Tag: humor

The other day someone I know received a bag of uncracked pecans, presumably as a gift.

I say “the other day” not because it was literally the day before yesterday, but as a literary device enjoyed by world-class writers to make a more comfortable transition to the subject matter.

I say “presumably” because of the behavior that attended the transfer of nuts: shaking hands, smiles, thanks, and finally the giftee’s grimace when the gifter turned away.

I had to ask him, “Is that a gift, or is it punishment?”

This may seem like the incoherent ranting of one given to fight-picking, like one who walks up to Clint Eastwood and says “Man, those spaghetti westerns are for sissies,” but those of you who are familiar with pecans know what I mean.

Cracked and hulled pecans are a gift. Pecan pie is a gift. Pralines are a gift. A pecan tree is even a gift.

But receiving a bag of uncracked pecans is unmistakably punishment for something. Giving someone a bag of uncracked pecans is like giving a man with an abcessed tooth an ice pick and a power drill and wishing him good luck. It is definitely unadulterated wickedness.

Perhaps I exaggerate, just a little, but this is the gift-giving season, and I don’t want you to commit a gift faux pas this year. For instance, a gift faux pas is like giving me something with a president’s face on it that isn’t flat and green.

I considered evaluating various ideas for your gift giving this season, but decided I only needed to discuss one very versatile gift.

Fruitcake.

The name itself is sufficient to provoke both side-splitting laughter and abject, spine-tingling terror, but the only thing more versatile than fruitcake is duct tape. Notice the similarity of the names.

Of course, there are the usual jokes about whether there is ever any new fruitcake, or if it’s all just recycled from year to year. You know, the fruitcake Aunt Matilda got from Uncle Ferederico is the same fruitcake Antony gave Cleopatra.

Not the same fruitcake recipe. The same fruitcake.

But more interesting than are the uses to which fruitcake is being put.

People in Mobile, coastal Florida, and towns in the Midwest are trying fruitcake instead of sand bags for flood control. Initial testing indicates that fruitcake is much more water-resistant than bags of sand, and even raging hurricanes can’t dislodge the leaden fruit block from position.

Blocks of fruitcake are useful for boat anchors, door stops and wheel chucks, especially to prevent fire engines from rolling during an inferno. Fruitcake can also be hung from the front of tractors and other heavy machinery as ballast.

In a pinch, two fruitcakes can be used as dumbbells in a strong-man competition.

Some enterprising contractors are using unwanted fruitcake (can anything be more redundant than that?) as building material, similar to concrete blocks, citing its advantage over traditional building material. Fruitcake is more durable, is impervious to heat or cold, and is a natural pesticide.

We’re out of time for today, but keep sending in other ideas for fruitcake that don’t involve consumption.

Recently a man became drunk as a skunk, and in his inebriated state stumbled, naked as Jay bird, over the local constable, who was lying down on the job because he was like a sloth, and moving at a snail’s pace. When asked what his problem was, the man responded “Well, I had been eating like a pig, so I thought I could handle my liquor. But I wasn’t quite as sly as a fox.”

Before we assess that the overreating imbiber was as dumb as an ox, we should consider whether he is, in fact, as deaf as a post, because earlier he had been asked “where are you going?” to which he responded “I’ve got fleas, and you know they multiply like rabbits.”

Police are investigating whether the man is actually as blind as a bat. Only feet away from the speed-challenged constable was a sign which read “Caution: slow law enforcement at rest.” In addition to being sight-challenged, the man was apparently as strong as an ox, because he walked right through the caution sign.

After being placed under arrest, the man ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, though reports suggest he is normally as quiet as a mouse. Witnesses who know the man were bewildered. One reported “After the sloth — I mean constable — put the cuffs on him, he ran off like a wounded duck. He swims like a fish, though, and made a bee-line for the pond, which was a good two miles off, as the crow flies.”

Arrest records indicate the man sports a tattoo on his left arm which reads “Mean As A Snake,” and which is apparently home-made and self-administered. This means he will be as busy as a bee in lockup, where tat skills draw inmates like moths to a flame. Incarcerated customers will be on him like a duck on a June bug.

Neighbors told investigators that the suspect owns several pets, and are concerned for their welfare while he is incarcerated. “They love him like a bear loves honey,” they said.

Crossfire has always been a favorite show of mine, largely because grown men get paid big money to argue with each other, and without interruption from kids, pets, or distractions from such inconsequential things as grease fires and overflowing toilets.

I’ve often wondered what would happen if Crossfire were modified to reflect the concerns and interests of rural life, instead of its ordinary fare of national politics and cultural issues. Here’s an absurd but altogether ludicrous illustration of what I had in mind.

