinks and the ordering, so you never have everybody’s attention in that setting. So I would get distracted by the waitresses or whatever. And then I would talk to them for a minute, and then I’d be like, I don’t know where I am! And so I really was forced to improvise, if I can use such a highfalutin word, or make stuff up, or have a genuine interaction with the people in front of me. I thought this was terrible, that I was making a big, unprofessional mistake. … I can’t remember what point I figured out, No, no, no, that’s the good part.

FT: The part where you’re enjoying it as much as the audience is.

Paula: Yeah. I really do have such great crowds. Which isn’t to say that every word out of my mouth is a gem or brilliant, that isn’t true at all, but the people I stumble on are often just really fun to talk to. I tend to find out stuff about the community and the area I’m in. There’s a certain sense of where you are and who you’re talking to, and on a good night I might have three, four, five people I have engaged and the wind section and the percussion and the strings and I just sort of bring them up when I need to or where it seems appropriate. Works out good.

FT: You came out of the Boston comedy scene of the late 70s and early 80s. What has been the biggest change in the art of standup since then?

Paula: I tell you, the biggest change I saw happened before I came on the scene. Which is Robin Williams. I hold him almost singularly personally responsible for both my career and that of others. I mean, he really reignited the country’s interest in the form of standup comedy. He was certainly not the first standup comic, there were brilliant people who went before him and long before me, but he became wildly popular. … And because he had this boundless energy, and showed up everywhere and spread this fire of enthusiasm for standup comedy, what happened was, while people were waiting for him, or interested in seeing him, the rest of us went on stage. And people would say, “Oh, that guy’s funny too.” But they would never come out to see us as their inspiration. So in this way I really feel like he changed the face of things.

FT: One of the projects you have going right now is that you’re a regular panelist on NPR’s “Wait, Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” and I was wondering what attracted you to the show.

Paula: They called me, sent me a tape of the show. It sounded really funny and fun, and when I first started, we had a show where we were all in studios, not even in the same room at the time. Peter [Sagal] was in Chicago, and that’s where the brains of the operation is, and I would go to the studio here in L.A., and we were all hooked up via wire, and there was no live audience. Which I kind of marvel at today because, to me, the audience is such the main player in the show. They invited me to come to the show, and I did it and loved it. It’s a perfect venue for me. It’s sort of like being a batter in the batting cage. I just sort of get lobbed topics, current topics, all night long and I have the opportunity to make jokes about them. And again, I consider myself unbelievably lucky. That they happened to ask me. It’s become, I think, a successful partnership for both of us.

FT: You recently released your first CD [I HEART JOKES: Paula Tells Them In Maine] and I was curious, did you purposely avoid comedy recordings or was it something you just recently wanted to do?

Paula: Quite honestly, I was never quite sure it would be profitable, or that I had anything that was worth doing that with. The venue in Maine where I did it, they had a great recording engineer and a great setup for doing it, they asked me, and in the end it was totally effortless for me. I just went and told my jokes. And the recording engineer and my manager took care of the rest. I worked with a spectacular crowd in Maine when we were making the recording, so that was nice.

FT: I just finished reading your book [There’s Nothing In This Book That I Meant To Say], which was really great. A lot of people probably don’t realize you’re a talented writer as well as comedian.

Paula: That’s so sweet of you to say. A lot of comics, when they do books, they just write their acts. And although I could have done that—I’m not sure I have enough jokes to do it, frankly, although I could have done that—I wanted to do something that had more meaning for me. So my book is a series of biographies of towering historic figures, and in the telling of their stories I tell my own. … I felt goofy writing about myself. I thought, “If I were to try to write about Abraham Lincoln, I would not be able to shut up about myself.” So he was my first test subject. There was also a series of kids’ books at that time—still are out—that are brilliant. The first one, I think, was If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. And you gave the mouse a cookie and it reminded him to ask for something else. So you give him a cookie and he wants some milk. So you give him some milk and he thinks of his uncle on the farm and he wants to write him a letter, so you give him something to write a letter. So my book is a mixture of history and If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. And it was really fun to do.

