Does This Mattress Make Me Look Fat?

**4th-place winner in HumorPress.com's America's Funniest Humor (TM) Writing Contest**

You come home from a hard day’s work. You kick off your shoes, grab a cold one from the fridge and plop down in your recliner. You grab the remote, turn the TV to ESPN… and the inevitable happens. Your wife steps right in front of you, modeling some new article of clothing she bought on sale at some discount clothing store, where the only men who work there are in the back unloading semis full of discount clothing. And then she says…

“Does this make me look fat?”

Time starts to slow down. You can’t even hear Sports Center anymore because the blood rushing to your brain has drowned out all possible sound. You sit there, trying to remember what the beer tasted like, because you know that no matter what words come out of your mouth… you are going to die. And this will be your last beer.

You stand a better chance of survival in a gladiator arena.

In the flash of an instant, possible scenarios play out in your mind:

Me: “You look great. Now, can I finish watching the scores?”

Wife: “Great? You mean like… great big? Is that what you mean?”

Me: “No, no. I mean… you look wonderful. Can I just drink my beer and finish—“

Wife: “Wonder-full? Like full-figured? I’ll show you full! How about a face full of sutures?!”

It doesn’t matter how you play it out… it still ends the same:

Sincere me: “Honey, you look like a goddess! You’re a pure vision of love and beauty. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, can I please finish watching—“

Not fooled wife: “You’re being over dramatic again. You do that every time you don’t tell the truth. You think I look fat, don’t you? I’ll show you fat! How about a fat lip?!

I’m a lot older and a lot wiser now. Older means, my cat-like reflexes are not what they used to be. Wiser means, I try to take a step or two toward the door before I give her my answer.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and no… my wife is not that bad. But I’ll be willing to wager, there is not a man on this planet with a wife or a girlfriend, who has not been in that situation.

Where am I going with all this? I’m going to a conversation I had with my vision of love and beauty, where the shoe was on the other foot:

Wife: “You need to flip the mattress.”

Me: “Huh? We just bought it. We can’t make any money on it now.”

Wife: “No. I mean turn it over.”

Me: “What for? It’s comfortable the way it is.”

Wife: “It has a divot on your side.”

Me: “A divot?”

Wife: “Actually, it’s more like a crevice, or a crater.”

Me: “What are you trying to say?”

Wife: “Nothing. The mattress needs flipped. That’s all.”

Me: “You’re saying I’m fat.”

Wife: “No. I’m not.”

Me: “You’re saying… my fat ass has put a crater in the mattress.”

Flustered wife: “No. I just—“

On a roll me: “You’re saying… I’m so fat, I make memory foam forget.”

Out of options wife: “UGGH!”

She stomps out of the room, and I stand… victorious, in the gladiator arena, raising my imaginary sword to the emperor as the throngs of spectators chant my name…

Ronicus Gluteus Maximus!

I go to the fridge, grab a cold one and make my way to the recliner. Half way through Sports Center, I realize that I’m going to need some help flipping that mattress. It’s a king size, and kind of heavy. Hey, where else would a fat-ass like me sleep?

Beware the Gang Text

Since my wife bought her new text-friendly cell phone, she has been the queen of text messaging. She's always texting with her friends about this or that (mostly about soap operas) and sending pictures back and fourth (mostly puppies and kittens, but I'm sure there is a beefcake in there somewhere).

She's also learned the fine art of sending out the same text message to multiple contacts in her phone, or as I like to call it... the "gang text." 

Yeah, I know. You all thought a "gang text" was something like, "Yo, dog! That drive-by made me LMFAO!" 

Not the case. 

Friends, I'm here to tell you that I fell victim to the "gang text" in the worst way possible. 

Valentine's Day morning, I awake to the friendly sound of my cell phone's text message tone (it's the theme to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly). Normally, I wait until about a half hour after I wake up before checking my phone because, these days, I just can't see that well in the mornings. I'm pretty much like a ground mole until I soak my head in a sink full of water and drink two, sometimes three cups of coffee. That's just one of the perks of getting older. 

