Funny humor stories

The evening was complete, as usual, as I had been with Thomas. We shared our usual bottle of wine, but also decided to walk the downtown area of Main St. hand-in-hand. We enjoyed a light supper and our evening was complete after we stopped at a coffee shop for a late. A Thursday night rendezvous left us no choice but to drive separate since we both had our children that night and were meeting in the middle. Thus, when I drove home, I was alone.

Main St. was a feeding ground for the local police and everyone who lived there knew it. Of course I had indulged in libations, but I felt more than ample to drive. When I saw the bright lights behind me I was confident that I had done no wrong and was well composed for answering any queries the officer may have. Of course he requested my drivers license and insurance so I gingerly provided it to him. I was in a conservative mood when I dressed for the evening so the modest ensemble I sported had to have ensured me at least a few bonus points verses the choice of a skin revealing outfit that every warm summer night beckoned for.

When the officer came back to my window he asked me if I had any unpaid tickets. I proceeded to tell him that I received one over six months ago for expired tabs. Well, the exact story was that I decided to fight it due to the fact that I was peeved at the ex for providing no support and was going to fight it due to lack of money, thus, I received a court date. Of course, I could not get off of work and the date came and went. I renewed the tabs, but forgot to pay the ticket. Little did I know that once a court date is passed and you don’t appear, a warrant is issued for your arrest. Opening one’s mail in a timely manner would have prevented the events of the evening from unfolding as they did.

So, the officer asked me to step out of the car while another patrol car was arriving at the scene. He explained to me that there was, in fact, a warrant out for me in a different city and I was driving with a suspended license. He had to take me to the station. The other officer asked me if I could get cash. Were they looking for a bribe? They asked if I had a debit card and how quickly someone could come to get my car. This was all happening much too fast! Thank goodness my two children were not with me!

It was not too late, a little before midnight. I decided to call my parents since there were two of them and one could drive my car while the other theirs. Of course, during this time Thomas was trying to call and text me but they had my purse at this point so I was unable to respond. I thought of calling him for help, but barely knew him. It was only our second or third date. Nice way to get to know someone - from the back of a police car! He still razzes me to this day!

I got through to my mother, who was, of course, sleeping; when her youngest daughter of 39 told her to bring cash for a bond she seemed quite calm. Little did my parents know that I was not sticking around to greet them. The theory was that the officers were saving me money of a tow truck if someone got my car for me. I was off to the local station to get “booked”.

Out came the handcuffs! Not the most comfortable thing. The cold metal was tight on my small wrist and pinched if I moved even an inch. I opted for silence unless spoken to but I did seem to utter a few words. They went something like this: “you know, my ex-husband embezzled half a million dollars and he was never handcuffed”. No comment from the front of the car. That’s an entirely different story; let’s just keep focus shall we?

We pulled into a secure, white, almost sterile garage that opened by code and I had to wait for the officer to open my door, of course. Had to watch my head, too! I just followed him in to the quiet place and sat down while he started typing away on a computer. It was just the two of us. He seemed more nervous than I was. I was silently praying that he would not make me take a breathalyzer test for fear of the result. Again, I felt fine, had spaced out my drinks and added sustenance to the equation, but nonetheless I didn’t need any more drama for the evening let alone the ramifications of a DUI.

Then it was fingerprint time. He said normally people are sweating, but my hands were dry and cool. Like I said, he was more nervous than I. It took several attempts at each finger, both hands, to get what he needed. Of course, I did the 3-way photo for them, too! And all this time, my mother had been trying to text me. In fact, I saved one from her that I find humor in now that reads: “I’ve got bond money pick u up @ station? xo”. I say, if you can’t laugh through life why live it?

Back into the car we went to meet the officer from the city where my original ticket was issued. We were headed to the end all be all of police officer hangouts….the donut shop! I was awestruck! I had to tell my mother to meet us at the donut shop with exactly $388 CASH! We arrived and there was mother. They allowed me to get into her car, which confused me, as they told me I would have to go to yet another station. We waited for a third car as they had a receipt book for the cash. It appeared that the “arrangement” was not uncommon in their world. A routine rendezvous perhaps? Nutty or powdered? Plain or crème filled? And how do you take your coffee?

