Americans Losing Sense of Humor in Wake of Debt Ceiling Talks

Satirists are having one of the worst seasons this year trying to get Americans to laugh about their situations. With home foreclosures still at an all-time high, no real health care reform in sight, and now a deadlocked government where each side wants to see the other fail regardless of how it impacts the little guy, Americans just aren't in the mood to laugh.

“I wrote a story the other day about John Boehner’s golf scores suffering from lack of practice, and it got less than a hundred hits. With the keywords ‘Boehner’ and ‘golf’ alone, I usually get close to 300 hits. If I get the word ‘tan’ in there, which I did, I should easily have gotten over a thousand hits. My numbers are definitely in the toilet,” said Hubert McCain (no relation to John McCain, although we can’t be certain) who declined to disclose his hometown.

Speaking of toilets, even writers on toilet humor sites are seeing a drop in readership. What used to be the number one draw in sophomoric humor, farting stories are simply not getting any attention these days. Writers who bet the farm on websites centered around farting are losing big time. They are facing their own debt crises. “We’re in deep doo doo,” said one writer who even fell flat trying to joke about the fact that no one finds his poop stories humorous anymore.

“Historically,” said Happy Kline, “whenever there was a downturn in the economy, humor was about the only thing America had going for it and comedians and jokesters made a pretty good earning making sure things didn’t get too serious. But with this latest budget crisis on top of the housing crisis, terrorist thingie, and all those damned tsunamis and earthquakes, we are just not able to put on our clown faces and make anyone laugh anymore.”

McCain agreed. “I just don’t get it. We have some of the nuttiest political candidates we’ve ever had in our lives running for President in 2012 and not one person can find the humor in that. It’s said,” he said, “a real waste of material.”

Madoff RFD

It was announced today that Bernard Madoff has finally found a prison home for the rest of his natural life, Mayberry RFD. As crazy as it sounds, Madoff’s attorney had put in a request that Madoff’s sentence be carried out at Otisville, NY, in order for him to be close to his family. Unfortunately, whoever received that request read it completely wrong and thought that Madoff was requesting to be imprisoned in the same cell where the infamous “Otis” of Mayberry RFD fame spent most of his weekends on “The Andy Griffith Show.” It is assumed that he was hoping that, true to form, Barney would leave the keys unattended and Madoff would be able to make his escape in no time.

Upon hearing the news, Barney Fife declared, “there ain’t no one ever escaped from this here jail cell, and I’ll be darned if this high falootin' city slicker is gonna be the first, ain’t that right Ange?” Andy agreed, "Youbetcha Barn.”

‘Bout that time, Opie came running in the jail yelling “Paw, Paw, is it true, is it true? Andy answered, “is it true, what Ope?” "Is it true this new pris’ner is a sinnin’ against the Lord?” “Why Ope,” said Andy, “what ever do you mean?” “Well, Paw, I heard that he’s been convicted of a white collar crime, and the only folks I know that’s got white collars are the preachers down at the Church.” “Aw, Ope, this here’s another kinda crime. Now you run along and fetch your Aint Bee for me will ya? We needs to have some supper brought up here right quick for our new pris’ner."

Aunt Bee hurried into the Sheriff’s office, wringing her hands and looking a might unsettled. “Why Aint Bee,” Andy was reported as saying, “you look like you’re just about to lose the blue ribbon for your sweet ‘n sour pickles to Clara down at the an-yule County Fair, I do declare.” “Oh Andy,” she said, flustered, “I just found out about your new prisoner and I’m just beside myself.” “Well, why, Aint Bee? He’s just like all th’ other pris’ners we’ve had in here, ain’t he?” “Ohhh no, Andy, he’s not, he’s just not at all like the other prisoners.” He’s Jewish.” “Well Aint Bee, I do declare, you ain’t never been against anyone in particular before,” Andy said, looking scornful at Aunt Bee. “Ohhh, no, Andy,” she replied. “I don’t care atall about his religion…I’m just concerned because I’m not sure about one thing. Andy, is fried chicken kosher?”