FT: Do any of your three children [Toshia, Allison, and Thomas E.] express an interest in show business?

Paula: No. They really don’t. Which I think is good. Personally, I have no investment in what they do, other than that it be productive and fulfilling, but so far nobody has thought in that direction. They’re a little bit charmed by what I do, but they also see it as a job. “Mommy has to go to work.” I try to keep from them the fact that it’s actually fun.

FT: What’s the latest cat count at the Poundstone household?

Paula: You know what? We are up to twelve. Except for the one sick right now, so it’s eleven and a half. We’re hoping he pulls through. Giving him liquids even as we speak.

FT: In your opinion, what’s the hardest—standup, writing, or motherhood?

Paula: Motherhood. Hands down. It may just be the thing I’m most poorly equipped for, I don’t know. It has something in common with standup, which is the ride can be really rough. It can be exhilarating and you think, I got this! Something good has come of this! I got it figured out! And then, 20 minutes later, you’re struck down in the prime of your life. I did a show a few weeks ago. Now in my defense, I had the flu, and I was at the tail end of it, and I thought I was getting well. But I went and did a show for the LA Press Club, and it was horrible. I bombed in the classic sense of the word. And I hated myself. I’ve been doing this for 30 years. And there’s a point where you just go on and you’re standing on top of that 30 years of experience and so bombing is just not possible. But in fact that doesn’t happen. Every night it could go well or could not go well. Every night. There are a lot of elements that go into it. So in that way standup is very, very similar.

FT: Does Hep Cat still answer questions?

Paula: Hep? Yes, she does still answer questions.

FT: Okay, we have a question here from a cat in Monterey. He’s wondering if catnip should be legalized in California for medicinal purposes.

Paula: [laughs] Heppy actually hosted a rave for catnip a couple of nights ago. We came home from a friend’s house after dinner and there was catnip all over the kitchen floor. Distributed itself into other rooms as well. And all the cats were lying around.

FT: Sounds like an opium den or something.

Paula: Yeah, it really was bad business. Although Hep is clearly in support of legalizing nip, she feels it should be done with an eye of caution.

Paula Poundstone will be performing live onstage at Golden State Theatre on September 12, 2009, at 8:00 p.m. For tickets, visit www.goldenstatetheatre.com or call 831-372-3800.

Comebacks to Pickup Lines

Man: Haven’t I seen you someplace before?

Woman: Yes, that’s why I don’t go there anymore.

Man: Is this seat empty?

Woman: Yes, and this one will be if you sit down.

Man: Your place or mine?

Woman: Both. You go to yours, and I’ll go to mine.

Man: So, what do you do for a living?

Woman: I’m a female impersonator.

Man: Hey baby, what’s your sign?

Woman: “Do not enter.”

Man: How do you like your eggs in the morning?

Woman: Unfertilized.

Man: Your body is like a temple.

Woman: Sorry, there are no services today.

Man: I would go to the end of the world for you.

Woman: But would you stay there?

You’re Drinking Too Much Coffee When…

You ski uphill.

You speed walk in your sleep.

You answer the door before people knock.

You sleep with your eyes open.

You just completed your third sweater today, and you don’t know how to knit.

You grind your coffee beans in your mouth.

You have to watch videos in fast-forward.

The only time you’re standing still is in an earthquake.

You lick your coffee pot clean.

Your eyes stay open when you sneeze.

The nurse needs a scientific calculator to take your pulse.

You can type sixty words a minute with your feet.

You don’t sweat, you percolate.

People get dizzy just watching you.

People can test their batteries in your ears.

Your birthday is a national holiday in Brazil.

Your Thermos is on wheels.

You can outlast the Energizer Bunny.

You don’t even wait for the water to boil anymore.

You don’t tan, you roast.

You soak your dentures in coffee overnight.

You think CPR stands for “Coffee Provides Resuscitation.”

