Tag: comedy

Maximum Overload

Stay-at-home moms and working mothers equally stressed out at home ...

My mother was a medical professional who worked long hours. When she came home in the evenings her day didn’t end there because she would then make supper, help us with our homework, do laundry, iron, wait up for my father to return home from work, etc. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised just how tired and rushed she must have felt every time she walked through our front door.

One evening in particular when my twin brother and I were still quite young, my mother put us to bed and then changed out of her hospital whites into a pair of navy blue slacks and an old, floppy blouse. She next washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel before heading back downstairs to see to our older siblings and a waiting pile of dirty dishes. Paul and I, however, had no plans to go to sleep as we whooped and hollered while swinging from our bunk beds like a pair of baby chimps. My mother, up to her elbows in suds, issued a few verbal warnings from the kitchen but we took no notice.

This proved a fatal error on our part.

Tired, hungry and now angry, Mum had had enough. Storming upstairs she banged open the door to our bedroom and let us have it with both barrels, issuing threat after threat until the blood drained from our faces. Convinced the message had finally gotten through, she turned to leave and as she did she overheard a small voice tentatively ask, “Who was that?”

Carmen Miranda and Her Incredible Tropical Hats | Ellie & Co

Unaware our mother had transformed herself from Florence Nightingale to Carmen Miranda since putting us to bed, my brother and I thought a mad woman had broken into our home and killed everyone before coming upstairs to wrap up any loose ends. Now realising the situation, Mum wasn’t struggling to contain her anger but her laughter. After a couple of deep breaths to stop the giggles she re-entered our bedroom, flicked on the light and removed the towel to reveal her true identity.

I still smile every time I picture her sitting on the bottom bunk, unravelling the sequence of events to two traumatised toddlers.

And I have to admire her for that.

Because I would have kept walking, then explained over breakfast that the mad intruder actually lived in our cellar and only came upstairs when wakened…

Thank Queue

Savannah Bananas Mascot Split Lounging Around - April 8, 2016 ...

“I’m watching you,” the voice came down the phone.
“Where are you?” I asked, pulling into the car park.
“Drive straight on until you see a yellow Smart Car. I’m just past it on the right.”
“Did you say yellow?”
“I know, don’t even-”
“-who in their right mind drives around in a yellow Smart Car?”
“Banana Man.”
“Who’s Banana Man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe Big Bird’s in town.”
“Big Bird couldn’t drive a Smart Car with those toes. They’re the size of fire extinguishers.”
“Maybe it’s an automatic.”
“Again, with feet that size, I’d say: still too dangerous.”
“Yet it’s perfectly okay for a banana to get behind the wheel?” I queried. “I’m appalled and yet intrigued.”
“Bananas are good for you.”
“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“Good because I need you to shut up anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because our yellow friend is sporting a bumper sticker.”
“NO!”
“Oh, yes. Would you like to know what it says?”
“More than I need toilet paper.”
“It’s contains an axiom for all of humanity,” I was baited further, “written in glitter.”
I slammed on the brakes to avoid an accident.
“Kittens are angels with whiskers,” Laverne purred down the phone.

smiling kitten pictures | image courtesy of google images | Animal ...

“So are grannies,” I argued, as the vehicle in question came into view. “Jesus, they’re driving a two-door lemon!”
“Dog-hating weirdos,” Laverne muttered, watching me park. “Long time, no see. How are you?”
“Fine,” I started walking over to her.
“Stop right there or I’ll activate my Social Distancing Alarm,” she stretched out her arm like a traffic cop.
“Sorry, I’m still getting used to all that,” I backed away slowly.
“Luckily, I’ve been practising social distancing since I was a five,” she sniffed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

We’d arranged to meet at ASDA because our respective households were running low on essentials, plus, we wanted to catch up with each other in person. Crossing the supermarket car park, we were soon greeted by a queue that curled out of the entrance and along the entire storefront before disappearing around a corner.
“Good God!” Laverne stopped dead in her tracks. “They’re lining up the infected and shooting them!”
“More toilet paper for us then.”
“Quite right,” she pressed onward. “Every cloud and all that.”

