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Posts Tagged ‘humour’


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Some of you may remember my young nephew the Pistol. His one and only Grandpa died. Now the Pistol and one of his cousins Katie are the youngest of their siblings. The other kids are teenagers.

The main service was over and family members were coming forward to relate their stories. The adults went first followed by the teens. No one thought about the five year olds. In awesome Pistol style, my little nephew stood up and loudly announced, “I have something to say.”

The Pistol climbed the steps up front. And he began.

“Grampa won’t be able to give Katie rides on the tractor anymore, because … well … he’s dead. And now I would like to sing God Bless America.”  At which point, he began belting it out. The audience rose and joined him.

It was a lovely way to end a funeral. Pistol, you’re awesome

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I couldn’t find my jeans. I was in a hurry since I had a “meeting” and waited till the last minute to get ready. Story of my life.

I raced to the laundry room, maybe my jeans were in there. My son was home doing his laundry. I glanced at the piles of clean and folded laundry. (He’s way too neat. Didn’t get it from me.)

“Are my jeans in here somewhere?”

He pulled a load from the dryer. “Here, these are your.”

There on top were my jeans. I grabbed them figuring I didn’t have time to handle the whole load right then. Besides if I leave them he’ll put them away later.

“Hey,” his voice stopped me, “take the whole load, they’re all yours.”

“You sound just like my mother.” I said, grabbing the bundle of clothes, not meaning this as a compliment.

To which my son replied, “Funny, you sound just like mine.”

 

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I’ve been a bit under the weather. The doctor prescribed me a cough medicine with codeine.

Wrapped in a warm blanket snuggle into the depths of the sofa, the darkness had settled and with it a drowsy drugged feeling. I hadn’t coughed in almost an hour.

The light from the television pushing just enough light into the room to make out the patches on Grandma’s old quilt.

Soft elevator music played in the background while a man in the lobby of a large office building buffed the floor. A comforting fog moved into my mind.

What was the name of this movie? My mind drifted like a cloud.

A deafening crash echoed through the room as a body slams on top of a truck on the screen in front of me.

My chest was heaving my body tense, I was hardly able to process what just happened. I looked around at the people watching TV with me. They were staring at me with open mouthed amazement.

“Did I scream out loud?”

“Yeah,” my roomie replied.

I screamed like I have never screamed before. Hollywood pays people for this kind of high pitched, gut wrenching scream of terror. I tell you this so that you may learn a lesson from it. If you are taking cough medicine with codeine, do not watch a movie called Devil. I had to pray myself to sleep last night.

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My head was thumping. I was having trouble thinking.

Oh God!

I shot straight up, realizing the lump in the bed next to me was alive and possibly awake. A sliver of light broke through the darkened hotel room.

Minutes ticked by while my mind raced to remember.

Why was I in a hotel room? Convention, yeah, we were at a convention. Who was we? Me and my three closest friends.

A late night of shots and gambling left me hazy as to the details. The other three lumps began stirring. Three heads started popping up, then burrowing back into their pillows and back up again. If I had a mallet I could have played whack-a-mole.

I flipped on the lamp.

Holy mackerel!

I fell asleep with my friends in the room and woke up with three trolls instead. These women were able to completely change the shape and color of their features.

I have a heart-shaped birthmark on my cheek. I like to tell young tattooed people it started as a little heart by my eye. But by the time I’m eighty it’ll have fallen to my boob and look like an arrow pointing straight to hell.  I digress.

That mark is always there no matter how much stuff I try to cover it with.  I feel like a throw back to the Jurassic period.

I was on my knees praying to Maybelline to save me.

Holy Sephora! How’d they do that Cover Girl?

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magic cat

I have an idea for a story where the voice of the universe talks to a guy through his toilet. So what kind of guy would hear voices from the toilet —

I’m sitting here waiting in a cafe because the voice of the universe spoke to me through my toilet. I know, it sounds crazy.

My name? Now that’s a story. My father was a hippie. My mother was Native American, Comanche actually. When my mother was pregnant with me, they went to the medicine woman, who told them they must name me after the place where I would be born.

They planned to be in Phoenix, Arizona when I was born. I was going to be named Phoenix Arizona, kinda cool. Instead, when my Mom was seven months pregnant, they decided to go to a peace march in Washington. I was born in Washington, DC. So my name? It’s District of Columbia, District of Columbia Campbell or DC for short.

I’d like to think my parents were dropping acid, smoking a little too much ganja, or at least on a three day bender, but  they say they were high on love.

She also told them I was twins, girls, but they didn’t think to ignore her just because she was wrong on number and sex. No, they followed her instructions to a T. I’d like to kick the ass of a medicine woman about now.

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winter princess woman

My Grandmother wanted her ashes spread over a field of blue bonnets. So after she was cremated, we set out to find the perfect place. It became somewhat of a contest.

I have four sisters and two brothers. Cell phones at the ready, we all set out like it was some kind of race to find the perfect place. Pictures flew of green fields with a smattering of blue. None were considered worthy of Grams.

The hunt continued some good contenders were found, but nothing quite right. One of my brothers even submitted a dense patch of blue in the median somewhere along highway 67. Be real Bro. Who wants to visit Grams along a busy stretch of country highway?

Finally, one of my over achieving sisters found a rolling patch of blue leading down to a lake. (I say she’s over achieving mostly because I didn’t find it myself.)

And so we scheduled a lovely morning to say farewell to Grams. I met my sister, the over achiever to car pool. Someone thought it would be a good idea to take handfuls of her and spread her around thinking good thoughts.

Midway through I realized how disgusting this was. That was about the time the wind picked up. Grandma blew back in my face and I choked on her.

On our way home, my sisters wanted to go through a drive through and pick up a burger.

I said, “I have to go in. I have Grandma all over my hands and steering wheel.”

My sister start to laugh.

I took one look at her and said, “You have a smudge of Grandma on your teeth.”

I don’t know how many time I’ve told my sister to keep her mouth shut. She never listens. I think this makes her a cannibal.

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What’s happening here?

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ny foodcart

Bucket List #483 Eat off of Food Cart

I never really thought I would mark number 483 off of my bucket list, but I did and lived to tell the tale. I’ve wanted to try a food cart munchies for a long time. They don’t have this type of thing in my neck of the woods. I saw a cart yesterday morning and decided to live dangerously. It was just breakfast but still baby steps. Who knows what daring thing I might try next.

I haven’t mentioned the plane ride. It was a proper size plane, three seats on each side. I of course was stuck in the middle. It was a newer plane with drop down TVs and an in-flight movie.

I noticed a safety hazard that should be reported to the FAA. We were packed so tight you couldn’t fart. I’m serious this is both a personal health hazard and a safety concern. Imagine … The flight has ended. Everyone jumps up simultaneously and boom fart gas erupts under high pressure. Then the windows blow out.

 

I’m telling you, it could happen. 

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