My mother pulled out her old coin purse and paid the officer the exact amount. I received a slip with a court date along with the receipt. And that was it! In mom’s car was a glass of water with lemon and a straw. There were no ill words. Just normal conversation and stories of my dad in his youth thinking he could stand in court for his brother’s offense. I am truly blessed with easy going parents! Parents who are my friends. We will reminisce about this one day I’m sure! Perhaps sitting around the fire poolside puffing on cigars as we often do.

Finally in bed before 2 am I caught Thomas up-to-speed on the night’s events since we departed earlier. He wondered why I did not call as he laughed. Who knows what he thought about me now? Of course he suggested I should have called him, but I think he was being a gentleman. My fear of embarrassment quickly passed as he shared his own stories of mingling with the law. Seems many just need a reason to open up and unfortunately it is often a unique event.

This tale took place on a Thursday evening. The dawning of the next day I jumped in my car and was off to work when I realized I had no license. I called the station and proceeded to tell them that the officer kept my license. They proceeded to tell me politely that it was destroyed since it was expired and I’m sure they were snickering after I hung up the phone. The entire night was a blur and lack of information was an ongoing theme. Perhaps afraid to ask questions for fear of making things worse did not help and maybe they were trying to rush through their duty with an honest mistake so they could return to their evening of bar-hopping, liquor drenched deviants that were abundant on Main St.!

My mother was so paranoid for me that she picked me up from work so I would not get caught without a license. She also chauffeured me on Saturday as well. And, of course, I needed a ride to the courthouse on Monday to get all of this cleared up.

After waiting in ten lines and hundreds of dollars later, I was cleared of all charges and zero points were on my record. The final judge had mercy on my fine when I informed her that I paid off the police in a donut shop parking lot. She did not seem phased although the reduction in my fine showed irony in her response. Either way, I was happy to be relieved of the incident and I was off to get a new license! Perhaps a donut is in order!

They called it a near miss, but I called it terrifying. I had just nearly killed my Uncle Harry!

After fifty years, I still clearly remember the incident. It occurred when I was about twelve years old and had just begun to be allowed to hunt with the men in my family. We lived on a chicken and dairy farm in Belfast, Maine. Traditionally, every Thanksgiving eve the farm chores were done up early and the guys would head off for a late afternoon deer hunt before dark. This was the first year I was included. I felt grown up. And I had a rifle, too - an heirloom Winchester 38-40 caliber made in the late 1800’s and still a damned good deer rifle. Short barrel and stock, light, and a short range power packer. Perfect for a young fella like myself.

With a hunting party of five, we proceeded on the dirt path between the barns to the fields and apple orchard in the distance. All the others had loaded their rifles before leaving the yard. For some reason I had not. As usual, I was late in joining the group having been dilly dallying as young boys are wont to do.

“You’ll be late to your own funeral,” my older brother Burt always said. I never got it. At my age funerals were the farthest thing from my mind. Until that day, that is.

I hurried behind the men while reaching into my worn red plaid wool jacket pocket for the shells to the rifle. I dug out a handful, maybe six, and proceeded to slip them into the rifle one by one. I pulled the lever down to inject a shell into the chamber so as to be ready in case a deer jumped up from the brush along the path.

I was clearly in violation of all the rules of gun safety I had been taught since I first handled guns at about age seven: I was walking and loading; I was pointing the muzzle down and at someone rather than up and away from all possible human targets; I wasn’t paying close attention while handling a rifle. I was, in short, a danger to all with a loaded gun in my hands. I had set myself up for ‘Murphy’s Law’ to show itself.

As I jacked the round into the chamber - with my right forefinger errantly on the trigger - the rifle discharged. The sound was deafening since we were between two buildings. And it was a cold afternoon to boot. I saw a large clump of dirt kick up from the ground directly in front of and slightly to the right of my Uncle Harry. I just knew I had killed him and would catch hell for it. I froze in place, not from the cold but with a fear I had never experienced.