The Male Point System

In the world of romance, one single rule applies: Make the woman happy.

Do something she likes, and you get points.

Do something she dislikes, and points are subtracted.

You don’t get any points for doing something she expects. Sorry, that’s the way the game is played.

Here’s a guide to the point system.

SIMPLE DUTIES

You make the bed (+1)

You make the bed, but forget to add the decorative pillows (0)

You throw the bedspread over rumpled sheets (-1)

You leave the toilet seat up (-5)

You replace the toilet-paper roll when it’s empty (0)

When the toilet-paper roll is barren, you resort to Kleenex (-1)

When the Kleenex runs out, you shuffle slowly to the next bathroom (-2)

You go out to buy her spring-fresh extra-light panty liners with wings (+5)

But return with beer (-5)

You check out a suspicious noise at night (0)

You check out a suspicious noise and it’s nothing (0)

You check out a suspicious noise and it’s something (+5)

You pummel it with a six iron (+10)

It’s her father (-20)

SOCIAL ENGAGEMENTS

You stay by her side the entire party (0)

You stay by her side for a while, then leave to chat with a college buddy (-2)

Named Tiffany (-4)

Who is a dancer (-6)

And was Homecoming Queen (-8)

HER BIRTHDAY

You take her out to dinner (0)

You take her out to dinner and it’s not a sports bar (+1)

Okay, it is a sports bar (-2)

And it’s all-you-can-eat night (-3)

It’s a sports bar, it’s all-you-can-eat night, and your face is painted the colors of your favorite team (-10)

A NIGHT OUT WITH THE BOYS

Go out with a pal (-5)

And the pal is happily married (-4)

Or frighteningly single (-7)

And he drives a Lotus (-10)

A NIGHT OUT

You take her to a movie (+2)

You take her to a movie she likes (+4)

You take her to a movie you hate (+6)

You take her to a movie you like (-2)

It’s called DeathCop3 (-3)

You lied and said it was a foreign film about orphans (-15)

YOUR PHYSIQUE

You develop a noticeable potbelly (-15)

You develop a noticeable potbelly and exercise to get rid of it (+10)

You develop a noticeable potbelly and resort to loose jeans and baggy Hawaiian shirts (-30)

You say “I don’t care because you have one too” (-800)

SHE ASKS, “DO I LOOK FAT?”

You hesitate in responding (-10)

You reply, “Where?” (-35)

COMMUNICATION

When she wants to talk about a problem, you listen, displaying what looks like a concerned expression (0)

When she wants to talk, you listen, for over 30 minutes (+5)

You listen for more than 30 minutes without looking at the TV (+10)

She realizes this is because you’ve fallen asleep (-20)

Q & A

Q: What is the one thing all men at singles bars have in common?

A: They’re married.

Q: What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is every night?

A: A widow.

Q: Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring, and good-looking?

A: They already have boyfriends.

Q: How many honest, intelligent, caring men in the world does it take to do the dishes?

A: Both of them.

Q: Why does it take a million sperm to fertilize one egg?

A: They don’t stop and ask for directions.

Q: How does a man show that he is planning for the future?

A: He buys two cases of beer.

Q: What is the difference between men and government bonds?

A: The bonds mature.

Q: Why are blonde jokes so short?

A: So men can remember them.

Q: How many men does it take to change a roll of toilet paper?

A: Don’t know; hasn’t happened.

Q: What do they call a woman who works as hard as a man?

A: Lazy.

Exercise Is Bad. Enough Said.

There’s a bike in my basement. A big, full-sized 10-speed bicycle with tires that still hold air and a clip that would hold a water bottle if I hadn’t lost it. There was a little dust on the bicycle, sure. But it wasn’t like it had a banana seat and a big flowery basket on the front. It was only a few years old.

And it was calling to me.

Summer’s an odd time when those highly respected in your life—sitcoms, doctors, your family, commercials, strange voices in your head—encourage you to do something as alien to today’s American as not going to the drive-through at McDonald’s. They want you to exercise.

