Short Stories To Tickle Your Funnybone Read online

  On reflection, I probably would have done the same thing.

  Maggie joined me with the lettuce and tomatoes and we headed to the meat counter.

  An old guy about my age was standing behind a skillet where little pieces of something that looked like doggy doo were sizzling in hot grease.

  “How about a sample of our link sausage?” he asked proudly.

  I looked into the pan and swore that I saw strands of LDL cholesterol swirling around.

  “No thanks,” I replied. “I’m trying to cut back.”

  My first time shopping with Maggie had been a traumatic experience for me.

  After sixty-some years of bachelorhood, my shopping habits consisted of roaming the aisles and filling my cart with stuff that looked good and tasted good.

  On our first outing together, she grabbed my Twinkies out of the cart. “Sorry, artificial sweeteners, hydrogenated corn oil. It’s filled with poison.”

  Thus began my induction into the world of healthy eating.

  Since then, I have dutifully studied the material she gave me to read and I have become a convert.

  I’m not saying it’s easy when the Ding Dongs are calling my name from the shelf, but I know it’s the right thing to do.

  When our basket was full, we headed to the checkout.

  Another of our rituals is to split up and head to two different checkout stands. The one who has found the shortest line signals to the other.

  We probably should scrap that part of our ritual because it rarely works.

  There was only one woman in my line so I gave Maggie the high sign.

  I had just loaded everything from our cart to the counter when the checkout girl picked up the microphone.”

  “Price check on five.”

  “Oh crap! Not again!”

  Of course the store was busy. After all, it was Senior’s Day.

  We waited and waited and I was able to glean from the conversation that the woman ahead of me thought that she had been charged twentyfive cents too much for a can of peas.

  Finally, I couldn’t resist.

  I pulled a quarter from my pocket and handed it to the lady.

  “Ma’am, I feel your pain. Here, let me take care of this and we can all get on with our day.”

  The lady grabbed the quarter, finished checking out and huffed out of the store.

  She didn’t even thank me.

  When it was our turn, the checkout girl asked the usual question, “Paper or plastic?”

  I looked at Maggie and she shook her head, but I couldn’t resist.

  “Actually,” I replied, “I could go either way. I’m bi-sackual.”

  I learned that line from a customer when I was undercover at a BuyMart store.

  Maggie hates it but I have to throw it in once in awhile just for grins.

  The checkout girl looked at me and then at Maggie.

  Maggie just shrugged her shoulders and the checkout girl gave her a look that screamed, “My sympathies, you poor girl.”

  The rest of the checkout went without a hitch but when we reached the parking lot I stopped. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which lane we had parked in.

  “Uhhh, Maggie, do you remember where we parked?”

  “Not again! Walt you’re the one driving. It’s YOUR job to remember where we parked.”

  “Well you were riding shotgun. You were there too. Why can’t you remember?”

  This had always been a sore spot in our relationship.

  I think we both hated the fact that we were constantly losing our vehicle because it was a persistent reminder that we were getting old and losing some of our faculties.

  The worst was one evening when we had attended the Starlight Theatre.

  After the show, as we looked over the thousands of cars in the lot, we realized that we didn’t have a clue where we had parked.

  We roamed the aisles, dodging cars, and finally just waited on the curb breathing exhaust fumes until the lot was nearly empty.

  Not the greatest way to end the evening.

  We were just standing there with our cart full of groceries looking befuddled when an old guy my age approached.

  “Lost your car, didn’t you?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I replied.

  “I used to do that all the time until I got one of these,” he said holding up his phone. “Watch this!”

  He punched the phone a few times and showed us the screen.

  “There’s my car,” he said proudly.

  “How did you do that?” I asked amazed.

  “Do you have a smart phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can download this app for ninetynine cents. It’s called ‘Find My Car’.”

  I turned to Maggie, “We gotta get one of those!”

  **************************************** An excerpt from Lady Justice and the Watchers http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-and-thewatchers_365.html

  The Bedpan

  Everyone wants to visit you in the hospital. The guests kept coming and finally, Nurse Ratchett had had enough. If this gal hadn’t been a nurse, she probably could have been a linebacker with the Kansas City Chiefs. Her arms were about the size of my legs. She had the demeanor of a linebacker as well.

  “Okay, all of you, clear out! I’ve got work to do here.”

  My friends stared in amazement.

  When no one moved, she raised her voice an octave. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Why don’t you folks go to the cafeteria and get a snack. I need to check Mr. Williams. You can come back when I’m finished.”

  On the way out of the door, Jerry quipped, “Walt, maybe you can save her some time. If she needs samples of your urine, blood, semen, and stool, you can just give her your underwear.”

  Dad chuckled, and Nurse Ratchett glared as they filed out of the door.

  Things were going better than I had hoped for. She checked my blood pressure, took my temperature, and listened to my heart. As she was packing away her goodies, I rose up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  “Nope. Your chart says you might possibly have internal injuries, so you have to stay down untilthe doctor runs some tests.”