But, not on this day, because I know that it has to be a text from my wife and I'm still trying to remember if I bought her anything for Valentine's Day (not only does age blur the vision, it fogs the mind as well). 

As I rub eye-boogers the size of golf balls from my eyelids, I can barely make out that the text is indeed from my loving wife. So, I type up a romantic Valentine's response, and hit "reply." Now, I won't disclose everything I said in my return text, but it did contain the words "velvet" and "marathon." Use your imagination. 

I put my phone back on the nightstand and start my morning ritual of coffee, coffee, and more coffee. A half hour later, as I make my way to the shower, I notice that my cell phone has almost vibrated off the nightstand.

Puzzled, and with a little better vision than a half hour earlier, I pick up my phone to find multiple text messages from numbers that I do not recognize, all asking things like, "Who is this?" "Who are you?" "What's your name?" 


Extremely puzzled, I check my text message log and discover that the message I replied to from my wife was part of a "gang text" that she sent out to 38 of her female friends and relatives, wishing them, along with me, a happy Valentine's Day. Boy, am I special. 


Now, I know most of her friends and almost all of her relatives, but they don't all know ME. By this time, the caffeine had kicked in from all the coffee I drank and I decided to have a little fun. I picked a "Who is this?" text at random... and texted away: 

That fun was short lived. 


By the way... please feel free to leave comments on any of my posts.


 

A Poem: My Valentine's Day Massacre

Question: What's Valentine’s Day without a special card, chocolates, beautiful flowers, or a romantic poem? 

Answer: Tuesday 

You would think that after more than 20 years of marriage, just being together, and not falling victim to the commercialism and capitalistic influences of “Big Candy” would be enough. 

In my case, I’m lucky to have a decent health insurance plan.  

Enjoy, and have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

My Valentine’s Day Massacre

by Ron Clyburn

I bought my love a valentine

Down at the Dollar Store

A cardboard heart for ninety-nine cents

I couldn’t afford anything more

I could have bought her diamonds or pearls

I could have bought flowers or sweets

But hey, times are tough these days

It’s hard to make ends meets

I knew she would love her valentine

Our love isn’t measured in amounts

So what if it’s the size of a quarter

After all, it’s the thought that counts

When my love saw her valentine

The look that was on her face

Was like that of a screaming banshee

Who got sprayed with pepper mace

The doctor said I would walk again

The dentist can fix my smile

My coughing fits from smoke inhalation

Only hurt for a little while

So men, when you shop for a valentine

And you want to save your riches

Come visit me in the ICU

And help me count my stitches

I Popped My Culture

I like to stay current with today’s popular culture. Clothes, music, hairstyles… I live to know about the latest craze. Why? So I can stay away from it. If everybody’s doing it, it must be bad for you.

I will make an exception for one popular activity I heard about recently. It’s the “Paddle” auction. Paddle auctions are popular with women who get together at predetermined meeting places and bid on things that women like to have, like cosmetics and other girly stuff. I believe that Mary Kay Cosmetics are the main items up for bid at the Paddle auctions. You know, it used to be that a pink Cadillac was all a Mary Kay sales rep needed. Then the pimps started driving them, and… well, pimpin’ ain’t easy.

I guess selling Mary Kay ain’t easy either… hence, the Paddle auction. But, why call it that? Why not just call it a “Make-up” auction, or an “I Want to be Pretty” auction? Or better yet, call it a “No Dudes Allowed” auction. I’ll tell you why… because Paddle auctions don’t involve cash.

A typical auction involves an auctioneer who stands up in front of a crowd spitting out syllables at 100 miles an hour, taking cash bids on different items from the people in the audience. If a person is lucky, they will get the top bid and the auctioneer’s lips won’t go numb before the next item goes up for sale.

Paddle auctions are different, in that… items are put up for bid, but instead of cash, the women declare how many whacks with a paddle they can stand in order to own that item.

