Category Archives: Comedy

Global Soccer State

            There is no such thing as a “Global Soccer State.”  The phrase itself is simply laughable.  It implies the entire world under a rule of the game of soccer, and such a thing is impossible due to the nature of “soccer.”

We, The United States of America, elected an American soccer player as president in the year 2–8.  He had run as an independent, and the only reason he was elected was because the candidates running for the two head parties had both called upon the help of their organizations to make the most convincing argument to the people not to vote for their opponent–that they were dead.  Pretty soon, both parties were left in shambles from the constant hits, and there were so few candidates left alive to choose as a head for either party that the best-choice candidates elected to run were, for the Reds, a pet rock; and for the Blues, a bucket of old seawater.
Joshua Damien Johnson was one of the greatest American soccer players in the history of American soccer.  Not being a European, not a single soul knew who Joshua Damien Johnson was.  Soon, he changed his named to the simple Dámíén; and, without knowledge of the team he owned in the America’s soccer league, transferred himself to the English Premier League where he was promptly exalted as a thoroughly mundane footballer and the glorified hope of the American national team.
After his team was relegated two years in a row to the third-tier league he was discharged from his English team and bought back by a team in America’s soccer league for three hundred million dollars.  No one in America knew or seemed to care that the English League One was not in fact the number one league in England, and no one in America knew that this man coming in from Europe who had a Brazilian-sounding name was actually an American.  Three years playing in Europe had erased twenty-eight years living in America as Dámíénmania gripped the collective hearts of the American media and the collective hormones of American teenage girls.   Then, after rounding up a career of overhyped ineffectuality, Dámíén surprised the nation with the fact that he was, in fact, an American citizen, when he saw that his popularity for doing nothing was a perfect wave to ride into a political career by running for President.
On the pitch of himself in the 2–8 election, Dámíén was able to capture the vote of every foreigner, immigrant non-citizen, Californian, independent, and every other hypothetical voter whose vote did not count or matter.  Against the fierce competition, he was able to squeak out a narrow victory, winning by a few hundred or so votes to gain the presidency.  There was some speculation as to how he won without having any political experience, but the truth was that he fit into the field naturally.  After all, just like soccer with the World Cup, politics only mattered to Americans once every four years.  And at the end of those four years, we never once won.
There were off-year elections, but our off-year political elections only seemed to be watched by the rest of the world to see to see whether or not the US would shape up its blundering act.  President Dámíén saw that this was not right.  In his mind, as the special one- the one with the power to change it- he saw that the United States should have been involved in the off-year contest.  It just wasn’t fair to the people that it only mattered every four years.  Why should it be that only European countries could play in the off-year Euro competition?
So the United States of America joined Europe.  We joined the European Union and told The International Mapmaker of the World to rename the Atlantic Ocean the European Pond.  Along with it, the word “soccer” was erased from the International Dictionary to be replaced by its proper form, “football;” and America’s national anthem was modified to become a Techno version of the Star Spangled Banner.  Dámíén finally got the dream that every American soccer player dreamed- to have been born in a European country.
Canada and Mexico, who had both been kneeling for the past something-hundred years underneath the US president’s desk, quickly followed; and when South America received word of this sometime within the next ninety years, they also tagged along.
Suddenly, with the whole western world- basically, the whole world- now Europe, we were a Global Football State.  To make it official–and to make things easy–the rest of the world came swiftly.  First was Australia, who said that they had become Europe before everyone else- even Europe- but had forgotten to tell everyone and so deserved special privileges (which they were denied for having been Australia).  Then, after Russia decided to stop being difficult by splitting themselves in half and being in two continents to just be one, the rest of Asia gave up their whole “Eurasia” bellyaching and decided to give in to just calling themselves Europe too.
(On an unrelated note:  in the year 2–0, The International Mapmaker of the World accidentally spilled a bottle of White-Out on where Africa was without knowing it before turning it in to the World Map Association- and ever since then, the rest of the world had forgotten them.)
Under the Global Football State, countries and continents were no more.  Instead, the world was divided into States where the powerful and prominent football teams were centered, spanning the area in which the supporters of that State Team resided.  In such a vast revolution, one thing stayed the same- the two-party system.  Half of us went on to riot; the other half went on to become the police force as a result of it.

