The Cuckleburr Times » humor

Finding the Funny for Non-Comedians

A Guest Article Writer — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 03:24:51 +0000

“How do you FIND the humor?” is the question I’m asked a lot because I think most people would like to add humor to their communications – written and verbal – but they just don’t know where to look. As a comedian and comedy writer for the past 17 years, I’ve developed a whole arsenal of places I focus on when coming up with jokes. And the cool thing is, it’s not that hard.

I specialize in comedy shows and humor keynotes for corporations and associations, and for many of the groups I speak to, I’ve never even heard of them (Alfalfa Seed Growers comes to mind). But that doesn’t stop me from writing jokes about them and their industry. Whether you’re speaking AT the event or writing ABOUT the event, there’s humor everywhere! Here’s 5 things I focus on to find the funny wherever I am:

Decorations. Now you don’t want to slam the client who spent hours and big bucks decorating the room, but sometimes you can have a little TASTEFUL fun. I did a show for a hospital in which the centerpieces on the tables were dried flowers. It’s a hospital for crying out loud! So I got ‘em laughing by pointing out “how good can the hospital be if they can’t even keep their plants alive?” Even the CEO loved it! So look at the decorations and ask “why did they choose them?” and “what do they remind you of?” Make mention of it, or describe it in a written piece, and you’ll come up with some funny stuff.

The Agenda. Just because you aren’t familiar with the group or subject, doesn’t mean you can’t joke about it. In fact you have an advantage because you can look at it with a fresh set of eyes. I like to scan the agenda so that I can goof around with the sessions and what they’re learning at the conference. At some of the more technical (read boring) conferences, I kick off with, “I notice you all are wearing name tags. I’m thinking ‘why’. . .it’s not like anyone from the outside is going to try to sneak into these sessions!” It gets a great laugh because they realize just how weird their subject is to the rest of us! Look at the brochure and see what doesn’t make sense to you. . and then bring out that paradox. In addition, I also look for contradictions between sessions, such as the group I spoke to who were sitting in “50 Ways to be Frugal” followed by “Identity Theft”. . . hey, I think I know how to save a buck.

Awards. Sometimes the awards, or the reason they’re giving them, is hilarious – you just need to point out the obvious. At a recent chamber of commerce event, they gave out the “most valuable citizen of the year” award to Sam. I’m thinking ‘How does that make the rest of the audience feel?,’ which led to a fun opening line. . . “Don’t get stuck in a burning building with Sam, because you know who the fire department will rescue first!” I address awards humor more in depth in a recent blog post on my site, but in summary, you can usually have fun with the WHY and the HOW of the awards. Make up some funny reasons why they’re getting it, the weird qualifications they needed to be considered for it, or how it’ll affect their life now that they have it.

Vendors and Sponsors. I always love having fun with the vendors and sponsors because they’ve spent tons of money supporting the event, yet many times they’re just given a quick “thanks” by an unenthusiastic emcee, and maybe a 2 second power point slide acknowledgement. So walk through the exhibit hall to check out who’s represented and read the ads in the conference brochure. Then ask what the products remind you of and why would you use them. At a nursing conference, I noticed that many of the exhibitors were drug companies whose booths listed how their drugs worked on all sorts of private body parts. I realized what it reminded me of, and then had some fun by pointing out that all 7 of George Carlin’s famous “7-words you can’t say on TV” routine were listed on their exhibit booths. As long as you’re not slamming the product or the company, you can joke on them… trust me, the exhibitors and sponsors appreciate it!

Statistics. Are there any fun statistics you know or can find out about the group? I just did a show for an insurance agency in the midwest, and I read that the most stolen car in Wisconsin is the Dodge Caravan. Really? What do you conjure up when you think of owners of this vehicle? Soccer moms! No wonder these women are always in a hurry – I thought it was because they were late for picking up their kids; turns out they’re being chased by the cops! I had all sorts of fun with that one statistic, so find out some true stats and then make up funny reasons around them. If 65% of people like red koolaid, then what do the other 35% like? Or why do they like it or how do they like it. Humor on statistics works 100% of the time!

Using humor in your communications will instantly connect you with your audience and keep them engaged with you so they want to listen/read and come back. And you don’t have to be a comedian to be funny, you just have to pay ATTENTION. . . .and then you’ll keep theirs.

Jan McInnis is a comedian, professional speaker and comedy writer. She’s been featured in the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post for her clean humor, and she’s the author of the book “Finding the Funny Fast: How to Create Quick Humor to Connect with Clients, Coworkers and Crowds“. Jan can be reached at www.ComedyWriterBlog.com

Staying on The Funny Side of Weight Loss Secrets

Kelly Swanson — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 19:18:01 +0000

I would like to thank TiredOfYourWeight@WhosTheNextIdiot.com for the email you just sent reminding me that I’m overweight. How did you find me? Were you there when I used emergency money to buy girl scout cookies? When I dove between the sofa cushions because I thought I saw a French fry? When I ran past you in my bathing suit at the pool and took out three toddlers? How do you people know that I want to lose weight, need money transferred from Nigerian royalty, and have been looking everywhere for a fake Rolodex? Baffling.

So, Mister TiredOfYourWeight, I appreciate that you took time in the middle of the night to send me this urgent email to share your weight loss secret that is sure to revolutionize the world and to give me the opportunity to buy into it before anyone else. I am flattered that you spend so much time and energy caring about strangers. I wish you would spend the same amount of time learning to spell and removing the strands of gibberish in your heartfelt message which, until I speak in tongues, I am unable to translate. I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need the revolutionary answer to instant weight loss. You see, I already know the answer, and have known it for years. In fact, it really hasn’t been much of a secret since 4th grade biology. Eat less than you are, exercise more than you are, and you will lose weight. Shocking I know. Knowing what to do isn’t the secret. It’s doing it.

You see, I would rather drink lumpy shakes made out of goat’s urine, strap thirty pounds of spandex to my body, and spend thousands on hairdos, clothes, and accessories guaranteed to make me look a size smaller. I would rather have my colon flushed and take diet pills that cause hair loss, fainting spells, and the unavoidable explosive diarrhea. But don’t make me eat vegetables – that’s just gross. I want those programs where you actually pay more to eat less. I would rather spend hours reading manuals from experts claiming it’s not the quantity but the combinations of foods- just don’t mix the brown Snickers with the tan French fries and you’re fine.

I want to sit around perplexed saying, “But I don’t eat that much” and convince myself that I must have some rare thyroid condition and that everybody’s order contains the word Supersize. I want to buy exercise tapes that I’m too lazy to open and fancy treadmills to hold my plants, rather than park at the back of the parking lot and take the stairs. I am not interested in the kind of exercise where I am involved. I don’t even want to get up to change the TV. I once watched a twenty-four hour Valerie Bertinelli marathon because I couldn’t find the remote. I would rather sit around with a group of other overweight people and have them tell me size doesn’t matter and look at skinny people in disgust and hope they’re miserable.

So I do know the secret to weight loss, Mr. TiredOfYourWeight. Perhaps if you could come up with a revolutionary way to do the things we don’t want to do. Now that I would read. So thanks but no thanks. I would, however, be interested in a way to earn a million in a week without ever having to get dressed or leave my house. Do you have a cousin who does that?

Professional Speaker Kelly Swanson is an award-winning author and comedian who delivers clean side-splitting keynotes and break-out sessions. Her heartwarming messages about staying on the “funny side of life,” will inspire, motivate, and teach you the importance of cultivating healthy personal and professional relationships. Kelly has opened for Loretta Lynn, performed on Holland America Cruise Lines, and was a featured artist at the Best of Our State Festival and the National Storytelling Festival. Our State Magazine calls her “One of North Carolina’s Funniest Women.” Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at http://www.kellyswanson.net or email kelly@kellyswanson.net.

Staying on the Funny Side of Spontaneity

Kelly Swanson — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 05:02:51 +0000

Today I decided to have a moment of spontaneity with my toddler, which is unusual for me to engage in things I can’t spell. Usually I like my spontaneous moments to occur on weekends – not during those precious work hours when I could be sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring. But when Junior asked me for the 147th time if he could do bubbles, I stopped typing, looked up, and much to his surprise and mine said yes, and we ran outside before I could change my mind.

No coats. No shoes. No sunscreen. We just ran out into the glorious sunshine and, despite that moment where I tripped down the stairs, it was like a scene right out of a movie. Until we started arguing over the bubbles – who was going to hold the jar – who was going to blow – who would get to eat the half-eaten candy bar we found on the ground. And what started as a sweet mommy-and-me project of love and togetherness that belonged on the cover of Good Mommy Magazine, quickly spiraled into a devil-mommy-spanks-kid-in-the-front-yard moment that belonged on the cover of Moms Who Shouldn’t Be Magazine. So much for my sweet-lady-next-door image which, according to my husband, disappeared a long time ago somewhere between the time I threw a pot roast at him as he ran to his car and the time I accidentally posted my labor pictures on MySpace.

And so our bubble blowing fiasco ended as quickly as it had begun when Junior spilled the entire bottle of bubble liquid on the ground which left us with nothing to do but just sit – at least that was my plan – to lounge under the oak tree while he lay his head on my lap and I read him excerpts from articles I had written. His plan was to sprint down the driveway and collide into the car in rapid succession (yeah, I’m thinking trade school), see which bricks on the side of the house were loose, dig for worms, and lick bark – all of which he found great delight in while my rear end lost feeling on the cold cement porch, my eyes itched, the wind kept blowing my hair into my lip gloss, I got a bug in my teeth, I was reminded of everything in the yard that needs to be done, and I swear I could hear the whisper of missed opportunities on the breeze. Then the rabid squirrel jumped out of a bush and sent both of us running into the house in a fit of hysterics. I probably shouldn’t have pushed Junior down on my way to the front porch.

