Short Stories To Tickle Your Funnybone

by Thornhill, Robert

  I have friends that brag about changing their oil or putting on a new set of brakes, but there is not a doubt in my mind that if I tried, I would be washing my windows with 30 weight.

  Consequently, I’m on a first name basis with the guy at Jiffy Lube.

  House cleaning. Not a lot of experience, but how hard could it be?

  I drug breakfast out as long as possible, but I finally had to face the inevitable.

  “Ok, boss. What’s the plan?”

  “Why don’t you start with the ceiling fans and give them a good dusting.”

  “Ceiling fans?” I protested. “They’re up in the air. How could they get dirty?”

  “Have you even looked at them lately?”

  I had to admit that I had not. I climbed on a chair and discovered that the blades had grown a fluffy coat of fur.

  “I see your point,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll dust and polish the furniture. I don’t want you touching our breakable stuff. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  I found our stepladder and a rag and climbed up to the first fan. I wiped the blade clean and gave it a shove. Blade #2 whacked me in the back of my head.

  “SON-Of-A ---” I muttered.

  Just then Maggie came into the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning the fans just like you asked,” I said, rubbing my head, “and trying to decapitate myself in the process.”

  “Why don’t you use the thing?”

  “What thing?”

  “Hang on.”

  She came back into the room with a big furry circular thing on a pole.

  “Here, this is what you’re supposed to use to clean the blades.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “You bought it when you bought the new fans.”

  “I did? Really? Where do we keep it?” “In the utility closet.”

  That explained a lot. The utility closet is where we keep things like the vacuum, the squeege mop and the broom. I don’t go there.

  The thing actually worked pretty well and when I was finished I reported to the crew boss.

  “Fans are done. What’s next?”

  “The toilets and the floor around the toilets. Scrub them all.”

  “Why do I get the toilets? You use them too.”

  Maggie grabbed me by the arm, drug me to the bathroom and lifted the lid.

  “See all of that yellow stuff? How do you suppose that it got there?”

  Nothing sucks more than that moment in a discussion when you know you are going to lose.

  “Okay, okay, you made your point.”

  I was up to my elbows in Lysol disinfectant when there was a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Maggie yelled.

  A moment later, Jerry and the Professor were standing in the hallway watching me wash the yellow spots off of the floor. Not one of my prouder moments.

  “We were on our way to Mel’s for lunch and we thought we’d invite you to accompany us,” the Professor said, “but I can see that you’re --ummm --otherwise occupied.”

  “Yes, cleaning day, unfortunately. Sorry, I’d love to come.”

  “One of those necessary evils,” he continued. “Were you aware that most of the dust particles in a home are from the 2 to 3 pounds of dead skin that we shed each year?”

  I had to admit that I didn’t know that.

  He forged on, “And did you know that the dead skin and dust mites in a mattress can double its weight in ten years?”

  I didn’t know that either.

  Jerry had been watching me scrub the offending stains.

  “Walt, do you know what a clitoris, an anniversary and a toilet all have in common?”

  Maggie poked her head around the corner. “I know the answer to that one --- men always miss them!”

  “Very funny,” I mumbled. “Don’t you guys have somewhere to be?”

  “Indeed we do,” the professor said. “We’ll eat a piece of Mel’s banana cream pie for you. You know, the one with the meringue this high.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Maggie stuck her head back in the door. “When you’re finished with the toilets, you can run the vacuum.

  “Swell,” I muttered.

  As I fired up the old Kirby, I remembered a one-liner that Jerry had used in his comedy club act.

  “Is it a good thing if a vacuum really sucks?”

  It brought a smile to my face and I really needed it.

  I had just finished the bedroom and had started on the closet. The shoes were lined up neatly on the floor, but I saw a big piece of lint under one shoe.

  I bumped the shoe with the Kirby to move it out of the way and suddenly, “THWACK!” The Kirby had sucked up the shoelace that had wound around the revolving head. The poor shoe was lodged against the head and the motor began to smoke.

  I quickly shut the thing off and surveyed the damage.

  The sweeper head looked like the first time that I had tried to cast an open faced reel --nothing but a tangled mess.

  I was just getting the thing undone when Maggie came in.

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  She looked over my shoulder. “How long have you been working on that?”

  I looked at my watch. “About fifteen minutes.”

  “How long would it have taken you to pick up the shoe?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. I hate it when she does that.

  After the mess was untangled and the smoke cleared, I finished the vacuuming and headed to the kitchen.

  “Let’s clean out the fridge and we’re done,” Maggie said.

  “Really?” At last there was light at the end of the tunnel.

  I pulled the wastebasket to the fridge and opened the door.

  I don’t spend a lot of time in the fridge. I get milk for my cereal and Arbor Mist from the shelves in the door. Everything else is pretty much a mystery to me.

  I did recognize the first thing that I pulled out. It was the remains of the burrito grande that I couldn’t finish at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago, so I had had them wrap it up for me. I was pretty sure that the green stuff on it now wasn’t verde sauce.

  Maggie told me to get rid of anything that had expired.