Directed past countless, evenly-spaced shoppers by a team of brightly attired Queue Coordinators, we began to lose hope when one of them waved us over. Jean usually worked the cigarette counter but had been commandeered to keep customers orderly outside.
“John, what are you doing in the queue?” she asked. “You’re an essential worker. You can go straight in. Who’s this?”
“I’m the help,” Laverne winked.
“Not with those rings, Sweetheart,” Jean laughed. “Go on then, if you’re together.”
“These two are essential workers!” she hollered to a colleague guarding the entrance and, as if on cue, the queue burst into spontaneous applause.
“What the-”
“You’re the new Harry & Meghan,” Jean cackled. “Work that red carpet!”

“I was going to be a nurse,” Laverne whispered, before addressing the queue. “Remember, 2m apart! Social distancing means more nurses on the job and fewer ill at home.”
“Would you shut the hell up?” I whispered back.
“Not a chance,” she smiled and waved to her subjects. “Look at how happy they are. Anyway, it could have been worse: your friend could have said we were the new Donald & Melanoma.”
“You mean Melania.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You’d know if you were a nurse.”
“Hey, I’ve got a husband and three teenaged sons which means I’ve been on call since 1978,” Laverne said, lifting up a baby.
“Five minutes ago you were passing yourself off as my housekeeper.”
“And now look at me. John, my mere presence is filling the great void within these peoples’ lives. If there’s one thing I learned in school it’s that nature abhors a vacuum.”
True, but not as much as the help.

Ain’t No Hairdo High Enough

After work I thought I’d venture into Manchester to check out the city’s annual Mardi Gras shenanigans. Caught up in the spirit of goodwill, I ditched the 4×4 and opted instead for public transport to help save the Himalayan Poop Bat which, I’ve been reliably informed by my 16 year old niece, is hunted to make Poop Soup. This led to my boarding a bus only recently decommissioned by the Pyong Yang Transit Authority and shipped to Britain by sampan in the dead of night. Now glancing down the aisle at the human roadkill sprawled across each seat, I decided to remain standing and endeavoured to engage the driver in lively banter. This, however, proved a non-starter because life had kicked him in the nuts not once, but several times that shift, reducing him to a series of unintelligible expletives and questionable hand gestures. Backing away slowly, I retreated upstairs where I was immediately overwhelmed by an aroma you won’t find in any Laura Ashley candle.

Unexpectedly offloaded at the corner of Kidnap and Tetanus, I happened upon an old timer in a doorway balancing a few coins in his outstretched hand. Well, behind every face there’s a story so I asked him to start from the beginning. What unravelled was a sorry yarn indeed and at its end my raconteur summed up his lot, “I have a wooden crate for a seat, I have to beg to use the toilet, people brush past me as if I’m invisible, I can’t afford to buy myself a hot drink because a brew around here costs £5 and, worst of all, I have no idea where I’ll end up tomorrow. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“Yes,” I commiserated, “I’ve flown Ryanair.”

I then cut through the Gay Village where I had a deep and meaningful conversation with a 7ft woman. Thelma Mahogany Jr initially stopped me to ask for a light and yes, I will admit that for a brief moment I was outside of my comfort zone, however I would like to state for the record that it had nothing to do with her station in life and everything to do with the knife down each leg-warmer. I’ll talk to anyone and, as luck would have it, it turned out Thelma just happened to be going wherever I was.

As we strolled through The Village I marvelled at the outrageously extravagant decor adorning every building and asked her to pass on my compliments to the Mardi Gras Committee.

“Oh, those aren’t Mardi Gras decorations,” Thelma corrected me.

“They’re not?” I queried, taking a closer look. “Then what are they?”