Everyone in the hunting party abruptly stopped and just stood still like in freeze-frame mode in a movie. No one moved; everyone was looking straight back at me with surprised and somewhat angry expressions. I was dead meat. Probably get pummeled and banned from the hunting party for life. I instantly knew so.

Everyone, that is, except my almost target, and fatality, Uncle Harry. He stopped walking only for a split second, shrugged, look back at me and calmly muttered “Geez, NEVER do that!” and continued on - unfazed.

That was my Uncle Harry; he didn’t get riled at much. Thank goodness I hadn’t killed him!

Especially not on Thanksgiving!

Here is a true story…really.

Canoe float trips are a great past-time here in Missouri as we are blessed with many beautiful streams.

The creeks are beautiful, with crystal clear water, low overhanging trees and an occasional turtle or snake sunning on the many downed trees and stumps.

One summer day my dad, younger brother and I were enjoying a 12 mile float on the Upper Meramec River. We were having a delightful time just lazily floating down the river.

About five miles into the trip Dad decided he would do a little fishn’… he’d rather fish than eat.

My brother Jim and I were content to just enjoy the day but we could see that Dad needed his fishn’ fix (I heard somewhere that it is more addictive than nicotine). I know Dad was hooked.

He caught and released a few small bass and then the giant fishing lure he was casting (the kind with about fifty hooks) accidentally snagged on a low tree branch on the other side of the stream.

It was really, REALLY hooked.

My brother and I tried to slow the canoe and back it up toward the tree but the water was flowing too quickly. We did at least get the canoe stopped.

Dad started to pull on the line… and PULL!

I want to take a moment and say a word about my father…STUBBORN.

A true contrarian. I mean, if I (or anyone, really) say, “do this”, it is a given that he will NOT do it. On the other hand, if I say “don’t do this”…HE WILL DO IT… with gusto.

A mule would seem flexible and obsequious in comparison.

I should have known better and take full responsibility for what happened next.

As he pulled on the line I became fearful of the possibility that the lure would let go, sending it whizzing toward usand in my moment of fear I said…stupidly…”Dad, why don’t you just cut the line?”.

The moment the words left my mouth I knew… KNEW something bad was about to happen. Jim, my brother, gave me a look like…you’ve done it now… you know you should always tell dad the exact opposite of what you want…idiot.

Now the die was cast, Dad had to win this fight.

As he pulled harder the line became more and more like a slingshot ready to let go.

I could just feel the tension as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I looked at my brother and he looked at me (with real fear in his eyes) and we both turned our backs, covered our heads and heard the most interesting sound. It was kind of like a snap and then a whistling kind-of missile sound… then…thud

Whew, what a relief! It’s over.

When we turned back around Dad was looking at us with the most quizzical look on his face. It was an odd look that was magnified by the huge red and white fishing lure dangling from his upper lip.

It was just about the most unique thing I had ever laid eyes on.

It was one of those moments when laughing would seem disrespectful but…dang.

My very first thought was “why didn’t we bring a camera?”. Then, the magnitude of the situation sank in.

We still have 7 miles to go and Dad has a FISHING LURE attached to his face…please God… don’t let any friends happen by…PLEASE!

Dad had other concerns like getting the lure off without damage to it… it was his “lucky” lure.

Well, sadly he lost the “lucky” lure because the hook barbs would not come out and we didn’t think it a good idea to just cut them out. Happily some nice guys happened by and snipped off the hooks with a pair of wire cutters leaving the barbs for a doctor to remove.

Dad did a little more fishn’ then decided since we still had 7 miles to go and it was getting late, we should get a movin’. We paddled like crazy and got out at about 7:00pm.

We were too late for a doctor so we poured iodine on the wounds and stuck on a large band-aid.

The next day our family doctor fixed him right up…with a little ribbing thrown in for free.

The float was wonderful exercise and Dad caught about a hundred and ninety-five pounder.

His largest ever!

All in all it was a very good day.

Much better than that time fishing during the tornado.