We were both sticky with bubble juice and had to break routine and take a bath in the afternoon (no, not together, they won’t let me do that anymore) and I was so worn out that I crawled into bed with him at naptime – the rest of my work day ruined. No emails answered, no phone calls returned. And as he was curled up against me, his hair still wet from his bath, his arm thrown around my neck, he whispers, “That was fun Mommy” and fell asleep. And my heart grew three sizes that day. And somehow I knew that even in my wrong way, I had done the right thing – that years down the road I wouldn’t remember the lost hours of work. I would remember him laughing and running in his bare feet. Before he stubbed his toe on that rock.

You probably don’t have a toddler. You probably don’t work from home. But I’d bet you, like me, miss some of the precious spontaneous opportunities to jump up and go blow some bubbles. Let’s don’t do that anymore. Okay?

(PS Who decided a thirty-seven piece, multi-faceted, battery-operated, monogrammed bubble set with retractable pieces and a matching keychain should be fifty-nine cents at Target – but toilet paper costs me four dollars? I guess the same people who decided to charge us for air at the gas station.)

Professional Speaker Kelly Swanson is an award-winning author and comedian who delivers clean side-splitting keynotes and break-out sessions. Her heartwarming messages about staying on the “funny side of life,” will inspire, motivate, and teach you the importance of cultivating healthy personal and professional relationships. Kelly has opened for Loretta Lynn, performed on Holland America Cruise Lines, and was a featured artist at the Best of Our State Festival and the National Storytelling Festival. Our State Magazine calls her “One of North Carolina’s Funniest Women.” Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at http://www.kellyswanson.net or email kelly@kellyswanson.net.

Cultivating Organic Humor

Jay Speyerer — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 05:20:02 +0000

Humor is a funny thing. Everyone thinks they have a sense of humor, but not everyone is right. You can be an effective speaker even if you don’t have a sense of humor, as long as you don’t try to fake it. The audience can always tell.

On the other hand, if you have been blessed with a good sense of humor, that isn’t enough to be a speaker; you also need a sense of timing. A sense of humor allows you to see the funny aspects of everyday life and the funny relationships between unrelated things. A sense of timing lets you talk about them in a funny way.

We all know what’s funny, but we laugh at wildly different examples. One theory says that some nationalities are funnier than others, but I don’t buy it. I’m German by ancestry and I’ve been known to be amusing, even though you’d probably be hard pressed to come up with a good example of German hilarity. Sure, we have lederhosen and yodeling, but they don’t count because we were serious about those. You might ask how on earth we could be serious about such cultural oddities. I answer with another German tradition: beer.

When aspiring speakers ask me if they can open their presentation with a joke, I suggest that they use humor instead. The term ‘joke’ hits me as being stand-alone and unrelated to a topic or theme. Effective humor is always organic, blending seamlessly with the topic and the audience.

Are isolated jokes funny? Sure they are. The vaudeville comedian Henny Youngman was famous for his disconnected one-liners. “My wife dresses to kill. She cooks the same way.” But funny isn’t the only criterion; for humor to work within a presentation, it has to be effective, appropriate, and supportive of the topic. You know – organic. Unrelated one-liners don’t fit the definition. Besides, being able to tell a joke does not necessarily mean you have a good sense of humor; maybe you just have a good memory.

Organic humor is most effective when it’s woven into a story. But for the humor to work along with the point of the story, you really have to know the story. Really know it. REALLY. Pittsburgh radio personality and storyteller Jack Bogut says that a good speaker practices a story until he gets it right. A professional speaker practices a story until he can’t get it wrong. For any story – humorous or otherwise – to be effective, it must be told properly and flawlessly, and timing plays a major role.

This assumes you’ve mastered the basics, such as structure (beginning, middle, and end), progressive disclosure (what details you reveal and when you reveal them), and judicious use of dialogue and description. But it also includes minute details like the choice of language and the rhythm of the words. It isn’t only poetry and song lyrics that have rhythm; so do prose and the spoken word.

Let’s say you want to make a specific point using a humorous story as an illustration. Here’s one for you. The state of New Mexico recently unveiled (if that’s the right word) a series of public service announcements for the tipsy male from an unusual source: the urinal. Talking urinal cakes will spout messages in a female voice, such as the following: “Hey, you! Yeah, you! Having a few drinks? Then, listen up! Think you’ve had one too many? Maybe it’s time to call a cab or call a sober friend for a ride home. It’s sure safer and a hell of a lot cheaper than a DWI! Make the smart choice tonight. Don’t drink and drive!”

(I don’t know what you would illustrate with this story; that’s your problem.)

The article I read didn’t say how the talking urinal cakes are activated and I don’t want to know. But a Department of Transportation spokesman is quoted as saying that the device is a great idea because it’s guaranteed to get “ten or fifteen seconds of undivided attention.” Wait a minute. If you’re in a bar restroom and you can take care of business in ten or fifteen seconds, well, you’re just not doing your part. And there’s another problem. If the poor guy is really swacked and he’s in there all by himself and suddenly hears a woman’s voice coming out of the urinal … that could really throw off his aim. Worst case scenario: there’s a whole bank of urinals, each with its own babbling deodorizer, all being used at the same time. The cacophony could drive a man to drink.

Notice that each of my comments on the story ends in a one-syllable word. That isn’t essential every time, but it’s more effective. Find an amusing story in the newspaper or notice something funny at work, and then see what else it makes you think of. How much funnier can you make real life?

While Henny’s one-liner would not fit into a speech or presentation, it offers some valuable examples of structure and rhythm. This joke has two parts, the setup and the snapper. “My wife dresses to kill. She cooks the same way.” The setup has six syllables and the snapper has five, making only 11 syllables in the whole joke. And every word but one has only one syllable. That’s tight and economical writing.

Let’s try it another way: “My wife dresses to kill. You could say the same thing about her cooking.” It makes the same point, but not as well. Too many words and too many syllables. Plus, the second sentence doesn’t match the staccato rhythm of the first. In my bad example, I waited until the final word to reveal what is being compared to dressing, and that can be effective. But cooking has one syllable too many. Pay attention to the rhythm. A one-syllable word has more punch, especially if it’s the last one.

Many audiences expect a presenter to attempt humor. If the presenter is not a professional speaker, they’re also expecting the attempt to be lame. Surprise them.

Jay Speyerer has been a writer, a speaker, and an educator for more than 30 years, successfully helping people achieve their communication goals in memoir writing, e-mail, cross-cultural communication, and presentation skills. Want to communicate better? Find out how at his web site here.

Enjoy that? You can find more of Jay’s articles at The Cuckleburr Times here.

How to Tell You’re Having a Lousy Disney Vacation

Carl Megill — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 16:52:23 +0000

Well, it’s vacation time again and that means packing up the kids and heading south to “Disney World”; or, if you are on the West Coast – “Disneyland”; or, if you are reading this in Europe – “Euro Disney.” And, let’s not forget Disney’s latest vacation spot in North Korea – “Run For Your Life World.”

As a frequent visitor to the Disney resorts, I honestly have to say that I have never had a bad experience. (Okay, that time the airlines mistakenly sent my luggage to Bismarck, North Dakota and I was forced to wear Triple X sized Goofy sweatshirts for three days was hardly Disney’s fault.)

Anyone I’ve ever spoken to, who has ever gone on a Disney vacation, is unable to relate a bad experience. So, just how can you know when you’ve gone to the Disney “well” one too many times? Here are ten clues to help you decide for yourself whether or not you are having a lousy Disney vacation.

1. Mickey gives you the finger. (Okay, he only has three fingers, but, still, it’s the middle one.)

2. Your Disney cruise to Nassau comes to a screeching halt when your ship starts sinking after striking a rogue iceberg.

3. Due to new security measures, check in at your Disney resort, includes a full body cavity search performed by a member of The Pirates of the Caribbean.

4. Minnie Mouse has too much to drink on her lunch break and gives your husband a lap dance at the Crystal Palace.

5. Space Mountain is temporarily closed, while the maintenance crew spends the afternoon mopping up various body fluids.

6. You purchase a turkey leg at a kiosk in the Magic Kingdom and the foot is still attached.

7. EPCOT now features the poor, tiny country of West Destitute where, upon entering, you are approached by a horde of six year olds, with head lice, begging for Disney Dollars.

8. During your safari ride in the Animal Kingdom, several members of your party disappear, while crossing “Quicksand Acres.”

9. At the Disney Studios, you discover that the “Indiana Jones Stunt Spectacular” has been replaced with the new interactive, puberty feature, “Dora the Explorer Explores Diego.”

10. Upon checking out, you find your rental car has been stripped clean, put up on blocks and the only clue as to who could have done this is a three-fingered, white glove left on the front seat.

Hopefully, none of these things will ever happen to you, because Disney vacations are lots of fun and besides, sometimes they even reward writers, who say nice things about them, by giving them free vacations, or so I’ve heard.

Coming up: Mercedes Benz – It Just Doesn’t Get Any Better.

After working as a deejay at a New Jersey radio station, where Carl Megill was given free reign to write commercial parodies and a 64 episode comedy soap opera, he branched out into the wonderful world of writing sitcoms. Although none ever sold, he did win, or placed high, in several script writing contests. This included first place in the TVWriter.com competition for an “Everybody Loves Raymond” script. He also enjoyed winning a playwriting competition for a comedy entitled, “You’re Never Too Old,” which was produced on stage to favorable reviews. Four of his short plays have also been produced.

His only screen credit is as a staff writer for the Seattle based sketch comedy program “Night Shift.” It’s also his only credit at imdb. His humor column, “The Mind of Megill,” has appeared in print and on the internet. He has also written and performed stand up comedy at area comedy clubs. He enjoys writing, sports and referring to himself in the third person.

Book Review: Holly’s Inbox by Holly Denham

Kay Elizabeth — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 07:15:56 +0000

Holly’s Inbox should come with a warning – “anything you can’t do one handed, get it done before you settle down to read.” Why? Because this hilarious book is not leaving your clutches until it’s finished. Holly’s Inbox by Holly Denham (ISBN: 9781402219030; Sourcebooks Casablanca) will be glued to your hands until its unexpected conclusion. This tale of Holly Denham’s life, a London receptionist at her first day on a new job, is incredibly smart and funny.

