Category Archives: Humor

Quips and Quandaries

 

I was certain I won the game of charades until someone pointed to the notice behind me: “Beginner’s Sign Language Class Today at 6 p.m.”

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Looking back, it’s difficult for me to believe I thought that “On Top Of Old Smokey” was a romantic love song geared toward senior citizens…

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I decided recently to change careers. When I applied to Yoga Certification School, my application was denied.

Turns out, my birth certificate was stamped “Do not bend or fold.”

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In the last two days, zero out of 23 people I’ve asked failed to accurately recite or sing the first 7 words to the “Mister Rogers” theme. I’m not counting those who were less familiar with it -just those who were ‘sure.’

Most of you will Google it and among those several still won’t believe that they too have a false memory of the actual words.

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I am trying to find the original fool who said, “You can’t run from your problems.” Since most of us would agree that many of our problems are in fact people, it is very logical to run from your problems. Early and often.

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I guess it’s one thing to holler “Recess!” at work – but another to stand by the door with chocolate, regular, & strawberry milk cartons and encourage everyone to take one as they exit the work area to go play outside.

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I sold the mineral rights to my land. Texas Oil Company and Johnson & Johnson are partnering to drill for baby.oil.

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I sold the mineral rights to my land. Texas Oil Company and Johnson & Johnson are partnering to drill for baby oil.

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“It’s a sure sign that dance has evolved too far into the realm of the esoteric when a dance trend is done so well that it is indistinguishable from electrocution.” – X

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That guy had so little creativity that when he joined the church they accused him of having unoriginal sin.

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I ain’t saying the fog is thick this morning but two boats have passed me already.

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Due to my lack of controversial behavior I have been down-graded to the “Do Not Watch List.” #aarp

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To the residents of Springdale, my apologies. I misunderstood what my boss was asking for when he asked for a flash drive on my way to work. I know it can’t be unseen.

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To the residents of Springdale, my apologies. I misunderstood what my boss was asking for when he asked for a flash drive on my way to work. I know it can’t be unseen.

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The doctor told me to serve more veggies but I gotta say that broccoli and tennis rackets don’t mix.

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Sir, you can’t stand here,” the Walmart manager told me.”You’re loitering.”

I pointed to the sign above me, the one which indicated ‘Fruit’ and asked her why they put my nickname there.

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It is situationally ironic to hear hospital employees say that “they are sick of the place.”

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Normally, I follow the admonition of “never negotiate with terrorists.” My mother-in-law is the one exception.

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Odd 80s Music Fact: The 80s anthem “Broken Wings” by Mr. Mister, is actually a customer service complaint about defective chicken.

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Normal eaters say, “I’ve got to get something to eat,” whereas cannibals say, “I’ve got to get someone to eat.”

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So that people will be reminded to do them correctly, Congress has renamed the act of “The Splits” to now be known as a ” Lunar Landing. ”

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Did y’all hear about the guy the police brought in for questioning due to possible cannibalism? They grilled him for an hour.

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My first startup failed: Scratch-And-Sniff Résumés.

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To say that you want a bowl of cereal is accepted as normal, whereas if you say you want a plate of cereal you sound crazy. Ergo, insufficient concavity is bad.

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It occurred to me that the song, “Don’t let the sun catch you crying” is basically a PSA for sad vampires.

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The Hogeye Marathon is passing in close proximity to my house again this year. I think they put up the mile markers on the route so early only to tempt me to finally succumb and pull shenanigans. It’s getting more difficult to resist the wild call of my inner prankster.

Because life is short, I’m hereby letting everyone know that if the Hogeye foolishly passes near my house next year, the game is ON.

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Among my laundry list of highly desirable Christmas/Birthday gifts for my wife Dawn last December: this beautiful custom metal door sign for her office. I waited for her to remind me to install it. Shockingly, this reminder never materialized.

Nevertheless, I took the initiative this afternoon to put it up.

It reads: Dawn C. Teri CEO, CFO, CIA, FBI

The original template had Voodoo Mojo Conjurer, but wouldn’t quite fit on the door plate.
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There’s Always Time For Underwear

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Note: this anecdote is from my favorite cousin Lynette. She grew up in Brinkley, Arkansas, a quintessential small agricultural town in the South, one preoccupied with tornados.
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A bad weather post a friend made earlier reminded me of a tornado experience from my youth.

