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August 24, 2001 - Far-Flung Fears
Welcome to 2TheHeart's Funny Friday!
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This week's funny quotes:
"Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky." ~Fran Lebowitz
"What If The Hokey Pokey Is Really What It's All About?" ~Rodney Lee
"I was walking home one night and a guy hammering on a roof called me a paranoid little weirdo. In morse code." ~Emo Phillips
"Far-Flung Fears"
by Deborah Dee Simmons
I admit it--I like to keep my feet on the ground. Anything that
takes me more than six inches above the earth is suspect and,
therefore, avoided at all costs. As you can well imagine, you won't find me doing any roof repairing, tree trimming, or ladder/stair/ rickety chair climbing. Elevators and escalators are shunned. In fact, it's my opinion that the person who invented the "running up the outside of a ridiculously tall building at 90 miles per hour" elevator had to have been insane, not to mention mean. Real, real mean.
Given this particular dread, flying is especially difficult for me. I've never understood (or believed in) the principle of aerodynamics
and I don't care how powerful a jet engine is or how friendly the
skies might be, it just doesn't add up. In my mind, flight is an
impossibility. Period. But apparently I'm wrong. For some unknown reason, planes really do stay suspended, they do fly for hours on end, and millions of folks use them every day of the week. Frankly, I thought Americans were smarter than that. Wrong again.
Under the circumstances, you'd think I'd be one of those people who feel that if God wanted man to fly, He'd have given him wings. Not so. As a matter of fact, I firmly believe He wanted man to fly. After all, He did bless us with the intelligence needed to build these monsters and just because I don't understand how they stay afloat doesn't mean they don't. On the other hand, I don't feel He made flying mandatory. Good thing, too, because I'd be breaking commandments all over the place.
But the ultimate test of leaving the ground (aside from flying) has
to be rollercoasters. My dread of all of the above pales in
comparison to my fear of being flung from a careening coaster at 80 miles per hour--and normally, I avoid them like I would flying over enemy territory in a crop duster. Despite that streak of good common sense, I rode (at the urging of my family) what has to be one of the most sadistic rides on the face of the earth--which, of course, shall remain nameless to avoid any messy legal entanglements. But you can take my word for it--we weren't in Kansas anymore and we certainly weren't flying the friendly skies.
However, since I try to find the good in all of my hideous
encounters, I'm looking at this experience as a chance to learn. Not only have I gained valuable information about my family (for
instance, I used to think they loved me), I've also picked up several phrases which demonstrate the subtle distinctions in the languages of two of society's least compatible segments-- "thrill-
seekers"and "scaredy cats."
For purposes of clarity, I define "thrill-seeker," known hereafter as
TS, as "one who exhibits bizarre and risky behavior by placing
themselves in situations fraught with horrifying speed, teeth-jarring
drops, zero gravity conditions, and the same G-forces experienced by shuttle astronauts upon launching."
The term "scaredy-cat," known hereafter as SC, is defined simply
as "me."
The following may help you in deciphering various phrases spoken by TSers and their corresponding translation into my language (SC):
TS: "Exhilarating!"
SC: "I'm going to die."
TS: "Thrilling!"
SC: "I'm just know it--I'm going to die."
TS: "You'll love it!"
SC: "Don't you care that I'm going to die?"
TS: "What a rush!"
SC: "What a crock. I'm going to DIE!"
So, let's put this newfound knowledge into a practical application. A few months ago, I sat with my husband, daughter, and son-in-law--four across--on the unnamed terror mentioned above.
The brochure describing this monstrosity, clearly written by TSers,
claims this unique seating configuration creates a "free flight"
sensation. Translated into SC lingo, this reads, "the precise
feeling you get when being hurled earthward just seconds before your death-except a million times worse and not nearly as fun."
We sat down and were "securely strapped in," which, in SC, meant I was "secured to my seat by a metal bar across my knees that wouldn't hold a paper bag in place, let alone a human being." We began our ascent to the sky and after the about three feet (we were still twenty feet from the end of the platform), I closed my eyes and entered "cling and pray" mode--"Please, dear God. Please, dear God. Please, dear God." Of course, that was before the screaming started. After that, it was pray, scream, cling, pray, scream, cling.