I’m not a laugh out loud type of book reader. Barely a chuckle escapes my lips when I read humor, no matter how uproarious I find the content. I keep my jocularity behind my teeth. Which explains why my husband kept popping his head around the door, saying “What are you laughing at?!” with a surprised look when he saw I had a book in my hand. But with Holly’s Inbox, it’s impossible not to.

This romantic comedy is very clever. The humor veers from the dry, sarcasm dripping kind to slapstick comedy without skipping a beat. The most outstandingly creative thing about this book is the style of its composition. Holly’s Inbox is told entirely with emails flying back and forth to receptionist Holly. There are no lengthy descriptions nor scene setting preambles. Everything that unfolds, every character you grow to love, like or loathe, you discover via those emails.

I’ll be honest. I would never have thought well rounded characters could be created when emails alone are used to tell a story. Bill Surie, the author who uses the Holly Denham pseudonym, has knocked that assumption right out of my head and pulled this format off impeccably. To my knowledge this is a completely unique style of writing and one, given the influence of the Net on our daily lives, that’s long overdue. (Expect copycat writers to flood the market with similar attempts in the near future. You heard it here first. But I guarantee you they won’t be this good. )

Gossip, sly office politics, manipulation of employees and personality clashes – they’re all part and parcel of working in large companies. In Holly’s Inbox, you’ll recognize many of the usual suspects from the corporate world: the scary superior, the pretty Jekyll and Hyde and the office’s VP heartthrob who’s a bit of a mystery. Holly has to handle them all. On top of everything else, Holly’s trying to keep a secret under wraps. Throw in her well-meaning but overbearing mother’s demands for attention, her eccentric grandmother’s misguided kindness in signing Holly up for everything online, and her two siblings’ personal ongoing dramas and you have a laugh-a-minute. Holly’s two best friends and co-receptionist are only an email away, keeping her relatively sane one moment and driving her even more crazy the next. You just cannot resist reading this hilariously compulsive novel.

Holly’s Inbox is the first time I’ve read a book written by a man under a female pen name. I’d still be none the wiser if the publisher hadn’t told me. I would love to know how the author became so good at delving into the female psyche. A master of the wry throwaway comment, Mr. Surie captures so many female insecurities and moments of self doubt with the character of Holly in such a funny manner that you can’t help but laugh. Bill credits being the owner of a real life London placement service for reception staff as a direct inspiration, but I think he’s too modest. He absolutely nails the wonderful characters to perfection and I doubt that a career choice alone is the reason for it. This author is very talented, very witty and I hope is compiling a sequel to this as we speak. I can tell I’m going to become as addicted to this stroke of genius that is Holly Denham as I am to caffeine.

I’ve saved the best news until last. Want a sneak peek at Holly’s life? Then visit her inbox at http://hollysinbox.com/. That’s where this novel all began and the seeds were sown of a girl’s life you’ll find you just won’t be able to get enough of. There are plenty of emails there to tempt you. In 2007, Bill’s site peaked with 90,000 visitors checking in, all wanting to find out what was going to happen next to our heroine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you find yourself doing the same!

Fantastic, heart warming and a truly novel stylistic approach. You’ll love it. 5 stars.

Available at all good bookstores, including Amazon.

Kay Elizabeth is the Editor and Co-Owner of The Cuckleburr Times and always loves to hear from visitors here.

Humor: not Everyone Can Hear the Funny

Jay Speyerer — Thu, 28 May 2009 14:06:58 +0000

By all accounts, the late movie cowboy Gene Autry was a fine fellow and a savvy businessman, having owned a record label, a production company, and a baseball team. He was as widely known for his westerns as he was for making a hit song out of “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer.” He made a ton of “B” westerns in the 40s, and had a TV show in the 50s, all aimed at the kid audience.

Those kids probably didn’t care that Gene wasn’t the greatest actor, and that he seemed to have only two facial expressions, concerned and smiling. He never knew what to do with his hands, so when he wasn’t playing the guitar or punching a bad guy, he hooked his thumbs over his gunbelt. Gene’s acting chops matched his voice, which was less than resonant, kind of nasal and twangy. He could carry a tune as long as it wasn’t very heavy.

Sometimes Gene played his guitar as he sang for an audience visible within the movie, and that made sense in both the real and reel worlds. But sometimes we’d see Gene and his sidekick, Smiley Burnett, riding their horses along some desolate trail west of nowhere, just the two of them, when Gene would abruptly burst into song. Not only did Smiley see nothing odd about this behavior, he didn’t even react to the full (and fully invisible) orchestral accompaniment that Gene seemed to carry around with him. In fact, Smiley even sang along.

Then after the song was over, the two good guys would run into some baddies. A rousing chase and fistfight would follow, with exciting music accompanying the action.

Obviously, both the audience in the story and the audience watching the movie could hear Gene’s guitar when he was playing for them. That’s diegetic or “source” music, a part of the story. And just as obviously, Gene and Smiley could not hear the music when they were chasing and fighting the bad guys. That was non-diegetic music; it was there as dramatic effect for the benefit of the audience. The music Gene sang to while riding along the trail falls into a kind of music limbo.

According to Pauline Reay’s book, “Music in Film: Soundtracks and Synergy,” diegesis is the story world depicted on the screen. We the audience could hear all of the music, but the characters could hear only some of it. I believe the same is true with humor.

Fast-forward fifty years. “Frasier,” starring Kelsey Grammer, was a popular spin-off of “Cheers.” Aside from being a well-written show, it was superbly cast, each actor making us believe in his or her character. One of those splendidly fleshed out characters was Frasier’s über-fussy brother, Niles, played by David Hyde Pierce. Niles was quite the intellectual, like his brother. One day Niles walked into the studio of Frasier’s radio program to show him a rare book he’s just bought. Niles says, “I wanted to show you my copy of ‘Saint Katy, the Virgin,’ in like-new condition.” Frasier replies with a knowing grin, “Yes, well, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?” Niles smiles, and the audience laughs.

Later in that scene, they learn that their favorite restaurant is closing forever. Niles gets wistful for his eighth birthday party, which had been held at the restaurant, and where he was just as fussy. Niles says wistfully, “Great times. Opening presents, wearing funny hats, sending back the veal Prince Orloff.” Frasier doesn’t smile, but the audience laughs.

Each of those jokes is in a different form. The first one about Saint Katy is diegetic, that is, it takes place in their world and is acknowledged by the characters as being a joke. Niles smiles at Frasier’s remark about the book, just as someone would do in the real world. But the other funny line would not be considered source humor. Niles’ line about sending back the veal was non-diegetic. Frasier did not see it as a joke, only an example of Niles’ personality.

(“Frasier” was one of the few shows I’ve seen where the people in the story laugh at the funny things others in the story say. Compare it to “The Bob Newhart Show,” the one where he plays a psychologist. The characters don’t laugh at each other’s jokes; only the audience does.)

The second “Frasier” joke was character-driven; the first was not. That’s the difference. We the audience could hear all the humor, but the characters could not. Just like the music in Gene Autry’s movies.

Decide what kind of humor you’re using in your stories, both in print and on stage. Is it a joke that other people in the story recognize as such? Or is it character driven humor that blends seamlessly with the world of the story?

If you’re on stage and you tell your audience something self-deprecating and funny about yourself, it should come off as non-diegetic. You should not act as though it’s funny to you; allow the audience to get it on their own. But if you tell them an actual joke – which I don’t recommend unless you’re a trained professional and wearing a helmet – allow the audience to know that you know it’s a joke. Don’t laugh at it, just acknowledge the humor.

And don’t hook your thumbs over your gunbelt.

10 Ways to Tell You’re at a No Frills Funeral

Carl Megill — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 05:37:55 +0000

The economy is hitting us hard. (How many people reading this just said, “No kidding”, or some other expletive?) I’ll deal with you later. Right now, it’s important to realize that the economy is hurting big business, as well as the little “Mom and Pop” stores. And, if mom and pop don’t get paid, then the kids don’t get their allowances and then they protest by refusing to do their chores and if the kids don’t do their chores, we’ll be stuck taking out the garbage ourselves. Something needs to be done. But, I digress.

The point I’m trying to make is that many businesses are trying to get you to do trade with them by offering specials, sales and discounts. How far will this go? A funeral home in the northeast, realizing the high cost of funerals, is offering discounts, in order to deal with their competitors. But, I’m thinking, enough is enough (Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer, 1979). How can you possibly cut back on a funeral? Well, here are ten ways to tell that you are at a “no-frills” funeral.

1. The clergy performing the ceremony is dressed in a lavender, velour sweat suit.

2. The organist, playing spiritual melodies, has been replaced by a deejay spinning non-stop Grateful Dead tunes.

3. Several of the handles on the casket have broken off and have been replaced with strong pieces of Kemp.

4. The makeup on the deceased has apparently been applied by a graduate of The Clown College.

5. Instead of embalming fluid, the body has been preserved by using a mixture of Knox gelatin and peanut butter.

6. Or, the cremation remains are stored in a mayonnaise jar.

7. The signatory hearse is a black, 2005 PT Cruiser.

8. A few of the pallbearers complained of splinters.

9. The actual burial takes place in the middle of the night in, what appears to be, someone’s back yard.

10. The headstone is actually a large block of Government donated cheese.

Yes, the economy is doing its best to make us find ways we never thought of to, well, economize. This could be just the beginning. Imagine a “no-frills” hospital. Boggles the mind and, well, could be the fodder for at least a dozen more articles. What am I waiting for? Later.

What Will Happen If You Don’t Switch to Digital TV

Carl Megill — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 16:02:41 +0000

Unless you are from the planet Mongo, everyone is aware of what is going to happen on June 12, 2009. All men will be forced to wear thongs. Just kidding. Television broadcasting be going from analog (I think I used to date her) to digital. That means millions of television viewers on 6/12 will be watching the equivalent of a white cat eating mayonnaise in a snowstorm. This will only happen if your television has no cable system, or if it is attached to a roof antenna, rabbit-ears, or pigs feet.

