Tag Archives: humor

Gertie Tillmann, 89, had many cats

17 Jan

Gertrude Ethyl Tillmann of Boynton Beach, Fa. died on Wednesday, Jan. 16. She was 89. She was the seventh of eleven daughters to the late Edna Plotz and Enrique Tillmann. Ms. Tillmann’s husband, Bert Tillmann, died 14 years ago in a bizarre typewriter accident.

A 1943 graduate of Cornell University, Ms. Tillmann was a stay-at-home mother of three boys. In 1974, Ms. Tillmann forced Bert to move to Boynton Beach because of her debilitating fear of snow.

In her later years, Ms. Tillmann began raising cats in her home to fill her time. “They give me love and affection,” she told Cat Fancy in 2002. “My sons never call, so I talk to the cats.”

Animal Control specialist Tom Peters visited her many times at her home. “She always offered us cake,” he recalled. “Her house smelled like a giant cat.”

Ms. Tillmann was also a frequent patron of the Boynton Beach public library and was very involved in library affairs. She served for 5 years as the president of the “Don’t Get Rid of the Typewriters” club and served for 4 years as president of the “We Refuse to Learn How to Use the Computers” club.

Nancy Rhudy, head librarian since 1986 remembers Gertie’s  consistent presence. “She really was against changing anything about the library,” she said. “When we replaced the card catalog with the digital system, we found her three days later clinging to one in a dumpster for dear life.”

A private service was held today near her eldest son’s home in California.

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Puppy Love

6 Jan

(A first-time pet owner walks into the vet with a puppy to get its shots. She goes up to the counter to check in.)

CLIENT: Hello, I’m here for the two o’clock appointment

RECEPTIONIST: Hi, your name?

CLIENT: Hopkins. Laura Hopk-

RECEPTIONIST: No, ma’am. Your dog’s name, please. The puppies come first in this office, Laura.

LAURA: Um, ok. This is Sugarplum.

RECEPTIONIST: What a cute name. And how old is Sugarplum?

LAURA: I think around, like, two months. My friend’s dog had puppies and she gave me one.

RECEPTIONIST: So is that like two months? Or two months exactly?

LAURA: Around two months, I don’t know.

RECEPTIONIST (condescending): Ok. Can you tell us anything more about Sugarplum? Any prior medications or treatments? Temperament? Allergies? Fecal texture? Sexual orientation? Anything else we should know?

LAURA: Nope. Just a normal dog.

RECEPTIONIST: Great. The vet will see you in just a minute if you’d like to wait over there. Would you like anything to drink while you wait?

LAURA: No, I’m fine, tha-

RECEPTIONIST (matter-of-factly): I was asking the dog!

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Underground Music Review

1 Jan

A-Train Tropik Beatz – 1/1/13 

As ordinary folks dragged their feet to work through a holiday hangover, their New Year’s Day commute was ignited by a musical ambush, courtesy of A-Train Tropik Beatz. Riders of the A train subway have experienced the presence of this all-male percussion trio on-and-off for the last two decades, yet each concert has its own feel and flair. This performance was highly unusual in that it lacked the presence of the band’s groupies, who cruise the subway seeking the roaming band’s good vibes. For this reviewer, there’s nothing quite like the look on the face of a subway bongo virgin being aurally enlightened for the first time.

The band kicked off the show with the feel-good original, “Kingston of Queens”. The easy tempo and off-beat rhythms piqued ears across the car and foreshadowed the mood of the performance. The boys continued with the romantic fan-favorite, “Dreadlock and Key”. The energy and aura surrounding frontman and bongoist Tommy Bahama were downright groovy, and it seemed to everyone on the train as if he were crooning to them directly. Next, the tempo quickened for the Christmas classic, “Coal Runnings”. There was so much spirit, soloist Wiggles St. Nick looked as jolly as his bearded namesake. The mood stayed festive with a fast rendition of “Where the Ganja Grows Like Sugarcane”, a cheerful tune that carried with it the collective hope of a New Year. Unfortunately, the performance was somewhat soured by a disinterested solo by congaist Ricky “The Pipe” Pipers. He stepped out towards the end of the song, but it just seemed like his head wasn’t in the game; perhaps he left it at a New Year’s Eve party the night before. The band lived up to their sterling reputation yesterday with a positively electric holiday show. The group was on the A train, but The Pipe gets at most a C+.

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Christmas Carols for the Doctor’s Office

13 Dec

It’s officially the holiday season, and with that, we can now begin hearing holiday songs everywhere we go. Here are some classic carols specifically tailored for the doctor’s office.