We lived a block from a tornado siren. If you have never experienced one of these at that range, you should. A resident of my hometown likened it to the sound of the angel Gabriel blowing the final trumpet.

Anyway, one evening I was in the shower, and the alarm sounded. The sudden firing up of the siren alone was enough to cause cardiac arrest even for a teenager. Add to that the thought of being hit by a tornado nude, and the panic was real.

My mother runs into the bathroom throwing clothes at me. I catch the underwear and throw it to the floor.
She yells, “Put on your underwear!”
I scream, “There’s no time for underwear!”
She shouts back, “If the house is destroyed by a tornado, that is the only pair of underwear you will have!”

It’s Mom for the win!
Remember – There’s always time for underwear.

You Don’t Bring Me Flours Anymore

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Several days ago, I brought my wife Dawn a nice vase of flowers.

It was, therefore, a surprise when she said, “X, you don’t bring me flowers anymore,” a couple of days ago. (Much like the old Barbara Streisand standard…)

Later that day, as I was reading, it struck me that she was, in fact, using one of her favorite communication tricks: the homophone. I won’t bore you with a redundant reminder of what constitutes a homophone because I’m sure that you all, much like myself, spent a good portion of the weekend reading your “Obscure English Quarterly” magazine.

So, today, I granted her wish. Now, she can no longer say, “X, you don’t bring me flours anymore.”

Quizzical initial looks of consternation aside, I think she enjoyed the surprise.

When I bought this gift today at Richard’s Flourist Shop, he told me to not add water to these flours. Even if I was going to make bread.

Skinny Pasta Experience

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I received an email from Weight Watchers. I had long assumed that they were indeed “watching” me, probably in anticipatory amusement, so I wasn’t surprised. Since all emails are opportunities to earn money and learn important things about both finances and anatomy, I paid close attention when a heretofore unknown product called “skinny pasta” was mentioned. I had never seen the word “skinny” in such close proximity to my own name, at least not in the last 30 years.

Dawn ordered a box of 6 packages of it from Amazon. It’s a little pricey, but not terribly so. Compared to the bill for getting one’s arteries cleared of obstructions, it becomes very affordable.

We were both excited to try it, as the pasta itself basically has zero fat and almost no calories. The Amazon brand also was “no odor,” which leads me to believe that there must be some Konjac pasta which smells like blended skunk livers out there on the market. By the way, you should search for “Konjac,” if for no other reason than to get the idea of liquefied skunk livers far away from your mind.

This pasta was ridiculously easy to prepare and almost impossible to screw up, both qualities which scream my name. I made a healthy marinara sauce for it and offered a bowl to Dawn. I forgot to mention that a relatively small pouch of this pasta contains almost 40% of the daily recommended fiber, too. I suspect it would be ideal to feed to one’s unsavory inlaws, especially if any of them were about to embark on a transatlantic flight – or engage in a dance marathon. If anyone you know has recently bought a new leather couch, this product might also be ideal for him or her.

After a few bites, Dawn said, “This reminds me of eating worms. I stepped on a worm this morning and this is exactly like that.” She made a face so contorted and unnatural that I imagined I heard an ominous bell ring somewhere in the distance, one signaling the end of all that is good and holy in the world. I expected her to then make the sign of the cross and throw her fork across the room. If you are wondering, her face was frozen in horror for 5 days as a result of her taste buds deciding that she was eating worms instead of pasta made from an exotic plant. Please note that it wasn’t the flavor she objected to; rather, it was the strange and unfamiliar texture of the pasta noodles. It might as well have been a plate of human hair, in her opinion.

I, of course, found it to be exceedingly delicious, in part because with the right sauce and/or seasoning, even thin cardboard can be exotically tasty. Anyone who has ever eaten at Buffalo Wild Wings, KFC, or Taco Bell should have no problem eating worms. Legal disclaimer: I doubt any of these chains add worms to their ingredients; my point is that their food is comparable to a mouthful of partially-cooked and gelatinous worms, topped with dirt and dead pigeons. I made the point about cardboard because I’ve discovered that the cardboard packaging at most fast-food restaurants is just as flavorful as the contents.

