Category Archives: Humor in the Night

Baby, you’re a star

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I was driving around running errands last night, pretty much tuning out the commercials as they came on the radio when the absurdity of something being advertised struck me like, well, like a falling star.

The radio commercial was advertising the ultimate romantic Valentine’s Day gift: for just $54 you can name a star after your beloved. Not that this is new, this idea has been around for some time and the ads pop-up this time of year on schedule along with the ones for beauty spa gift certificates. (Nothing shows your lady how lovely you think she is like giving her an all-day pass to a beauty spa. Why not just get her a pair of pants and say, “I thought you’d like these because they won’t make you look fat.”)

Back to the star thing. $54? For what? I mean, what exactly is the company delivering here? Just like those pork belly futures you bought, a star is never actually going to show up on your front porch (though if either should happen, run!). So what we’re talking about here is a certificate, some flowery language and a nice envelope. Dang, I know I can do that for my readers, and it would only cost you, oh, about $34.95. Sure, they throw in a “star map” and directions for finding “your” star but even Peter Pan can do that and besides, how are you really going to know? It’s not as if you’re ever going to be able to drive by and look at it, or use it as collateral on a loan.

Oh sure, they tell you your star is registered with the International Star Registry, but don’t you kind of question the jurisdiction of something that’s merely “international”? Wouldn’t you feel better if it was the “Galaxy-wide Star Registry”? Furthermore, that’s just darn right presumptous. How do we know they have legal title? What if some operation on another planet has already claimed that particular star? Are you going to have to go to court on Betelgeuse to resolve your claim?

Look, if you want to offer her some grand, intangible gesture then just tell her you had her name tattoed directly on your heart, rather than over it. If she doesn’t believe you, give her a certificate.

He’s no Steven Seagal, but…

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Here’s some Friday fun for anyone who enjoyed Jeff’s Steven Seagal game at Peace Like a River. (What? You didn’t play? Well get on over there!) Now Portia Rediscovered is offering a funny list of the Top Ten Chuck Norris Facts.

As a sample, here are the first three things you might not have known about the martial arts star and tough guy actor whose range of expression makes Keanu Reaves seem like Lon Chaney:

1. Chuck Norris’ tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried. Ever.

2. Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

3. Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

Go, or risk defenestration!

Beware the pig

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Samantha Burns had a post yesterday summarizing stories of stupid people doing stupid things with wild animals – and paying the consequences. I love stories with happy endings!

It also reminded me of a close animal encounter in our own family (no, not this or this). And no, we weren’t doing anything we shouldn’t have been doing.

When the Mall Diva was about four the Reverend Mother and I took her to the Renaissance Festival with the requisite stop at its petting zoo. In the pen that year, along with the standard sheep and goats, was a dark, Vietnamese pot-bellied pig (nothing says Middle Ages like the trendy pet of the year). The RM filled her cupped hands with grain and squatted down next to the pre-Diva to feed a hungry young goat; both kids were delighted. The sinister pig, already foreshadowed for you, began to snuffle its way innocently over to my young family. Casually approaching from behind it then suddenly and without warning or provocation lifted its head and nipped my wife on the seat of her pants. Since the pants were knit and fit her in a way that I like, you can assume that the pig got more than fabric. With a sudden whoop my wife, the corn and the pig all scattered in different but more or less vertical directions while several strangers lamented that they didn’t have a videocamera when they needed one.

Fortunately, while her concentration may have been broken, my wife’s skin wasn’t and it turned into a good laugh all around. Since all the acts at the festival are into their role-playing I just figured the pig thought it was the Italian Renaissance Festival and acted accordingly.

Democrats say, “Your Mommy…”

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Not content to wait until children enter public school to begin their political slandering and unsubtle brainwashing, those kindly Democrats have come up with an enchanting children’s book to explain what otherwise seems incomprehensible: why someone would be a Democrat.

At least, I think it’s a children’s book; it might be a field manual for Howard Dean’s ground forces.

(HT: Gordon at Dog Snot Diaries.)

The web-site for the book describes its purpose:

Why Mommy is a Democrat brings to life the core values of the Democratic party in ways that young children will easily understand and thoroughly enjoy. Using plain and non-judgmental language, along with warm and whimsical illustrations, this colorful 28-page paperback depicts the Democratic principles of fairness, tolerance, peace and concern for the well-being of others. It’s a great way for parents to gently communicate their commitment to these principles and explain their support for the party.