Feldberg, the Nose Job Reindeer (to the tune of Rudolph)

Britney, the teenage narcissist
had a slightly bulbous nose.
So a Feldberg nose job
was the Christmas present she chose.

Her mom lives vicariously through her,
so she didn’t balk at plastic surgery.
“Honey, if we added some silicone,
maybe you could look like me!”

 

Root Canals (to the tune of Jingle Bells)

Going to the dentist,
for your tooth cleaning today.
You know you haven’t been flossing.
What will your hygenist say?

“Have you really been brushing?
Your teeth don’t look so great.
Here take these toothpaste coupons,
our office is sponsored by Colgate!”

Oh, root canals, root canals
You’ll be in pain for days!
You shouldn’t’ve eaten all that fruitcake.
Bring on the Novocain!

Oh, root canals, root canals
You’ll be in pain for days!
You shouldn’t’ve eaten all that fruitcake.
Bring on the Novocain!

 

The Proctologist is Coming to Town (to the tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)

Gloves on my wrist, checking you twice.
Gonna make sure your prostate feels nice.
You’re going to feel my finger, deep down.

I know if your prostate’s enlarged,
or generally on the fritz.
You might feel some light pressure,
so I’d appreciate if you didn’t twitch.

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Pediatricians Report Rise in Finger Burns as Hanukkah Starts

8 Dec

NEW YORK – Lighter Side of the Moon

As the Jewish festival of Hanukkah begins tonight, hospitals are already beginning to notice aa meteoric increase in the number of children with minor candle-related burns.

Bev Chalmers-Griffith, head of pediatrics at the Mount Sinai Hospital, and her staff struggled to deal with the influx of minor burn patients. “We’re just about to do the 6:30 shift change, and then this wave of crying grade-school kids with finger burns ran through the door,” she said.

Jessica Kornbaum was one of many of the children to check in at hospitals in the area with the same injury. “I just wanted to help light the menorah,” she said between bouts of intense weeping. “Matches are fun.”

Mike Kornblaum, Jessica’s father, was visibly distraught. “Yet another Kornblaum family holiday ruined,” he said. “This is our third Hanukkah in five years where we ended up in the hospital.”

But for Mr. Kornblum, this trend isn’t all bad news. “I just called my broker and bought stock in an electric menorah company,” he said.

According to industry surveys, Hanukkah is historically the second most dangerous Jewish holiday, after Purim.

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Espionage is a Dirty Business

3 Dec

(A spy in a suit is tailing a foreign diplomat through Washington. The spy follows the diplomat into one of the Smithsonian’s bathrooms.)

SPY (into earpiece): The subject has entered the bathroom. I’m in the adjacent stall.

(through earpiece): Roger. Keep us updated.

(Minutes pass. The diplomat shrugs off the garbled conversation emanating from the toilet next to him as someone talking to himself. In any country, asking people you’re pooping next to what they’re talking about is generally frowned upon.)

(through earpiece): How’s it going, Agent? Any movements?

SPY: Gross. Oh, wait, he’s about to move!

(through earpiece): Stay with him. Do exactly as he does.

SPY: Gotcha.

(The diplomat exits the stall, stops by the sink, and turns for the door without turning on the faucet.)

SPY: Woah, wait. We’ve got a problem.

(through earpiece): What is it? Did you lose him?

SPY: No, I got him.

(through earpiece): Then what’s the issue?

SPY (hesitate): He didn’t wash his hands?

(through earpiece): So? Just follow him! Who cares?!

SPY: I can’t just leave without washing. That’s nasty!

(through earpiece): Agent, if you lose your target, you can kiss your security clearance goodbye. Now go catch up!

SPY: I don’t even want to be near him! That guy has no hygiene! I don’t know how it works in Azerbaijan, but you’ve got to clean up after yourself here in the states!

(through earpiece): I don’t care! Go catch up before you blow this entire mission. And he’s from Turkmenistan! Do you even read the briefs we send you?

SPY: Fine, I’ll go, but don’t come crying to me if this is the worst flu season the history’s seen in years. I’m leaving the bathroom now.

(from off-camera) Excuse me sir?

(The spy turns, surprised, and finds the diplomat waiting in the corner.)

DIPLOMAT (with accent): Excuse me, sir? I’m not from this country. Do you know who I can tell to replace the soap?

 

 

 

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Thank You

22 Nov

Before you fall into your turkey coma, I just wanted to tell you that today is the first anniversary of The Lighter Side of the Moon and how thankful I am for your readership over the last year. On another note, if you’re having computer problems and can’t read this post, Wal-Mart doorbusters start in six hours.