“Isn’t your neighbourhood decorated all year round?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s your street like?” she looked puzzled. “Is it just blank space everywhere?”

“Uh, I guess so,” I murmured, now giving it some thought.

“That’s a bit of a waste, don’t you think? Why not jazz it up? Honey, you gotta live a little!”

The lady had a point. And while I might not have gone in for the winged butt-plugs, I was starting to come around to the idea of a themed neighbourhood, in principle.

And our Thelma has dreams. She informed me that she is, among other things, an artiste who will soon be appearing at The Manhole in her one-woman show, a tribute to women of colour, past and present, entitled From Motown To Ho-Town. The production sounds very edgy because in the opening number she appears onstage as a black Elizabeth I, head-butting Pilgrims while twirling fire batons pre-soaked in poppers the night before. Other members of the cast include three Shih Tzus on hoverboards, an ABBA tribute act from Korea and Thelma’s own mother who will be throwing Bibles at the audience during the interval. As for the big finale, a final homage to those who went before her, Miss Mahogany Jr will lip-sync to her self-penned, glitch-hop track Ain’t No Hairdo High Enough.

You’re all invited.

Note From Management: All performances will be matinees only until Thelma’s ankle monitor comes off

Heir Heads

British Royal Family Tree - Guide to Queen Elizabeth II Windsor Family Tree

With the last of the dishes put away and the Corgis farting up a storm after polishing off the unwanted sprouts, everyone gathered in front of the TV for Her Majesty’s Christmas message to the nation. At 95, The Queen appeared staid and resolute, a safe pair of hands to see us through the next 12 months.

She was actually doing just fine; it was the rest of the family who needed sorting out.

Her Madge had described the previous few years as “quite bumpy”, but that was just how Philip drove after he’d had a few. Not only had the Duke of Edinburgh run some poachers off the road, he’d proved a ticking time bomb who would say anything to anyone, especially if they were foreigners. Some found this quite rich, considering his father was Prince Andrew of Greece and Denmark, his mother was Princess Alice of Battenberg, Granny was a Russian and he was born in Greece but educated in France, Germany and England. Between them, they covered more countries than EasyJet.

Earlier in the year, Harry had put the boot into his older brother, the future king, admitting the two hated each other’s guts. Wills then hit back saying he “worried Harry might be bonkers,” which Harry then proved by announcing he planned to make a documentary on mental health with Oprah Winfrey. Then the rumours that Kate and Meghan could no longer reside within the same kingdom became evident when the Sussexes vacated Kensington Palace and fled to the icy Kingdom of Canadia. However, bored after only two days by the solitude and sheer beauty of their surroundings, and running low on Manuka Elbow Moisturiser, the pair then fled to California to… erm… escape the royals (which they’d already done), Britain (which they’d also already done) and the media (whom they’d taken on their honeymoon).

And as for Anne – an examination of this royal princess isn’t for the squeamish – while it’s true she is indeed very hard working, the same can be said of fire ants. For her Duke of Edinburgh Award, it’s rumoured a young Anne commissioned a wind-up doll capable of neutralising any lady-in-waiting who approached without curtseying. Sometimes mistaken for an Amish horse hand by members of the Household Cavalry, an awkward Anne clung to the fact that she remained the only princess in a stable of princes.

That is, until Diana appeared on the scene.

Dispatching her sister-in-law abroad in a stroke of genius, Anne and her father then fixed their sights upon the latest royal interloper. Rumour has it that during her initial stay at Kensington Palace, Prince Philip presented Kate Middleton with a Princess Diana doll sans tête. Examining it thoughtfully, if not warily, the young Kate made a mental note of her nearest exit.

“She was pretty like you,” Princess Anne remarked. “She’s not pretty now, though… I’m the pretty princess now.”

“Isn’t she missing something?” Kate asked, pointedly.

“My bad,” Anne apologised, crushing her can of Pilsner and flicking it at her. “There’s the car.”

Kids, eh?… w

Who’d have ’em?