Where, oh, where do they all come from? I work during the week, and presumed that everyone else did too. From the looks of the Interstate in the morning going into the city, the whole world commutes to downtown.

Imagine my surprise the other day when I took a day off work and had to make a trip to the local Wal-Mart. Everyone will be at work, I thought. The place will be empty. I’ll park at the front and run in and grab what I need in no time.

Wrong, wrong, oh, so wrong! The place was packed! It was almost as bad as it is on Saturday.

I was off work because I had a sick daughter. They can’t all have sick daughters! What’s their excuse? Who are these people and why are they not at work?

Well, I suppose some of them might be retired. That could explain the older folks that I saw. Really, it didn’t seem as if I saw that many seniors, though. Who are the rest of them?

Could they be women who don’t work outside the home? Housewives? But 50% of all women do work. Surely the entire population of the world that does not work could not have decided to come to Wal-Mart at the same time.

Maybe these people were on vacation? That’s not likely. Why would you spend your vacation at Wal-Mart? It’s not like it’s Disney World.

Could they be home from work because they’re sick? If you’re sick, why aren’t you at home in bed?

Who are these people?

I suppose not everyone in the world works a 9-5 job. Some people work shifts and are off during the day. But at least a third of the shift workers are sleeping during the day. That means only one-third of them could even think about going to Wal-Mart at that hour.

Maybe it is people who ARE working, or are supposed to be. Maybe they have jobs flexible enough to allow them to shop while at work. Must be nice. Hope they don’t run into their boss or they will have plenty of time to shop—maybe more than they want.

Speaking of which, I suppose some people are unemployed. I know the unemployment rate is higher than ever. Even if you are unemployed and don’t have any money, I suppose you have to buy a few things.

Some people are disabled and cannot work. I see them riding around in three-wheel carts. A few might be on welfare or in some sort of government program that provides support too. Some could be college students who are not in class all day.

Some people are self-employed and can do what they want to do. However, unless they are buying something for the business, I still need to question their motivation for shopping instead of working.

Maybe they are all independently wealthy and don’t have to work. Yeah, right, and that’s why they are at Wal-Mart instead of Neiman Marcus.

Now that I think of it, someone has to be shopping during the day or else the stores would be closed. It must be an assortment of people who keep the stores almost as crammed during the day as they are on the weekend.

I just had the idea that no one would be there because I am never home to see the day people, those who do not have to cram living into the weekend.

The shock of it all.

There is life out there while I’m at work. The world goes right on without me at a rip-snorting pace. They don’t know I’m elsewhere slaving away and don’t even miss me. They go right on living as if I don’t exist.

Come to think of it, I don’t miss them either.

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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.”

Comedy Blackout at Friendly’s

Journal entry: July 8, 1989 (age 20)

Today was the hottest day of the summer, and the Friendly’s Restaurant on the Vestal Parkway was jammed. I was manning my usual station at the cash register, where I act as head cashier and host. I say “manning,” despite the fact that I am forced to stand in front of a large sign that says, “Welcome! Hostess will seat you.”

The heat of a summer Saturday night brought out a surly mob of Fribble addicts. Our maximum capacity is 75 people, so the line at the door took on the character of the outside of Studio 54, circa 1978. Outfits were judged, names were dropped, and money was exchanged. This was the place to be tonight.

But the wait in the buggy dampness soured the customers’ moods before they sat down. As I seated each party, my corporate pleasantries were met with a stony silence. Occasionally, I caught a muttered “wassup,” but most people just dispensed with formalities and started wordlessly pointing at pictures of brownie sundaes, their mouths open in a state of heat-exhausted anticipation.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

The entire parkway was lost in a blackout. It was 9:30 p.m., so the restaurant was now completely dark. For several minutes, a hush fell over the patrons. People were whispering, as though they were up past their bedtime at a sleepover. One patron was enjoying his hot fudge sundae a bit too audibly, leading to murmurs about manners, barnyards and feedbags. But the prevailing sound was silence. No one seemed to know what the proper etiquette is when you are in a crowded public place that has unexpectedly gone completely black.

When the lights finally came back on, the silence held. Realizing that I was the only person in the room who was standing, I suddenly felt very conspicuous. With the eyes of a hundred strangers on me, I instinctively looked down at my chest, threw up my arms, and yelled, “MY JEWELS! They’ve been stolen!”

Having seen many Batman episodes and Charlie Chan movies, it seemed like the thing to do. But the deepening silence in the room told me otherwise. A few people looked at me quizzically, and slowly everyone turned their attention back to their waffle cones. Hot fudge guy returned his face to the bottom of his ice cream trough.

I looked to my co-worker and friend, Gretchen Phelps, for some kind of support. If ever a guy needed a sympathy laugh, it was now. She walked past, with her eyebrows raised archly, and said, “Nice one, Tim.”