High society is really taking a beating in this economic crisis. The scores of trophy wives who have been left to fend for themselves by husbands caught in the unfortunate outing of greed and corruption on Wall Street are not taking their fall from status lying down—well, maybe they’ll take it lying down if the opportunity presents itself—anyway, there are many former well-to-do women out there who, because of the recent convictions of their high profile spouses, have begun to wonder, “will I ever shop at Gucci again?”

These kept women needn’t fear thanks to the efforts of a small group of their peers who, having had the sense to hide assets before their husbands were arrested, are going through their closets and picking out the stuff that is “so last year” and donating it to the poor darlings suffering from this disastrous year of corporate misunderstandings. This outpouring of kind generosity from women largely given to self-indulgence can only be deemed a miracle by most. Calling itself BABs--which doesn’t stand for anything, they just like the name—this small group of highly selfish turned less selfish women are a sliver of light in the fading dusk of the luxe world they come from. Originally begun as a joke, the wives of former executives charged with corporate fraud quickly realized that survival meant taking extreme measures. As much as they detest charitable giving, they quickly agreed that this type of organization would afford them a nifty tax haven.

Ruth Madoff, wife of Bernard Madoff, who made off with millions before Madoff was arrested, declared “I’d help, but I need every million I can get my hands on. Now be a darling, dear, and fetch me another cosmo, would you please?”

“One can only imagine the stress these poor unfortunate creatures are under by having to shop one block down from Rodeo Drive, or worse, having their hair and nails done in public,” said Lyns Palmer (not her real name), co-founder of BABs. “Their flawless complexions are taking a beating, and BABs has vowed to make available free botox injections to every one of these women who needs them," she added with feigned interest. Heartwarming, to say the least.

The above is strictly fictional and intended as satire, a mocking if you will.

Living With a Control Freak

Do you live with a control freak? I’m not talking about someone who tries to control your life, per se. I’m talking literally about someone obsessed with controls. Controls for the air conditioner, car and home, ceiling fan speed, ambient lighting switch, sprinkler system. Anything with more than one speed or setting, and a knob, and this person has to continuously fiddle with the knob to control the speed, or change the channel, or make sure the lighting is just right.

I suppose if you live with a person like that long enough, you should become immune to their fiddling and constant changing, but you don’t and here’s why. First of all, you’re either too hot or too cold, but never just right. That’s because the fiddler is constantly making the temperature go up and/or down in an attempt to create the most perfect indoor living environment, which doesn’t exist—for the fiddler. They will go outdoors in stifling heat in the summer and then come inside to the igloo and pronounce how hot it is outside and how nice it feels indoors. Meanwhile, you’ve been sitting there with a sweater on for the past two hours thinking how cold it must be outside for it to be so cold inside, and you’d be wrong. It is 100 plus degrees out there where the fiddler fiddles with the garden hose nozzle.

That’s right, the exact amount of water must come through that nozzle for any given job. Spray the plants, need a lighter spray. Spray the lawn, need a spray that will reach the length of two football fields. Need a drink of water, go inside the igloo because fiddler won’t turn loose of the hose. By the time you do get to use the hose, you turn it on to find it doesn’t work. Why? Because fiddler has installed a very complicated dual-hose, dual source spigot with two hoses attached, and little levers on top of each spigot to open and close the valves, and whenever you pick up the yellow hose and turn on the valve for that one, you realize you just closed it, so you close the other valve and it still doesn’t work and then you pick up the green hose, because you aren’t really particular what color hose you get your drinking water out of and then realize that you didn’t push the right lever and you throw down both hoses in disgust and walk away. Along comes fiddler and asks, did you want something? And picks up the yellow hose, turns on the spigot and the water comes gushing through. You deem this a miracle, walk back inside the igloo, take your drink straight from the tap, pick up the remote, sit down on the adjustable lounger, and turn on the television, only to find that it’s been switched to DVD.

Great Internet Content Writing

Reading websites has become my new hobby. I get more entertainment from them than any television show or movie I could be watching. There is a plethora of ill-written--to the point of comical--content, and sadly a paucity of well-written, attention-worthy content. But hey, maybe it’s just me. You be the judge. Here are a few tidbits I found while surfing websites offering limo services in the South Florida area. I’ll not mention any names, but hey, you know who you are.