Aww, how sweet. But the very next two paragraphs, however, say (boldface emphasis mine):

Why Mommy is a Democrat may look like a traditional children’s book, but it definitely isn’t just for children. With numerous subtle (and not-so-subtle) satirical swipes at the Bush administration and the Republican party (in plain and non-judgmental language, of course), Why Mommy will appeal to Democrats of all ages!

Finally, a portion of the profits (such language!) will be donated to Democratic candidates and party organizations, so your purchase will help make an immediate difference!

Sample pages from the book include statements and illustrations such as:

“Democrats make sure we all share our toys, just like Mommy does.” (Illustration of friendly squirrels playing and sharing while well-dressed people walk by and turn their noses up at someone begging.)

“Democrats make sure we are always safe, just like Mommy does.” (Illustration of Mommy directing children away from an elephant going by).

“Democrats make sure children can go to school, just like Mommy does.” (Illustration of mommy packing backpacks for her children while rich people in the background stand with their daughter in front of a building that says ‘Admission $160,000’).

Since Democrats are so good and kind and want children to know the truth, and because they feel so strongly about their core values, I’m certain that the other pages in the book contain the following statements (you’ll have to think up the illustrations yourself):

  • Democrats think Mommy had the right to kill you before you were born, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats say name-calling is all right, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats don’t want you to make decisions for yourself, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats think it’s more important to make sure the teacher’s union is protected than to make sure you get a good education, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats think you don’t need a Daddy, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats make sure that bullies are encouraged, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats want you to do as they say, not as they do, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats think people from other places have just as much right to play in your backyard as you do, just like Mommy does.

  • Democrats think you will always need a nanny, no matter how old you are, just like Mommy does.

Of course, Mommy doesn’t really think and do these things. If she did she might be arrested for child abuse.

Yes, Mommy, I know, I’m not being very nice – but they started it!

Update:

David at Our House and Fuzzy Nietsche at Nihilist in Golf Pants are on the story as well. Mommy’s got some ‘splainin to do.

Halloween Screams

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I remember the first time I was going to go trick-or-treating for Halloween. I was four years old and my mom had bought me a black skeleton costume with silver sequined bones on the front that was probably next to invisible in the dark. It had a plastic mask that covered my face and had eye-holes that more or less lined up with where my eyes were. The material was some kind of filmy fabric that probably would have ignited in a warm breeze. (Kids in my generation had to be a lot tougher – or luckier – to survive). And I couldn’t wait to get out there and start hauling in my share of the loot.



When the moment finally arrived to hit the street I impatiently nodded my masked head at my parent’s reminders to be careful and bolted out of our front door like a greyhound out of the starting gate. The slamming sound of the storm door preceded by one and a half seconds the slamming sound of me colliding headfirst with the telephone pole in our front yard. I spent the rest of that hallowed eve tearfully laying flat on my back on the living room sofa with a large goose-egg and an ice-pack on my forehead while countless other kids came to our door for candy. I think the next year I went out as a cowboy.



I did, however, learn early on how important it is to think through a costume idea and I enjoyed the creative aspect of devising each year’s design as I got older until parents at the door started refusing to give candy to the big lug trick-or-treating with the little kids, no matter how clever the costume. The next year I decided to stay home and pass out candy in costume. My first customer of the night, a three-year-old girl in a white fairy princess costume ran screaming for the street and her father when I stuck my monsterized face around the edge of the door at her height. I felt really bad the rest of the night.



In later years when I was old enough to go to grown-up Halloween parties, complete with adult beverages, I reignited my creative muse and quickly added three important ground rules to future costume design: 1) I must be able to sit down while wearing the costume. 2) I must be able to drink while wearing the costume. 3) I must be able to use the bathroom while wearing the costume. Then, once I became a parent, I pretty much got out of the whole costume and Halloween thing. The world was getting weirder and I had more reservations about the underlying spirit behind the evening. We’d normally darken the house and take our kids in their costumes to “Hallelujah Night” at church.



Then, the Halloween after 9/11 I got to thinking that it was better to be out and involved in the neighborhood, and I started a tradition of setting up a firepit in my front yard and serving hot apple cider to the parents who, because of the way our house is positioned, could stand by the fire and watch their kids hit nearly every house around. Every kid that came by got a handful of candy and a “God bless you.” It’s become a popular stop each year since, especially in the years when it’s been very cold and windy.