I was completely alone in a crowded room, wearing a nametag. It’s going to be a long summer.

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Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

Ever face the unthinkable? I imagine it happens at least once in everyone’s life. For me, the unthinkable almost happened the October of my daughter’s first-grade year: I almost lost my Halloween spirit.

I deem this unthinkable because I have always loved Halloween. I don’t mean that I found it amusing or a great way to collect junk food; I mean that I LUUUUVVED it. The thrill continues unabated in spite of the gray hair and crow’s feet, making the reprise of a witch costume easier every year. The source of this affection remains unknown to me, but I see no need to ask questions. I should spend as much time on my child’s costume as my own, but I’m fortunate to have an ingratiating family.

So what almost killed a love so deep? It all began with a well-intentioned trip to the pumpkin patch.

October’s end was around the corner, and we’d yet to have any decent weather for said venture. I had a favorite local farm stand when it came to cider: Westmill Farm. Let the record show that Halloween is the only time I ever throw over a dry martini for apple cider; truer love has never been found. I had to hit Westmill’s for my cider, so I thought we might as well go there for our pumpkins and autumn entertainment.

For a fleeting moment I was overcome with intelligence, and elected to investigate the extent of their offerings. I called Westmill’s and talked with a lady who assured me they had hayrides. They had pumpkin picking. They didn’t just have a maze; they had FOUR mazes: a stone maze, a nautical rope maze, a corn labyrinth (excellent—a MAIZE maze), and a haystack maze. A bag of popcorn came with the price of your admission. Thinking I had just scored the proverbial Halloween coup, I could hear my batwing socks squeaking from my bureau. Then it happened: that sinking moment when one is exposed to the fine print and particulars.

The mazes, she added, were not open during the week; only weekends. This made it tough to wrangle up some Moms and No-Longer-Tots for an after-SCHOOL outing. The mazes and hayrides were not even open to bus groups during the week. (I didn’t have a bus handy, but I just had to know.) These things weren’t even open mid-week in the last week of October. At $8/head, with a peak season of only six weeks, forgive me if the marketing genius of this policy completely escaped me.

The best part was the warmth of the conversation. This Party-On-The-Other-End-Of-The-Line was at least three Krabbie Patties over the limit. She interrupted me incessantly, with a rudeness that would make a DMV agent consider an Insolence Refresher Course. My baser side wanted to say, “You know, where I come from, your pitiful farm would be considered Westmill Garden, OK? Maybe even Westmill Window Box.” (What can I say? Alliteration just jazzes me.) I took the high road on that point, but I did get in a zinger or two before all was said and done. The gods of fair play were smiling upon me; my morning coffee buzz had almost worn off, and my short fuse had me in fine sparring mode.

When I finally succeeded in cutting off her interruptions, I blurted out my final question: “IF I only come with three or four kids, what do you have that they can do?”

“NOTHING,” she said.

“Nothing?” I gasped.

“NOTHING,” she droned.

“They can’t pick pumpkins?”

“NO; that’s part of the hayride. Well, they can pick pumpkins off the lot here at the store,” she graciously offered. Is that like buying clothes off the rack, I wondered? I do that all the time. Sorry, I’m not buying your old generic pumpkins when you refuse to let me pick the Prada ones.

It spiraled down the slippery slope from there. Suffice it to say, we picked our pumpkins elsewhere in first grade. We went back to Arwell Farm, home of happy Halloweens past and a simpler way of life. The hayride was bumpy, but my painkiller saw me through. We picked pumpkins from the field and off the rack. We even hit the wooden sets for picture-taking. How could I have forgotten that little touch? My favorite will always be the Bridezilla with cleavage for which many a woman would kill. I’m still trying to figure that one out—though it looks great on me.

It wasn’t a crisp, bright autumn Friday; it was rainy, cold, and hip-deep with mud. You could feel the breath of November as the sun laid itself to rest. Still, my spirits weren’t dampened; they were born anew, lit from within like my daughter’s carved creations. There’s definitely satisfaction in surviving sabotage.

As for the “lady” at Westmill’s? Rumor has it she’s left a trail of broken Halloween spirits as wide as Smith County itself. But mine will never be counted among them. I may have briefly stumbled once, but in the end, nobody hijacks my Halloween.

Copyright 2009 Denise Aisling

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Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader when she’s not freelance writing, singing with her church choir, or volunteering at her daughter’s grammar school. For Ms. Aisling, writing came by way of evolution: a creative balance to analytical trading, and an emotional outlet for the challenging times in life. She also found it was a great way to make herself laugh.