1. When talking about a special wedding day, one company noted: “You obviously have a nose for the finer things.” I think they may have gotten their senses a little mixed up. Somehow “nose” and “finer things” in the same sentence don’t convince me that they have much “taste” when it comes to luxury.

2. One company seemingly doesn’t believe in lasting love. I am paraphrasing: “Once you let ‘us’ be the transportation for your…wedding limousine, you will want to get married…again!” Forget the fact that they can’t “be” transportation, more importantly, they want to be sure you use them not only for your first wedding but each subsequent one as well.

3. And I am guessing these guys either want the chance to get things right the second time or just have a few problems with the tenses of their verbs and the use of their pronouns. “Let us treat the bride and groom how you deserved to be treated and get you to the church on time.” Are they apologizing for the way you were previously treated and offering to make it up to you? In any event, offering to get you to the church on time instead of the bride and groom may just portend a repeat of the same poor service.

4. Now this company knows exactly what the bride and groom most expect of a limo driver when it comes to their big day: “our service providers are professional…and are trained to get you to your honeymoon suite as fast as humanly possible.” The heck with safety, the heck with courteous, just get us to that danged hotel room now!

5. Here’s another company that knows what the “big day” is really all about: “…we know what our role is…. Our trained drivers will conduct you in an unobtrusively way.” Just to clarify what I think they are trying to say is, their drivers won’t thrust themselves upon the happy couple on their most important day. How much more professional can you get than that?

6. This is just odd. I’m thinking this copy may have been written for some limo service that operates in some faraway place, maybe Jupiter, in the year 1920? “Then say SeLavue as you ride in style to catch your awaiting airplane or steamship…” SeLavue? C’est la vie, who cares if they can write well or not, they’re sending the happy gangster and his moll away on their honeymoon aboard that steamship in style.

7. This last one has so much that is just wrong, that I’m gonna take it apart in pieces and hopefully, no one will be able to put it back together again. “Florida limo services are as much a cottage industry in…Miami as is, say, cheese in Wisconsin.” Do you see how cleverly they tied the word cottage in with cheese in Wisconsin? Wait, there is so much more of this amazing descriptive style of writing. Try this on for size. “Clubland, as it is known, is not just a nocturnal theme park but a way of life for some.” If I’m reading this correctly, there is a theme park named Clubland, and I wanna know where I can get tickets because I can’t wait to visit Hip-Hop Land, and the Hall of Rappers.

But even this limo company has it’s limitations as noted in the following: “…no excuses are needed to throw a party here. Short of throwing a glammy event for the grand opening of a new gas station,…” What, you mean I’m gonna miss the grand opening of the new Speedway down on 181st Street cause I can’t get a limo ride?

How to Save Money in Today's Economy

A key step when starting one’s plan to save money is to prioritize. Figure out what is most important in your life--what you absolutely cannot live without--and then find ways to make sure you always have enough money in the budget for it. Here’s an example: Food. Man can stay alive on bread and water indefinitely. However, that’s a bit harsh. A better approach is to divide the three main meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner, into separate days of eating, and rotate. For example, beginning on the 1st Monday, Thursday, and Sunday, have a hearty breakfast and only breakfast. Tuesday and Friday have lunch and only lunch, and on Wednesday and Saturday, have dinner and only dinner. With this system, you can cut out 730 meals a year, at an average cost of around $5 per meal, which comes out to a savings of roughly $3,655.00! That is beer money for the whole year, with a little left over to play the weekly lottery!

Next. Most everyone has a neighbor who just can’t say no to a sale at Home Depot. He has the best weed eater, the best rider mower, the best power washer; just about anything that uses combustibles to start it up. Borrow them, all the time, and on the off chance that your neighbor will begin to look upon you as a mooch, tell him that you are doing him a favor. Engines run better when they are used constantly, it’s a proven fact. Tell him that. If he still balks, come up with some more lies, such as you are only borrowing his mower so that your lawn will look half as nice as his. This whopper might even get him to throw in a bag of lawn food and fertilizer spreader. Just make sure you always have a sincere look about you. One giggle and the jig is up.