This brings forth the questions, what is digital broadcasting, how did it start and why must I switch? All good questions. In order to get these answers (and this column up to 500 words) let’s take a look at who conceived digital T.V.

As far as it can be determined, digital TV was conceived by the same guy who told us back in the 1970′s to replace all our vinyl record albums with eight track tapes. Once we had enough eight track tapes to fill Nassau Coliseum, he recommended that we replace them with audio cassettes. After spending the kid’s college fund on that, this same guy came up with CDs. He was found, stripped down to his skivvies and deported on a cattle boat to Caracas.

NOTE: It has been noted that vinyl records are making a big comeback, so hang on to your eight track tapes, because it looks like this thing is coming full circle.

It is also believed that this is the same person who dreamed up the home video. He started with the Beta Max/VHS craze. After we spent a small fortune on Beta Max systems, VHS eventually won out and Beta Max had to be replaced. (Although, it is believed that only 37 people actually bought Beta Max systems.) After VHS won, he came up with the video disc; a prerecorded video on a disc about the size of the aforementioned vinyl record album. After these failed to become popular, this lunatic invented the DVD, which was accomplished by taking all those video discs and putting them into a very large microwave oven. Now there’s Blu-Ray Disc Technology, which, when you move the letters around, you get the phrase, “ability to charge more.”

So, what exactly will happen if you haven’t made the switch to digital by June 12th? It hasn’t been confirmed, but it is believed that the following ten things will happen:

1. All family members will lose every square inch of body hair (this includes all indoor pets).
2. All food will taste like carpet swatches.
3. You will begin having nightmares of drowning in a pool of honey-mustard dressing.
4. People will begin speaking to you in Pig Latin.
5. You’ll be forced to go out and buy a pig to translate what people are saying to you.
6. It will rain Kaeopectate in your living room for forty days and forty nights.
7. Telemarketers will begin calling you day and night, trying to sell you Skip Homeier’s Memoirs.
8. You’ll start a home-based business manufacturing ear wax removal systems.
9. Your car will be stolen from your garage and replaced with a stack of coupons for lawn fertilizer.
10. Former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich will move in with you.

So, if you don’t want these things to happen to you, please make the switch. Otherwise, Heaven help us all.

Staying On The Funny Side – Of Commercials

Kelly Swanson — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 04:49:38 +0000

Have you seen the commercial for the kid’s allergy medication? Two women are sitting in a park on a play date when one child runs up, sneezes, and both women, like gun slingers, pull out their emergency mommy medication. One mother has an oozing bag of mangled medications. The other mother pulls out her handy dandy pre-filled dose of medication and administers it to Junior and never misses a beat. Messy bag woman cowers in shame. Quick-dose mom flashes a condescending smile of victory.

Freeze the frame right here because I have a problem with this whole scenario. First of all, find me a park where children are frolicking and skipping to the tune of laughing mothers. Last park I went to, one kid pee’d on the slide, another bit his sister in the face, somebody found a hypodermic needle in the sand box, and my car got spray painted with gang graffiti before I even turned off the engine. And it’s not just moms anymore. I saw two dads, a grandparent, a babysitter, a kid who was thrown out the door of a station wagon as the parents ‘roll through’, another who I’m pretty sure lives there, and one man in slippers shuffling through the parking lot talking to himself. And who even has time for play dates anymore? I’m busy. My kid gets play dates in line at the DMV.

The TV moms are immaculately dressed. No wrinkles, no stains. Right now I’m wearing a t-shirt with crusted peanut butter and matching sweats that I’ve been wearing since Tuesday. I once went a whole day with a sucker stuck to the side of my head before anybody told me. The TV moms are chatting happily. Wrong. Sara’s telling Sue about how lazy her husband is; while Bertha (who just slipped vodka into her water bottle) is complaining about how far her butt has dropped to Erma who can’t hear her because she’s too busy spanking her kid in the parking lot.

The commercial mothers are always deep in conversation while their kids are playing out on the horizon. Hello! Do you watch Law and Order? My child once disappeared behind a bush for a second and I started screaming, clawing at my sweater, and profiling the other moms. And what’s up with the kid who comes up to his mother to sneeze? Please. My son can be bleeding out his eyes and he won’t stop digging to come get help. Commercial mom whips out her bag of medications. We went on vacation and I forgot Junior’s inhaler. She reaches into her purse and locates the bag of medicine immediately. I once went into my purse for a band aid and dug up four half-eaten candy bars, a pair of underwear, and a dead gerbil. No band aid.

Commercial kid takes his medication with a smile. I have to wrestle my kid to the ground, hold his nose, and threaten to take away Christmas if he doesn’t take it. Commercial kid smiles and gives a cute toothless thank-you while my kid seeks vengeance with a magic marker on the living room wall. Then Patty Perfect gives Susie Slack a condescending smile of victory. Well, I must admit, that one is pretty much on target. I’ve met Patty Perfect before. She’s the one who frowns when I bring chocolate when it’s my turn for preschool snack. When I put diet coke in his sippy cup. When I breastfeed at the salad bar.

Yeah – all that from a commercial. I’ll probably still buy it anyway. It does look cool. I’m sure it will cost three times as much, I’ll leave it at home, and my kid still won’t take it. So maybe the commercial wins after all. But I won’t let them tell me what normal mothers look like. Or what beautiful looks like either. Or success. Or happiness. What do they know?

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Small Things – Dumpster Diva

Jan C. Steven — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 22:14:22 +0000

It used to be that I saw others as Dumpster Divers or Divas. For example, when I realized that the jumbo pickle jars used in nursing homes made excellent starter goldfish bowls, my friend – and chair of our church council, Lorne – would make the occasional “reach” at one of the places his wife and he visited.

But a week ago last Saturday, I found myself at the planter dumpster at the local YIG pulling out treasures. Yes, you know those hanging white ten inch baskets. Someone had tossed four of them away. Imagine! And while I was stretching for them, I saw a couple of large fibre pots. A little worn, but this was a dumpster after all.

I wish I could tell you that my gathering was limited to very large glass jars and plant pots. (By the way, my name in Arabic means “gatherer”.) But it also extends to vases or anything vaselike, teacups and unique mugs. The vases are for flowers I glean from an area florist (add flowers) and the cups for wee plants from an area greenhouse (add plants).

My saving grace in all of this is that none of these treasures are meant to end with me. The flowers and vases end up at area nursing homes – for folks who don’t get a lot of visitors. The cups and plants will also find homes for lonely people. Everyone benefits – surplus is made beautiful (at least in my eyes) and given to deficit.

My family wouldn’t mind if my rescue efforts were limited it to inanimate objects but I also save big old house cats that end up at the Greater Sudbury Animal Shelter. No, I’m not a crazy cat lady (yet). At times I may have as many cats as some of them, but these cats are merely resting at the Steven Hilton until I find them a new home.

Oh yeah, and I do goldfish rescue too. Right now I have in my care a large white goldfish that looks more like Moby Dick, than a Carassius auratus. And like his literary counterpart, he is blind in one eye. Most of my fish are on display in the waiting room of my part time job, but MD is so “unique” he scares the clients. So he happily swims about in my office with a “troubling” of liberated feeder fish.A friend of mine, who I’m certain sorts and alphabetizes her spices on a regular basis, assures me I am not a hoarder. Messy, yes. Eccentric, yes. Disposophobic, no. One crosses the line when one’s collections “cause impairment to basic living activities.”

But she hasn’t seen my hubby’s and my used (and new) book library. One spark and the fire department would have to call in the reservists.

However, my hubby had cut his “booking” back – he’s practically on the wagon. Part of this may be due to his all-encompassing hobby – running Your Scrivener Press. Four times a year we have 500 to 1500 books delivered by transport and deposited in our garage, and from there into our house, and then hopefully into stores and new long-term loving homes. Hopefully…

You have heard the phrase, “You can’t take it with you!” Amen to that!

Jan Carrie Steven (MA RSW) is a Counselor, Mentor, Chaplain and Volunteer. You can read more from Jan at her websites: Basic Counselling Skills and Small Things.

Drivers Ed – A Nostalgic Look Back

Carl Megill — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 04:56:42 +0000

Apparently, sometime between the time I got out of high school and now, Drivers Education has changed dramatically. I can make this unfounded assumption by simply observing all of the “nuts” on the road.

Let’s go back to the beginning. Back to where I learned how to drive. I can still remember Drivers Ed. and Mr. Dooley, a boys gym teacher, teaching us how to drive. I never quite got the connection of how a gym teacher was qualified to teach us how to drive. I mean, we were supposed to put our lives into this man’s hands? The same man whose only job was to make sure we didn’t wear our athletic supporters on our heads? What did he know about K-Turns? He’s also the guy who taught health class. How could he teach us how to merge into traffic when he just spent six weeks explaining why hair was going to be growing out of our ears when we turned forty?

There was quite a mixed grille in our car which included me, Tom Chivone, the captain of our football team, a guy who should have spent more time wearing all of his safety gear at practice, Leonard Elliot (Egghead Extraordinaire), who would tell you the square root of four trillion without asking him, and Mary McNultey, the most beautiful girl in our school and the one voted by the guys in our class as the girl with which we would most likely want to parallel park.

So, Mr. Dooley made sure that we understood the correct rules of driving by frequently shouting in our ears, whenever we made a mistake, that we were stupid. “If I wanted you to dive into that hedge, I would have asked you, stupid!!!”

Learning how to drive like that does have its benefits. For instance, if when you did get your license, and you were out on your own, and you did make a stupid mistake on the road, a rush of adrenaline would course through your veins, making you wonder if that was Mr. Dooley watching in the other car next to you.

Of course, once we got our licenses, we would often be seen turning the power-steering wheel of our car with one finger, with our other arm hanging out the window, smoking a cigarette and listening to Top Forty radio at glass-breaking decibels.