Jerry took his pet rock (Bridgestone) to a pet rock race in Oregon. Thousands of pet rocks were entered in this first annual event. Jerry and Bridgestone had been training for quite awhile and knew that it would be a rock solid win. The conditions were perfect and as thought Bridgestone eliminated each entry one by one, leaving them in his dust. On the last day Bridgestone prepared to meet his final opponent. I was a tense moment. Jerry was confident of a win. Bridgestone blasted out of the chute and down the track, but as they neared the finish line Bridgestone faltered and Cornerstone won by a grain. Jerry couldn’t understand and Bridgestone wasn’t talking. Jerry decided to take Bridgestone to a counselor because he knew Bridgestone could have been a little boulder near the finish line. The counselor said, “Let me have a few minutes with Bridgestone and I will find out if it is a physical ore mental problem”. After a few minutes the counselor approached Jerry and said, don’t take Bridgestone for granite”. The counselor explained that the first place prize was a Rolling Stone concert and the second place was a week at pebble beach and Bridgestone wanted the rest.

If you remember the pet rock fad of 1975, it will bring back memories. Gary Dhal and a few friends were talking about owning pets and how much trouble and mess they make. Gary said he had a pet rock with a great personality and very talented. Gary was an advertising man and as his friends offered ideas of the many uses of the pet rock he decided to market the pet.

Gary wrote a training manual and caring case to help owners care and teach their pet rocks. The fad made Gary a millionaire.

Some of the suggestions and care for your pet rock showed up on book shelves and in discussion groups. Today you will find a lot of help on the internet. Faqs such as how long will he/she live. What do I feed my pet rock, and all you need to know about care and attention needed for a healthy relationship.

Teaching your pet rock tricks is a snap. Say sit and straight away your pet will sit (why don’t you try it out). Say the command stay and automatically it will stay completely still. Simply go to a hill and drop your pet, say roll and he/she will do the rest. We all know the classic command play dead. Your pet will perform better than any pet you have owned.

If you were a pet rock fan, you probably added family members to keep your pet company. The extended family can be found in parks, mountains, and beaches. You will want a wife, children and a wacky uncle (every family has a wacky relative). The care and maintenance remain the same.

People will probably know you are pet rock fan if you named your children Rocky, Crystal, or Diamond and you are constantly looking for your pet rock’s genealogy on the internet.

By now I think many pet rock owners have pet rocks ready for retirement. You may want to set your rock amongst rock communities in the mountains, beaches, and deserts. Eventually your pet rock will want to be at home in familiar surroundings with you.

Just a suggestion, but I would decorate an area of my home with a classy outdoors look for my pet family and I to enjoy. Amethyst geodes, colorful quartz, and sea shells with water flowing of them and some plants will enhance the area. Pet rocks like the sound of gently flowing water. Maybe a few pictures of nature will warm your hearts. These will bring joy, peace and tranquility to you and your rock.

Pet rocks are ideal in this century. They are environmentally friendly, leave a small carbon footprint, and adapt well in a rocky economy.

I hope these memories will help you get reacquainted with your pet rock or introduce you to a unique and long lasting relationship with a unique pet.

When Rafa Nadall beat Roger Federer last July in the longest final in Wimbledon history, he became the first Spaniard to win the grass-courted major in 42 years. This sent Spain into full celebration mode. It also caused no small dismay among Federer fans poised to witness a not-to-be sixth Wimbledon victory in a row. I suspect, however that most people stumbled yawning into their kitchens for another cup of coffee. Not me. I ran for my computer and opened a folder labeled “42’s,” where I have been collecting significant occurrences of the number for years. Before you pass me off as a total kook, remember that “42″ was revealed by the late British sci fi satirist Douglas Adams (1952 - 2001), as the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything.

Adams’ science fiction “trilogy,” “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” consisting of five novels, began as a BBC radio series in 1978. The story starts with the destruction of planet Earth to make way for a new intergalactic bypass. Dismayed humans receive little sympathy - the notice, after all, had been on display for millennia in the basement of a public building. Where? Well, not Earth.

The quest for the meaning of life, the universe and everything is undertaken by a long-suffering computer named Deep Thought, built by mice. In an unparalleled demonstration of perseverance, it worked on the problem for 7.5 million years before concluding that the answer was the number 42.

