“Eating companion, do you not enjoy the manfingers?” his long time friend, Zignon asked.
Blignon burped politely from his armpit, “No, the Ancestors could not have been more mistaken about this meal, surely these are not manfingers!”
Zignon’s antennae curled in alarm, “But I selected them myself from the bio support. They were the plumpest in the tank!” He lowered his voice and whispered to his friend, “Ix-nay on the Ancestors-ay. You never know which generation-jay is listening…”
Blignon sucked in his eye, his face now flat and expressionless, and wrapped his mottled webbed feet around his companion’s ankles to assure him all was well.
“Old friend, this is nothing to fear. You will always be an honored eating companion. Do you remember the time we ate a whole, what was that called, a whole elphalent? No, eletank.”
“Oh, yes, eletanks. Tusks, grey hide, very tough as I recall. Delicious ears.”
They laughed. “Hraack, hraack, hraaaaackarakarak.”
“Blignon, beloved and honored comrade, who am I to report such a trifling issue as a food choice to the authorities?”
Zignon’s antennae relaxed.
“No, there must be an explanation for the difference in this delicacy. Do you remember when manrump was tough but manfinger tender?”
Blignon buzzed thoughtfully. “Could it be their food supply? Or our DNA alterations?”
Zignon frizzled his wiggit. “I am unable to answer that question. But observe on this history port, “he paused, pulling a screened device from his clothes, “that humans in the later period accumulated more energy reserves in their manrumps. If we zoom to their pre-computer age, their posteriors have a flat, almost defined appearance.”
The two friends examined portphotos of Oregon lumberjacks from the 1800’s zooming forward in time to human workers bent over keyboards.
Blignon’s armpit thripped excitedly. “Yes, yes, see the difference! These early humans do not fill out their posterior clothing. They do not manifest large manrumps. Oddly different from the inhabitants we subdued. Do you think they were banished to the wilds of conical forms because of this or are they typical of humans in that era?”
“It’s likely they were banished – anyone in their culture exhibiting physical discrepancies was shunned. If they’d had our technology, they might have shuttled them to another orb in their planetary system. Or heaven forbid, one of ours!”
“Hraack, hraack, hraackarakarakara.”
Their wiggits blithered simultaneously, backs rippling in disgust and good humor.
“Oh, ho, ho! What a dilemma! And no newly discovered landspaces to send them off to! They must have wished for a new Australiup to colonize with their wicked.”
The robowait removed their unfinished food when they signaled their desire to choose from the menu again.
“Should we try human again? Manrump might be a better choice. This batch appears well fattened. There’s very little muscle. Ah, yes, no wonder! Gleaned from a colony of writers.”
“Your choice, beloved companion, your choice.”
“Manrump it is then!”
The robowait returned with skewers of dripping meat. “Ooooh, how wonderful! This batch oozes concentrated energy reserves. We will have to deny ourselves the sweetness at the conclusion of our meal.”
“I rarely eat the sweetness,” Zignon confided. “It makes my hawoo erupt.”
Blignon cast a discrete look at Zignon’s nether region. “I love the sweetness. Can’t resist it.”
“Here’s to a fine evening!” they agreed, clinking orbs of red intoxicant together before spearing their food.
— Cynthia Washington
Cynthia has published in several magazines and newspapers, finally using that liberal arts education from Rutgers University. Her favorite writing pastime is composing limericks and Haiku and won first place in 2011 for Bad Christmas Poetry in the Tacoma News Tribune.
I live in a different time zone than everybody else — right now it is 8:49 a.m., Eastern time, 5:49 on the West Coast and 12:27 on Mars — so I was a little late in finding out that my granddaughter Chloe, who is 3, recently got a watch.
I have had one watch in my life. It was given to me as a college graduation gift by my parents, who liked to remind me that I was born more than three weeks past my due date and hadn’t been on time for anything since. The watch was one of those digital numbers that didn’t have two hands, which required me to use two hands to tell the time. It was a pain in the wrist.
Not long after my wife, Sue, and I were married, our apartment was burglarized. Her watch was stolen. Mine was left behind. It wasn’t even good enough for thieves.
At the time (4:32 p.m.), I resolved never to wear a watch again. And I haven’t. I am in a deadline business, but I don’t care what time it is. If I need to know, I’ll look at the clock on the wall. If I don’t see a wall, I know I’m outside and that it’s time (midnight) to come in.
Now Chloe, who was born a week early, has a watch. It was given to her by her parents, though not as a college graduation gift because even kids these days don’t grow up that fast.