That’s petty stuff compared to the fools I see on the road these days. I can never remember Mr. Dooley telling us that it was alright to weave in and out of traffic, like I see this idiot doing every morning on my way to work, only to get to the next traffic signal five seconds before everyone else.

Another thing. It is legal to make a “Right On Red” in this state, unless otherwise posted. So, if you are at a traffic signal and you want to cross the intersection, and there’s room for two cars side-by-side, get over to the left, so that the cars behind you can make the “Right on Red”. Don’t sit there next to the car that is crossing the intersection in hopes that you can illegally pass them on the right.

I know if Mr. Dooley was in the car with you when you made such an inconsiderate decision, he would have one word for you…”Stupid!”

5 Things You Should Know About Writing Humour

Mervyn Love — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 08:15:37 +0000

More than ever before readers are crying out for something to lift them out of the tide of dire news and the pressures of modern life. To be able to bring a smile to peoples faces, or even make them laugh out loud, can prove to be a highly paid talent.

For the writer who feels he or she can contribute to the sum of human happiness, here are a few pointers on how to make a success of it.

1. The first thing to remember is that humour is subjective. What is funny to one person may easily leave another cold. This depends on both style and subject matter. You can do one of two things here. (A) Write stuff in your own style that makes YOU laugh, because if it amuses you then there will be a whole crowd of people out there with your sense of humour who will plug into what you’re offering. Alternately (B) write humour that will appeal to a wide range of readers by choosing subjects that have universal appeal. For instance think of the trials of life: growing up; the teenage years with their problems and angst; married life; growing old. All have a wide appeal.

2. Humour is grounded, believe it or not, in the serious things of life and in those universal truths of life. Take, for instance, sit-coms like ‘My Family’, ‘The Royale Family’, ‘Frasier’. They all deal with real, if exaggerated, life experiences. Bill Bryson has made a name for himself by writing humourously about his travels in both the US and England. He has taken his real life experiences and brought out the funny side.

3. When writing short stories or novels it is important to remember that your reader must laugh WITH your characters and not at them. Taking your characters though embarrassing, unfortunate, even dangerous episodes requires that the reader feels sympathetic towards the character whilst at the same time laughing at the situation they are in.

4. When writing a story make sure you vary the plot by bringing in scenes of tenderness, pathos and seriousness every now and then. This will add a dynamism which takes the reader from the heights of hilarity (we hope) to the more down-to-earth and thoughtful scenes. This way the pathos will emphasise the humour and vice versa. A story that goes from gag to gag from start to finish will lack the highs and lows that any story needs.

5. What makes people laugh the most? Someone slipping on a banana skin is practically top of the list. Or someone sitting on a deck chair which collapses. In such cases the observer, or reader, is, or should be, laughing at the situation but not at the unfortunate person. Your humour needs to hit that spot in the heart and mind of the reader that says ‘That could have been me’. As well as making the reader laugh try to bring out the sympathy and compassion in them as well.

Whatever style of humour you have, there is an audience out there waiting for you, so go for it. Just watch where you’re walking!

Mervyn Love offers a warm welcome and a stress free zone for all writers at his website WritersReign . Here you can relax and browse pages of advice, resources, competition listing, markets and much more. His free Article Writing Course has proved extremely popular, so why not sign up now while you’re thinking about it? Subscribe to it here.

10 Ways to Tell the Honeymoon is Over

Carl Megill — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 14:03:56 +0000

Let’s face it, the first few years of marriage, we go out of our way to make that someone who has agreed to spend the rest of their lives with us, feel special. We do this in many ways; through words, actions and patience. Patience, after a while, becomes tolerance and soon, before we know it, the honeymoon is over. Here are ten ways to tell if your marriage has taken that step into “Realityland.”

1. Before, he would throw his dirty clothes into the hamper. Now, you find his underwear hanging on the doorknob.

2. Before, when you came home, she would greet you with hugs and kisses. Now, she greets you with a plunger and the number of toys Little Johnny tried flushing down the toilet.

3. Before, he would call you cute nicknames like, “Honeybun” or “Sweetcheeks.” Now, it’s, “Hey, you!” (Note: After ten years of marriage, he drops the “you.”)

4. Before, she would give you your favorite meals with all the trimmings. Now, she gives you extra napkins for your Sloppy Joes.

5. Before, he would take you to your favorite restaurant where the menu had a wide array of exotic dishes. Now, he takes you to a restaurant where the menu is behind somebody’s head.

6. Before the kids arrived, she would wear her sexiest perfume. Now, she smells like “Eau de Baby Poop.”

7. Before, he would surprise you with sweet smelling flowers. Now, he surprises you with announcements of his flatulence.

8. Before, she would ask, “Is there anything I can do for you?” Now, she asks, “What do you want now?”

9. Before, he would want to make love all night. Now, he wants to wait until the game is over.

10. Before, she would want to make love all night. Now, she hopes the game goes into overtime.
If any of these sound familiar, congratulations. You are now into the down and dirty side of marriage. You are finally being yourself. And, isn’t that all we want anyway? Just to be ourselves? No more putting on our happy face when we feel like screaming. No more putting up a false front when we want to say what is really on our minds.

Of course, if we all did that, there would be a lot more people checking the single box on their tax returns. The happy medium is to realize that we are all going to change after marriage and it’s up to each of us to be prepared.

Here’s to many happy years of connubial bliss.

What is Wrong With the Presidential Campaigns?

Carl Megill — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 20:03:55 +0000

Well, it’s election time again, but something is different this year. Something is missing. Something that is so obvious that it’s as plain as the nose on the candidate’s faces (which always seems to grow like Pinocchio’s at election time.) The candidates are actually talking about themselves and not about their opponents. They are telling the American public what they intend to do, if elected. They are talking like they have an actual platform. What is going on with that?

Where is all the bellyaching that we used to have to listen to? Where is all the dirt and back stabbing and mudslinging? It used to be all the rage. Where is the list of campaign promises that will never be kept? It used to be the staple of any campaign.

Bring back the old days where there was enough mud slung in the presidential campaigns that you could rebuild New Orleans with adobes.

And it wasn’t just the presidential campaign, the senatorial and congressional races were so busy heaving and receiving mud from each other, their campaign headquarters planned on holding wrestling matches every Friday night.

I always found it interesting as to how certain dirt was dug up on some of those unfortunate souls. Like the congressman accused of registering himself and several barnyard animals into a Comfort Inn. Or, the senator charged with dancing the lambada, in Central Park, inebriated beyond belief, wearing only mascara and a sampling of the fall collection from Victoria’s Secret.

Of course, all the accusations are unfounded. But who comes up with them? Who has that vivid of an imagination? And, most important, is there any money in it?

If there is, then let’s spread some of the wealth this way. I can come up with some really irreverent, bogus, unsubstantiated droll that could fit almost any candidate. Let’s see. Alright, how about this? A Midwestern congressman was caught smoking an unidentified substance, possibly green timothy, or recently harvested alfalfa, behind the MacNeil outhouse on County Road 27.

Then, there’s the Southern senator seen sneaking out of the woods where an illegal still was found making contraband Kool-Aid.

Or, the California congressman caught dining in some sleazy dive with a date, not his wife, who had a suspicious looking air valve on her neck.

Let’s make it a bit more “tabloidish.” What New England congresswoman tried claiming an enormous amount of electronic surveillance equipment, on her taxes, to spy on MacDonalds employees who opposed her bill to legalize baklava on non-Greek holidays.

Yes, it seems there is money to be made in the tolerance of human frailty. After all, aren’t we all looking for perfection in an, otherwise, quite imperfect world? Since we spend so much time expecting the inexcusable, let’s capitalize on it. I think I could be pretty good at being a “sludgemonger.” So, come on candidates, let’s get in contact.

Now, where did I leave off? Okay, how about this? The irresponsible senator who voted against the death penalty for yellow jackets that sting Pamela Anderson.

What a country!

Aunt Ruth and the Ginger Snap Cookie Incident

Dennis Copson — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 21:34:52 +0000

We grew up in the 1940’s and ‘50’s on a small dairy and chicken farm in Belfast, Maine. ‘We’ being my two brothers and three cousins. Times there were hard. Farming in those days, as I suspect it is now, was an austere life. Lots of hard work with little compensation. I think the people who bought our milk and chickens made the money. The small farmer seldom benefited then and I doubt they are doing much better today.

There wasn’t a lot of money for extras or store – bought things especially sweets like cookies, cakes, or pies. Things that kids love. Not to worry. We were blessed to have as our aunt one of the finest – maybe THE finest – bakers of such things as there was in the ‘kind old state’ of Maine if not the entire New England area.

Aunt Ruth baked all of our pastries. She labored in a hot kitchen with an antiquated cook stove year round. She baked an assortment of goodies, but cookies were her specialty although her cakes were not to be discounted. She baked cakes for all occasions including every birthday for each kid. We chose the cake we wanted and Aunt Ruth made it for us with our name on it – decorating done by hand. My favorite was her chocolate cake with vanilla frosting.

She baked a variety of cookies including a wicked molasses cookie, a delicious oatmeal cookie with raisins, and, of course everyone’s favorite, her chocolate chip cookie filled with big tasty chocolate nuggets. (There were no ‘Famous Amos’ cookies in those days!)

However good these were – and they disappeared fast with six youngsters around the house – her favorite was her ginger snaps. My reasoning is that she baked those most often.

I have mentioned the state of the kitchen she had to work in as not being the best suited for baking. How she did what she did still puzzles me. (I’ve tried baking from scratch. It isn’t an easy task.) Taking that into account, she did have a tendency to bake those ginger snaps to a rather well done state. Perhaps she liked them that way. Man, you really had to bite down hard on those babies to get a piece to break off in your mouth. Chewing them was another challenge. It was best, we learned, to let them sit in your mouth for awhile while they softened up before you started chewing on them. I say this because we hated going to the dentist; those ginger snaps were about the quickest way to earn a trip there that I know.