  “But I have to—uh—you know.”

  “Then you’re going to have to—uh—you know in this.” She pulled a bedpan off the closet shelf.

  I looked at the plastic contraption. I’d seen them before, but I’d never used one.

  “Look, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can certainly walk to the bathroom.”

  Then she got that look that I’d once seen in the eyes of Mean Joe Green.

  “You’re fine when we say you’re fine. Do you understand? Now get your feet back in that bed.” She plopped the bedpan in my lap.

  When I didn’t respond, she gave me the look again. “Well?”

  “Well, I’m not going to use this thing with you standing there watching me. I’d like some privacy.”

  She shook her head and started for the door.

  “Oh, say, I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. Am I permitted to have breakfast?”

  She picked up my chart again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When she was gone, I picked up the bedpan. The first thing I noticed was that it was cold. Brrr. I turned the thing over, hoping that instructions would be printed on the backside, but there were none. With my luck, they would have probably been written in Chinese anyway.

  They must figure that everyone instinctually knows how to use one of these things. Like it’s something innate that’s passed down through our DNA. If so, there were definitely some deficiencies in my gene pool. So do you lie down on the thing? I tried it and nearly broke my back.

  So do you sit on it? Do your legs stick out in front of you on the bed, or do you turn it sideways and let your legs dangle over the edge?

  I tried it both ways, and the only way
that it was comfortable was to dangle my feet over the edge.

  By the time I had turned it and climbed on top, I had exerted more energy than just padding the six steps to the bathroom.

  So there I sat, perched on my plastic throne, and to my dismay, nothing happened. It was obvious that my bowels were balking. I was tempted to just chuck the whole thing and march over to the real toilet, but to be quite truthful, I was scared of Nurse Ratchett.

  Then I saw it, and an idea formed in my head. On the little table next to my bed was a box full of rubber gloves. Normally, I hate seeing those because it usually means that someone is going to be sticking something somewhere I don’t want it stuck.

  I grabbed a pair of the gloves, slipped them on, and put my ear to the door listening for footsteps. Hearing none, I slipped into the bathroom and did my job the way it’s supposed to be done. Fortunately, the resulting deposit was solid and a floater.

  I reached in with my gloved hand, scooped up what was left of yesterday’s lunch, and plopped it in the bedpan. Nurse Ratchett would never notice the difference.

  Being a cop, I realized that if I was going to commit the perfect crime, I would have to destroy the evidence.

  I peeled off the gloves and was about to throw them in the wastebasket but checked myself. She might see them there. I looked at the stool. If it could handle some of the stuff I’ve deposited over the years, surely it could handle two little latex gloves.

  What I hadn’t thought of was that these little gloves, unlike my previous deposits, had fingers. Evidently, one or more of those little fingers had clutched the innards of the stool, and I watched in horror as the water, instead of circling and disappearing, steadily rose to the top of the bowl.

  “No! No! Nooo!”

  I heaved a sigh of relief when I heard the water stop. Another drop would have put it over the edge.

  I looked around and saw a plunger in the corner. I grabbed it and slipped it into the water. Of course the Law of Archimedes took over, and the water displaced by the plunger overflowed into the floor.

  The waves caused by my plunging sent more cascades over the edge, and by the time the gloves had been dislodged, there was a mess to clean up.

  I grabbed a towel and was on my hands and knees mopping up water with my butt hanging out of the stupid hospital gown when I heard, “Mr. Williams!”

  I looked up, and Nurse Ratchett was staring at my bare behind. I cringed, expecting a tirade that would make a sailor blush, but instead her attention had been directed to my little gift in the bedpan.

  She just had a bewildered look on her face. “I’ve been a nurse for twenty-seven years, but this is a new one.” She got me a clean gown and fresh towels, and I climbed back in bed.

  By this time she had regained her composure.

  “Apparently you have difficulty following orders, and you definitely have authority issues.”

  I was about to argue, but I figured I’d better just clam up. As they say, there’s no such thing as a perfect crime.

  “Mr. Williams, you have to stay in bed until after your tests.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She emptied the bedpan, rinsed, and flushed. She returned with the bedpan and a gizmo that looked like the thing my mechanic uses to put oil in my car. “Now, if you have to urinate or defecate, please use these.”

  She had said please, but the tone in her voice said, “Do it or else.” Just then the door opened, and an orderly brought in a tray.

  “I ordered you some breakfast.”

  The orderly set the tray on my bed table. I was starving, and all during my bathroom escapade I had been envisioning eggs, toast, bacon, maybe even a pancake. I was shocked to see a pile of quivering green stuff, a bowl of yellow swill, and a cup of something barely darker than water.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your breakfast, of course. Lime Jell-O, broth, and tea.”

  “Don’t I even get toast?”

  “No, Mr. Williams, you’re on a liquid diet until after your tests. Bon appétit.” I know she was grinning when she walked out the door.