Last year the folks at my office decided to have a dress-up day and costume contest for the first time. I struggled to regain my muse up until the night before when an idea finally dawned on me. A part of our Division had just been sold off to a company from Scotland. I thought that if I wanted to come up with something really scary, then I should dress up in full kilt regalia. A friend of mine just happened to have the authentic ensemble and let me borrow it. It was a big hit (see photo under “About” in the right sidebar) and I even won a prize. During the potluck lunch, however, I walked by a conference room were a number of our nurse consultants and our HR generalist were eating. The HR lady waved me in and said that she had been working lately on a new dress code, including approved underwear, and she and the group were wondering what… er, umm …a Scotsman might have under his kilt.



I may have blinked twice before responding, in brogue, “Ye mean tae tell me ye’ve no heard of the Loch Ness Monster?”



Great laughter and shrieking ensued, drawing a crowd as I slipped quietly away to the other side of the building … where I could still hear the additional uproar as the incident was recounted to new waves of the curious who had gathered in the conference room.



So, anyway, Monday night I’ll be out front of my house, tending the fire and passing out candy and cider. You can send your kids around, it will be safe. Just tell them not to ask any silly questions.

Oh, those three little words

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I mentioned the other day that my wife and I just celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. Yay! Now, I might be biased but I think this has been a spectacularly successful collaboration and I hope that my wife would agree. I do know that one time she told me that she thought we were doing so well because “we say those three little words to one another.”

“Oh, you mean, ‘I love you,'” I replied, while my mental computer started frantically searching for the last time I had told her that (I knew her mental computer could spit out time, date, ambient temperature and what she was wearing).

“No,” she said, “not those three words. I mean the three words, ‘I was wrong.’ It’s because we’ve been, if not exactly willing, at least able to come to each other and say that when necessary.”

Now, it could be my wife gives me more credit — or grace — in this area than I deserve (I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken), but I have learned how important our words are to our marriage; especially the right words. I’m reminded of something that comedian Rob Becker said in his “Defending the Caveman” monologue: “It’s been reported that the typical woman speaks 5,000 words a day, but the average man speaks only about 2,000. So when a husband comes home and doesn’t have anything to say to his wife it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her; it just means he’s out of words.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever quite run out of words, but they may come to me easier than for other men. As a public service to the guys, then, here are some more three-word sentences you can use to say important things our wives need to hear without going into verb debt. Starting with the basics:

  1. I love you.
  2. I was wrong.
  3. Please forgive me.
  4. You look great!
  5. Let me help.
  6. I’ll clean up.
  7. That was delicious!
  8. That was incredible!
  9. You deserve it.
  10. Don’t get up.
  11. Let’s eat out.

I’ve found it is also useful if I start as many sentences as possible with the three words, “I really appreciate…”

One thing about words, however, is that they can knock down just as easily as they can build up (sometimes even easier). Therefore, here’s a list of three word sentences you shouldn’t say:

  1. You did what?
  2. Not my job.
  3. I told you.
  4. What, meatloaf again?
  5. I give up.
  6. What’s wrong now?
  7. You ready yet?
  8. You blew it.
  9. Don’t wait up.
  10. Where’s my dinner?
  11. Where’s the remote?

I’d also advise that you try to eliminate any sentences from your life that begin with the three words: “If only you’d…” or “My mother always…”

It’s been my experience that working on the first list, while avoiding the second, is bound to have a positive effect on your marriage without blowing your word count. In fact, the more we can work the first list into our regular conversation, the more likely it is for us to hear our wives say three-word sentences such as, “What a guy!” and “Come her, Bubba!” and the less likely we are to hear, “Hit the road!”

Update:

On a related note, Joatmoaf at I Love Jet Noise promotes a series of helpful classes for men and a glossary of words that have different meanings depending on whether you are a man or a woman.

Top 10 reasons blizzards are better than hurricanes

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Some Hurricane Katrina evacuees have said they don’t want to come to Minnesota where it gets so cold. Apparently they can deal with a string of hurricanes, but the occasional blizzard is too scary. With Hurricane Rita now on our southern doorstep, I offer as a public service the following list of reasons why blizzards are better than hurricanes.