JONES: From the Left, I’m Scooter Jones, and tonight I’m joined by Red Clark from the Right, sitting in for our friend Lefty Anderson, who’s off judging the Lower Alabama Prize Heifer and Abandoned Washing Machine Toss Competition. Our topic for discussion is “Worms vs. Crickets: What’s the best general purpose fish bait.” Stay tuned.

[Fade to advertisement for Catfish Paste, a noxious compound resembling spackle but which is particularly attractive to bottom-feeding scavenger fish.]

JONES: Joining us in the studio is Cooter Smith, self-described fish expert and tractor mechanic. Welcome, Cooter.

SMITH: Much obliged. Can I set this ratchet wrench somewheres?

CLARK: Cooter, you’ve written a book entitled You and Your Worm: How to Hold Your Mouth Right While Spittin’ Chew. In it, you take the position that there is nothing to compare with worms for fish bait. Are you serious?

SMITH: Darn tootin’. Wigglers, earthworms, nigh crawlers…worms is where it’s at.

JONES: You’re pullin’ our collective leg, Cooter. You also write, and I quote, that “the amount of worm gunk you collect under your fingernails bears a direct relationship to the quantity, girth, and flavor of the fish you catch.” You don’t have any scientific basis for that, do you?

SMITH: Scooter, you’ve been amongst the slickers too long. You Washington boys can’t help but lost your connection with nature when the only thing you’d catch in the Potomac is a skeleton that fell out of the Clintons’ closet.

JONES: Well, if your worm gunk theory is true, why aren’t Catawba worms good fish bait?

SMITH: Catawba worms, for one, are mighty scarce these days, probably even on the Endangered Bait List. Second, you almost always have to break a Catawba worm to get him to fit on the hook, and Catawba worms exude a green worm gunk, which is demonstrably inferior to the brown gunk of all other worm species. Besides, all those little suction cup feet make ’em hard to handle.

CLARK: Crickets are considerably cleaner and more efficient than worms. Why don’t you like them?

SMITH: I’ll admit that, for fish, crickets are much more bite-sized than worms. But you have to hook ’em just right, or they come slap off the hook. Here, lemme show ya’…you have to put the hook right here in the cricket posterior, thrust it up through that mushy interior, and anchor it in that cricket noggin. Any slight misstep in the hookin’ process, and you’re fishin’ with a bare hook. You can wrap a worm on there any ol’ way.

Besides, if the cricket isn’t all wet when he hits the water, he’ll float on top and make all sorts of cricket commotion.Then you have to sink ’em with a rock or sump’m, and by then all the fish are plum scared off. Worms sink like little ol’ rocks.

JONES: Is it necessary to use live bait? Doesn’t that cause worms, crickets, even minnows, some sort of ante mortem pain and suff’rin’?

SMITH: I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no Aunt Morten, but fish don’t cotton to no cold cuts, if you know what I mean.

CLARK: Cooter, we know exactly what you mean, but the sentiments of fish bait has always been the Left’s favorite red herring, pardon the pun.

SMITH: Red, looks like a cricket crawled in your ear. You might want to get that out before you sit down to dinner tonight…

JONES: And we’re out of time. For Red and Cooter, I’m Scooter sayin’ goodnight for Crossfire. Whether you bait your hook with worms or crickets, always spit outside the boat.

Y’all come back tomorrow.

For those who are interested in such things, we are now, finally, in the so-called new millennium.

We normally start counting things at 1, not 0, so the start of the next thousand years is 2001, not 2000, which was actually then end of the last thousand. Not only that, but the experts also say that 2001 is not truly the start of the third millennium, because roughly two thousand years ago we started counting at the wrong place.

Apparently Jesus Christ was born about for years earlier than we initially thought, so that 1997 was actually 2001.

Oh, well. Now, on to more important matters: chads.

It should come as no real surprise that if we can’t count years correctly, we were bound to have some trouble counting ballots.

I realize that everyone has just about had their fill of this, but I have yet to put in my two cents’ worth on the subject. And, after witnessing the parade of experts, opinion gurus, political pundits and talking heads who got way more than their allotted fifteen minutes of fame during ELECTION CRISIS, I think that my two cents is worth much more than theirs. Consequently, I’ve also decided to take up television journalism.

I say ELECTION CRISIS because the television reporters like to devise ominous sounding titles for every news event, and I have better start toeing the media line if I am to have a chance of unseating Tom Brokaw.