At one point in my life, I exercised and I liked it. I had a weight bench, I could run three miles without once stopping for a beer, and I looked like one of those guys who doesn’t look like me.

Then things like my job, the riding lawnmower, and lunchtime naps got in the way. Now I get winded walking to the car. Hey, for your information, there are four steps on my porch. Four.

Walking into the basement, I heard a noise. A slight noise, but it was a noise. The bike was laughing at me. Buckling to the popular opinion that exercise is actually good for you, I pulled the laughing bicycle out of the basement and started riding it every morning.

I used to love bicycling. As a kid, I’d ride all over town and not break a sweat. Now, as I looked at yet another hill, its 45-degree incline hazy from all the sweat in my eyes, I realized two things were different than when I was a kid: 1) my hometown was flat, and this town was as flat as Machu Picchu; and 2) at 43, there’s a whole lot more wheezing involved in riding a bike than I remember. It must have something to do with the air quality.

OK, so I guess I actually realized three things—I now know why serious cyclists stand while they pedal. I always figured it had something to do with using your body weight to generate more speed. Nope, that’s just a side benefit. Cyclists stand because their butts hurt. Whenever you’re forced to drive slowly on a busy highway because you’re stuck behind a line of cyclists, don’t get mad. Just smile and wave as you pass, content in the knowledge that each one of these cyclists has hemorrhoids.

Later, rasping like a sailor in a downed sub, I lie on my living room floor wondering why it looked like the ceiling fan was giving me the finger. I would have been upright, but my knees were no longer up to the whole standing thing.

I wondered, in my pool of sweat, why people say it feels good to exercise. I didn’t feel good. Heck, I didn’t even feel good enough to feel bad. And then it came to me. Oh, it might have been because of the lack of oxygen to my brain, but it seemed clear enough at the time—exercise cannot be good for you. The sweat, the pain, the time wasted on walking tracks when you could have been eating fried chicken. Yeah. Something was wrong.

If exercise isn’t good for you, what else have sitcoms, doctors, your family, commercials, strange voices in your head, been lying about all these years? The dangers of red meat? Smoking? Sugar? Is it all a great conspiracy from the vitamin/Bowflex/exercise video cartels to keep the American public sweaty, sleepy, and exhausted? Yes. We can’t revolt if we can’t stand.

People, listen up—drop the yogurt, get off that treadmill, light up a Lucky Strike, and head to Dairy Queen. Then, after your burger and fries settle and you cuddle up to the dessert menu, I want you to tell me which feels better, a morning of searing muscle pain or chocolate-laced ice cream.

We’re on to you, Big Brother. Oh, yeah, we’re on to you, and we Americans will never be sweaty again.

* * *

Jason Offutt is an award-winning humorist who also writes stuff scary enough you’ll wet your pants. You can get Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at www.amazon.com.

After a lifetime of toting around a big, heavy purse, I have been liberated. No, my purse was not stolen. I just realized how heavy it is and wondered what I could do to lighten the load.

Nearly all women carry purses. Some are the size of a small suitcase and could really use wheels. It’s a wonder we don’t break our backs. In my case, my knees are going bad and any extra weight I can get rid of is a good thing.

Why do we carry all this junk around? Are we so afraid that we won’t have essentials that we burden ourselves down with too many non-essentials?

We tote around wallets with cards for every appointment we will ever have, not to mention credit cards, driver’s license, insurance cards, AAA card, membership cards, discount cards, and business cards.

We have makeup, hairspray, lotion, hand wipes, comb, lipstick, hairbrush, manicure set, band-aids, Kleenex, and makeover equipment for a bad hair day.

There is the cell phone, change purse, address book, keys to everything we own, and photos of all the kids and grandkids.

No wonder those purses weigh in over the luggage limit.

Are we really going to have an emergency that requires all this equipment every time we leave the house? If not, why are we carrying around an emergency toolbox?

