Short Stories To Tickle Your Funnybone (2 page)

It had been a long day and I had been
looking forward to a nice meal and a quiet evening
with my sweetie, but it wasn’t to be.

I opened the door and was met by Maggie.
She planted a big kiss on my cheek.
“Do you want to go now or after supper?
“Go where?”
“Walt, what day is this?”
I thought for a moment. “Uhhh,
Wednesday. So what?”
Then it dawned on me. “Oh crap! Grocery
store!”
She nodded, “I knew you could figure it
out eventually. Now, back to my original question,
before or after supper?”
I sighed, “Let’s get it over with.”
Wednesday
had
been
designated
as
‘grocery day’ in our household because the local
HyVee supermarket had proclaimed Wednesday to
be ‘Senior’s Day’ with all shoppers over fifty-five
receiving a five percent discount.
Since we routinely spent a c-note stocking
up, we saved a whopping five bucks.
Another reason we go on Senior’s Day is
that the music that is piped into the store is all 50’s
rock ‘n’ roll. This brilliant marketing ploy was a
blatant attempt to pander to the tastes of old farts
like me and it worked.
If I have to shop I would much rather be
serenaded by the likes of Elvis and Jerry Lee
Lewis than Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber.
I absolutely love the music of the 40’s and
50’s and as far as I’m concerned, the recording
industry had very little to offer after 1965.
I have a fantastic collection of 45’s and
LP’s dating back to my high school years of the
fifties.
I know every song by heart and much to
Maggie’s chagrin, I am constantly singing around
the house.
The fact that I am tone deaf only adds to
her frustration.
On more
than one
occasion she
has
pleaded, “Please, not this morning. Anything but
Little Richard!”
We
grabbed
our
shopping
cart
and
dutifully performed our pre-shopping ritual which
consisted of Maggie securing her purse into the
cart with one of those cursed straps that we can
never get undone and me wiping the handle of the
cart with a little sanitizer wipe just in case the
previous shopper had picked their nose and left a
booger for us.
A part of
my
wiping
ritual involves
intoning a mantra that I devised to remind me why
this is so important.

I boogied in the parking lot
I boogied in the mart
I boogied on my finger
And I wiped it on my cart

Having completed our pre-shopping ritual,
our first stop was the produce department.
Maggie and I have developed a shopping
strategy that seems to work for us.
I do the fruit and she does the vegetables.
The bananas were on board and I had
headed to the grapefruit
section when Gene
Vincent’s raspy voice filled the store.
I immediately felt compelled to sing along
and I began bouncing to the beat singing,
“Be bop
a lula, she’s my baby. Be bop a lula, I don’t mean
maybe.”
Then I noticed out of the corner of my eye
that a young mother had grabbed her child and
was hurrying him away from the old guy bouncing
up and down with a
grapefruit in each hand
mumbling strange words.
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

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