“I can take that mascara for… two whacks.”

“I’ll take it for three!”

“Four whacks. I’ll take that mascara for four whacks!”

(The crowd gasps) “Take that mascara.”

Sounds like loads of fun. What I want to know is… how do I apply to be the auctioneer?

This takes me back to the days of corporal punishment when I was in junior high. Corporal punishment, or simply “whacks” as they were know to us heathens, forced me to don several pairs of underwear covered by two pairs of jeans every Friday, because that’s when they gave out whacks. You couldn’t look forward to the weekend without a reminder of how bad you were at school that week. 

At the end of the day on Fridays, I’d walk stiff-legged into the gymnasium (or as my fellow hooligans and I called it… the whack-a-torium) and wait in line to receive our due punishment, administered by the calloused and burly hands of our gym teacher. 

She was a hulk of a woman who had immigrated to this country from Norway. Gunda was once favored to win the women’s shot-put event in the 1968 Summer Olympics, but was disqualified for testing positive for Rhino spleen. Angry and bitter, (and more hair on her arms than Joe, the custodian) she wielded a wooden paddle like a mighty hammer of justice. A whack from Gunda was like a whack from Thor… the God of Thunder.

So, if you hear of any openings for “Paddle Auction Auctioneer,” send me a line. I need some payback.

Dirty Words

Happy Groundhog Day!

When I decided to start a weekly blog, I announced it on a certain social media site (that’s worth about 5 billion dollars) and a friend of mine asked what the blog’s rating would be (as in “R” rating). Asking me about my blog’s rating is just like saying, “I’m not going to read your blog if it’s got dirty words in it.” I know she didn’t specifically say that, but I could feel it through my computer screen.

It reminded me of a time long ago when I invented my own dirty word that I could say in front of anybody and not get in trouble. I thought it up with a friend of mine that I used to work with. We shared a similar sense of humor, and he thought the idea was great. The word was “dingus.”

You could use dingus for anything:

“That guy’s a real dingus.”

 “Shut up, dingus!”

“Hey, look at my dingus.”

You get the idea. I don’t know why we liked it so much. Maybe because it started with the letter “D” or because it ended in “gus.” We used it all the time in front of other people we worked with, and they would just laugh and laugh. That confused us because… it was our inside joke.

It turned out there was a guy who worked at that same place (over 2,500 employees, three shifts spread across 20 buildings, chances were good you’re not going to meet everybody) whose last name was Dingus.

So much for our dirty little secret word. We decided to quit using it before the joke (and HR) was on us. I finally ran into the guy. He kind of looked like a dingus.

This brings me to a reality TV show that I know you’ve all watched: “Finding Bigfoot” on Animal Planet.

My opinion of reality TV shows is this: they are NOT REAL. They are all scripted one way or another. But not “Finding Bigfoot.” That show is real… because those stupid bastards are actually searching for Bigfoot.

Those brilliant Bigfoot hunters have invented a word they use quite liberally throughout the show. The word is “Squatch” (derived from Sasquatch… get it?). They use it as a noun, an adjective, an adverb, you name it.

“There’s a Squatch in these woods!”

“These woods are very squatchy.”

“He was walking squatchly.”

“I’ll be back, I gotta take a squatch.”

If there is a Bigfoot, or if there are many, many Bigfoots across the United States as they claim (would a herd of Bigfoots be called Bigfeet?) you would think they would be finding and stepping in big piles of squatch. But they don’t.

Last, but not least, I want to give a big shout out and a rousing “Hellfire!” to my buddy, Carl Bach, from New Lebanon, OH. He used to run the now defunct www.newlebanonohio.com back in the day when I was an anti-establishment hipster before it was hip. He made me infamous and gave me my start with a weekly humor column. Carl, this Bud’s for you!

Happy Groundhog Day!

When I decided to start a weekly blog, I announced…

Okay, lame “Groundhog Day” movie reference.