If you want to make some money on the side, rent his equipment out to other neighbors. Sure, the other neighbors see you using the same equipment all the time, so they’re sure to think that you own it. When they come to borrow it, tell them times are a little tough, that you could use a little extra dough. Of course, you’re gonna have to do a little acting. Visuals are great. Never carry anything in the pockets of your shorts. When Joe from next door comes a knockin’ to borrow the mower, turn your pockets inside out, and make a half-hearted joke about where moths breed, and you have him eating out of your hand. Word of caution. Learn the schedule of the neighbor with all the heavenly guy toys that you’re borrowing from. Only lend out his equipment while he’s out playing 18 holes of golf or taking the kids to soccer practice. Never let him see someone else using his equipment and be darned thankful that rider mowers don’t have odometers!

Say it’s near the end of the month, you’re almost out of beer money and the lottery is up to $12 million dollars. You’ve been there before, scrounging around in the couch cushions for change, selling your blood, offering a kidney. Just when things start to look hopeless, you come up with a great idea! It involves a cockroach and the dollar menu at the local fast food restaurant. Just remember to look really, really disgusted.

I am NOT a Bad Mommy!

I Am NOT a Bad Mommy!

There I was, just starting to wake up on a Tuesday morning, about ready to hop out of bed and into the shower. I took a nice long stretch. It felt good to greet another beautiful morning. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, this was going to be one fantastic day--I could feel it in my bones. And then…

“Mom…mommy…mommy?” Something about the way that last “mommy” came out seemed to take a little polish off my sunshiny morning. I brushed it off. Nah, nothing could ruin this beautiful day. And then…

“Mommy—I don’t feel so good.” Oh crap. Just what I need. A sick kid. Why now? Right at the point in the morning when I’m supposed to be having a lovely 7 a.m. wake-up call by the sweet little birdies outside my window, I get a rude awakening from a whiny 4 year old. And then…

I think I’m gonna puke. Awright, now he’s gone and done it. I couldn’t be more awake now than if I’d whacked myself over the head with a stick. Where’s the bleepin’ throw up basket? “I’m coming honey; hold on, JUST HOLD ON!” I go running down the hallway, blue basket with “sick bucket” written on the side in red magic marker. I leap into the bedroom of my precious bundle of joy only to find that he and his entire bedspread are covered in some really, really nasty goop. Oh, and are my senses wide awake now. It smells so bad. My face contorts into a shape I’m not sure even the rubber man could master, and I throw the bucket to the side, defeated. My shoulders slump, and before I can stop them, my hands find their way to my hips as my eyes focus upward and over the glasses on the bridge of my nose to gaze upon the puny little kid in the bed, as I say, “well, looks like you went ahead without me.” And then…

He starts to cry. Oh my, it’s downright pitiful. I feel sorry for the kid. He must feel so miserable. I want to go comfort him, but the stench forbids it. I keep my distance and say “honey” a lot, and “where does it hurt?” and all the things mommies say to their kids when they want them to think they are in capable hands. It all happened so fast, officer, one minute I’m minding my own business, having a glorious morning stretch, and the next minute I’m someone’s mommy and I’m needed in the sick ward. None of what I’m doing is helping. The kid just starts to cry harder and harder, as I put my fingers to my nose and take a few steps backwards. How awkward this all is. I know I should be doing something. And then…

“Mommy?” I snap back to the present. “Yes, honey, what is it?” I gotta go to the bathroom…now! Oh, I wanna go help him outta that mess. I really do, but my feet don’t seem to be working. I am all about compassion, I really am, but I just can’t seem to take that first step. “Can you make it to the bathroom?” I say a little too loudly. “Just run to the bathroom…Jimmy…hurry!” I cry out in panic. “Stop yelling at me, mommy.” And then…

The smell, omigosh, the horrid, putrid smell. I step back a bit more. I’m almost home free, if I can just make it to the hallway. “Hold on, honey, I know you’re sick. Mommy’s gonna help you. JUST HOLD ON!” And then…

“Jack? Jack, quick, c’mere quick, can you? Jimmy’s not feeling so good.