At least it’s not digital. It has a purple band with pink and white flowers and a face with two hands, which means Chloe doesn’t need two hands to tell the time.
What she does need is somebody to teach her how.
That, against all odds, is where I come in.
Whenever Chloe visits, she wants me to read her favorite literary masterpiece, “Tick and Tock’s Clock Book.” Subtitled “Tell the Time With the Tiger Twins!,” it’s the compelling if somewhat repetitive tale of two feline brothers who are baffled by time, which makes them no better than me. Of course, I never tell that to Chloe. Instead, I begin reading:
“Brrringg! The alarm clock rang so loudly it made Tick and Tock jump out of bed.
“ ‘What time is it?!’ said Tock.
“Tick went to look at the clock.
“ ‘Um … the big hand … Not sure,’ he said. What time did the clock say?”
“What time did the clock say, Poppie?” Chloe asked recently during a particularly dramatic reading.
“It didn’t say anything,” I replied. “Clocks can’t talk.”
Chloe giggled and said, “Silly Poppie!”
According to the drawing on the page, it was 8 a.m., even though it was 3:15 p.m. in my house, so I helped Chloe move the plastic hands — the big one to the 12, the little one to the 8 — on the clock in the upper right corner of the book.
The rest of the story follows the messy Tiger Twins through their day, during which they can’t figure out what time they are supposed to leave for school (8:30), finish their painting project (10:15), have lunch (12:30), go home (3:30) and have dinner (4:45).
But the best is saved for last. That’s when Tick and Tock’s mother, who has just cleaned up one of their many messes, announces, “There, it’s all tidy now. Look, it’s 8 o’clock, time for bed.”
But the clock on the wall says otherwise.
“Tick and Tock looked at the clock and said, ‘No, it’s not! It’s 7 o’clock. We have another hour to play, hooray!’ ”
In one of the greatest endings in all of literature, the Tiger Twins’ mother can’t tell the time.
“Maybe,” I said to Chloe as I closed the book, “Tick and Tock should buy her a watch.”
— Jerry Zezima
Jerry Zezima, who served on the faculty at the 2010 EBWW, writes a humor column for the Stamford Advocate that is nationally syndicated through the Tribune News Service and regularly appears in the Huffington Post. He’s written three books, Grandfather Knows Best, Leave it to Boomer and The Empty Nest Chronicles. He has won six humor-writing awards from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists and was named EBWW’s Humor Writer of the Month twice. He is the past president of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
If I could find that darn genie with that magic lantern, I’d ask the genie to make Erma my neighbor. For years, I’d read her columns, bought her books, watched her on the Phil Donahue Show and just loved her from afar. She would have been a perfect neighbor for me.
I envisioned her popping over early in the morning, her hair in rollers, wearing a fuzzy robe and asking to borrow a dozen eggs. I looked exactly the same in my 1960 kitchen. Her kids were starving, and they needed a protein-packed breakfast. I like to think she shopped like I did. I had the word EGGS on my grocery list and came home with grated cheese instead. I sent her home with a box of waffles to feed the little ones. That’s what good neighbors do.
Our style of parenting would also be a conversation over coffee after the little ones were off to school.
“Oh Erma, I don’t know what to do with my Tommy. He is so lazy with his homework.”
“Anne, he’s probably not getting enough sugar. Give him a Twinkie for dinner.”
“That is genius! You should write a parenting column, Erma.”
I also counseled her with her troubles.
“Anne, Andy and Matt are constantly refusing to share toys with Betsy. What am I going to do?”
“Well Erma, what I found best is to put masking tape on the boys’ hands, like mittens. Then, Betsy has a chance to play with the toys she likes. Just don’t forget to take it off, like I did.”
And when she got sick, I’d make her family meals and sit with her. She wouldn’t even have to speak. I’d just be there for her. We’d reminisce and laugh and cry. Then we’d do it again. I’d hug her really tight and tell her she was my best neighbor ever.
Years later, I’d fly to Dayton to be part of her writers’ conference. I’d make new friends, learn new ideas, and be so proud to be part of my best neighbor’s legacy.
I really miss her.
— Anne Bardsley
Anne Bardsley lives in St Petersburg, Florida, with her “wrinkle maker” of a husband and two spoiled cockatoos. She’s still recovering from raising five children. She is so happy she didn’t strangle them as teenagers as they’ve given her beautiful grandchildren. She is the author of How I Earned My Wrinkles: Musings on Marriage, Motherhood and Menopause. Her latest book, Angel Bumps, will be published by Mill House Publishing this spring. She blogs at www.annebardsley.com.