Over time, things only got worse for Europe… but we got used to it.  The rioters and the police constantly fighting in the streets… it was eventually droned it out as the sounds of nature.  And when a few rioters got a little overzealous about the tenets of their team, oh well… another Football War, which with the tangled alliances between the Nationalized State Teams, ended up as another World War.  But World Wars weren’t even that big of a deal anymore.  With somewhere around 90 of them, no one seemed to care that much anymore (besides the people who died; but they were dead, so no one cared about what they were saying).  In fact, the World Wars became so routine that nearly immediately after they all started happening, they began to get sponsors.  Immediately after The Gatorade Seventeenth World War, up came World PowerAde War XVIII, and AIG’s World War 20, just to be followed by Microsoft ‘-8 World War 40: Home Edition.  My favorite, due to the sheer irony of it, was The 78th World War Sponsored by Band-Aid.  There were some World Wars that didn’t get sponsorship- but that’s because they didn’t have sponsors, and therefore, weren’t advertised enough to catch on, and ended up ending themselves before they could get a sponsor.
And that’s not what you had to watch for, anyway.  The World Wars were nothing.  What you really had to watch out for was the Super World Wars.  I can’t begin to describe how huge they are using ancient world standards… let’s just say that Super World War II was so big that Coca-Cola and Pepsi teamed up to cosponsor it.
The people still alive at the end of the last Super World War… consisted entirely of the advertisers, now rich beyond our means.  We were so rich, we couldn’t even count how much money we had.  A lot of us planned to use our wealth to research some way to make a new block of land that we could put new armies and soccer teams on.  Instead, we just ended up all buying million-euro pairs of the new Adidas Dámíén PredatorSwevePulse # 10 boots, and in 2-9-, we lucked out and found out there was some new country that wasn’t on any maps, unknown to Europe, and completely untouched by civilization, not counting the civilizations that were already there.
When we got to the new world, the natives there told us to “keep it down.”  We promptly took their land, enslaved them, and called it America; and the Crusades were over.

It’s the year 2–2 now, and things are good enough now.  Right now, I’m sitting out on my apartment balcony- a first-generation American in second-generation America.  It’s good enough, and can’t that be good enough?
Hey, some kids are playing soccer down in the streets below.
Let’s hope to God they don’t start calling it “football.”
I don’t want to have to write all this a third time.

Striking Out: An Online Serial Comedy

Writers and Readers,

Hello! Like many of you out there, I am a writer struggling to get my name and work out into the world. One method I’ve devised to this end is to freely present my work online.

I invite you to visit strikingout-story.blogspot.com to read my serial novella, Striking Out. The story is about a young married man named Patrick who falls for Susan, a beautiful coworker, and deludes himself into thinking he is not pursuing her when in fact he has no idea what he’s doing!

Despite the ostensibly solemn subject matter – that of an affair – I hope I have succeeded in my goal of producing a light, fun read. So if you feel like laughing, please come visit.

Enjoy!

-Matt Bloom

My novel on the Ellen Degeneres show!

I was tickled pink, a little embarrassed, and laughing hysterically when on March 31st, while shooting in Orlando Florida, Ellen Degeneres went to a pool, found an empty seat, picked up a novel on a table – and it was MY book, FALLEN ANGELS.

Ellen looked at the cover and said, “Oh, this is a good one!” Then she read aloud to a man sitting next to her – the book belonged to his wife. Of course the part she read was the start of a love scene.
My husband and son were telling me, “Shhhh!” because I was laughing so hard, they couldn’t hear Ellen.

If you want to see a video clip of it, she has it on her website.
It was the “Video of the Day,” but today it moved to the archives.
http://ellen.warnerbros.com/EllenMediaPlayer/
then “Ellen’s Bits,”
and then “Not Really Swan Lake.”

It’s a pretty short video, but first she’s fooling around with some folks in a pool, then handing out towels, and then she goes poolside and picks up Fallen Angels.

Hilarious!
Hope you enjoy it.
And CHEERS to Ellen!