Hi, friends. My name is Fannie Frugal, and I’m here to answer a few of your questions on how to trim the fat from your budget. Following are some examples of the people I have helped so far. Perhaps these tips might be of help to you too as you attempt to manage your household budget. Or not.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: In an attempt to cut back on our spending, we fired our housekeeper and I am now doing the housework. However, I’m a busy career woman and I don’t have a lot of time to spend cleaning. Can you give me some tips that will save me time? —NO TIME TO CLEAN IN WASHINGTON

DEAR MISS NO TIME: Have I got some great tips for you. First of all, forget housecleaning. It is a waste of time, especially if you have kids. Instead, keep the cleaning supplies sitting beside your front door. Whenever a visitor comes, grab a dust rag and a can of furniture polish before you answer the door. Wave the dust rag around and your visitor will assume that you have been cleaning.

If the same person visits twice in the same week, answer the door with a bottle of window cleaner and a roll of paper towels in your hand. Say something witty like, “Ha-ha-ha, you caught me cleaning again.”

Of course your house will be a pig sty, but you will manage to be at work on time each day, and your visitors will never know the difference. Probably.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: I’ve heard that one can make a lot of money raising and selling birds. So I’ve decided to go into the bird business as a way to make some extra money. I bought two bags of bird seed and sowed them in my garden two weeks ago. I’ve been watering them twice a day but still I see no sign of any bird sprouts. Do you think I got some bad seeds or am I overwatering them? —BRAINY BIRD IDEA

DEAR BIRD BRAIN: I’m guessing it will be a while before they start to grow. And no, I don’t think overwatering is the problem. Did you read the directions on the bird seed bag?

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: To save money, we have stopped taking our dogs to the groomer. While we have saved quite a bit of money by doing this, the dogs are beginning to smell up the house. Do you have any tips to help get rid of pet odors? —STINKY HOUSE IN FRESNO

DEAR STINKY: First of all, perhaps you might want to bathe the dogs yourself. If this isn’t an option, there are several great air fresheners on the market that will help eliminate pet odors. There are sprays, carpet powders, plug-ins, and scented candles. Personally I prefer scented candles. They come in many shapes and scents. My favorite scent is “Baked Apple Pie.” Twenty minutes after lighting one of these candles, your whole house will smell like you’ve just baked a pie with a dog in it.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: My wife and I have decided to raise our own chickens this year, for the eggs as well as the meat. We bought one hundred baby chicks and plowed up our back yard. What we need to know is should we plant the baby chicks with their heads up or down? —PICKING CHICKENS IN MILWAUKEE

DEAR CHICKEN PICKER: Raising chickens is a very difficult task. In light of this I am sending someone to assist you and your wife with the planting. They will arrive at your house this afternoon wearing white coats and they will bring along jackets with wrap-around sleeves for both you and your wife.

Well, that’s it for today, folks. This is Fanny Frugal saying “Ta-Ta for now.” Remember, haste makes waste and a penny saved is worth its weight in copper.

A blue-haired lady outside of church squinted at the tiny inscription on my dangle earrings. “Oh my, is that a prayer?” she asked, and peered closer. “Let me guess, a sacred quote?” Um, not exactly. They’re old rabies tags, bless Muffin’s soul.

At this writing, our leaders continue to duke it out over health care reform: accessibility, cost, competition, blah blah blah. Yo! People! Over here! I have the most bestest answer! Why does no one ever listen to me? Okay, okay, stupid question.

Think. Who do we know that, in minutes, can examine a skin rash and immediately recommend what foods to avoid? Who sells a ten-day dose of antibiotic for $10?? Who will do a total hip transplant for a measley five grand??!! Best of all, who ALWAYS gives free treats??

Yes, my darlings—vets! No, I speak not of our returning warriors, but of the freckled young fella who cured Mew-Mew’s hairball impaction, and the gray-haired gal who sweet-talked Rocky onto the exam table and then…eeek!…neutered him. With a little legislative tweaking we too could enjoy hassle-free, affordable care from skilled providers wearing Porky Pig scrubs! If I’m gonna go rabid in a town hall meeting, I want someone who can treat me later.

Not only do veterinarians offer diverse skills, but we all know they have way better magazines. Ooh, and those grossly cool heartworm posters! In a vet’s office, communication is pretty darn transparent: Sit! Stay! Pay! And everyone agrees it’s gonna hurt big-time when the doc calls for assistance, and in bounces a perky, pony-tailed helper in welding mitts and a face shield.

Why should animals get all the perks? We have a right to take our medications stuffed in specially designed snacks! And no more fumbling with prescription bottles; at last, a loved one can sneak up from behind, restrain you in a fleece throw, and massage your throat till you swallow the blasted pill. Good girrrrrrrrrl!!!!! Lord knows, after abdominal surgery, we all harbor secret fantasies about wearing one of those huge funnel collars. Some of us. I do.