For instance, a tornado in south Alabama becomes DESTRUCTION IN DOTHAN. Floods in Colorado: DENVER DROWNS. Mad Cow Disease in Massachusetts: BOSTON BOVINE BELLIGERENCE. And their propensity for excessive dramatization is not limited to large-scale disasters. HANGNAIL IN HAWAII, FRANKFURT FENDER-BENDER, and SCHOOLBOY MISSES BOWL, FORCED TO SCRUB BATHROOM FLOOR are the types of riveting stories of worldwide import about which we are treated to round-the-clock coverage, commentary, and concomitant commercials.

Which brings us back to ELECTION CRISIS.

If you’ll recall, the Florida presidential election processes gave us chads. Scads of chads. Gads! at the chads. There were Swinging Chads, Hanging Chads, Dimpled Chads, Pregnant Chads, Perforated Chads, Glad Chads, Mad Chads and Very, Very Bad Chads. Where is Dr. Seuss when we need him!

Enough I think, is what I’ve had

Of all these very Ugly Chads

They’re Very Bad

They Make me Sad

I think I’m Mad at Scads of Chads

They Swing, they Hang, these Dimpled Chads

Pregnant, Perforated, Vote-Clad Chads

I hope there is no Plaid Chad Fad

Enough, I think, is what I’ve had.

Well, you get the picture. By the way, will the pregnant Chads give birth in August?

Unfortunately, THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD (a subset of ELECTION CRISIS), did, in fact, create a Chad Fad, however brief. I say THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD, because this significant phase of American history occurred during the yuletide season when we were all beginning to hear the familiar refrains of The 12 Days of Christmas, and, of course, I’m still angling for Brokaw’s anchor job.

I’m working on a jingle of the same name, sung to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas, which will serve as an emblem for the era. “On the first day of Chad, Al Gore gave to me, a recount in Broward County,” and so forth. I’ll let you know when it’s finished.

THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD FAD spawned jewelry that mimics the shapes of Chad (that’s anchor talk for more than one Chad), and portraits of Al Gore made with Chad-shaped flakes. And, speaking of flakes, any day now I expect to see boxes of Chad Flakes gracing the shelves of the cereal aisle. No Sugar-Coating Added Chad Flakes for those who like unadulterated voting, and Frosted Chad Flakes for youngsters and chafed adults, with a Secret Vote Decoder Magnifying Glass in each box.

THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD also had profound effects on infant nomenclature. No self-respecting parent would dare name his son Chad, until long after the painful memory of the experience has faded from our collective consciousness.

For much the same reason, it has been quite a few years since we heard of any children named Bell Bottom, Shag Carpet, or Disco.

Having reviewed my finances and been reminded therein of the vast wealth I have relinquished in exchange for an endless array of pet supplies, I lounge on my couch and gaze in resignation at my two domesticated animals.

Why “domesticated”? They don’t do dishes, nor windows, nor, for that matter, do they even clean up after themselves.

I consider that even as they draw each breath, they are depositing more hair on my carpet and furniture, digesting more food which need only be replenished later, developing maladies which will result in large veterinary bills, and generating the main course for some future tick, flea, mosquito or other vermin which will require more fiscal expenditures to combat.

The dog (a German Shepherd Dog named Roger), has just been to the vet, in fact. He had developed an irritation on his mouth, and I was instructed to apply Vaseline to the affected area until it healed. For your information, it takes quite a bit of Vaseline to grease down a German Shepherd Dog’s considerable mouth, and I expended no small some to have the vet tell me the he had what amounted to little more than chapped lips.

Roger digests his expensive food with a look of mild bemusement, inwardly laughing at his servile owner for worrying with such nonsense as coat sheen and proper stool.

He stares at the cat, Malachi (the last book of the Old Testament…long story) and calculates whether he could leap forward and wrap his teeth around Malachi’s skinny neck before I regain consciousness and intercept him. He considers the amount of cat hair that would be deposited on his tongue and considerable lips, and decides that he’d rather have ear mites.

Malachi has just concluded one of his feline chirping episodes, wherein he perches on a window sill and salivates over a cornucopia of airborne prey protected only by the intervening window, all the while producing an “ack-ack-ack-ack” noise resembling something akin to the defective starter on a ’72 Javelin.

I have just concluded the consumption of a bag of chips, and for now, leave the bag on the floor.

Malachi shows some interest in the bag, or the contents thereof, and attempts to insert his nose for closer inspection. Of course, the bag has virtually no weight, and Malachi succeeds only in pushing the bag around the floor. This is slightly amusing.

Malachi pushes the bag against the wall, and manages to get his head insight. This is somewhat more amusing.