  With most of the stuff, I didn’t even have to look for a date. The penicillin growing on the surface was a good clue.

  I saw a carton of sour cream and wondered if they even bothered to put an expiration date on it --isn’t it already sour?

  By the time I had removed all of the offensive stuff, the shelves were nearly empty.

  I was tying the trash bag when Maggie came into the kitchen.

  “Are we finished?” I asked, trying to sound as weary as possible.

  “Just one more thing,” she said with a sly smile.

  “What could possibly be left to clean?” I asked, exasperated.

  “The shower. I was hoping we could work on that together.”

  Maybe it would be a good day after all. ****************************************

  An excerpt from Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders

  http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-andthe-book-club-murders_370.html

  Why I'm Not A Cross-Dresser I couldn't believe that the Captain had asked me to go undercover as a transvestite.

  I figured if I had to dress up as a dame, my best bet was to enlist the aid of Maggie, my sweetie.

  After supper, I saw my opening.

  “So what exciting things did you do today?” she asked.

  “I’ve got something to talk to you about and I don’t want you to interrupt me or ask any questions until I’m completely finished, OK?”

  Her look of bewilderment turned to astonishment and finally to amusement as I laid the whole story on the table.

  I could tell she was doing her best to keep from laughing.

  “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

  “Well, yea!”

/>   Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.

  “I’ve always wanted a girlfriend I could shop with and share make-up secrets. This is going to be fun.”

  Yeah, a real hoot!

  For reasons I’ll never understand, Maggie attacked her role with a vengeance. She composed a list of all the accoutrements we would need for my transformation and then started checking off items she had on hand.

  Apparently, women are loath to throw away make-up, even if it’s stuff they haven’t used for ages and Maggie produced a plastic tub full of jars and tubes that she pronounced as perfect.

  Evidently the same rules apply with selected articles of clothing. Maggie is a svelte 120 pounds now, but sometime in the distant past, she must have been a few pounds heavier. A box from the spare room closet labeled ‘save’ contained frilly relics from her heftier days.

  After comparing items on hand with her inventory list, Maggie was satisfied that the only articles we were lacking were a dress, shoes and a wig.

  Tomorrow, we would shop.

  Just to be sure everything was right, Maggie insisted on a trial fitting of the undergarments and proceeded to pull a pair of lacey panties, a bra and pantyhose from her stash.

  “OK, Buster, strip.”

  On more than one occasion, those very words from Maggie were music to my ears.

  Not this time.

  I’m definitely not a prude, especially when it comes to Maggie, but I’m more accustomed to us getting nekkid together.

  “I’ll just do this in here,” I said as I grabbed the panties and bra and headed for the bathroom.

  As I slipped off my BVD’s and picked up the panties, I encountered my first dilemma.

  Is there a front and a back to these things? How can you tell without a fly? Then I saw the little tag and assumed that was the backside.

  So far, so good.

  Next came the bra.

  My previous experience with this garment had focused on removal rather than installation and I nearly dislocated my shoulders trying to hook the damn thing behind my back.

  I concluded that one had to be either a contortionist or double-jointed to master this, and I, being neither of those, gave up and retreated to the bedroom.

  I explained my problem to Maggie and she gave me a quick lesson on ‘hook in front and rotate to the back’. A valuable lesson.

  Since my chest wasn’t exactly designed to fill the size ‘C’ cups, Maggie augmented my bosom with wadded up pantyhose.

  While in the pantyhose pile, she selected a dark pair she described as ‘smoke’.

  “Try these on. I think they’re dark enough you won’t have to shave your legs.”

  “You damn right I won’t. That’s where I draw the line. I’ll just tell people I’m from Sweden.”

  She handed me the pantyhose and I looked at the tiny ball of material.

  “That’s not big enough for one leg. How am I going to get two, plus my butt in there?”

  “Just put them on. Trust me. They expand.”

  So I sat on the bed and started pulling them up one leg at a time and sure enough, they did expand.

  But as I stood, I was beginning to get signals from Mr. Winkie and the boys.

  “Kind of crowded in here,” I complained.

  “Yea,” she quipped. “Pantyhose are a lot like cheap hotels --no ballroom.”

  She was having way too much fun with this.

  Now that I was all decked out in my bra and pantyhose, Maggie stepped back to take a look at her handiwork.

  “Not bad,” she declared. “In fact, I think I’m getting a little turned on.”

  The evening wasn’t a total loss after all.

  Maggie had no appointments the next morning, so we headed to the Salvation Army Thrift Store to complete my outfit.

  I’ve never been much of a shopper. Guys don’t have to be. I have two kinds of pants, dress and casual. If I need a pair, I go to the store, grab my size off the rack and check out. No need to try it on. It’s exactly like the one I’m replacing.

  But I’ve never bought a dress.

  As we rummaged through the racks, Maggie would pull one out and hold it up in front of me. I found myself saying stuff like, “No, that’s just not right for me” or “I think we can do better.”

  What was happening to me?

  I actually tried one on and asked Maggie if it made my butt look big.

  Where did that come from?