Lori
also writing as L.L. Foster
www.lorifoster.com

 

Beetle Creek – the Prologue (an Aussie yarn)

PROLOGUE

 

Dad gave me a hearty slap on the back. “Well, Jack old lad,” he said with a wink, “you’re a working man now. What sort of job will you take on?”

It was March 12, 1955 – my fifteenth birthday – and I was finally allowed to leave school. Euphoria!

“I think I’ll try writin’ a book, Dad.”

“Pooh! You wouldn’t know a rat’s arse about book-writin’,” my brother Denny said. This astute literary critic was all of twelve years old.

Admittedly, my choice of career did break with the Bournley tradition of shearing and I can’t say Mum offered much encouragement, either.

“You needn’t think you’re gonna sponge on us, sleepin’ in till midday and tuckin’ yer knees under my table,” she said, her jowls wobbling with indignation. “You can earn your keep like everyone else. There’s plenty of work around for a young bloke – musterin’, clearin’, fencin’…”

“Leave the boy alone, Lorna. Writin’s a good thing.” Dad was always one to see a positive side. “It’s in his blood – it’s hermetic.”

Dad was the reader in the family, and had a penchant for big words. I don’t think Mum could read or write at all, so the whole family was doubly impressed with Dad’s literary bent – especially Dad.

“I read the Sunday papers from cover to cover every week, whether there’s anything in ’em or not,” Dad often boasted, “and I can get through a Zane Grey western in a week.” Dad had an extensive personal library, acquired in job lots at local farm auctions. He once bid sixpence for an Oxford Dictionary at Maguire’s clearance sale and brought it home proudly.

“You never know, Mother. It might come in handy some day. One of the boys might go on to th’ university.” He always hoped one of us might ‘gravitate from university.’ Indeed, he often said he might have gravitated himself, but for a lack of education.

“Well, what would you write about, Jack? How about somethin’ scientific … you know, like compost?” Dad was into compost. He had several bins on the go in the back yard, and was experimenting with various mixtures, some smellier than others.

“Compost, Fred! We haven’t sunk that low, surely.”

“I’ve got it!” Dad chortled. “Do one of them hexposays on that bloody Pat O’Brien.”

Dad hated Pat O’Brien with a passion. “O’Brien thinks he’s the flamin’ mayor of Beetle Creek, and he doesn’t even live ‘ere,” he would say. O’Brien owned a farm on the outskirts, and he relied on villagers like Dad for shearing and casual work.

“All us locals are perfeckly happy the way things are, and he wants to bring in the sewerage and get the damned ‘lectricity put on,” Dad used to rant. “Before you know it, we’ll all be payin’ rates like those poor beggars in Moree. And for why?” Dad, at this point, would survey his audience grandly. “Because he’s too flamin’ lazy to dig a pit toilet like the rest of us, or pump up a Tilley lamp at night.”

By hotly opposing every scheme that Pat O’Brien put up, Dad single-handedly set the Beetle Creek Progress Association back twenty years. Of course, had O’Brien not regularly accused Dad of stealing sheep, Dad might have been a little more cooperative.

Beetle Creek had its share of small-town politics, like all the villages scattered around the commercial hub of Moree – villages with personalities as inscrutable as their names: Bellata, Gurley, Garah, Pallamallawa, Gravesend.

I knew I didn’t have much time before Dad climbed onto his soapbox.

“No, no,” I said hastily. “I thought I’d write about us, Dad – the Bournleys of Beetle Creek.” It had a ring to it, I thought.

At fifteen, I wanted to write about the Bournleys because there were plenty of funny stories to tell. As well, Beetle Creek was my world – a handful of modest houses clustered around a grey wheat silo, a pub, a shop, a school, a creek for swimming and fishing. What more could a bush kid want?

I was a little slow to realise that what most Beetle Creek residents wanted was to escape the stultification of village life. Of course, some stood still too long, got zapped by the place, and never mustered the energy to prise open the jaws of the trap. To our credit, we Bournleys all found our various means of escape.

As a kid, I found life in Beetle Creek pretty exciting – and I wanted to write it all down. Now, as an old codger, with a wife and children of my own, I look back with a different perspective. I see darker deeds I can recount … well, there’s little point in having family secrets if you can’t tell someone.