With the votes tallied, our votes zeroed one another. I, however, love this stuff. The texture is exotic. It reminds me a little bit of spongy surgical sutures as it rolls around in my mouth.

Given that we now live in a society which allows an archaic electoral college to override the majority or the will of the people, it is my pleasure to announce that my ecstatic and overwhelmingly positive review of this product declares that Skinny Pasta is delicious.

I recommend that everyone should try it once and decide if they agree that it is well worth the effort. It won’t make you run 3 miles a day, but in combination with a better diet, you will no longer need to.

P.S. If you order this, don’t eat the packaging. If you’re married, don’t attempt to use my logic at home. If you own Buffalo Wild Wings, KFC, or Taco Bell, please don’t add any flavorings to the food packaging – it’s already delicious and high in fiber.

 

A Little Humor

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I was in an unfamiliar office building near Pinnacle in Rogers. One thing about Pinnacle is that it caters to almost every taste and whim, given the amount of money concentrated around its epicenter. It has a reputation for being a great place to shop, eat, and work.

Since I had deviated from my normal early-morning ritual, the scent of fresh coffee from somewhere within the structure sent me on a quest to find the coffee shop or kiosk selling it.

I went down to level one and across the connecting bridge inside. About ten feet away, I noticed a row of coffee bean containers inverted across a horizontal bar. The smell of java was incredibly strong. As I neared it, I thought I heard a small shout but couldn’t discern its origin. I stepped across a stainless steel strip across the floor and almost immediately a woman wearing a leather vest walked up and slapped me across the face. As I recoiled, I heard a snap and then a sharp pain traveled across my rear. I turned to see a riding crop being drawn back for another strike across my backside.

“Hey!” I shouted. “What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?”

Almost immediately, I felt another sharp pain across my rear. “Ouch!”

I ran backward, nearly tripping across the row of modern chairs aligned across the wall. Weirdly enough, each chair seat was adorned with multiple studs on top.

As I did, I noticed the sign across the top of the entrance of the coffee shop:
S C A R B U C K S Coffee and S&M Shop: We’ll Definitely Wake You Up!

This niche marketing is definitely getting out of hand.

A Funny Burial Anecdote

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This is a truish story and names have been changed to confuse the guilty.

A famous writer, an author of at least 20 books, died in Springdale a few days ago. He was well-known for his sense of humor and dry wit. At my recommendation, his family went to a funeral home of which I speak highly. Although he usually doesn’t do so, the funeral director Scott offered to view potential cemetery plots with the family, even though he hadn’t yet met them and didn’t know the recently deceased. His dedication to customer service is quite legendary. I doubt he would have helped me had he not owed me a huge favor – but that’s a story for another day.

The family chose to visit Bluff Cemetery in Springdale. The place is known for its beauty and proximity to the creek running through downtown. Scott pulled in behind the new Cadillac the family of the deceased arrived in. The Springdale Parks worker had already arrived in a white pickup, his camera and clipboard in hand.

After the family exited the car and straightened their respective ties and dresses, Scott accompanied them to the periphery of the cemetery, situated below the overhanging trees. It was certainly a beautiful spot.

To make small talk, Scott nervously asked the family about the deceased. “What did your loved one do for a living?” he asked.

The youngest son answered, “Our dad was a famous writer. You’ve never heard of him?” He seemed surprised. “In fact, all of us are writers.”

“No, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know him or know of him. I read a lot, though.” Scott wasn’t sure what else to say.

The parks employee pointed out the available spots and mentioned that the price was adjusted, based on the reduced size of the plots. “We can dig with much more accuracy than we once could,” he added.

After a moment of silence, the youngest daughter looked along the edge of the cemetery where there were remaining spots available, seemingly measuring their size by her careful steps. She immediately started shaking her head.

“This simply won’t do. Not at all. Dad was too important of a writer to tolerate this kind of mistake.” She seemed agitated.

“How so?” Scott immediately asked.

“The plot’s too thin!” The daughter said, and then laughed loudly.

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PS Writers always get the last laugh.