A couple of years ago I started a new tradition. It’s called the Black Friday Flyer Weigh-In. I find it funny — in that “Are you kidding me?” way and not so much in a ha-ha way — that we get not one, but two newspapers that we’re not even subscribed to on Thanksgiving Day, both stuffed with advertisements from some of the most, and least, interesting places. I became curious over the amount of paper wasted, trees ripped out of the ground, and ink splayed over the surface of this printed wasteland. I’m still on paper, so don’t expect actual statistics here.
Five pounds. That’s how much our friendly neighborhood mass marketing mess weighed this year. Five pounds of sales on candy, clothing, computers, clocks, candles, clogs and other assorted and sundry items… and that’s just starting on the letter C. It is wasted on Spouse and me. We aren’t big on wading through crowds to find the perfect gift for anyone, not even each other. We do exchange small gifts, but now that the Love Couple has decided it would be fun to live a flight away, and Second Born’s college is a hop, skip and a nine-hour-drive, we tend to invest in travel and hope they appreciate our presence over presents.
When the kids were little, it was great fun to have them open a bunch of little gifts and then one big-ticket item, but now that the girls are more aware of how much things cost, their requests are simpler these days. They are, however, willing to accept cash in the form of the green stuff or gift cards. They’re good like that.
One good thing about sales flyers is that they provide you with plenty of ideas for gifts if you happen to have a big family, or one persnickety relative whose name you got in this year’s Secret Santa drawing…. like maybe an air popped popcorn maker or binoculars. Those two things alone cover a broad spectrum of gift giving. Or you can spring for one of those tracking thingies that tells you how far you walk and how well you sleep, and yells at you for turning the television up too loud or leaving your dish in the sink. Wouldn’t every college student love that? It’s like having Mom right there with you. Fine, maybe not.
We may not get much use from the flyer pile, but Spouse can’t resist picking up “just one more” inflatable animal or decoration for the front yard. I think he’s trying to signal Santa with lights and waving bears. We have more decorations now than we did before Second Born left for college four years ago. I’ll bet those folks that drive around town looking for decorations a couple of weeks before Christmas are saying, “Hey, let’s go by that house where the kids grew up and left, and see if they added another penguin this year.” I will not be showing Spouse the minion on the Lowe’s flyer.
Even if you don’t go crazy with gifts for the holiday, all these advertisements have to provide you with ideas for any special occasion, or just because you want it. There are good deals on headphones, waffle makers, earrings and egg timers. You can even pick up a Porsche for a steal… not literally, please.
There is one more purpose for this mound of marketing. It’s a great incentive for losing weight. I dropped five pounds just by walking to the recycling bin.
— Janine Talbot
Janine Talbot, a recent award winner in the humor writing category of the 2016 Annual Column Contest of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, writes a weekly humor column for the Journal Tribune in southern Maine. An empty nester since her two daughters had the nerve to believe it when they were told to follow their dreams, Janine lives with her spouse of 30+ years, who often forgets that his actions are fodder for her column, and two and a half cats. She blogs at www.momofmanywords.com.
Now, though, online shopping is coming to a grocery near me. Will I use it? I don’t know. There are passwords and IDs involved. I’ve pooh-poohed most modern day techno-advancements — dial telephones, electric typewriters, computers, cell phones, programmable appliances, smart phones…. I don’t take kindly to change, and I’m a real spaz with my phone.
Ordering groceries online is a new wrinkle in the old fabric of catalog and Amazon ordering: you make out an order, select a pick-up time, someone shops for you, you drive to the store at the designated time, your purchases are loaded into your car. But, you still have to unload at home, lug everything inside and put it away.
Instead of scribbling your needs on the back of an old envelope the way your mother did, you select them from what looks like a child’s picture-book page, and if you want something unusual, you type it in — black olives stuffed with crunchy peanut butter, for instance.
Many things I buy are spur o’moment, not really a good idea, I know. Will the assigned shoppers know I have a hankering for a bag of peanut M&M’s? Or a pomegranate? Or how about black rice? No, they will not. With this new scheme I’ll have to “pre-know” that I might want a pomegranate and put it on my list.
Leslie and her friend Kenna mentioned seeing people do their weekly shopping while consulting a list on their smart phones. They don’t, they said, and neither do I. I carry a printed list I devised, that groups items according to the way the store is organized: deli, produce, meat, dairy, and so on.
This new enterprise is almost ready to go locally, and now a large section of the store has been re-dedicated. They’ve reorganized merchandise, and shoved shelves closer. The aisles are way too narrow. I experienced a traffic jam in the pasta and other “foreign foods” lane last week. It took about four minutes to clear — four minutes longer than I wanted to spend in a place where I hate to go.