Speaking of stitches, let’s hope vets will learn to take smaller ones and switch to clear thread. Personally, I’m tired of ladling on concealing makeup over the “train track” of coarse black threads jutting from my forehead.

Of course, a vet care option will tweak a few societal norms. To wit, no more humping patients in the waiting room. Yeah, tootsie cakes, this means you! Also, the large platform scale by the front desk has to go. Come to think of it, we’ll need lower exam tables. I don’t know about you, but when vaulting onto slippery stainless steel, I find it increasingly difficult to stick the landing with any grace.

Small animal vets often implant computer chip IDs, which will be invaluable to those of you with memory problems. Such confusion often…uh…what was I saying? And hey, nothing cures the Monday blahs faster than a refreshing flea dip! Don’t you just love that slick, parasite-free tingle??

On the other hand, a large animal vet has some appeal. Imagine how intelligent—not to mention slim—we’ll look to someone who’s been wrestling livestock all day! But frankly, I’m afeared that the moment I spot my doc pulling on those thick, elbow-length rubber gloves, I will FREAK OUT!!

So, I’ve selected a zoo vet—someone adept in treating body lice on primates, and rope burns from the tire swings, and who will remove my unsightly knuckle calluses. The first appointment will be for a chip implant and flea bath. I’m tellin’ ya, this is healthcare we can all agree on…(get ready)…Chips and Dip!!

I almost forgot. As a new patient, I’ll also receive a free 500 lb. bag of Purina Croc Chow! The leg-size kibble comes in either Original Zebra recipe or Capsized Canoeist gourmet blend.

Copyright 2009 by Mary Tompsett

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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.

Friendship 2.0

Will you be my friend? That’s the latest question zipping around the Internet these days. No doubt if you have a pulse you have at least heard about Facebook.com. This interesting little website is one of many categorized as a social network. And it seems to be a race to get as many “friends” as possible. For those new to this sort of thing, allow me to clarify a few points to help you better socialize in cyberspace.

The concept of friendship is defined a little looser in the world of Facebook. You see, everyone who views your profile can see exactly how many (and who) you are “friends” with. As a result, the traditional definition of being someone’s friend has changed. I’ve taken the liberty of including a new definition (soon to be included on Wikipedia.com, another discussion entirely) of what I call Friendship 2.0.

Friendship 2.0: Anyone you can find online with whom you can at least remember their first name (or last but not necessarily both), or attended your high school at least one of the years you were there, or the name of your Little League team, or that was in your elementary school class with you, or used to play tennis with your brother’s best friend’s little sister before they moved away to Michigan the year you turned seven.

All of these are appropriate and perfectly acceptable to be added as “friends” on your Facebook profile. In fact, the only exceptions are known felons (unless of course you served time with them or know someone who knows someone who did), real-life pirates (which rarely comes up due to the lack of a reliable Internet connection in the middle of the Atlantic), and ex-girlfriends or boyfriends (whichever you happen to prefer). Adding the latter will undoubtedly be viewed as a desperate attempt to superficially inflate your friend count. And behavior like that just can’t be tolerated.

This online social network is a curious animal indeed. People do all kinds of fun things that were previously impossible on the Internet. Why, just yesterday I got into a food fight with my wife on there. She threw something like some spaghetti at me. Flung a bowl full of oatmeal right at her. It didn’t have much effect, mind you, since it was only virtual oatmeal. The next morning proved much more entertaining when I used the real thing. She seemed really angry. But then I reminded her, “Don’t get mad at me honey. You started it.”

There are, however, a few changes I’d like to see implemented to fully enjoy this newfangled community.

Reject friend requests: A buddy and I were discussing this just yesterday. He was frustrated that he keeps getting friend requests from people he barely knew in high school. Can you believe that? And to make it worse, the only way he could call them out was to accept the request. Otherwise, the only option he had was to ignore it. But this friend likes to speak his mind. He’s also new to Facebook and the protocol involved. So he e-mailed them asking for a way to reject friend requests in style.

Deleting “friends”: Forget about that friend-count nonsense. If someone ticks you off, pull the plug. You can always add them back when you make up. Ignoring someone just doesn’t have the same effect if you can still see their every move on Facebook.

Eliminate “over-posting”: This is a practice I refer to for people who give WAY too many updates about their daily activities. For some reason these are exactly the same people who have absolutely nothing going on in their lives. For the record, I do NOT want a play-by-play of you making a peanut butter sandwich. I’ve made them. It’s not too exciting when I do it either.

