Tag Archives: Humour

You Have Reached Your Destination or Kinda Like the Movie

New Orleans Bourbon Street

From Guest Blogger Jim Luce

Wisconsin is an Indian word for “White Out.” We had snow up to the window sills in February, which we’d hand-fashioned from ice to a faux oak finish. The average daily temperature was fifteen-degrees-below-Antarctica. Celcius. My wife and I decided to make a break for it and drive to the Mississippi/Louisiana Gulf Coast. The problem with leaving White Out for the warmth of the South is that you have to drive the entire length of Illinois. Illinois is an Indian word for 2000 miles of corn and soybeans. You also have to drive the entire length of Mississippi. The Mississippi Gulf Coast is beautiful, the rest of the state is, well…Illinois. Mississippi is an Indian word for “pretty much just Illinois.” Since it’s a long straight shot from northern White Out to the Gulf Coast of Pretty Much Just Illinois it would be easy to find our way. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, I plugged in the GPS we’d named Tommy Boy—after the movie of the same name, one of the all time great road trip movies—and told him to take us to the coast.
“You want to go where?”
“The Gulf.”
“Yawn. Proceed south for 2000 miles. Then you have reached your destination.”
“We want to go to New Orleans, too.”
“Proceed south for 2000 miles, then turn right. Then you have reached your destination. Wake me when we get there.”
We wouldn’t dream of taking a trip without the God-like Tommy Boy, his wonders to perform.
Tommy Boy guided us right into the heart of New Orleans, Louisiana, and straight to our hotel. Louisiana is an Indian word for Eat Stuff That Crawls. New Orleans is a French word for Show Us Your Breasts. The Big Easy is also one of America’s most dangerous cities—when I turned on the TV the lady said “…at this time last year there were 13 murders in New Orleans.” She stared into the camera, face serious, eyes sparkling.  “Sources within the NOPD tells us that this year the total number of murders is up to 35.”
Whoa. People, slow down, pace yourselves, it’s a long year. This is only the middle of February. I went out on our balcony and heard loud hip-hop thudding on the street somewhere. It got my head bobbin’, got my rap goin’. “Yo, y’all, we so cool, all old and stuff and up in N’awlins, all up on the roof and stuff wit’ da people down below….” I went back inside in case someone might hear me. Somebody else can be number 36.
Thanks to a coupon we picked up at the Eat Stuff That Crawls Welcome Center, for $54 per night our first room came complete with a giant cockroach. Apologetic, the hotel immediately gave us another room with a toilet that wouldn’t flush. My wife and I talked that over and decided if we played our cards right we could bargain them down to a room with bed bugs and no air conditioning but decided we’d probably done the best we could for that low price.
We did all the touristy stuff required of us (it’s in the Rules section of the passport that allows you to drive through Illinois, right next to the section titled Mental Competence Declaration), and moved east to Ocean Springs, Mississippi. After ten days of beach basking and Cajun gluttony our finances laid claim to the fatal number 36. It was time to head back to White Out, but first I wanted to load up on boudin sausage since it was unobtainable anywhere but down here in Cajun country.
“Tommy Boy, take us to Specialty Stuffed Meats.” We’d been told by the desk clerk it was only two and a half miles but a little hard to find.
Indeed. Two towns and seventeen miles later: “You have reached your destination.”
“We have reached your *&^! butt you remedial piece of satellite misdirection. This is a low rent….”
“When possible, turn around, you have passed your destination.”
“Tommy, can you interpret WTF? I did not punch in ‘Dollar General’, ‘Payday Cash’, or ‘Shorty’s Bail Bonds’.” We programmed you for ‘Specialty Stuffed….”
“In 240 feet bear left, then turn right.”
“Turn around.”
I spent that last afternoon on the beach, watching the ocean…gathering about me peace, love and understanding. We were heading home tomorrow but I thought we might wing it without the GPS. Tommy Boy and I were experiencing trust issues.

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Poofs and Paranoia

By Guest Blogger Jim Luce

I need a new poof basket before I can shower again. As a guy it’s vital that I make noise when I shower so I play basketball. That’s easier than it sounds, our shower is tiny—3-foot by 3-foot—so a full court press isn’t that tiring. A poof, by the way, is a puffy spherical soft plastic shower thingy that you squeeze liquid body wash onto, Oil of Olay® for example, while reminding yourself that it doesn’t make you less macho since you normally shower with muriatic acid and a wire brush.

A poof basket hangs in the shower for storing the poof. Or for basketball. Anyway, while in the shower the other day I fired a one-hand shot from outside the key and missed. Fortunately the poof bounced off the rim and rebounded back to me. I drove for the basket, leaped, slam dunked the poof and hung from the rim for a moment while the crowd roared…and the basket broke.

I haven’t found a replacement yet and since I can’t sing I’m afraid to take a shower. I might be overstating this—I’m second in paranoia only to Woody Allen—but a poof and its basket are my defense against the number one shower danger we all face—and have for the past fifty years. Norman Bates.