  1. With a blizzard you get a day off from school; with a hurricane you lose the school altogether.
  2. After a blizzard, snowball fights break out; after a hurricane, looting breaks out.
  3. After a hurricane you are waist deep in water and toxic sludge; after a blizzard you are waist deep in something you can eat (except for the yellow parts).
  4. A blizzard drops a bunch of snow on your house and garage; a hurricane drops your house on your garage.
  5. After a hurricane you mobilize the National Guard with automatic weapons; after a blizzard you mobilize the neighborhood kids with snowshovels.
  6. There are so many hurricanes each year they have to be named alphabetically; blizzards are referred to by the year they occurred.
  7. Blizzards sometimes result in snow up to your roof; hurricanes result in you sitting on your roof.
  8. TV reporters at the scene of a hurricane look as if they’re reporting from a war zone; TV reporters at the scene of a blizzard look as if they’re reporting from It’s A Wonderful Life.
  9. A hurricane from Pat O’Brien’s will knock you on your butt; a blizzard from Dairy Queen just gives you a brain freeze.
  10. With hurricanes you can blame George Bush and global warming; with blizzards – oh, yeah, everything can be blamed on George Bush and global warming.

This list is not to suggest, of course, that blizzards (or hurricanes for that matter) should be taken lightly. Follow the link to find out more about the famous 1940 Armistice Day Blizzard that killed 49 people.

A hard lesson

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This is the beginning of a much more in-depth education program, in which we tell our members why and what Wal-Mart does — not just to small towns, but to workers,” said Louise Sundin, president of the Minneapolis Federation of Teachers. (Strib: Twin Cities teachers unions push Wal-Mart boycott)

Honest, Mom, I wasn’t doing anything. I was sitting in my American History class and Ms. Wolverton was talking about the founding fathers, and when she got through telling us about the first president — Samuel Gompers of the American Federation of Labor, that is, so you know I was paying attention — she told us to take out our Diversity Journals and write about what it would feel like to be beat up by cops employed by fatcat capitalists and to not have health insurance besides.

So I was opening up my backpack when it slipped – honest! – and everything spilled out on the floor. Well, not everything, because I was able to catch my iPod, you know, and then the Wolf, I mean, Ms. Wolverton points at the floor next to me and says, really mean-like, “What’s that?”

Well, I look down and I say, “Nothing Ms. Wolverton, that’s just the condoms they gave us in third period today.”

“No,” she says, “What’s that?”

Then I say, “You mean this flyer about what time Tuesday morning we’re to catch the school bus to take us to the state capital to protest for higher education spending?”

“No!” she says, and now she’s really mad. “That looks like one of the new Trapper Keepers that Wal-Mart is advertising in the newspaper! How dare you bring something like that to school?”

“Hey, it’s not mine,” I said. “Someone must have stuck that in there just to get me in trouble, probably during Conflict-Resolution class!” Really, Mom, that Billy Swedberg is sooo passive-aggressive.

So anyway, now Ms. Wolverton is all, “shopping at Wal-Mart is the first step to economic servitude, and how buying a Trapper Keeper seems innocent enough now but, like, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to talk radio and voting Republican,” you know? Then she says something like, “someday when you’re working 70 hours a week for $1 you’ll wish you’d paid more attention in class.” Well, I didn’t really know what to say to that, but she gave me the idea, so I said, “I’m sorry, my ADD is acting up – what was the question again?”

Well, that seemed to calm her down and I thought it was all going to blow over when she says, “I don’t know what people are looking for when they go into a den of iniquity and social injustice like Wal-Mart.”

OK, Mom, I knooow I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wasn’t really thinking because I was still so nervous, so I said, “Good values?” And that’s when she went ballistic and told me I knew I wasn’t allowed to use that kind of language in school and that I had to go to the principal’s office and they were going to call you to come and get me.

So, am I in trouble?

Update:

For more informative and serious insight, read this post from Bogus Gold. Be sure to follow the links in that story to Craig Westover and Swiftee.

A Slice of Night Life

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My wife’s sister helps us out by doing housecleaning for us periodically. Not long ago she reported for duty one morning while our family was getting ready for our daily scatter.

When it was time for me to leave the mother ship for the office my wife and eldest daughter were upstairs where my sister-in-law was scrubbing a bathroom sink. I went upstairs. I kissed my wife. I kissed my daughter. I started to leave. This ensued:

Sister-in-law: “Hey, where’s my kiss?”

Night Writer: “Sorry, I try to make it a personal policy not to kiss the help.”

Sister-in-law: “Wha-?”

Wife: “Yeah, but if you were just here as the sister-in-law, then I’m sure you could get a kiss.”

Eldest daughter: (pumping her fist) “JER-ry! JER-ry! JER-ry!”