Get rid of causes altogether: At first the idea of supporting a cause in a social network seems like a great idea. Then you find out that there are as many causes as there are people and that “supporting” them means clicking the yes button. Another issue is that they can get you into trouble if you aren’t careful. A close friend’s wife sent me a request to join the “support animal rights” group. I gladly accepted with the reply, “I am joining this cause because I believe animals have rights too. The right to be my dinner.” I thought it was funny. I guess I underestimated how important this cause was to her. This was an honest mistake on my part, but removing the “cause” segment of the website would put an end to such tragedies once and for all.

This list is obviously not all-inclusive, but it’s a start. With the right feedback this Internet giant can become something even greater in time. Lots of little web geeks are working tirelessly to make it happen. But the site is utterly useless without us. There is already something like 150 million people on the site and it’s projected to grow to over 5 gazillion by the end of next month.

Yes, things have definitely changed since I was young. Virtually every social action that can be done in real life is now a “reality” on the net. People are dating, doing the dirty, and “hanging out” with their buddies. It’s crazy. I remember when the world used to be much simpler. If you wanted to be friends with someone, you just went out to a movie or something. Or played a round of putt-putt golf. Maybe went outside and threw a baseball in the backyard. You know, something with real live personal interaction. Admittedly, these activities restricted our ability to be super popular. There simply wasn’t enough room in our yard to accommodate 300 people. But then again, I kind of liked it that way.

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“Got a Minute?”

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

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

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

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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.

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.

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 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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“Got a Minute?”

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

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

I’m going to hell.

Granted, it’s a direct flight and no doubt “the trip of a lifetime.” Still….

Let’s start at the beginning. I work at “Bookworms & Tapeworms,” a book/music store that also sells items one might term “spiritual.” My sales motivation lies not in earning a commission, but in the irrational hope that every “ka-ching!” of the register will count as extra credit…to offset my sins.

Fat chance, now.

My fast track to Hades began when a customer-call him “Fred”-came in to buy a St. Joseph statue. Which Joseph? I asked, for there are several. Well, he needed the one who’d sell his house if buried in the yard.

Aha! said I. That would be the standard Joe in all nativity sets. Sorry, December is months away.

To be helpful, I suggested a sterling St. Christopher tie clip-holy-esque and easy to bury. Though technically de-sainted years ago, Chris still draws his share of loyal fans. But Fred wasn’t one of them.

So I showed him a rack of discount button-down hair shirts we overstocked during Lent. No go. In fact, Fred looked so discouraged, I joked that it might be time to bury his realtor, hahaha!

Being exceptionally intuitive, I sensed my joke fell flat when Fred began to cry. I swiped my sleeve over the counter to mop up his tears before they warped the wood, and murmured something about the power of faith. Perhaps, I said, some folks have such a strong faith that, heck, they don’t even need a statue! At that moment, a rush of spiritual clarity stirred deep within me-profound, mysterious, and beyond my control. Then again, it might’ve been the peppers from lunch.

Regardless, my babble picked up speed. In this stagnant market, surely St. Joseph was already up to his halo in prayer requests. Man, what a crummy way to spend eternity! Could it hurt to invoke a less popular saint with more free time? Would Joseph mind? He seemed like a cool-headed guy who could roll with a surprise. Remember, he didn’t split the scene when Mary whispered, “Honey, I’m late….” Let’s give the guy a break.

What saints do you recommend? asked Fred. My rule of thumb: Don’t bother any saint whose name appears on schools or churches. That means John, Andrew, Paul, and their friends are BUSY. One of the Jameses may have potential, however, but skip past J. the Greater and J. the Lesser. Instead, ask the heavenly switchboard for St. James Intercissus. The lad lived a quiet life until martyred by the King of Persia, who hacked him to pieces. Yeah, bummer. Ironically, the Latin word “Intercissus” means “The sum of the parts is greater than the whole.” Jim, I believe, is the patron saint of fractions.

How ‘bout St. Radegund? Anyone who ministered to lepers might be glad to lend a hand, so to speak. He’s also the patron of dieters. Oh, you betcha. If you’ve ever said, “Gosh, I’d give my right arm to lose weight!” then Rad’s your man. He didn’t die from leprosy, and that secretly disappoints me. He was killed by wolves with a hankering for undiseased meat. In short, St. Rad lived among lepers as a happy male, only to die among wolves as a Happy Meal.

Then there’s St. Roch. According to legend, he survived the plague because a dog brought him bread every day. Here boy, over here!! Thassa good puppy, drop the loaf…drop it…drop!! Good booooooy!

Personally, my “go to” saints are the obscure St. Pambo, patron saint of gluttony, and Mathurin, patron of the insane. Birds of a feather, and all that.

In the end, I sold Fred a slight variation on his original Joseph idea. Fred has great faith, that’s for sure. I hope he also has a backhoe. He’ll need it to bury all that patio furniture stamped with the Serenity Prayer.