Malachi discovers that there is nothing but barbecue residue at the bottom of the bag, and begins to back out of it. But lo! his head is not so easily extracted. The same lightness which made the bag difficult to enter makes it difficult to exit, and this begins to cause Malachi some concern.

After some half-hearted shaking and tail-twitching, Malachi reaches the most amusing of stages — feline panic. This is getting much better.

I am reminded of the time that Malachi interrupted one of my frequent interludes of mental hibernation by racing out of the bedroom, followed closely by what I could only identify at the time as a grey blur. Thinking he had disturbed a rogue rat, I leaped, as best one can when emerging from hibernation, to investigate and to procure appropriate rat-killing gear.

Malachi was behind the couch, having deposited his assailant on the floor. The “rat,” I discovered, was a pair of my cut off sweat pants. Emerging quickly now from post-hibernation mental fog, I quickly deduced that Malachi had managed to get the draw-string stuck in his teeth, inducing the aforementioned feline panic that is so amusing, and causing him to race madly about the house in an attempt to be rid of his newly-acquired parasite.

My flashback, however, does not help Malachi extricate himself from the corn chip bag.

In a feat of locomotion of which only cats are capable, and with the bag still attached to his head, Malachi races all about the room, IN REVERSE. Malachi’s speed is not restricted by the apparent physical impossibility of such motion, nor by his obscured — indeed, nonexistent — vision.

Malachi continues bouncing around the room, resembling a fur-covered, fish-eating, furball-coughing neurotic pinball, until by sheer violence of motion he is freed from the bag’s bondage.

Malachi casually licks a paw as if nothing has happened, and I laugh aloud. Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, thinks now that fur on his tongue and considerable lips would have been a small price to pay…

Christmas is especially conducive to reminiscing; recalling past Christmases, contemplating better times, being thankful that difficult times are past. Something in the eggnog makes us weepy and sentimental.

It is no different in the Faircloth household. For us, merely one year has seen remarkable change, and things are much different now than they were last Christmas. For instance, this year our nine year old cat, Malachi, will celebrate Christmas our of doors. This is due to the fact the Malachi came to consider orthodox feline waste elimination a restriction on his liberties. That is, he quit using the litter box. He didn’t quit going; he just quit using the box.

While we are thankful that our remaining cat, Zino, is quite satisfied to have her liberties restricted and confine her activities to the litter box, Malachi reminisces about better times, times when he could go in my shoe, in the dirty clothes hamper, or even on the dog, if he were dumb enough to remain motionless for more than a couple of minutes, which, for Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, occurs quite often.

Our joy is Malachi’s lament. But, as C S Lewis once remarked, hell for people and heaven for mosquitoes could very well be the same place.

At Christmas last year, our son, Brooks, was merely fourteen days old. His capacity to appreciate his first Advent was limited to spitting up and requiring diaper changes at the appropriate times. What a difference a year makes. Brooks is now chattering away (in an alien tongue, probably Chinese, from the sound of it), drinking from a straw, and walking quite well.

This means that he knows when silence is appropriate, and can even motor over to the Christmas tree without making a sound, grasp an ornament, and celebrate his defiance of the parental units by appropriate proclamations in fluent Alien while motoring back over to hide behind Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, who has been lying motionless for quite some time.

You’ve heard of stealth planes, stealth candidates, stealth ships. Brooks is the stealth baby. He moves in to the target undetected, and makes his strategical strike.

By the way, Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, is also thankful that Malachi is not without the house, since he no longer wakes to find he has been used for a toilet. His canine joy may be short-lived, however, as I understand that potty-training toddlers can do some very interesting things.

Christmas of 1997 Carrie and I were dating. Granddaddy was still alive for Christmas of 1993 and Grandmother for 1988. Just a few years before I was still in high school at Charles Henderson.

I can remember staying up late in our old house on Elm Street in order to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus coming down the chimney with all my presents. In keeping with young sibling rivalry, I had requested Santa not bring my sister anything good, and was sure he would take my word that she had been naughty and only deserved a lump of coal and a bag of switches. Little did I know our fireplaces were gas and no longer accommodated the girth of one whose belly shook like a bowl full of jelly.

Grandmother was also wise to our childhood attempts to discover package contents by carefully opening the wrapping, then taping it closed again. She always kept a couple of things hidden, for surprises, and I never caught on that the only presents I ever found were the underwear and socks.

I remember one Christmas so warm I could go outside in my shirt sleeves and kick around the brand new football I had gotten. It promptly became lodged in a pine tree. Another Christmas was so cold (four or five degrees) that we all just stood as close to the space heaters as social convention and body odor would permit, being sure to remind each other to rotate occasionally so that no one caught fire.