  I looked at my breakfast. I like Jell-O. I just don’t like green Jell-O. I know they make JellO in other colors. I’ve seen it. Green just isn’t my favorite color. I’ve tried green shampoo, but I like white better. I love a red, ripe tomato, but I just can’t do a green one. I absolutely hate the green stuff that grows on your food when you leave it in the fridge too long. I was perilously close to digging into my liquid breakfast when my friends returned.

  Dad looked at the pitiful pile of glop on my tray. “I thought so. I’ve been where you are before. Bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Willie, watch the door.”

  Dad reached into a sack and pulled out one of those fluffy, golden brown biscuits with egg, cheese, and bacon.

  I almost cried. “I love you, Dad.” It just came out, and it surprised both of us.

  Maggie almost came unglued. “Dad! How could you? The hospital has rules…and the tests… Walt has tests to take…and…”

  “Tests, shmefts. The kid’s fit as a fiddle. And look at that swill they gave him to eat. If he wasn’t sick before, he sure would be after he ate that.”

  He looked at Bernice for approval, and she obligingly nodded her head.

  Maggie turned to Jerry and the professor for support, but they just shrugged their shoulders.

  “You’re all incorrigible,” she muttered.

  After I wolfed down the biscuit and Dad tucked the wrappers away in his pocket, I had an idea.

  “Dad, before you leave, could you go to a vending machine and bring me a Mountain Dew?”

  “Sure, sonny. Be right back.”

  I had just stashed my Dew under my mattress when Nurse Ratchett returned.

  “You folks have to leave. It’s time for Mr. Williams’s tests.”

  We said our good-byes, and as everyone was leaving, the professor, who had been unusually quiet, turned to speak. I was expecting some words of wisdom or comfort from the old man.

  “Walt, I hope your tests come out better than those of a friend of mine.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, he went to the doctor with a sprig of greenery sticking out of his bottom. He said, ‘Doc, I think I have lettuce growing out of my rear end.’ The doctor examined the greenery and said, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news—that’s only the tip of the iceberg.’”

  Without another word, he turned and left, leaving me with my mouth hanging open. The professor was obviously spending too much time with Jerry.

  My tests went well, and the doctor proclaimed me fit to resume my normal activities. I returned to my room and started preparing my parting gift to Nurse Ratchett.

  I dug the Mountain Dew from under my mattress, popped the top, poured it into the funny little beaker she had given me, and placed it on the bed table.

  I had just finished when Nurse Ratchett popped in.

  “I’m going off duty in ten minutes. I just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I left.”

  “Why thank you. Here, you might want to get rid of this.” I picked up the beaker of yellow liquid and started to hand it to her, but instead I brought it back and chugged every last drop.

  Nurse Ratchett blanched, gasped, “Oh my God!” and fainted dead away.

  **************************************** An excerpt from Lady Justice and Dr. Death http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-and-drdeath_351.html

  Cleaning Day After a week that had included three grisly murders, I was looking forward to a couple of days off.

  Sometimes, when man’s depravity becomes too intense, you have to just back away from it all, focus on what’s good in your life and put things back in perspective.

  Maggie had let me sleep in and I awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. I could tell that this was going to be a good day.

  I ambled into the kitchen, gave Maggie a big hug and kiss and head
ed for the coffee pot. After a year of marriage, I had learned how to order my priorities.

  Maggie was busily whipping Aunt Jemima with a spoon. “Pancakes, too! What have I done to deserve all of this?”

  “You’re going to need lots of energy today, so I figured I’d better start you off with a good breakfast.”

  Suddenly, a cloud darkened my prospects for a good day.

  “Energy? For what?”

  “Don’t give me that ‘for what’. Surely you remember when we talked about cleaning the apartment today.”

  Now I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes --- not often, but sometimes, Maggie’s little chats will zip right by, especially if I’m reading the sports page or otherwise intellectually occupied, but surely I would remember something as ominous as cleaning day.

  I had to make a split-second decision --should I refute us ever having that conversation and try to wiggle out? No, I knew that either way, I was doomed to cleaning, so why add insensitive, non-listening, boob into the picture.

  “Oh, right --- sure --- cleaning. Must have slipped my mind. How much cleaning are we talking about, exactly?”

  “Everything! Top to bottom. It’s been months since this place had had a good cleaning.”

  I tried one more tactic. Maggie is still an active Realtor and has a woman that cleans vacant houses for some of her clients.

  “How about Consuela. Did you think about giving her a call?”

  “Consuela charges three hundred bucks to clean a place this size. Why spend all that money when we can do it ourselves? Do you realize how many meals at Mel’s Diner you could buy for that three hundredbucks?”

  I had to admit that she was good.

  I’m not opposed to saving a few bucks if it’s a job that I can handle, but a man has to know his limits.

  For instance, I can change light bulbs and replace light switches and sockets without electrocuting myself and usually everything actually comes on when I’m finished, but I learned years ago that plumbing of any sort was not my cup of tea.

  No matter what I tried to fix, it always leaked when I was through.

  Cars are another thing that I have never mastered.