Copyright 2009 by Mary Tompsett

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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.

by Leeuna Foster

Words are very useful to us as humans. Without them we would be reduced to drawing little pictures on cave walls. However, they should be used with caution, despite the fact that they have been around almost as long as the Bush Administration. Words can be dangerous when used haphazardly and without forethought.

Have you ever heard the adage, “The pen is mightier than the sword”? Did you ever hear about how in ancient times, King Arthur and his knights in armor would slay dragons by stabbing them in the kneecaps with fountain pens? I didn’t hear anything about it either, but it could have happened…I suppose.

On the other hand, there is the little ditty we learned as children about how “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

I’m sorry, but that’s just wrong. Words can maim a person for life. In fact, words have been known to cause death in certain individuals, especially when they were followed by rifle fire.

Whoever said “but words can never hurt me” quite obviously was never engaged in a verbal slinging match. One of those knock-down drag-out word wars where you’re slapped upside the head by dangling participles, knocked unconscious by misplaced modifiers, and flailed by flying sentence fragments.

I used to know a man who was a five-star general in the war of words. He could fire adjectives and pronouns at me so fast I swear I think he used a machine gun. After many years of this I finally learned how to spell the word d-i-v-o-r-c-e.

And then there are those pesky grammar addicts that I like to refer to as “seasoned word warriors.” They choose to toss those million-dollar words around, when a good cheap two-cent word would work just as well. These big words weigh a ton. And when they hit you it’s like a boulder just crashed into your head but you can’t quite figure out what struck you.

For instance, someone screams at you and calls you a “sordid verminous quadruped.” Immediately, you run and grab your dictionary thinking up all kinds of good retorts to throw back at him just as soon as you find out what a sordid verminous quadruped really is. By the time you look it up and find out he just called you a dirty rat, or something similar, he has already left the scene and all those sharp words in your arsenal are now useless.

Don’t you just hate it when that happens? These people don’t play fair. At least “The General” only used one-syllable adjectives and pronouns. And most of them consisted of only three or four letters. Thankfully, I was able to retire from the verbal battlegrounds after 23 years of combat and a purple heart.

Hubby has never thrown a single word at me. His words are soft as feathers anyway and they would never sting or bruise. They sort of float around my head like butterflies, making me laugh out loud sometimes whenever I capture one of them. And maybe that’s the way it should be.

Maybe that’s why the dictionary was invented.

Words were made to be heard and not felt. To be spoken and not thrown. They should never be used to abuse. We shouldn’t throw sticks and stones either for that matter. Somebody could get an eye put out.

If you will excuse me now, I’m cleaning out my past and I still have a few old ugly adjectives I need to haul away to the trash. There are a few things that should never be recycled.

By Ted Gargiulo

My dad used to complain of horse pains. None of us knew what horse pains were. To this day, I haven’t met anyone outside our immediate family who’s familiar with the infirmity-except maybe a horse.

More peculiar than the condition itself was the pleasure Dad took in knowing that nobody understood him. You can ask my mom if I’m making this up. Ask my sisters about Dad’s “horse pains.” They’ll tell you how he cracked himself up every time he mentioned them, the way his face flushed like a beet when he laughed. And how he’d suddenly grow solemn and shuffle away, leaving the us baffled.

For years, I was convinced that Dad was laughing at me. Something in my eyes seemed to set him off whenever he stared at me. He’d start to moan and grimace, as though some dark force had overtaken him.

“Dad??? Dad, what is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just those pains again.”

“Pains? What pains?”

“Horse pains!” The rascal loved catching me off-guard. He’d laugh so hard, it’s a wonder he didn’t rupture a pipe in his head. A moment later, his mirth soured, and he was gone.

For the life of me, I could not fathom what Dad saw in me that was so painful, or so funny. Was “pains” a metaphor for “crap?” Was he telling me I was a horse’s ass? Or was I was just a pain?

My self-esteem suffered terribly. I spent my teen and early adult years feeling like the butt of a joke that made sense only to my dad. I didn’t dare confront him for fear of exacerbating his condition and inviting even more derision.

Too ashamed to share my sorrows with the family, I found solace in the company of cheap, older women who showed me enough respect to at least wait till I left the room before laughing at me.

I took up with thieves and lowlifes, who roamed the city in packs, plundering pay phones and vandalizing mailboxes.

I swilled wine on street corners, shouted the F-word at passersby, peed on the sidewalk whenever I felt the urge.

How many nights did I spend passed out on someone’s doorstep? Or in jail?

I began smoking cigarettes. Broke my mom’s heart. Did my old man care?

It wasn’t till I was older and my life in shambles that I experienced a moment of clarity that altered forever my perception of the bizarre little man we called “Dad.” I realized that I wasn’t the one he was laughing at. What the old man actually saw when he looked into my eyes…was his reflection in my glasses. His reflection!