Christmas always included the traditional hymns and carols, the church special programs, and Christmas Eve serves. It included the annual trip to the attic for decorations and untangling of lights, and my favorite decoration, the nativity scene that consisted of a manger Granddaddy made and people and barnyard animals from one of my early toys. And it included the Christmas morning reading of the Christmas story.

I enjoy all the childhood memories, the traditions, the eggnog, mistletoe, carols and candy. I am thankful for my growing family, good health, and close friends.

But I am truly and especially thankful for the purpose of Christmas: the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.

Camcorders have become almost as ubiquitous as personal pagers, beepers and cell phones.

It should be readily apparent to everyone that you’re not on the cutting edge of society unless you’re selling beepers or cell phones. Notice that I didn’t say you’re behind the times if you don’t own a beeper or cell phone; simply owning one is now passe, old hat, tire, dated and definitely not hip.

To be cool, you have to be both a beeper owner and a beeper dealer. If you deal both beepers and phones, all the better. This is patently obvious upon a mere cursory examination of the yellow pages. There you will find Joe’s Pool Hall & Beeper Wholesale, Johnson’s Carpet Barn & Cell Phone Emporium, and Ed’s Hot Wings & (Hot) Beepers. And let’s not forget the most infamous of the bunch, Ed’s Woco Pep & We Fix Cell Phones.

Camcorders are next. Just about everything that occurs in the universe has probably been recorded by some would-be cinematographer and sold to America’s Funniest, Most Redundant, Home Videos & Beeper Kiosk. So, that time you “spilled” coffee on the squad car when you thought no one was looking…tune in to see yourself on next Tuesday’s episode. It will play right between Dad Gets Hit In Face with Soccer Ball and Unidentified Stranger Gets Blindsided by Skateboarding Teen Wearing Beeper and Cell Phone.

Quite a few videographers use their camcorders to catch people doing things they shouldn’t, such as the babysitter raiding the wine cellar, throwing a pizza party on your Persian rug, and allowing the baby to fall headlong into the litter box while grasping your favorite beeper and cell phone.

For much the same purpose, I decided to install Spouse Cam in our house to uncover the truth regarding some of the most mysterious happenings of the known universe. What follows are transcribed excerpts from the Spouse Cam Tapes.

Monday, 9:36 am.

My wife, Carrie, peers out the front window, and apparently satisfied that I am not home, grins mischievously and walks toward the laundry room. The dryer beeps, indicating that the cycle is done, and she begins to unload dry clothes. She carefully separates all my socks, matches them into pairs, and stacks them neatly on the washing machine. Once the entire load has been removed from the dryer, she takes one sock from each pair and places them in the basket of clean clothes. The remaining socks she collects, carefully carries to the kitchen, and unceremoniously dumps into the garbage can. Universal Mystery #1 is solved.

Monday, 3:14 pm.

Carrie enters the master bathroom. “Master bathroom” is misleading, implying marbled floors, saunas, Egyptian linens. Carrie enters the lavatory. She retrieves the tube of toothpaste from the drawer. The tube appears neatly folded from the bottom. Carrie unfolds the tube, grasps it firmly in the middle, squeezes, and replaces the tube. Universal Mystery #2 is solved.

She then retrieves my toothbrush and uses it to remove debris from the bottom of her shoe. Universal Mystery #3 is solved.

Wednesday, 10:42 am.

On her way out of the lavatory, Carrie removes the toilet paper from its spindle and turns it so that the end of the paper falls to the back, instead of to the front. Universal Mystery #4 is solved.

Thursday, 4:27 pm.

The 13-month-old, Brooks, toddles into my library alone. “Library” is misleading. Brooks wanders into the coat closet where there happen to be some books. He pushes every book to the back of the shelf, then removes the contents of the trash can and distributes them randomly around the room. Universal Mysteries #5 and #6 are solved.

Friday, 11:03 am.

Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, enters the walk-in closet. “Walk-in closet” is misleading. Rogers enters the broom closet with the really wide door. He then brushes repeatedly against the previously clean and fur-less slacks and coats hanging there. On his four heels is Brooks, who takes one who of every pair, and those he doesn’t place in the bath tub he hides under the bed. Universal Mysteries #7 and #8 are solved.

Saturday, 6:47 am.

Carrie plays with the toddler in the living room. She retrieves the remote control, removes the fresh batteries recently installed by me, and exchanges them for batteries from the toddler’s well-used remote control car. Universal Mystery #9 is solved.

The unblinking eye of Spouse Cam will continue to report suspicious activity, so watch yourselves.

Rob Faircloth spends much of his time recovering socks from his children.