From the number of major league baseball’s first African-American, Jackie Robinson, to the weight in pounds of the chunk of granite used in the ancient Scottish ice sport of curling, 42 comes up a lot in sports, even without considering scores. The New England Patriots waited 42 years to win a national championship; - it was 20-17 over the St. Louis Rams in the first Super Bowl ever won by a field goal. In October 2002, their forty-second season, Gene Autry’s now Anaheim Angels won their first world series.

2009 began as a year replete with 42’s. Three of the biggest stories - the Hudson River Hero, the peanut butter recall and the California octuplets - are inexorably connected to the number. Captain Sully Sullenberger had 42 years’ experience flying prior to landing safely in the Hudson. As of January 10th when King Nut issued its total peanut butter recall, 399 people in 42 states had been infected with salmonella. When Nadya Suleman gave birth to octoplets increasing the number of her offspring to fourteen and sparking a fierce debate about the unfair burden on the taxpayer, California was embroiled in a budget crisis. The deficit? $42 billion.

Traffic deaths are down in 42 states. As I do my final edit of this article, I hear Charles Gibson say that 42% of prostate cancers are over-diagnosed. I wonder, will 2009’s government list contain 42 foreign terrorist groups like in April, 2008?

This pop-culture, Holy Grail of numbers makes many appearances in history. Napoleon Bonaparte graduated from military school forty-second of fifty-eight - proving yet again that you don’t have to be tops in your class to make history, though a higher ranking may have helped somewhat at Waterloo.

Ben Franklin completed 42 years of public service. Our youngest president, Teddy Roosevelt, was 42 when he took the oath of office. Rosa Parks was 42 in 1955 when she refused to give up her seat on the bus. 42 years after Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space, China became the third nation to send a man to space. Jung Lee Way, aboard the Shun Jo 5, orbited Earth 14 times. I feel compelled to point out that fourteen is one-third of 42.

42,000 feet is the ceiling for commercial airplanes. Captain Cook’s journey spanned 4200 miles of ocean. $4200 was the average annual income in Hoover’s day, and there are 42 gallons in a barrel of crude oil. And, who could forget 42nd and Broadway?

Not all significant instances of Adam’s favorite number are happy ones. In February, 2003, NASA’s 42 year history of not having any trouble upon re entry ended with the loss of the shuttle Columbia. Lenny Bruce, Gilda Radner and Elvis Presley all died at age 42. By the way, Elvis earned $42 million in 2006.

It’s even in the Bible; Matthew lists 42 generations between Abraham and Jesus - separated into three groups of fourteen. Additionally, the forth-century Christian historian Eusebius of Caesarea places Jesus’ birth in the forty-second year of the reign of Octavian Augustus.

Here’s to the state of Florida! There are 42 bridges in the Florida Keys. National Geographic reported on the relocation of a 350 ton Florida Oak. Its root ball was 42 feet in diameter. In October 1995, all 42 members of the Governor’s Commission for a Sustainable South Florida issued a unanimous statement decrying the state of the Everglades.

Literature too has its 42’s. The wedding cake in Charles Dickens’ “The Magic Fishbone” is 42 yards around. In “Tolkien’s The Two Towers”, Gimley the dwarf slew 42 Orks in the battle of Helm’s Deep. There are 42 chapters in Joseph Heller’s “Catch 22.” That one makes me particularly happy. J.K. Rowling finished the Harry Potter series in her forty-second year.

My list contains many items which I suspect are no longer true. A study in 2001 claimed that 42 percent of women thought their dogs were better listeners than their husbands. In 2004, we heard that 42 percent of NASCAR fans were women. In 2007 we learned that 42 percent of blind American adults are married. In fact, I grew so weary of recording data from surveys that I began to suspect their authors of being hard-core Adams fans.

My research has left me with many questions. Do red blood cells still last only 42 days as Discover reported in 2002? Is the secret writing embedded in our currency still1/42 inches high as PBS’s Nova told us in 2002? Are there still 42 political parties in Iraq like in 2004? Does the US government still own 42 percent of Wyoming and New Mexico? Does Hewlett Packard still earn 42% of its corporate profits from ink sales, as reported in 2007? Didn’t you always know they were sticking it to us with those cartridges?