I saw the movie Psycho when it first came out in 1960 and I’ve been playing basketball ever since. The crowd noise is key. That’s because Alfred Hitchcock forever changed the way we shower. Forget form and style, think noise. Janet Leigh was quiet as she showered and look what happened to her. Since then guys have learned to stand with their face in the spray and snort and blow like sperm whales. We grunt, talk to ourselves, swear, choke, play basketball…anything to keep a little noise going. Women have an opposite philosophy on shower defense. Women are very quiet. They’ll stick their face into the spray quick, then back up and say, “Mm.” Just “Mm.”

Very softly.

I’ll bang an elbow on the faucet handle, and go, “Ow!”

Women go, “Mm.”

I drop the soap, and say, “Damn!” A woman says, “Mm.”

I bend over to wash my feet, hit my head on the faucet and yell, “@#%&$!dammit! Who put those @#%&$! faucet handles in here!”

A woman slips in the shower, crashes out into the bathroom through the shattered glass door, lands on the tiles naked, broken, slashed to ribbons, and says, “Mm.”

That’s because Norman’s out there.

Ever since 1960 when we get into the shower, man or woman, we’re aware of Norman Bates. We’re so vulnerable when we’re in the shower it’s terrifying. We’re naked. We can’t see through the shower door or curtain. We can’t hear anything over the noise of the shower spray. We climb into the shower, turn on the water, and realize: “Wait, Norman isn’t growing old in a mental institution somewhere, he’s in the house. Sure, maybe this won’t be the time he slips into the bathroom with that 16″ butcher knife, but maybe it will be.” We don’t know. We’re naked, nothing to defend ourselves with but a half-ounce sliver of Soap-On-A-Rope left over from 1964. What if this is the shower?

That’s why we behave differently.

Every woman alive today was Janet Leigh in a previous life. When women pull that shower curtain shut they know Norman is in the house somewhere, maybe in the kitchen. That’s why they’re so quiet: “If I’m really, really quiet, he won’t realize I’m taking a shower. He’ll just grab a couple of cookies and leave. Or maybe he’ll hang out for awhile, waiting for someone to take a shower, get bored, hack Jim into bloody chunks and leave. Whatever. Gotta be quiet. Mm.”
You know how when you shower this little pool of water builds up on some concave part of your body, up on your shoulder blade maybe, then when you move the puddle falls onto the shower floor with a tiny splash? Sometimes when a woman is showering you’ll hear that little splash, and right away she’ll go, “Mm.” She’s in there thinking “oh, crap, now I’ve done it, Norman won’t be content with cookies now.” In an instant she’s got the Soap-On-A-Rope in one hand, the back brush in the other, the towel wrapped around her arm for a shield…it’s just her and Norman now, mano a mano.

Guys are just the opposite. We’re ostriches. If we can’t hear Norman, he doesn’t exist. If we make enough noise that we can’t hear that squeaky shower-scene music from Psycho, Norman isn’t going to come into the bathroom. Keep the noise going, you got no problem. Make sure Norman knows that’s a guy in the shower. He’ll grab a cookie and leave. Or get bored and hack Judy to pieces. Whatever.

Me, I’m going for the high risk shots, the three-pointers…get the crowd on their feet and loud. Gonna be good to get another poof basket, get in the shower again, get a pick up game going. Maybe with Woody Allen.

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Fiction Friday >> Don’t breathe

[Fiction] Friday

“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.” What has your character turned into?

I woke up, moving from sleeping to wide awake in a fraction of a second. I didn’t, however, open my eyes. I admit it, I was afraid. Afraid? No, scared shitless. Every day of my life has been like that, as long as I can remember. Even as a child, every time I awoke, it was to full consciousness in a blink, then that terror would swamp over me and keep my eyes tightly shut for as long as I could.

But it was never very long. With terror would come curiosity, a curiosity so overwhelming I had, simply had to open my eyes. And see who I had become while I was sleeping.

Today was no exception. Sweat poured over my body but I had to open my eyes. So I did. I was prepared. After all this time, I’ve been prepared for every eventuality. I’ve transformed into any type of animal I could think of, and each of them has a different need. Try to become an elephant in a two-bedroom apartment. I now live on the ground floor.

I opened my eyes and stared in horror as I started to choke. There was one eventuality I hadn’t expected, hadn’t planned for. As I watched sunlight dance on my scales, air entered my gills, and I began to die.

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Children & Proverbs

Found this via The Boulder Therapist. There are some really funny ones in there.
“A first grade teacher collected well known proverbs. She gave each child in her class the first half of a proverb and asked them to come up with the remainder of the proverb. Their insight may surprise you.

Better to be safe than………………..Punch a 5th grader
Strike while the …………………….Bug is close
It’s always darkest before…………… Daylight Savings Time
Never underestimate the power of……….Termites
You can lead a horse to water but……..how?
Don’t bite the hand that…………….. looks dirty
No news is…………………………..impossible
A miss is as good as a……………….Mr.
You can’t teach an old dog new…………math Continue reading

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How posts can snowball

I came across this post:

This crossbow should automatically classify you as “Most Wanted”

It’s very short, with a sarcastic bent to it and I almost didn’t read the 89 comments attached to it. Then my brain said: 89 comments? My curiosity led me to go down and start reading, which made me realize that there are a lot of people who:

  1. don’t have a sense of humour; or
  2. aren’t quite there in the brain department; or
  3. have no life whatsoever.

Regardless, it made me smile on a Friday. A fun way to procrastinate all those tasks you need to do.

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