What’s more, I now know the outcomes of Lucy’s prophecies. Lucy was my sister – the weird one – there’s no kinder way to put it. Her predictions about the family have haunted me from childhood, and have taken a lifetime to prove or disprove. I’ve ticked them all off over the years.

On that birthday morning, as I rambled on to Mum and Dad about the funny stories I wanted to tell, they began to see my ambition for what it was: a kid’s pipedream. They humoured me.

Mum put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, don’t you mention that Uncle Wally was in jail, ‘cos it was just a silly misunderstandin’. And make sure you give me good teeth in the story.” Poor Mum was always embarrassed about her chipped, discoloured front teeth.

“An’ make sure y’ tell ’em I never once come ‘ome drunk in forty years,” Dad added.

So there you have it. My Mum had sparkling white teeth and my Dad never came home drunk in forty years – and they are the only two lies I intend to tell. I will be completely truthful about Uncle Wally’s deviant behaviour, because he’s long dead. For that matter, so are Mum and Dad. Publication can’t hurt anyone now.

This book has been a long time coming – I’ll be sixty-one in March.

Tips for Paddling Across the Panama Canal in a Canoe

Many canoeists think paddling across the Panama Canal is a piece of cake, but that’s just not true. To successfully cross from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic in a canoe requires planning.

First you’ll need a laptop with wireless Internet to carry along in your canoe. Why? So you can communicate with the people who run the Panama Canal. You’ll need to be in touch with them at least 3 hours before you show up at the Miraflores Locks on the Pacific side of the canal.

Send them a short email along the lines of: “Hi there! I’m paddling a canoe from San Francisco to New York and would like to cross the canal later this morning. Thanks for letting me know what procedures to follow.”

Don’t be surprised if you receive the following response: “Senor, it is impossible, completely impossible, for you to cross the Panama Canal in a canoe. Aside from the danger of accidentally bumping into a 50,000 ton ship in one of the locks, the toll for crossing the canal is $45,000.”

Don’t let such an email discourage you. Just follow up with a message along the lines of: “I was so much looking forward to crossing the canal today. I’ve paddled this canoe several thousand miles down the coast from San Francisco. The toll fee is no problem. I have a credit card on me.”

The Panama Canal authorities need your business. And while they might act as if they don’t, just continue sending encouraging emails, and they’ll buckle.

“Senor, you may cross the canal today, but you’ll need to pay the $45,000 in quarters. We now require exact change in quarters to go through our toll booth. A tugboat will come out to meet you to exchange $45,000 from your credit card for quarters. ”

Don’t let them do this. The quarters will weigh down your canoe. Say something like: “I can cross the canal today, but the quarters won’t work. You folks don’t accept MasterCard?”

“Senor, we have approved your crossing but we must warn you that you will have to wait in line behind a ship from Chile carrying 50,000 tons of fruit to New York.”

Answer something like: “I don’t mind waiting behind a vehicle carrying 50,000 tons of fruit. I do it all the time on the Jersey Turnpike.”

Don’t be surprised if the Panama Canal authorities suddenly change their mind and refuse your passage across the canal. You may get a message saying: “Senor, it has come to our attention that canoes are prohibited from crossing the canal. Sorry.”

This is where you pull out your trump card. “I appreciate your letting me know. As the grandson of John Stevens, the third American to oversee the construction of the canal, I would find it inconvenient to have to paddle my canoe back to San Francisco.”

That statement gets them every time.

In case they become obstinate, just add: “I have the email address of five different reporters from the New York Times on my laptop. How would you like to see the following headline on the front page of tomorrow’s New York Times? “Descendant of Panama Canal Builder Refused Passage Across the Canal.”

The Panama Canal authorities adore the New York Times and would feel crushed if the Times had any negative news stories about the canal.

It’s good to know, too, that sometimes the Panama Canal authorities will gripe about the quantity of fresh water that is needed to raise and lower boats traveling through the locks. They may say something like: “Senor, I hope you realize that it takes an average of 52 million gallons of fresh water to raise and lower each ship that crosses the canal.”

A quick response to this is: “Yes, I realize it does take a lot of fresh water from Gatun Lake to raise and lower ships. But Panama receives an average of over 60 inches of rainfall a year. This rain water travels down the Chagres River and easily replenishes Gatun Lake. In fact, excessive rainfall was the main problem in building the canal, causing mudslides and increasing the quantity of mosquito-borne disease.”