And, my personal life? A treasure trove of 42’s. That was the age my sister was when I was finally able to send her an e mail on her birthday. 42 degrees is the magic temperature at which our cold weather dehumidifiers no longer work. Our piano tuner says the ideal humidity for a piano is 42 percent - he doesn’t know about my obsession. The addition my father built on our childhood home was 42 feet deep. 42 was also the number of items on the hospital’s List of Patients’ Rights and Responsibilities when I had my gall bladder removed in 2006.

When my husband Googled my second album released under my maiden name, there were 42,000 results, the first of which was a heavy metal website in Everitt, Pennsylvania that wanted $50 for “Harvest” which they were selling as a rare Christian CD. I resisted the urge to write and tell them that I had a few left which I would be happy to let them have for the bargain basement price of … oh, say 42 dollars.

And then there’s astronomy itself. How many years does daylight last at the poles on Uranus, for instance? And nights? 42. This phenomenon is due to the fact that the planet’s axis is nearly perpendicular to the plain of its orbit.

I so wanted our nearest star to be 4.2 light years away. Initially, I thought I was to be disappointed in this. The twin stars of Alpha Centauri, after all, which are often mentioned as the closest outside of our own solar system are 4.3 light years away. But, wait! The famous twin star system contains a third, smaller star, Proxima Centauri, which is 4.2 light years from Earth - well, 4.22, if you want to get technical.

Two of astronomy’s most intriguing instances of Adams’ favorite number emerged after his death. In 2007, scientists discovered the Canis Major dwarf galaxy named for the constellation in which it lies, it is 42000 light years from the center of the Milky Way. The forty-second entry on my list is the Allen telescope array in the Cascade Mountains of Northern California, which has 42 dishes each twenty feet in diameter. Funded by Microsoft co founder Paul Allen, it began its search for extra terrestrial life in 2006. Somehow, I think Adams would like that.

copyright 2009 by Donna W. Hill

We’ve come a long way in our modern society, but I’m just not sure it’s all been the right way.

Take floral print toilet paper, for instance.

Now, in our modern world, we pretty much don’t worry about toilet paper. It’s cheap, everyone has some, everyone needs some.

However, it wasn’t all that many years ago when toilet paper was pretty much a luxury, unheard of even.

Remember in “Dances With Wolves” when the soldiers are squatted in the bushes arguing over who gets to use paper from Kevin Costner’s journal to wipe up with?

Today, however, if we were forced to use something as hard and abrasive as regular old paper, we’d throw a tizzy fit!

I mean, heck, today we have triple-ply, double quilted, extra absorbent, scented, floral print toilet paper that comes complete with dancing bears and happy music to show us how much to use.

Come on! Is this the epitome of our modern society? Did our ancestors fight, suffer, bleed, and die simply so we can have soft, pretty paper to wipe you know what from our you know where?

I don’t think so.

And yet, today, we hear over and over about how horrible our economy is, how we are in such a recession, how times are tough and going to get tougher.

People, get real, we wipe our butts with quilted, happy, dancing bear paper with cutesy, little flower blossoms and smiley faces.

We are not that bad off.

So we have to suck it up a bit. Maybe not everything is going to be as easy as it once was. Maybe we won’t be able to have every little thing we want.

Wah. Boo hoo, boo hoo, wah, wah, wah.

Doesn’t anyone out there have the slightest clue how HARD generations in the past worked to get our country to where it is today?

I guarantee you things are still a LOT better now than they were in the past. Yes, even now in the midst of this “horrible” economy we are still pretty darn well off.

Anyone who lived prior to the 1950’s would look at our modern society, all we have, all we can do, and call us nothing but a bunch of pansies for whining about the condition of things.

There is still plenty of resources for everyone. There is still plenty of opportunity for people to work and make their fortunes.

Things may be different, maybe not as rosy, but really any nation who gets to wipe their butts with quilted, floral print toilet paper has no right to complain as far as I’m concerned.

America is supposed to be the land of the free, the land of the brave, the land of opportunity — not the land of the quilted, floral print whiners!