All those years I’d been agonizing over my failures, believing he despised me for a worthless schmuck, the guy was laughing at himself. I couldn’t wait to share this revelation with the others.

That’s when I learned that both my sisters, who also wore glasses, bore the same emotional scars I did. Each blamed herself for Dad’s affliction, just as I had. Each had retreated into her own dysfunctional universe, raged at life in mysterious ways and, like me, never gave two hoots and a fart about the misery she caused our mom.

It was amazing, once we compared notes on the old man, how the pieces tumbled into place.

For the first time, I saw the psychological havoc that joker had wrecked upon my two screwed-up siblings. I understood now why chunky little Megan, who looked so cute at 7 in her ponytail and Coke-bottle lenses, shaved her head when she was 14 and defected to a convent. I recalled the starvation cults, the enemas laced with mescaline, the fires in the toilet bowl, trips to Tibet, to the emergency room; her lifelong fixation with sticking pins in fat people. There was that night she flipped out on Ritalin and stool softeners and tried to kill me! The angst, the rebellion: it made sense now.

And there was Leah, the eldest and most precociously disturbed of us three, who had her first mid-life crisis when she was 18. And who, in her quest to find herself, dredged up 11 different personalities. Unfortunately, none of them wore contacts.

A lifetime of putting up with Dad’s unmuzzled wisecracks left both ladies spiritually ravaged, emotionally barren, childless, friendless, clueless, and altogether hopeless. Afraid to love, too lazy to find meaningful employment, Megan and Leah now mooch off their mom by day, and sing in a rock band at night. The manure he made them go through was shameful!

Mostly, I pity our mom: myopic and four-eyed since she was 9, saddled with that animal for over forty years! How ridiculous and unlovely she must have felt every time he gazed into her soft blue portals…and laughed! What could those outbursts have suggested, but that her beloved stallion was trotting about in another man’s pasture, frolicking with some young mare, comelier and less amusing than herself?

Not once in our tormented little lives did any of us think to remove our glasses in the old man’s presence.

Dad’s Acute Obsessive Reflection Disorder (for want of a better term) might explain why he always cackled in front of the bathroom mirror while shaving. Or why he found a blank computer screen so amusing. Or why the only fun he had watching television was when the set was turned off. The guy would peer into the dark tube hours after everyone had gone to bed, and giggle himself into a stupor. He thought we didn’t hear him!

Oh, the sleepless nights our mom lay awake, waiting for Dad to come to bed, only to find him passed out in front of the dark set at 4 a.m., slobber rolling down his chin. I’d hear her hauling his tail into the bedroom. She tried not to disturb the rest of us, didn’t want us seeing our father in this condition. But we knew.

You’d never guess, from his spasms of hilarity, how humorless Dad was at heart. Nothing in life gave him pleasure. When he didn’t laugh, he brooded. He was either hysterical or morose; there was no in-between. Eventually, he quit smiling altogether. I’m not sure Dad ever really smiled. He only laughed. And no one could make Dad do that…except Dad.

The man became increasingly withdrawn, forced by “the pains” to leave his job. He no longer made eye contact with people, merely stared off into space for hours at a stretch.

Not even Mom could coax him out of his funk. His only companion was a small pocket mirror he kept inside his pants. Every evening after sundown, he’d lock himself in his office and whip it out, then work himself into an orgasm of hilarity that resonated throughout the house. The louder Dad roared, the harder Mom sobbed.

Who would imagine that one man’s humor could produce such anguish in others? I look back now on the years of therapy my sisters and I had to endure. All that money spent treating the wrong people!

One night, Dad went into a laughing seizure from which he never recovered. He ended his days in an asylum, a wasted, jabbering wretch who responded to nothing but his own reflection. So it was that the person who made us cry, laughed himself to death.

We should have seen it coming. Portents of Dad’s tragic finale had been literally staring us in the face since Day One. By the time we understood what was happening, the man had wandered too far out of his barn. There was no reigning him in.

The old man had busted his bridle. And the horse pains finally brought him down.

* * *

Ted Gargiulo’s stories and essays have appeared in The San Jose Mercury News, The Monterey County Herald, Wilde Times, The Gamut, and The Fringe. Born in New York City, the former stage actor and prize-winning author now lives with his wife in Seaside, California. Ted is currently working on a collection of short stories. He In Me, available from PublishAmerica, is his first published novel.

A Penny Saved

The American economy is in the toilet. It’s no secret. Bad loans and corporate greed have finally caught up to us and the result is nothing short of catastrophic.