Not to worry, though, because as we approached the summit, Darice leaned over and said soothingly, "We're almost there, Mom. First you'll feel a little dip and then we're on our way." Translated, that meant, "Hang on tight. This is a 210-foot drop and these are
your last few seconds on earth, old woman. Remember all those times when I was in high school and you wouldn't let me have the car? Well, it's payback time, baby!"
Now, let's think about it. Two hundred ten feet is 21 stories, for
crying out loud! (And believe me, I was doing a lot of that.) How can the human body survive such a descent? Who could be sadistic enough to create such a vehicle and more importantly, who would be dumb enough to ride it?
I guess that would be me.
We rode for what seemed like the next seven or eight hours. Well, everyone else rode. I alternately blacked out, threw up and prayed my brains out. Darice, ever vigilant, continued with her
encouragement. My caterwauling blocked out most of her words, but I do remember her saying, "You'll be a new woman after this ride, Mom!"
If I had known what I know now, I would have realized what she was really saying-- "We promise to pick up every last piece of your shattered, mangled, bloody body, Mom, and have you put back together again--just like new!"
Thanks, hon. I'd appreciate that. (Maybe I should have let her use the car more often.)
Deb Simmons copyright 2001
simmons@pathwaynet.com
Deb lives in the palm of Michigan with her handsome hubbby John and writes a newspaper column. A new Grandma to baby Dustin, she is also a 2TheHeart Writer of the Month and many of her stories are found in our archives and Funny Friday page.
http://www.2theheart.com/archives
http://www.2theheart.com/funny_friday/
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The Letter Box:
***The following letter is from Chuck Dishno, author of Funny
Friday's "Big Kitty" (ttp://www.2theheart.com/bigkitty). I was so
touched by Chuck's letter that I asked permission to share it in the
Letter Box and Chuck agreed. Here it is:
Dear Susan,
I have been getting many comments on "Big Kitty". I should tell you what a special cat she was. In the summer of 1941 our house burned to the ground and we lost everything. Being a small town, the loggers came over every evening after working hard in the woods or saw mill and cleaned up the site where the old house was so that they could build us a new house. One with indoor plumbing! We lived in the school which was 2 doors away. The last we saw of Big Kitty was her going back into the burning house. We just knew she had died in the fire. A few days after the fire, pop and I were walking back to the school house and I heard a faint mewing coming from under a bush. I looked and there was Big Kitty. What a pitiful sight she was. All her fur had burned off and she could hardly walk. We took her back and made her as comfortable as possible in a box. Every morning, pop would say he had to put her out of her misery and would get a gun and go look at her. He would come back and say that he thought she might make it and would give her one more day. Well she did make it and lived to mother many kittens. She was a good mother and by all accounts quite a lover.
There is more to this story. You may remember reading about the
Japanese Balloon Bombs that were sent over here during the war. Only one took any lives and that was my Sunday School class. Five children and the preacher's wife were killed on May 6th, 1945 by an exploding bomb while on a picnic. I was invited to go on this picnic but for some reason, my mom, told me she didn't want me to go. One of the kids killed, was the one who gave me Big Kitty in 1940. She lived to be about 15.
~Chuck Dishno
dishgov@mcn.net
Funny Friday,
I have got to tell you all a story that just happened the other day.
My husband called me in Michigan and proceeded to tell me about my sisters-in-law dog. She had snuck through the door and raced across the living room. My husband noticed the lump on the back of her neck. He told my sis in law that she better do something because that was the biggest tick he'd ever seen. It was red colored from sucking the blood from the poor dog. No one wanted to touch the tick because of its size and color. My husband said he didn't even know ticks could get that big. Three adults all looked at that poor dog but no one wanted to touch her. My sis in law called her daughter and said, "Call the vet quick and get this dog into his office."
The dog was rushed to the vets. A few minutes later, out came the dog jumping around, happy, and my sis in law's daughter said, "How did you get it out so fast?" The vet said, "We cut it out." She said, WHAT? HOW? The vet said with the scissors. And then he held up that tick that he cut from the dog's neck. He held up the red and white peppermint candy that had gotten stuck in the dog's hair! Talking about laughing.........LOL..........
~Sharon Bryant
1946@bellsouth.net
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