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Things You, Unfortunately, Might Hear this Thanksgiving

18 Nov

“We’ve got to get to Wal-Mart by eight, tonight! It’s 65% off tramplings!”

“Had enough of football? There’s still plenty to do this Thanksgiving. Head to the nature center for an in-depth lecture on turkey vocalizations. Or, check out the library’s program on the history of stuffing.”

“Black Friday shopping, huh? Oh sure, go buy a new TV. It’s not like I’ve been elbow-deep in the business end of a turkey, preparing your feast for the last two hours!”

“Your Christmas decorations look lovely.”

“Guys, the tofurkey’s ready!”

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Cacciatore in the Rye

11 Nov

(In a dimly lit New York Italian restaurant/bar, the two crotchetiest characters of the Western canon have met for drinks and dinner. Holden Caulfield and Larry David find their seats at a table near the back. They are flanked on the left by a table of elegantly-dressed female flibbertigibbets, whose loud conversation echoes across the dining room.)

LARRY: Oy gevalt. Who comes to a classy place like this and shouts across the dining room? The rest of us can hear you, you know!

HOLDEN: Easy, Larry. Let the people act young. The world turns around them, and they’re locked in a state of perpetual aging. They try to break free and be young, but they can’t. They’re getting old. They’re not locked in glass.

LARRY: Speaking of old, this guy at the movie theater added a senior discount to my ticket price.

HOLDEN: So? You qualify and you’re old enough. It saves you money.

LARRY: Yeah, but he didn’t even have to ask how old he was. He could probably tell by looking, but it seemed a little rude to just assume. The kid should have a little decency and ask how old I am. Not even enough manners to ask my age.

(Holden rolls his eyes and the two immerse themselves in the menu.)

HOLDEN: I want the veal cacciatore. What are you having?

LARRY: Uh, such a big menu. I can’t decide. We’ll just share the veal.

HOLDEN: Fine, I’ll let you share with me.

LARRY: Are you getting wine? I’m not, but if you do, do us a favor and remember the price. You have to split the check, and nobody ever agrees, it’s just bad. So, veal cacciatore it is.

(A waiter has just overheard the conversation, and arrives to confirm the order.)

WAITER: Sharing the veal cacciatore, are we? It’s great, it really is.

LARRY: Yes, we’ll have that. And two waters.

HOLDEN: These restaurants are all so phony. The smoke, the jazz, the clinking of glasses. None of it means anything. That’s all it is, ambience.

LARRY: Speaking of phony, looks at that lady over there. She can barely move her forehead!

HOLDEN: Oh Larry,the things we’ll do to feel young.

(Fast-forwarding a little, the veal has arrived, split between two plates. Holden rests his head on a hand planted on the table and wistfully pushes the meat around his plate. Larry eats a morsel, but promptly spits it out.)

LARRY: Dear God, that’s appalling!

HOLDEN: What, Larry, is it bad?

LARRY: It’s past bad, it’s raw! It’s plain and simple raw! We could’ve caught food poisoning! One more bite and I’d have been in the hospital!

HOLDEN: No one ever cooks the veal right these days. There’s no care in the food. No love. Just some guy putting meat on a fire, collecting a paycheck, and leaving. It’s just veal. It’s not molded, and it’s not prepared. It just comes out pure. Unadulterated. Raw.

LARRY: Sure, real poetic. Meanwhile, I might be coming down with something! Feel my head, that’s a fever!

HOLDEN: I wish I could do something about it. All these people, they come for Italian food, but they have no idea. It’s just cacciatore in the rye. They’re all waiting to get sick with the bad veal, but I stop it every time. I send the food back to the kitchen. None of the customers ever get sick. I could do that all day, then I’d be happy.

(Lights fade. The soft, metallic bang of utensils, the contrived chit-chat, and the soft tunes of the band all crescendo as Holden drifts back into his daydreaming, and Larry grabs his abdomen and runs for the bathroom. Curtains close.)

END SCENE

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This Post is Not About the Election

6 Nov

This post is not about the election. Nor is it about Hurricane Sandy. This is about the thing most antithetical to the pertinent, future-molding events of our week.

Dog sweaters are by far my favorite part of fall. For the first time since spring, it’s chilly enough to put your pooch in a cozy woolen sweater. Halloween is past and with it the tacky tuxedoes and princess costumes that owners put their pets in. Now, you get to do your animal a favor and style it with some warm clothes. If your dog is relentlessly pulling at his sweater and tearing it to shreds, don’t worry! This is just your friend expressing his gratitude for his new threads. So, this autumn, escape the holidays, political brouhaha, and natural disasters with a little bit of doggy dress-up.

If only dogs had some adaptation to stay warm without a sweater, like, say, fur.

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