There is no telling how deep an economic hole this will ultimately create. Things have become so bad, in fact, that the United States government is bailing out some of the largest of these failing businesses. And they’re doing it with our money. Or more appropriately, they’re doing it with the idea of our money. It doesn’t actually exist yet. They better crank up the ol’ printing press at the Treasury pretty soon and start churning out some more worthless U.S. currency.

If I seem a bit cynical on the subject, there’s a very good reason. I am.

Some people believe the recent election and a bold new President in the Oval Office will stop the bleeding. I am not so optimistic. This has been brewing for a very long time and any quick fix will only delay the inevitable.

The foundation of the economy (American people) is still very strong, but I’m afraid there’s no easy way out of this mess. The time has passed for us to count on the powers that be to fix things. It’s time we took control of this issue at a grassroots level and start redefining the word frugal.

Many folks have already begun adjusting to these difficult economic times. Around my household, we are more likely eating Steak-umms than a real steak dinner. If you try this yourself, make sure to fold the sliced meat multiple times to better simulate the experience. The consistency is a little strange at first, but desperate times require desperate measures.

Other people have showed exceptional creativity in living below their means. Here are a few ideas.

Use a squeegee at the gas station to wash your car. It is possible to do this using none of your own money. Most of the stations provide paper towels too, so drying is not an issue. Some of the owners frown upon this practice if you don’t fill up your tank. But hey, this is a free country. For the uninhibited, showers can be taken this way too, saving money on your water bill. Who knows, if you’re really good-looking you may even earn a few bucks.

Grab a few extra condiments at local restaurants. Ketchup packs, mustard, napkins, and even salt and pepper packs are plentiful at these fine establishments. With practice you can learn to ignore the mean looks you get when you ask for all that extra barbecue sauce. One friend of mine even put his kids to work squeezing out all those little packets into full-size containers. This is perfect because when company comes over they will be none the wiser. He says to be sure to allow ample time for the salt and pepper though, as it can be rather time consuming. Some people say this resembles child abuse, but I say it’s an exercise in building character and discipline. If you want to step it up a notch and have no moral compass to speak of, I’ve heard it said you could easily slip full-sized bottles of these items from the tables of more casual dining restaurants. Would LongHorn Steakhouse really miss one bottle of A-1 sauce? I don’t advise this method, but it really does add flavor to those Steak-umms once they come off the grill.

Eat dog food. Some people actually think this is a good idea. They caution, however, to only eat the dry kind, steering way clear of the canned stuff. Despite how appetizing it may appear, they swear it tastes awful. Whew, I sure am glad they figured that one out for me. Just when I was about to serve up Alpo stew too. In this case it’s better to stick with cat food. They are much more finicky than their canine companions and won’t eat the stuff we feed dogs either. The ingredients in a can of cat chow more closely resemble a can of tuna (but is much cheaper) than animal food. Also, few people realize this, but some brands of canned cat food are actually of better quality than the meat substance they use at a popular fast-food taco joint. It’s true.

Train your dog to beg the neighbors for food. This would definitely save money on dog food. If you combine this with the previous idea, you win twice. Especially if you can teach him to beg for cat food.

Rent out your children. Seriously. They aren’t doing you much good just sitting there. Market your new business to couples thinking of starting a family of their own. Say to them, “Listen, I’m going to save you a lot of time, money, and aggravation. Pay me fifty bucks and you can take my kids home for the day. This way you can see how out of your mind you are before you have to deal with it permanently.” You can call it the “Try Before You Buy Program” and if you find some psycho who actually enjoys torture, maybe you can work out a lease purchase option. Be careful to have the contract drawn up by your own lawyers to cover your bases in the unlikely event you experience seller’s remorse. While they’re on their “slumber parties” (it’s extremely important to sell this properly to the children) you are not only earning an income but you will also be saving money on cat food. It’s a win-win.

Use pine needles for underarm deodorant. This is a decent idea. True enough they are free and in my part of the world they are abundant. I’m not completely convinced they will make you smell better than using nothing at all, but it’s worth a shot. Another thought, considering where you’ll be bathing, is to use a car air freshener instead. Even if you don’t have one yourself there’s bound to be one handy in someone else’s unlocked vehicle. Don’t get hung on morality here. It’s not stealing if you put it back, only borrowing. The upside is you can probably still get that pine tree fresh scent if you so desire.

All of these ideas are terrific. It is obvious sacrifices must be made if we are to weather these tough economic times. And I for one am more than willing to do my part. These are just some of the many creative ideas out there to help stretch your hard-earned dollars just a little bit further. With any luck, some of our penny pinching will serve as an example to those running Washington. Maybe (if we lean on them hard enough) they will run the country with the same fiscal responsibility we employ in our own homes. I wonder if our newly elected government would be willing to sample a can of Alpo? That’s sacrifice. God bless America.

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