“Senor, we would like to let you cross the canal in your canoe, but we can only let 25 ships a day cross the canal.”

“What?! An average of 37 ships a day cross the canal. Almost a million ships have crossed the canal since its opening in 1914. I’m afraid you have your facts wrong.”

Then you’ll hear the oldest excuse in the book: “Senor, it has come to our attention that Panama has many crocodiles. It would be too dangerous for you cross the canal in your canoe.”

Just reply: “Hmmm, the crocodiles didn’t stop Richard Halliburton from swimming the length of the canal in 1928. I’ll take my chances. Besides, I have a repellent spray that works for both mosquitoes and crocodiles. It says right here on the spray bottle, ‘If you see mosquitoes or crocodiles hovering around your head, apply spray liberally to arm and neck areas…’

Speaking of insecticide, you do realize that one of John Stevens greatest achievements in overseeing construction of the canal was the eradication of the mosquito-borne yellow fever. He did this by ordering 120 tons of insecticide and $90,000 worth of window screens.”

“Senor, it seems as if you know your Panama Canal facts quite well. We are sorry we inconvenienced you and welcome you crossing the canal.”

“Not so fast! I have yet to mention that at the height of construction of the canal, 200 train loads a day of earth were removed from the Culebra Cut, the man-made path cutting through the major mountain range in Panama. 200 train loads per day! Can you imagine the magnitude of that operation?”

“Yes, and?”

“And that 50 different companies in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, provided the steel for the construction of the locks on both the Pacific and Atlantic sides of the canal. Those steel mills were humming.”

“Okay…”

“And that the entire Panama Canal project came in under budget. The canal was completed for less than the $325 million that was budgeted for it. And most people don’t realize that…”

“Senor, thank you for the facts. Now please cross the canal. Please will you cross the canal and get this over?”

“Yes, I surely will. Thank you for your time and assistance. I’ll see you shortly at the Miraflores Locks on the Pacific side of the canal.”
Phil Shapiro
Copyright 2000

Marketing Freeze Dried Water

I first thought of the idea of freeze dried water while on a camping trip with a friend. We had just hiked about eight miles along a mountain trail, and had found a nice clearing in the woods to pitch our tent. My friend had brought with some freeze dried beef stew and some freeze dried spaghetti and spaghetti sauce.

We were so hungry we started eating before the food had fully finished cooking. It was then that the idea of freeze dried water first came to mind.

All through those eight miles of hiking the weight of the water bottles in my back pack felt heavier and heavier on my shoulders. If only there were a way of dehydrating water to make it lighter.

Then it occurred to me in a flash. If camping stores sold freeze dried water then we wouldn’t have to carry so much weight on our backs. When we needed water for cooking or drinking, we could just open up one of the freeze dried water packets and just add water.

Well, by the next day I had the idea all figured out. Freeze dried water packets could be produced in large factories. On the outside of the packets would be pretty pictures of waterfalls and sparkling, bubbly blue water. On the inside of the packets would be shiny aluminum foil, placed right on top a plastic inner liner. In the very middle of the packets would be the concentrated freeze dried water.

The freeze dried water would almost be invisible. That’s because the water would be dehydrated so well in our factories that only the very essence of the water would remain.

But hikers and campers would only be the beginning. NASA would be interested in buying freeze dried water to send up with the astronauts on the space shuttle. The Red Cross would be interested in buying freeze dried water to distribute to families during droughts. Sailors would be interested in buying freeze dried water to take out with them to sea.

Imagine how much financial savings NASA would have if they could use freeze dried water, rather than heavy tap water. Imagine how many lives could be saved in a drought if the Red Cross stockpiled thousands and thousands of packets of freeze dried water. And think of the convenience to sailors to have packets of freeze dried water right on the ship with them.

They say that necessity is the mother of invention. As I was hiking those eight long miles with the heavy water bottles bouncing around in my back pack, I knew that a great moment of invention was about to occur. Who could have thought that such a great invention would have such humble beginnings?
Phil Shapiro

Copyright 1995

All Rights Reserved