Humor Me! Short Amusing Takes on George Clooney, Fruit Fly Sex, the NSA, Halle Berry, Compassionate Rats and other Wacky Topics

By Rosie Sorenson

What would you get if you crossed Jon Stewart and Erma Bombeck? Humor Me! It is a compilation of reader favorites from Rosie Sorenson's humor column, including political observations such as Dear Mr. NSA and TSA Reject; bemused domestic rants such as iHusband and I Do Not Have Closet Phobia' and, thirty-one other whimsical offerings, Blowing Bubbles In North Korea and This Little Piggy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosie Sorenson
• Release date: Jun 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301845217

Rosie Sorenson

Rosie has been a humor columnist for the Foolish Time since 2006. She won Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition for 2007. Rosie’s work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Jose Mercury News, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, the Progressive Populist and others. Rosie’s essays have been broadcast on KQED-FM, the popular San Francisco NPR affiliate, in its Perspectives series. In 2006, she won the Listener Favorite Award.

Book preview

More books by Rosie Sorenson

They Had Me at Meow:

Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow

.

Winner of the Muse Medallion Award

from the Cat Writers' Association

Winner of the Best Pets Book Award

from the Bay Area

Independent Publishers Association

.

www.theyhadmeatmeow.com

.

To read more of Rosie's humor, please visit:

www.foolishtimes.net

About the Author

Rosie Sorenson's work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Jose Mercury News, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Reviews, the Progressive Populist, and others. In addition, she won Honorable Mention in the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition for 2007, and is a guest blogger for the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition website (www.humorwriters.org)

Rosie is also a monthly humor columnist for the Foolish Times (www.foolishtimes.net)

Rosie's essays have been broadcast on KQED-FM, the popular San Francisco NPR affiliate, in its Perspectives series. In 2006 she won its Listener Favorite Award.

Introduction

Humor Me is a collection of the funniest, most quirky of my humor columns from the Foolish Times.

These columns average about 700 words in length and are ideal for reading while you're waiting to have a root canal, or sitting in traffic court. Or after your water has broken, but before your delivery.

Any time you need a break from the serious issues of the day, just fire up your favorite e-reader and (hopefully) smile, or better yet, guffaw! Shooting peas through your nose is optional.

I'd like to thank D. Mike Thomas, my first editor at the Foolish Times, for offering me the column gig in 2006. I also want to thank Susan Hart, the current editor, for allowing me to continue!

If you enjoy the book, I'd appreciate it if you could take the time to post a review on Amazon and/or any of the other fine book review sites available.

If you don't like it, well, then, uh, never mind and have a great day!

Dear Mr. NSA

Dear Mr. NSA,

I want to thank you for eavesdropping on me. No, really. I've long said that what we all need is a Good Listening To! And, there you are! Hour after tedious hour tuning into my conversations. For just a few billion dollars, I now know that someone cares enough to listen, really listen to me. And, I can assure you, that is not an easy commodity to come by, especially from men. But, then, you already know that, don't you, Mr. Big-Ears, from hearing all those endless chats with my girlfriends.

Ooh—I felt a frisson of love ripple through me just then. Or maybe it was something I ate . . .

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. In gratitude for all your attention and effort, I'd like to give something back, as we Americans are so fond of saying. I want to save you time and aggravation by explaining a few things to you.

First, when you overhear me saying to a friend, I've got to take my cat to the vet, I mean just that: I have got to take my cat to the vet. This is not some code phrase for Please send another suitcase for dirty bomb. Samsonite unacceptable. Cat. Vet. Got it?

And, if I should ever happen to utter late at night a disparaging comment such as Death to Corporatists, well, that's just a figure of speech and not an expression of intent. Why, I don't even know how to load my second-amendment-protected handgun. I do know how important it is to conserve the energies of the Secret Service, so please—it's not necessary to send them to my home. The paperwork alone would distract them for weeks.

And, another thing—if you should happen to hear my pal, Dr. Bobby and me talk about whips and chains, please take a moment, breathe deeply. You'll soon discover that what we're talking about is The Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco (known for its Anything-Goes Celebration of Sexuality), not Guantanamo.

Last, but not least, if you ever overhear me teasing my friend, Carolyn, about her pot farm, what I really mean to say is . . .well, OK, I really do mean her pot farm, but since when has a terrorist ever succeeded while under the influence, eh?

By now, My Dear NSA Friend, you must know that listening is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Let me repeat that—slowly and with feeling this time: Listening is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

If I may be so bold as to suggest that if you're ever in my neighborhood (and you DO know where I live, don't you, Big Fella), please give me a holler, OK? I might even get Carolyn to bake you some brownies.

Yours in gratitude,

Simon, Garfunkel, and Friend

On a sunny Thursday at 1:35 p.m., I had a root canal. The two words, root and canal, may be harmless nouns, but for an hour-and-a-half I was attacked by ruthless verbs—drugged, drilled, hammered, tugged, sucked, banged, and x-rayed by a 35-year-old balding linebacker of an endodontist named Christian. And that was not all.

After I had been prepped in the dental chair by his assistant, Christian walked in smiling and said, Hi, how are you?

I'm good, I said and extended my hand. In fact, I wasn't good. My tooth had been aching for a week, and I would rather have gone to traffic school than to visit with Christian.

I'd been frightened of dentistry since as a child I was taken to a dentist named Dr. Servine, a slim man with thinning blonde hair and round wire-rimmed glasses who drilled and filled my cavities without the benefit of Novocain.

Christian sat down on his rolling stool and scooted close. Open wide, he said and quickly installed his paraphernalia—rubber dental dam, metal clamps, a plastic block to keep my mouth open. He injected something into my right lower gum and left the room. I closed my eyes and began to hover somewhere near my body.

When he returned, he said, How are you doing?

Aarcggh...

OK, good. Now, if you feel any pain at all, I want you to raise your left hand, OK?

Rorkah.

What kind of music would you like — how about Simon and Garfunkel? He quickly set up his iPod before I could say (if I could have spoken) "How about a Bach funeral cantata? Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk to you again...

Now, said Christian, You're going to hear some drilling—nothing to worry about.

Whirr, grr, the smell of overheated tooth dust reaching my nostrils. . . . .and the vision that was planted in my brain . . . still remains . . . within the sound of silence.

How're you doin'? he asked after more pounding, poking, and yanking. The middle finger of my right hand began to twitch.

Yalrga, I replied.

When you're weary, feelin' small, when tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all . . . More drilling, pressure, fried tooth dust, I knew he was headed down into my collarbone. ". . . I'm on your side, when times get rough . . . "

I had just settled into something of a reverie when it happened.

Christian broke into song. Now, it was a trio—Paul, Art and Christian. His articulation was flawless, he knew every word, and . . . and he was completely tone deaf. " . . . like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down . . .