  Finally, I found one that felt just right. It was the perfect shade of brown to bring out the color in my eyes and while not slutty, was just tight enough to accent my figure.

  My God, what did I just say?

  Our next stop was the wig rack.

  There was a huge selection of both colors and lengths.

  I had always heard that blondes have more fun, so I tried on a saucy blonde pageboy with bangs.

  I looked like Phyllis Diller.

  I told Maggie I needed something shoulder length, fuller, with more body.

  What was happening to me?

  I finally settled on a dark auburn with flirty bangs that matched my dress perfectly.

  Shoes were a different story.

  I wear a size nine and a half which is average for a guy. By comparison, Ox wears a size twelve.

  But finding a woman’s shoe in a low heel that would fit a guy proved to be a challenge. We had to hit three thrift stores before we found something I could walk in.

  ‘Walk in’ might be too generous. ‘Wobble in’ would be more accurate.

  My new footwear sported two-inch heels, nothing remarkable for the ladies, but a definite challenge for me.

  Maggie and I love to dance and we watch ‘Dancing With The Stars’ on TV. I had always marveled at how the lady professionals could execute all those fast and intricate steps wearing four-inch spike heels. I have even greater respect for them now.

  Walking on my ankles in my two-inch heels was reminiscent of my first experience on ice skates. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Our shopping concluded, I called Ox, told him to meet at Maggie’s apartment with the surveillance equipment and we headed home.

  After lunch, Maggie suggested we start getting my make-up on. She said that we might run into some issues. I wondered what she meant by that.

  We sat at her kitchen table and she spread her whole array of jars and tubes and brushes.

  “When did you shave last?

  “This morning.”

  “Go do it again. I can only cover up just so much.”

  I shaved and when I returned she had made her selections.

  “OK, foundation goes on first.” And she started smearing this light-brown pasty cream all over my face.

  “Now the eyebrows.” And she started drawing on my forehead with some kind of grease pencil.

  “Hold really still or I’ll poke your eye out.” and she outlined my eyelids with a little pencil thing.

  “Now don’t blink.” And she came at me with some kind of pliers that she clamped on my eyelashes.

  “Now for the lip-liner and lipstick.” She coated my mouth with ‘cinnamon rose’.

  It occurred to me that it was much more fun getting the lipstick off her mouth.

  “Now for a little blush to give you some color and a pat of powder so you don’t shine.”

  Oh good. I really didn’t want to shine.

  She stood back to admire her handiwork.

  “I’m afraid that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

  Just what every gal wants to hear.

  I looked in the mirror and ‘YIKES’ I looked like a cross between Ronald McDonald, Howdy Doody and Raggedy Ann.

  It’ll be better with your wig on,” she said. I certainly hoped so.

  Just then, a knock on the door.

  Maggie opened the door and Ox strode in with an armful of electronics.

  He gave Maggie a hug, took a look at me, and to his credit, pretended that nothing was different.

  I noticed though, th
at he quickly turned away and headed for the kitchen with his box. As he went through the door, I know I heard him snicker. I know he did.

  He returned, composed, and with an air of professionalism said, “I see you’re ready for our evening out, Mrs. Williams.”

  Maggie had witnessed the exchange and finally could hold it no longer. She burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter that sent Ox over the edge and the two of them collapsed on the couch.

  As I watched their frivolity at my expense, my first reaction was hurt. Then I felt a wave of resentment. But as I was about to lash out in protest, I saw myself in the mirror and I caved in too.

  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

  **********************************

  An excerpt from Lady Justice and the Lost Tapes

  http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-andthe-lost-tapes_307.html

  A Fine Dining Experience After my harrowing experience with Li’l D and the hound from hell, I was exhausted.

  Three days undercover and a drug bust hadn’t left much time for my sweetie. We had talked on the phone, but we needed an evening together. We decided we would go out for a nice dinner and see what developed from there.

  I picked Maggie up at her apartment, and as we pulled away, I asked if she had any preference in eating establishments, secretly hoping for Mel’s. No such luck.

  Maggie had heard of a new restaurant that had just opened in the old garment district downtown. That area had once been all factories, but as more and more labor was outsourced to our friends in China, the factories had closed and sat empty for years. Then came the rebirth of downtown. Old factory buildings were converted to luxury apartments and condos that were gobbled up by the yuppie elite. Apparently this new restaurant, Chez Francois, was opened to cater to the tastes of the new downtown gentry.

  When we drove up, I knew we were in trouble right away. A large sign on the curb said ‘Valet Parking Only’. I hate valet parking. I hate turning my keys over to a pimply-faced kid with a stud in his lip. I hate waiting in line while they try to find where they hid my car. I hate tipping some jerk for something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, but I had no choice.

  We were escorted inside, and as I looked around, my suspicions were confirmed. I was in trouble. The building had once been one of the big, fancy hotels of the era, but with the decline of the district, it closed. During the remodel, the interior had been restored to its former grandeur with high ceilings and ornate woodwork. Tables were set with fine linen cloths and sparkling crystal, and from somewhere the strings of a Bach fugue or some such thing wafted through the dining area.