Let it go, I decided.

It was hard. I love my stuff just like every other woman. Deciding what I need and what I can leave at home is difficult. However, something had to be done. I could not continue to tote around a cosmetic counter, reference library, emergency room, and family photo album.

I took a small zipper purse, added money, a credit card, driver’s license, insurance cards, a car key, and cell phone. It would all fit in a pocket.

That’s it? That’s all I need?

Yes, it is. If I need a makeover, I can do it at home. My cell phone has all the vital info in electronic form. The likelihood that I will die of thirst if I don’t carry my own bottled water is really not very likely. I probably won’t go anywhere that I can’t get out of the rain, so why do I need a rain bonnet or poncho?

It felt funny at first, almost frightening. After a while, I realized that I didn’t use 99% of the stuff anyhow. And the very few times I did need something was not worth the trouble of dragging it around unused for an entire lifetime.

How many times have you actually whipped out that handy sewing kit to fix something? If you are that paranoid, carry a safety pin. I promise you, it will be years before you need it and you could probably buy one even then.

So, that’s it. I’m liberated from purses. I’m hands-free and light as a feather. So far I’ve not had a panic attack when I needed something that was at home. I waited or found a substitute.

Could someone loan me some change now? I need to feed the parking meter.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Try to Make It to the Couch

Journal entry: April 22, 1977 (age 7)

This was a perfect Saturday morning. As usual, I was the first one up. I sat in front of the big TV in the basement with a bowl of sugar, milk, and Special K cereal (in descending order by volume). I had Wonderama and Scooby-Doo all to myself. My 9-year-old brother, Dan, woke up and joined me by the time The Super Friends came on, but since he had not been there first, he was not “in charge” of the TV. This precedent had been negotiated at the West End Avenue Bunk Bed Summit of 1976.

But the arrival of Soul Train at noon signaled that the idyll of the little ones was drawing to a close. My brothers John and Bob, ages 17 and 15, arrived on the scene and took control of both the TV and their younger siblings. The channel was changed to a kung fu movie. Furniture was rearranged, creating a kind of shag coliseum. It was time to engage in John and Bob’s favorite pastime. It was time to play “Try to Make It to the Couch.”

The rules were quite simple. John and Bob would get on their knees and form a human wall in front of the couch. Dan and I would then, well, try to make it to the couch. This basically entailed flinging ourselves at our much larger brothers and clawing, climbing, and wrestling our way around, over, or through them. Their role, on the bigger hand, was to crush us. It was not much of a contest. An onlooker would have been reminded of twin King Kongs swatting at tiny, ineffectual airplanes. And in this case, if Kong fell, he would fall on top of his attackers.

The TV mapped out the game’s play and rest periods. When a show was on, John and Bob would watch it. Dan and I would be dispatched to get snacks and beverages for them. But the moment a commercial came on, everything was dropped, and “play” resumed. Participation in Try to Make It to the Couch was mandatory. The even grimmer alternative involved a storm of fists and tickling. At least the game offered the faint hope of reaching the cushioned sanctuary that lay beyond JohnBob Mountain.

In today’s game, Dan became the family’s first younger brother ever to make it to the couch. Bob had sneezed, allowing Dan to step on his head and vault to victory. Dan’s face flushed with joy and rug burn as he jumped up and down on the couch. From my compromised vantage point in John’s armpit, I let out a muffled, vicarious yelp of triumph. For a few blissful moments, the older Mollens seemed dazed. They had never contemplated this outcome.

Then John lifted me into the air, dumped me on the cushion next to Dan, and nudged Bob. Within seconds, we all understood the rules for a new game in the Mollen Basement Olympics: Try to Make It Off the Couch.

A bear walks into a bar.

He goes up to the bartender and says,

“Can I have a large gin and . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . tonic?”

The bartender replies,

“Sure, but what’s with the big pause?”

The bear, looking hurt, holds up his paws and says,

“What do you mean? I’m a bear!”