— Judy Clarke
Judy Clarke is a wife, mother of two daughters, grandmother to two grown grandchildren, reader, writer and blogger in southwest Virginia. Her two non-fiction books, Mother Tough Wrote the Book and That’s all she wrote, can be found on her friends’ and family’s shelves, and she’s working on a novel, But why? (That’s the title of the novel, not a question to self). She placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2016 writing competition, in the category of online, blog, multimedia under 100,000 unique visitors.
Reindeer can be real a-holes. How else do you explain, “All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games?”
Santa, you damn opportunist. Huh, jolly guy, why did it take “one foggy Christmas Eve” for you to say “Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” Well, well we’re waiting…
Rudolph’s fellow reindeer were ‘red nose-ists.’ And, the whole sordid incident should be known as the ‘Red Nose Scare.’
Reindeer need to get a grip, you’re reindeer for goodness sake. Face it, Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, and Donner and Blitzen, you’re one poor choice of flight path from being stew at Sarah Palin’s house.
And, we’re all to blame. How hard would it have been for any of us to have picked up the phone and made this call: “PETA, I want to report a fat guy in a red suit abusing a bunch of reindeer.”
— Paul Lander
Paul Lander is not sure which he is proudest of — winning the Nobel Peace Prize or sending Sudanese peace activist, Fatima Ahmed Ibrahim, to accept it on his behalf, bringing to light the plight of central Africa’s indigenous people. In his non-daydreaming hours, Paul has worked as a writer and/or producer for shows on ABC, NBC, Showtime, The Disney Channel, ABC Family, VH1, LOGO and Lifetime. In addition, he’s written stand-up material that’s been performed on “Leno,” “Letterman,” “Conan” and “Last Comic Standing.” His humor pieces have appeared in Huff Post Comedy, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, Santa Fe Writers Project Journal, Humor Times, The Higgs Weldon and Hobo Pancake. In 2015, he placed second in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ annual column contest in the online/blog/multimedia category for his pieces in Humor Times and was named the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop’s “Humor Writer of the Month.”
Today is #GivingTuesday, and my friend Tim Bete challenged me to donate $1 for every word of the last thing I’ve written to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. The last thing I wrote was a Facebook message to a friend, in which I used the words “Absolutely Fabulous” and “Sweetie darling” enough times to match Tim’s donation challenge.
Seriously, though, I will always owe a huge debt of gratitude to former conference director Tim Bete, who is the reason I was first able to attend a sold-out Erma many years ago. The story of how I ended up there is one of those destiny stories. It’s long but it’ll give you an idea of how influential and life changing attending EBWW can be.
In 2004, I had been writing a little humor piece and sending it to family and friends, while I was also writing feature pieces for some small religious magazines. I wouldn’t have considered myself a writer, let alone a humor writer. In February or March of that year, my uncle and aunt were visiting, and completely out of the blue, my uncle said, “Your writing reminds me of Erma Bombeck.” I’d read Erma’s column when I was a kid but hadn’t thought about her for years, so later, just for kicks, I googled her name.
The first thing that came up was the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. I read the description, looked at the list of speakers, and decided I needed to be there. I contacted EBWW only to find out it was already sold out. I got on the wait list and waited.
One magazine decided they wanted me to go to Florida to cover baseball’s spring training; I’m not a sports writer or even a sports fan, but it would have been a new adventure. Only problem? It was the same week as the Erma conference. I still hadn’t heard if a spot had opened up, so just before I booked a plane ticket to Florida, I decided to see how far I’d made it on the conference wait list. I had a gut feeling that I had to be at the conference.
Rather than send an email, I called the conference contact number and got then director Tim Bete on the phone. He told me I was maybe #100 on the wait list. Oh well, I told him, it was worth checking. But Tim kept me on the phone talking about my writing, asking who I wrote for and what else I did, and after about a half hour of us chatting he told me he had a place for me at the conference if I wanted it. Did I want it??? I put together my pennies, and went.
It completely changed my life.
To be honest, I’ve never been super adventurous. But I got in the car and drove to Ohio from Western New York. I talked to strangers at the conference. I soaked up the knowledge from capable speakers. I went home with the assurance that I could write, and a support system of like-minded creatives to fall back on when I doubted myself.
After that conference, Tim started a Google group for humor writers who had a faith background. A few strangers joined the small group, and we became fast, close and devoted friends — online.