Sometimes I’m really glad I don’t work from home.

A Night at the Prom

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Regular readers of this blog know that my wife and I have a pretty simple philosophy when it comes to our teenage daughter, Faith, dating: No. (See here and here.) Therefore you might be surprised to hear that Faith went to the prom last Saturday night. And yes, there was a boy involved from an unrelated gene pool. How did this happen? One word: conspiracy.

Faith has a female cousin just a few months older than her and they’ve been best pals from the playpen. They both think that boys are nice to have around, but what really makes their hearts beat fast right now are prom dresses. I think we were still taking down Christmas decorations earlier this year when they hatched a plan for the spring dance.

The boy part was easy. The cousin has a boyfriend. The boyfriend has a best friend. The best friend wasn’t doing anything the second Saturday in May. The deal was proposed and closed directly: the girls would buy the tickets, the guys would rent tuxes and buy dinner. Now – on to the Mall! It was about this point where my wife became a co-conspirator. I’m not sure how this was accomplished, exactly, but it may have involved lattes.

All I know is I was standing innocently in our kitchen a couple of months ago with my lovely wife and lovely daughter – two people I trusted implicitly – when Faith casually mentioned something about going to the prom. “Hmm,” I said, “let me think about that a minute. No.”

“I already told her she could go,” my wife said, albeit sheepishly.

“Wha-,” I said, as the floor began to open beneath me. I began to splutter: “Prom? Boys? Dark cars? Boys!”

I knew I was going down, but it didn’t mean I had to make it easy for them. It was pretty clear that fashion, not passion, was behind the conspiracy and I knew that three of the four kids involved were more than trustworthy, while the fourth was new to me but appeared as if he valued his life. Nevertheless it was worked out that my wife would be one of the volunteer parent chaperones at the event, which would require her staying up well past her bedtime. It was also arranged so that the four youngsters would come to the house for a cook-out in advance so I could get to know the new guy better.

When they arrived for the cook-out we all visited for a little while in the living room, and then I went into the kitchen to prepare the hamburger patties, which required carving them from a tube of partially frozen ground beef. I cut a couple of patties with my heavy duty 10″ chef’s knife when I realized I needed more information. Walking back into the living room, I motioned to the new guy with the slightly dripping point of the knife. Contrary to Faith’s report of the incident, the knife was nowhere near his face. I was easily three feet away. Two feet, at least. And besides, Faith can’t be a reliable witness because she hid her face behind a sofa pillow when she saw me walk into the room. Nevertheless, knowing something about teenage boys, I had to ask an important question.

“How many burgers can you eat?” I asked the kid.

“How many do you want me to eat?” he said.

“Good answer!” my wife said.

“Kill me now,” my daughter said.

Anyway, we all lived through the evening and the weeks leading up to prom seemed to fly by. On Saturday Faith went to her cousin’s around noon to begin hair and make-up preparations. At 4:30 I joined the other parents and close family at my sister-in-law’s house for the photo op. Altogether there were 11 adult paparazzi and half a dozen cameras flashing the four elegantly dressed youth. It looked like a Hollywood premiere. Faith was especially breathtaking with her hair exquisitely styled on top of her head, long sparkly earrings and an elegant dress that could have used another yard of fabric if you asked me, but no one did.

Then it was time for them to be off, and time for firm handshakes with each of the boys. “Drive wisely,” I said, and my voice didn’t crack a bit.

The evening went marvelously, and the youngsters were only a little late getting home after stopping to pick up late night tacos and wow the crowd at Taco Bell.

My wife also made it home from her chaperone assignment without falling asleep, largely due to the startling effect of watching what passes for dancing these days. You see, there’s this thing called “freak” dancing – because it “freaks” parents out, I think – that involves a young lady(?) placing her fundament against her escort’s crotch and both of them vigorously gyrating (music optional). It appears that girls have finally found a way to get the boys out on the dance floor. My wife felt as if she should get out on the floor as well, but with a bucket of water or a garden hose. She settled for prayer instead. It kind of makes the old notion of a guy hoping for a goodnight kiss seem a bit quaint, doesn’t it? I mean, after three hours of something like that with teenaged nerve endings a peck on the cheek would be – oh, shall we say – anti-climactic?

Fortunately, the little flock she was most interested in appeared to be having a very good time but at more discreet distances. She does, however, admit to being discreet herself, letting them out of her sight for long, long stretches at a time.

As for the rest of you kids, though, be warned: she’s calling your mothers.