One winter afternoon she had labored lovingly and turned out a big batch of those ginger snaps – dozens of them if I remember correctly. I have mentioned that dear Aunt Ruth had a penchant for baking this type of cookie quite firm to say the least. I don’t know what happened that day, but this particular batch had to be the firmest yet! They were rock hard.

That evening the entire family gathered at about six o’clock for dinner as was customary. (Do they do that anymore?) Seating had its pecking order. Adults, mostly men, sat in the breakfast nook, kids in the kitchen at a small table. That’s how it always was – for years. There was a further refinement of this pecking order in that each adult had his particular spot at the table, too. Of most importance to this story was the seating of my Grandfather, Fred. He sat in the far end of the table next to the window. As long as he lived that was his spot and no one had better try to sit there. It just didn’t happen. He was the Alpha male!

That night after dinner was served and eaten, hot tea and dessert was offered. Aunt Ruth proudly produced her ginger snap cookies as the evening fare. A rounded plate of them was delivered to the adult table; more than enough to go around.

Now one thing about my Grandfather you would notice was that he had only several teeth remaining with which to chew. There was no way he was going to bite off any amount of a ginger snap – not these particular ginger snaps especially – no matter how long he soaked them in his hot tea. I think that frustrated him somewhat because he could fare quite well with most foods even without an abundance of teeth. He had to say something about this situation; that was his way. He and Aunt Ruth had running gun battles in the teasing ways.

I, sitting at the kids’ table in the kitchen, saw him looking my way with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Something was about to happen.

“Berthie,” he asked, “Could you hand me my hammer?”

My Grandmother Bertha, standing in the kitchen with my Aunt Ruth, was perplexed.

“Fred,” she asked, “Why in the world would you need your hammer at the dinner table?”

“To break up this damned cookie, that’s why!” announced Fred in a voice which could be heard throughout the dining area.

There was a moment of deafening silence in the house. Something was going to come of this insult. It was not to pass unnoticed by my Aunt Ruth, not to be unpunished. Action was called for.

(Now Aunt Ruth was the nicest person you’d ever meet. She was not the type to easily be riled. However…NEVER belittle her baking! Nor any of the products of her hand.)

She reacted as quick as lightning. It could not have been faster. In one sweeping motion of her arm she launched one of those ginger snaps out of the kitchen and into the breakfast nook. Roger Clemens, with or without performance enhancers, had nothing on the speed of that cookie traveling the twenty five feet or so to its mark

That cookie – now a deadly missile – sailed out of the kitchen and into the breakfast nook like a Frisbee – no, more like a discus owing to its texture – and hit my grandfather right between the eyes. There is no describing the surprise on his face as a little trickle of blood soon appeared at the bridge of his nose.

There were sixteen people having dinner that night including hired hands and uncles as well as six children. There were sixteen gasps as this happened. Our grandfather was the patriarch. He ruled the roost. You simply did not throw ginger snaps at him; we all knew that for sure.

Then, as quickly as the gasps died down, a rousing round of laughter began. We all laughed until tears were flowing though no one with more glee and gusto than Aunt Ruth.

However, I think my grandfather laughed hardest of all. He loved a good joke – even if it was on him! He was given a bandaid and all was forgiven. But, he never again – not once – made a disparaging remark about Aunt Ruth’s ginger snap cookies no matter how hard they were.

Major Dennis Copson is a retired US Marine and lives in Oceanside, CA where he is the Director of Sales and Marketing for Nature’s Big Bud Worm Castings and a freelance writer available for assignment. More information is available on his website at www.naturesbigbud.com and www.gogreenaid.com.

Staying on the Funny Side – Of Sparky the Cat

Kelly Swanson — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 03:25:13 +0000

The vet said Sparky died of natural causes. Aunt Fern said it was probably something he ate. Mildred said that cat had been electrocuted, caught on fire, painted pink, and dressed up as a camel for the Buncam Baptist Christmas pageant- that if that didn’t add up to nine lives, nothing did. Personally, I think Sparky had finally had enough of this crazy family, got a hold of some pills, and took his own life. He just picked the wrong week to do it.

It was Great Uncle Edsel’s 90th birthday and a great cause for celebration since he wasn’t supposed to live this long, having been diagnosed with some rare disease that none of us could pronounce. The doctors had given him a month, two at the most. We had accepted it, and so had Edsel, who had chosen to spend the remainder of his time intoxicated. That was ten years ago and the man had soaked up so much alcohol we couldn’t let him blow out the candles on his cake for fear he’d blow us all up. So nobody noticed Sparky’s suicide note or discovered his contorted body until the party was in full swing and the kids decided to play hide ‘n seek.

It was Sammy Junior who crawled under the bed to hide, and came eye to eye and cheek to cheek with the dearly departed Sparky whose face had frozen in a wide-eyed snarl. It’s safe to say that both of them were equally petrified. Sammy’s scream circled the block as relatives ran in to face a situation far more interesting than hearing Uncle Bert’s new country song which had fourteen verses and ended up sounding like Hank Williams with a speech impediment. They all took turns peering under the bed and saying, “Yep, it’s a dead cat all right.” It was obvious that the next step was to remove Sparky from under the bed, and equally obvious that nobody wanted that job.

“You get it,” someone whispered.

“I ain’t touching it. You touch it!”

“I’m not touching it! You touch it!”

And the phrase was passed from one to another until they finally elected Big Ed, who was a cop. How different could this be from the time Old Man Foster passed out in the congealed salad at the little league picnic? Big Ed, with an image to protect, yelled for a broom, hitched up his pants, and bent down to survey the situation. Minutes later, with sweat-laced brow, he swept Sparky and a family of dust bunnies out from under the bed while we hovered behind him with held breath, staring at the cat who lay frozen on his back with all four paws up in the air, just like Aunt Ethel when she fainted during her solo at church.

Somebody sneezed and Big Ed’s arm jerked the broom and Sparky skidded across the floor, landing with a thud against Mildred’s walker creating instant hysteria as people literally climbed over each other to get out. It was a tragic moment that secured the job of every therapist within a thirty-mile radius. Mildred hyperventilated. Skeeter swallowed his snuff. And Aunt Bitsy says that was the trauma that caused her to start eating carbs again. Once they got Uncle Edsel’s heart started back up, they decided that they had no choice but to either bury Sparky or prop him up in a wing chair until the party was over. Loretta set off to find a box, because everybody knows the wing chair’s reserved for Granny Jean once her medication kicks in.

We tried getting Sparky into several boxes, but his tail kept popping out, causing shrieks of horror every time Ed tried to stuff it back in. Finally we settled on little Emily’s Barbie Camper with the side awning that made a great place for his tail. It was appropriate, as Sparky had always loved riding shotgun in Skeeter’s mobile party camper with the flashing Budweiser light. The only place we could find dirt soft enough to dig was in the front yard. So you can imagine the dismal scene we presented to the latecomers who were now driving up to the party carting cases of beer – only to find us standing around a hole with Big Ed digging knee-deep in dirt.

We all paused, looked up, and Ed announced solemnly, “You’re too late. He’s already gone.” The tardy relatives dropped to their knees, faces washed in grief (except for Vyrnetta who showed no emotion at all, not from womanly grit, but the botox injections she had received earlier that day.) We found their reaction to be somewhat overdramatic until we realized they thought the hole was for Great Uncle Edsel.

We cleared up the confusion, showed them that Great Uncle Edsel was still alive, and let them get one last peek at Sparky. And except for that moment when Sparky’s burial robe (a silver sequined super hero cape with an “S” on the back) got caught on Erma’s oxygen tank, the rest of the funeral went without a hitch. And that was the day dear old Sparky left this world. Great Uncle Edsel lived another ten years before deciding he’d had enough of this family too. We found him under the dining room table. At least he was dressed this time.

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Staying on the Funny Side – Of Kitchen Gadgets

Kelly Swanson — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 02:20:08 +0000

I’m a sucker for those “As Seen On TV” kitchen gadgets. Show me a woman in a dated hairdo and a pantsuit, waving her hand over a seventy-five-piece plastic monogrammed food packaging and storage system, and my pulse starts to race.

Show me the whole family frolicking (is that still a word?) through the meadow with the dog and the handy dandy monogrammed food packaging carrying case on wheels with the drink holder and solar radio, and I’m diving for my credit card.

Tell me that for just an additional dollar, I can get a complete set of stainless steel knives guaranteed to cut steel and to outlive three generations, and it is no longer a want – no longer a need – it has become an I must have this or I will die – forget braces for Junior, Mamma needs a food storage system.

My husband tried to block the channel after I ordered him thirty-seven button-me-easy kits that promise to replace your button in thirty seconds without the need for needles or thread. He said it would have been a good idea, if most of his shirts had buttons.

It happens again yesterday. Just when I’ve barely recovered from the ramifications of ordering a lifetime supply of under-the-bed sweater organizers that emit a lilac scent – I see her white teeth and that familiar pantsuit, and I’m under her spell again. This time is different. This gadget is the king daddy of all gadgets – the Air Sucker 2000 – breaking all records in high tech kitchen gadgetry. Put your food in the bag, slide the bag through the sealer and it sucks all the air out of the bag and keeps it fresh for the rest of your life – just as fresh as the day you put it in. We’re thinking of using it on Great Uncle Fred. You can seal pork chops, chicken, steak, salad, soup, and even a pint of your dog’s blood should he ever need a transfusion. This would have been a handy thing to have when Uncle Skeeter cut off his toe with the weed whacker and we needed something to carry it in.

This is revolutionary. This will save us millions of dollars in wasted food. This, I have to have. I decide to order three – just in case they stop making them. “What are you doing?” my husband asks in an accusing tone as I’m reciting my credit card number to Susie who swears the Air Sucker 2000 changed her life. How does he do that? I have to yell for help four times when I super glue my foot into my new shoe (long story). It takes ten minutes for him to come to my aid when I get my hair caught in the drain (even longer story). We have a dead squirrel on the front porch for three days and he doesn’t even notice. Pick up the phone to try and place a tiny little credit card order and it’s like I blew a dog whistle.