The years passed. I went to a few more Ermas, had similar amazing experiences, even had a chance one year to act as a first-round judge for the writing contest. But than I had to stop attending for financial reasons. I always felt a twinge of regret when I saw registration open.
Two years ago, a friend I’ve known only from that original online humor group Tim started 12 years ago asked me to come to a small conference in Pennsylvania and teach a session on writing humor.
His name was Jim, and while our group had supported each other over the decade through personal and creative ups and downs, I’d never actually met him in person. I also knew zero people who were going to be at the conference in Pennsylvania, but I went anyway. It was an amazing experience. I hadn’t been able to afford to go to Erma for years, but at this tiny conference I found a bit of the camaraderie I’d been craving since my last trip to Ohio years earlier.
One afternoon at lunch, I was talking to a group of women I’d only just met and somehow we got on the topic of humor conferences. “You HAVE to go to the Erma conference,” I said, and in just a few minutes, we four — those three close friends and me, the stranger — had agreed to go to Erma 2016.
We kept in touch almost daily over the next six months as we planned, plotted and prepared. Of course, a close friendship grew, and at Erma we not only solidified our new bond, the net was cast for these three amazing women to spread the Erma joy.
So the Erma influence circles round again.
That’s a long story, and doesn’t even begin to speak to the hundreds of things that have happened to me that came about because of someone I met at Erma — chances I took, adventures I’ve had, friendships that have changed the direction of my creative life for the better. The net this conference casts is vast and wide, and can’t be measured in how many book deals are made or paid writing jobs secured. It’s measured in people and relationships, and the way each creative life is inspired by another.
I often wonder what would have happened if Tim hadn’t found a place for me at Erma in 2004. Most likely, I would have thrown in the creative towel and gone to work at a “real job.” I didn’t consider myself a writer back then. I was a dabbler who typed words and dreamed dreams. Erma gave me the confidence and power to become a Real Writer.
If anyone ever questions whether they should go to Erma — or go again and again and again — I hope my story inspires them. It’s worth every penny and every effort you have to make to get there.
— Joanne Brokaw
Humor columnist and award-winning freelance writer Joanne Brokaw spends her days dreaming of things she’d like to do but probably never will — like swimming with dolphins, cleaning the attic and someday overcoming the trauma of elementary school picture day. She’s spent the majority of her professional writing career covering entertainment, freelancing and penning columns for dozens of newspapers, magazines and websites in the U.S. and Canada. She’s received three Evangelical Press Association awards and an Excellence in Writing Award from the Ozarks Christian News. A collection of her columns, What The Dog Said, was published in 2013.
“The workshop sells out in a matter of hours largely because of a steadfast group of passionate writers who have become our social media champions,” said Teri Rizvi, the workshop’s founder. “In the digital age, they have carried the banner of the workshop far and wide. They believe in our mission of inspiring and encouraging writers — and are a huge reason behind our success in drawing writers from all parts of the country and beyond.”
That’s why Rizvi is reaching out to writers in the “Erma tribe” for help in launching the workshop’s first online fundraising drive on Nov. 29 on #GivingTuesday. It’s a global day of giving that harnesses the collective power of individuals, communities and organizations to make a difference in the lives of others and the causes they support.
“Registration fees cover only half the cost of operating the workshop,” Rizvi said. “To keep the workshop affordable for writers, we’re raising money for the endowment fund. The size of the gift doesn’t matter. We’d love to see broad support from those who love the workshop and believe in its future.”
You can make an online donation here.
The workshop has set an ambitious goal of raising $20,000 in contributions by the end of the year to take full advantage of a generous $20,000 matching gift from an anonymous donor. The #GivingTuesday social media campaign is part of that push. Between now and Dec. 31, all donations to the workshop will be matched dollar for dollar, up to $20,000.
1)Download blank UNselfie sign. Share how you are giving back or why you give on the UNselfie sign.
2) Say “cheese!” Hold up the #UNSelfie sign and take your selfless selfie.
3) Share your #UNselfie on social media and encourage your friends to give.
5) We plan to compile a Facebook album, so please send your #UNselfie to email@example.com.
To make an online gift, click here. Checks can be mailed to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, University of Dayton, 300 College Park, Dayton, OH 45469-7054. If you or your spouse works for a matching gift company, the impact of your gift may be doubled or tripled. Please check here or your human resources office for details.
“We’re continually amazed and inspired by the generosity of all involved in the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop,” Rizvi said. “It’s a community of talented, supportive writers who encourage and empower each other. It’s a workshop that keeps on giving, and we’re grateful to all — keynoters, faculty, attendees and friends of the workshop — for their support.”