A quick glance at the news on Yahoo.com yesterday and I noticed something truly amazing. It seems that a highly esteemed group of eggheads at UCLA has discovered a 13 million-digit prime number. That’s right. By harnessing the power of many hardly used computers around the globe, this gang of hardcore mathematicians has unearthed this unbelievable number.

For those of you who don’t already know, prime numbers are those that are only divisible by themselves and the number 1. Three, 7, and 11 are some of the smaller ones. The higher you go, the harder it is to prove. Therein lies the accomplishment. A prime number of such gargantuan size was previously unheard of in the world of mathematics. Now, thanks to this group in California, a new benchmark has been achieved. It is truly a great day in American history.

Some of you may think our precious computing resources might be better utilized on more relevant projects. Shrinking the national deficit, creating an alternative fuel source, or even figuring out which really did come first, the chicken or the egg, might rank a tad bit higher on your “to do” list. Obviously, you have your priorities out of whack. These other problems are merely temporary. This is history we’re talking about. It’s that big.

By being the first to find this diamond in the rough, these bright young minds have positioned themselves well to receive a $100,000 prize. The money, awarded by the EFF (which I believe stands for Enormous Flushing of Funding) will undoubtedly be used to help them find the next big one. Seems like they’re caught up in a never-ending cycle of uselessness to me.

Now I don’t want to get everyone too excited, but I’ve also gotten wind that this 13 million-digit mega number is going to be published early next year. Being a bit of a math geek myself, I can’t wait to see it. I have crunched a few numbers and discovered that if the average word has eight letters, and there are roughly four hundred words to a page, this behemoth number would take up 4,062.5 pages (without commas).

I hear they’re going to offer it in volumes, making it easier (or actually possible) for people to lift. I’ll have to toss out the old Encyclopedia Britannica set to make room, but man, will it be worth it. I can’t wait to see my four-year-old son’s face when we cuddle up to read at bedtime. It’s like The Never Ending Story, only with numbers. He’s going to be so excited.

What really strikes me about the whole future-altering discovery is how much time they spent discovering such a thing in the first place. They could have easily published a different 13 million-digit number at random (a feat in and of itself) and passed it off as being prime. After all, who would ever know the difference? Nobody else out there is piggybacking computing power from the Internet in an effort to find it. Nobody else really cares, either. We’re all too busy wondering how high gas is going to go and which country will be the first one blown off the map in WW III.

With the $100,000 uncontested prize firmly in their grasp, maybe they could redirect some of that brainpower to more relevant projects. For instance, nobody knows with mathematical certainty which email program is better, Yahoo, Hotmail, or the trendy new Gmail from Google. Isn’t there some kind of computer-based algorithm that could be used to figure it out? Right now I’m just guessing and it’s driving me mad.

Also, we still don’t know how many individual grains of sand are on the average beach. How’s a guy supposed to enjoy the ocean like that? And for the love of humanity, would it be too much to ask that they figure out exactly when the Earth is coming to an end? Seriously.

Obviously, there are more important things these brainiacs could be doing with their time. But the biggest prime number the world has ever known is not without benefit. No, it is not the secret to unlocking lightning-fast Internet speed. Nor does it hold the key to running cars on seawater, creating world peace, or inhabiting the moon.

What prime numbers do provide, however, is the backbone that allows encrypted data to travel across the Internet securely. To you and me, that means we can buy stuff from Amazon.com and not worry that someone will steal our credit card number. So, to be fair, prime numbers serve their purpose. I’m just not sure we need one 13 million digits long to get the job done.

With all the challenges we are facing as a nation these days, it is encouraging to see we haven’t lost sight of our priorities. As the world grows stranger by the day, we as Americans are proudly stating that we will not go quietly into the night. We will prevail. If there is something insignificant, irrelevant, or otherwise completely uninteresting, we will spare nothing to find it. Those who thought the United States’ days as a global superpower were numbered had better think again. And they had better start thinking in prime numbers.

***

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An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

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