I tell Susie to please hold, roll my eyes, and explain to my husband, while trying to be patient, that this is one of those necessary purchases. “You do NOT need that,” he says, gritting his teeth. He should really learn to handle stress more effectively. “Yes. I do.” “Like you needed the battery operated Bug-Be-Gone for the pool?” He can be quite sarcastic when he wants to be. “Hey, you said yourself that was good idea,” I point out. “We don’t have a pool!” he growls. I hang up the phone before Susie can call 911 to report domestic violence and follow my husband to the kitchen where he’s standing with his arms crossed, wearing that look he gets when he’s about to win an argument. Uh-oh.

“Open that cabinet,” he barks. “Come on. Open it. And tell me what you see.” I don’t appreciate his tone. “Let’s see,” I murmur. “There’s the green pepper spiraler….the vegetable blender with the pasta attachment…the six-speed juicer with the sleeve to hold the morning paper…oh, here’s that cute serving tray with the ceramic pigs in bikinis on pool floats…and the pasta colander that turns into a centerpiece…and I’m not really sure exactly what this thing is…” My voice trails off as I crawl deeper into the cabinet. “What’s that behind the silver-plated cake stand that sings happy birthday?” he asks while I drag out a dust-covered contraption and read the words on the side: Air Sucker 2000.

Suddenly it comes rushing back – November, two years ago. I still remember the day it came in the mail. I was so excited. I was convinced that this revolutionary item would change my life. I never could figure out how it worked. It was missing three pieces, wouldn’t work on any speed but high, made an awful screeching noise, blew a fuse, and was wider than my counter top. I wrapped one piece of chicken (which is still in my freezer, thank you very much) and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Okay, okay, so maybe my husband has a point. He’s still a little mad. It’s probably better that I don’t tell him there are three more Air Suckers in the basement.

Kelly Swanson, Humorist – Powerful Message, Outrageously Funny. Visit Kelly at kellyswanson.net .

kelly@kellyswanson.net

Stinky Monroe

Mike Vines — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 18:25:49 +0000

Harry couldn’t have been more than five when he and his father, Walter, visited Pug’s Country Store on a brisk Friday morning in April, 1926. His daddy usually made the ten-mile trip alone by buckboard every other week to fetch supplies and, occasionally, get something special for the boys and their mother and some tobacco for granddad. But today he wanted to introduce his oldest son to the city of Clanton, Alabama, and show him the beauty of what the changing of the season had brought to the countryside.

Young Harry sat quietly next to his father. His little body was as tightly bundled as a basket of hot biscuits and his eyes were as wide as searchlights seeking out all of the exotic colors of spring. His eager mind was captivated by the bountiful sprays of emerging flowers adorning every pasture and meadow, his soul was made tranquil by the slow, rhythmic clopping of horse hoofs and whistling Bob Whites. He knew they were nearing the end of their journey when he spotted rows of towering hollyhocks standing erect as solders trumpeting their arrival along side the old dirt road leading into town.

The city was a carnival of new sights and sounds to Harry, and a test of horsemanship to his father as he skillfully guided the buckboard around fool-hardy pedestrians and the steaming mechanical contraptions that were becoming more common around town. Walter hitched the horses in an alley along side of the Chilton County Post Office as a measure of precaution. Harry waited outside while his father collected the mail observing the amusing and daring tactics of both pedestrian and driver of horse or buggy jockeying for position on the narrow town street. When Walter returned, he lifted Harry from the wagon and took him by the hand.

“Let’s go see who’s at Pugs today, son,” He said, as they walked down the road and around the corner from Doc Grissom’s office. Harry looked closely at the hand that held his. It was strong and made course from many years of working their land. At times it held him and his younger brothers, brought food to the table and protected his family from the threat of man or beast. It was strong enough to till the hard soil all day and gentle when it held his mother at night, and it wiped the tears from his eyes and reassured him when he needed it most.

“There it is, son,” Walter said as they approached the old log cabin store. “I hope Ben Nelson is here today. He was in the war with your grandaddy, you know.”

The door to Pug’s Country Store opened-up a whole new world of sensory discovery to Harry. The intoxicating fragrance of sage, basal and sassafras emanating from a wooden spice cabinet combined with the scent of smoked ham and fried eggs overwhelmed his olfactory. The air was thick with smoke infused with the earthy aroma of fresh tobacco. The morning light glanced through the windows and illuminated parts of the store making the interior appear as spotty as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.

Several strange men, some eating, some engaged in conversation, barely gave notice to Harry and his father. Red Wahl, owner of Red’s Livery just outside of town, stood next to a window absorbing the warmth of the sun while gnawing on a ham biscuit. Around a red hot, pot-bellied stove were Clay Nellis and Billy Joe Garmin grumbling about the price of cotton and whether it’ll rain too much or too little.

Ben Nelson and his old friend, Moses Jordan, sat in rickety, high-back rocking chairs silently taking it all in. Ben was a proud, old ex-confederate soldier who wore, along with his usual well-cleaned overalls, the same pair of Brogans issued to him during the war that he re-soled, and had re-soled, at least a dozen times. Pug Arnold, the store owner, was a tall, amiable man with dark bushy eye brows and a pushed-in nose. He always spoke out of the side of his mouth which made Walter think he was telling him secrets, and he had a sure-fire way of making everyone feel at home by treating them as kin.

“Well, hello, Cousin,” Pug cried out to Walter. “And who have ‘ya got there with ‘ya today?” Harry eagerly stepped forward and smiled.

“This is my oldest son, Harry,” his father beamed.

“Well, proud to meet ‘ya, young man,” said Pug, reaching out to shake his hand. “That feller by the win’der there is Red Wahl; he rents horses and can spin a good tale now and then.” Red smiles at Harry in between bites of his biscuit. Harry shyly returned a smile. He noticed the slight red color left in his smoothed-back hair, and how his mouth looked like a torn pocket when he smiled. “Over by the stove is Clay and Billy Joe, and the old geezers in the rock’in chairs are Ben and Moses,” Said Pug. “Don’t get Ben started on the war unless ‘ya wanna take a long nap.” They all nod at the boy. “Now go git ‘ya a hog sandwich over yonder,” Pug said, pointing at the stove. “Throw an egg on it if ‘ya don’t care.”

Harry watched as his father walked over to the stove, cut open two biscuits and cracked a couple eggs into a hot iron skillet. His mouth began to water in anticipation of the smoky feast.

The sound of sizzling eggs, the smell and taste of smoked ham and the soothing sun rays had brought a jagged smile of content to Red’s face, until he focused on what was coming down the road. His eyebrows suddenly puckered together.

“Oh, oh.” He said, cautiously. Pug looked over at him.

“What do you mean, oh, oh?” He asked.

“I mean Stinky Monroe just came ’round the corner and he’s headed this-a-way!”

“It ain’t the weekend yet! What’s he do’in coming here?” Pug asked. The men hastily light cigars and cigarettes.

“Dunno, but…” Red said.

“But what?!” Pug shouted.

“He’s got his daddy with ‘em!”

“His daddy’s even gamier than he is!” Pug yelled. “Open the win’ders and turn on that durn fan, quick!” Harry laughed at the mens frantic attempt to aerate the store.

Red looked out the window again, frowned, then tossed his biscuit back into the pan. “Reckon I’ll postpone dinner fer a spell,” he said to himself.

Pug desperately searched the shelves of his medicinal provisions for a bottle of camphor.

“Quick, rub a dab of this under yer noses!” Pug yells.

Harry looked up at his father, puzzled.

“Boy could puke a buzzard off a gut wagon, son,” he told him. “You’ll see.”

All the men, except Moses, huddled around open windows when the Monroe’s entered the store. Walter and his son stood near the stove– the farthest point from the front door.

Harry gazed curiously at the Monroes. Stinky looked like a miniature of his father with his denim overalls, red plaid shirt and wide brimmed straw hat. They weren’t outwardly ignorant and appeared fairly clean. He overheard Clay say Stinky had to leave school at the age of ten when his mother died to help his daddy with the farm. It was an unfortunate situation that was unanimously approved of by the school board. But he couldn’t understand all the fuss made about them.

Pug took a deep breath, and then turned to the Monroes.

“Well, how ya all been doing, Thomas?” He asks, ignoring Stinky the best he could. “Haven’t seen ya around here in an age.” Harry held onto his father’s hand, not quite knowing what to expect. The men smile and quickly nod at Thomas, keeping a side of their face safely toward the open window. Moses smiled and waved to them as he rocked comfortably in his chair.

Then it hit.

“Ohhhh!” Harry bellowed. His eyes closed shut as he stumbled and hid behind his father’s legs. He cupped his little hands over his nose and mouth trying to breathe in his own air. Walter grabbed a piece of kindling and lit the small cigar Pug gave him, holding it close to his face as he smoked it.

“Jack’s been after me to hold us a little soiree like we used to when his mama was alive.” Thomas Monroe said. “They’ll be plenty a fixin’s, and Cousin Leonard said he’ll provide the fid’lin.” Everyone’s eyes closed shut. Pug’s mind raced faster than it had in years trying to think up a good excuse.

“Ya can count on all of us being there, Thomas,” Moses hollered. “Just let us know when to show up!”

If looks could kill, Moses would have been dead six and a half times over.

“Fine thing, then.” Thomas said. “Come-on by about seven next Sunday. We’ll be a look’in fer ya all!”

Pug nodded as the Monroes left. Then the entire store, windows and all, let out a big sigh of relief.

“You dern fool,” everyone yelled in unison at Moses. “Why in God’s name did ‘ya go ‘en do that fer?” Moses was taken back.

“I’d been there ber’fer,” Moses pleaded. “The Misses made a right fine table, even though me and the family were the only ones there.”

Pug stood in front of Moses, fists resting firmly on his waist. “Well, how in Hades did you manage to eat anything in all that stink?” Pug asked. “Food and the Monroes go together as much as earl ‘en water does, you ole goat!” Moses sat up and looked at Pug.

“I ain’t smelt nuth’in since ‘83, when a smudge pot blew-up in ‘ma face and burned-out the hairs in ‘ma nose,” Moses said. “It also stole away any chance of me growin’ a handsome mustache, too!”

Pug shook his head.

“I’m sure glad there weren’t any womenfolk in here,” Billy Joe said, “Would have had to get Doc Grissom over here.”

Pug yelled. “That’s why I started carr’in smell’in salts!”

“Good Lord, what in the world is that smell?” Ben asked, catching his breath. Clay shook his head a few times, trying to clear the fumes.

“I’ve been slopping hogs all my life,” he said, “and I ain’t smelt nuth’in like that!”

“No cow, chick’in or goat in rut can reek that bad,” Red said. “What can it be?”

Harry rubbed his eyes as he caught his breath. His fresh, young smell sensors had been plain assaulted. Billy Joe wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“I once stumbled head first into the belly of a long dead cow and came out smell’in better ‘en that.” Billy Joe said.

Moses smiled as he held in a tremendous chortle for his own safety. He sat helpless as the dry folds of skin in the corner of his eyes squeezed together and pinched out a big fat tear. Ben saw his old buddy in a state of fettered frustration and decided to ease his burden. He leaned forward in his rocker and made an observation.

“Some folks say it ain’t what’s on ‘em,” he said, “it’s what’s in ‘em.”

The store was silent.

“Guts are rotten!” He exclaimed.

That was all Moses could take. He worked up such a belly laugh his dentures shot clear out of his mouth and cartwheeled across the wooden plank floor. Harry laughed hysterically. He’d seen his grandpa do that before but never did they travel so far on their own.

Harry watched the men in the store laugh uncontrollably to each other. For a brief juncture, everyone seemed like family to him. It was a snapshot of warmth, understanding and comradely he wanted to share with others, and a succinct lesson in his young life that would begin to mould his character as a caring human being.

The ‘ole boys at Pug’s Country Store had little to worry themselves about. A few days after their visit the Monroes found themselves as successful bidders at a commodities auction in Sylacauga. They were visiting an ailing cousin and happened upon an auction where they were about the only participants and won several dozen bushels of corn at a very cheap price.

Their buckboard couldn’t haul that much fodder so they hired a farm wagon and a fine pair of draft horses to get it home. But there was a terrible commotion when the Monroes boarded the wagon. Witnesses say the horses violently reared up with a look of terror in their eyes as they madly galloped away for their lives. They said the wagon headed uncontrollably out of town and straight for the cliff overlooking Skaggs Creek with the Monroes helplessly trapped on board. Another witness near the incident said, “I ain’t never see’d no animals so intent on a commit’in suey-cide,” when the wagon and its occupants plunged down the steep gully and into the rocky creek below.

They were still plucking pieces of the farm wagon out of the water when the town folk of Clanton got enough money together to order a coffin and fetch the Monroes. There was a brief church service followed by an equally brief burial where both father and son were interned in a remote meadow at the far end of their granddaddy’s farm.

It is said to this day there are no flowers in the entire state of Alabama that grow more beautifully and more abundantly than those that spring up over the Monroes every single year without fail.

Mike Vines and his wife, Gay, live in the rolling hills of so-central Kentucky with several foster children, LaMancha dairy goats, chickens, guineas and just about any other critter that wanders onto their property or are given by friends.

Staying On The Funny Side Of Imperfections

Kelly Swanson — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 01:37:58 +0000

“That’s it. I’ve had it,” I dramatically announced to my husband as we sat in bed reading. He rolled his eyes, no doubt wondering if this was going to be a repeat of last night’s tirade when I’d had enough of telemarketers. Or the night before when I’d had enough of toys that required tools to get them opened. “These glasses have been crooked for three years,” I said with the same shocked look I had when I realized not everybody stuffs their pet and puts it by the front door.

“I told you to get them adjusted. Takes five minutes,” he murmured without looking up from his magazine. That was one my weaknesses – those little five minute tasks – like rotating the tires, checking the fire alarm batteries, and finding out why I can’t hear out of my left ear on Saturdays. So I actually did it. I pulled into the vision place across the street, marched up to the counter and said, “These glasses are really crooked. I need them adjusted.” The clerk stared at the mangled glasses that looked like they’d just spent a Friday night wedged in the back seat of Lindsey Lohan’s limo while she whispers, “I’m not drunk. I’m just stressed.” The clerk left with my glasses and returned two seconds later and I was on my way. They felt great. Until I got home to a mirror and saw that they were still crooked. “OH……MY…… GOSH!” I yelled, as my husband came running into the bedroom still dripping from his unfinished shower.

“What? What is it?” he yells in alarm.

“They’re STILL crooked!” I shout.

So I had to go back the next day. Now I’m mad. One time was fine – but two trips – this was insane. I held an ongoing conversation in my head with the incompetent clerk who was obviously out to get me and probably made it her life’s mission to send people into the world with crooked vision. “They’re still crooked,” I said through gritted teeth, with a smile and an expression that said “I’m on to you little missy. Bringing me out here twice. You must not know who I am and what my time is worth. I’m a storyteller. I speak for a living. All it’ll take is one word and I can bring you down.” Yes, I have a look that says all that. Just ask the dry cleaner.

She sighed, smiled back, and gave me a look that said, “If I didn’t need this job I’d smack you – whoever you think you are – and it can’t be “all that” considering I saw your jacket on the clearance table at Big Lots.” She sauntered off to adjust my glasses.

“Let’s make sure they fit okay?” she said. “Before you leave. She placed the glasses on and they felt great. We looked in the mirror. Still crooked.

“See? I’m not crazy!” I squealed.

“Yep. They’re crooked,” she answered.

“Well, can you fix it?” I asked drawing each word out like she’d been struck deaf.

“The glasses are straight,” she said pointedly. “I’m afraid it’s you that’s crooked.” I swear she smirked.

“What?” I thought I had already conjured up every disorder that could possibly exist, and come to find that I might have a crooked face? Wait till I tell Mom. Did I get it from her? Do I come from a long line of crooked-headed women and I’m just the first to find out about it? Get me to the internet. I’ve got to see if there are others who’ve been struck by this phenomenon. Perhaps there is a support group. “Well, can’t you just make the glasses crooked?” I asked giving her the same look I gave the cashier who thought Obama was a terrorist.

“Can’t bend ‘em anymore or they’ll break.” She actually looked happy to be telling me this.

“This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen! Do you get other people in here like this?” I am oddly comforted by the misfortune of others.

“Oh, yeah, all the time. Sometimes people have one ear higher than the other – or maybe it’s the eyebrows. Yeah, sometimes they have one eyebrow higher than the other. Maybe that’s your problem.” She stared intently at my face. “Yeah, that’s it. Look! You’ve got one eyebrow higher than the other.” And that’s when the problem slowly shifted into focus. My cheeks reddened and I rushed from the store with my glasses before she could figure out that my uneven eyebrows were not blamed on nature, but on my unsteady hand as I groggily drew them on every morning. I sat in the car and stared at what was now so obvious. I had been drawing my eyebrows on crooked.

Sure enough, one eyebrow was a good quarter inch higher than the other. I had been walking around for years looking like a circus freak. I had been walking around with a mixed expression of confusion and surprise on my face. No wonder they stared at me in Target. No wonder the other mothers shielded their kids when I came around. No wonder those door-to-door church people kept coming back. How could this have happened to me? Even more – how could my husband not have noticed? This was all his fault. I was waiting for him when he got home from work – sitting in the dark holding an empty glass. “How could you?” I asked.

“What?” he answered without stopping as he marched into the kitchen for a drink, totally ruining my dramatic effect.

“How could you not tell me?”

“Good grief. Not this autism thing again. I told you, you’re not autistic. Just because you get stressed when your routine is broken doesn’t mean anything. A little nuts. A little OCD, but not autistic.”

“Not that,” I answered. “My eyebrows. How could you not tell me my eyebrows were crooked? After all these years.”

“Who told you that?” He asked coming in for a closer look.

“The girl at the vision place told me. They’re crooked.”

“Weird.” He opened the paper and began to read.

“That’s all you can say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I wanted you to notice me every once in a while. To notice that one eyebrow was higher than the other. All it took was one look – one tiny look. And you couldn’t even do that. All you had to say was that my eyebrow was crooked and I could have erased it and started over and we wouldn’t be having this conversation and the neighbors wouldn’t think I’m a freak.”

“The neighbors already thought you were a freak long before that. You were the one who got locked out of the house in your stilettos and curlers. You were the one who drank too much at the Jenkins’ birthday party and crawled into the dog’s bed and fell asleep. And what do you mean you’ll erase it and start over?” I had finally gotten his attention.

“My eyebrow. If I’d known it was crooked I would have erased it and drawn it lower.” I showed him what I meant by rubbing one eyebrow furiously until there was nothing left but a couple of invisible hairs. He actually backed away from me.

“Are you telling me you draw your eyebrows on? With one of those pencil things? Like my great aunt Ethel who uses a cigarette holder and talks to her purse?”

“Yes,” I answered, suddenly wondering if this fell into the category of things a man wouldn’t understand – kind of like how I can actually see better once I have my eyeliner on- or how it is worth it to wear those suck-me-in panties and look a size smaller even if it does squash my ovaries. “Yes, I draw my eyebrows on.” I said it like every woman did it. As if he was the one who was nuts. It didn’t work.

I could hear him laughing all the way from the garage where I had marched in anger after grabbing my keys and saying only that I was going out – as if to insinuate that he should be worried – when really I was going out to drown my sorrows in a double fudge waffle cone which always makes me feel better. I needed to get out. I just wish I had remembered that I was now missing one eyebrow.

It’s all fun and games ’til the hair gets messed up - http://www.kellyswanson.net
kelly@kellyswanson.net

(Handpainted Eye Photo Credit : ronnibobs)