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    Esther Blumenfeld  

    The purpose of this web site is to entertain.  My humor columns died along with the magazines where they were printed, although I cannot claim responsibility for their demise.  I still have something to say, and if I can bring a laugh or two to your day, my mission will be fulfilled.

    Everyone I know thinks he has a sense of humor.  Here is my unsolicited advice. If you try to be funny and no one laughs, don’t worry about it.  However, if you try to be funny and no one EVER laughs, you might have a little problem.




    As I get older, I have learned that it is probably futile to try to make sense out of the nonsensical. For instance twice a year, my automobile insurance company rewards me with a $25.00 check for my good driving record. As a matter of fact, this month my reward was raised to $27.00.  All was copacetic until I received the bill for my yearly premium.

    My insurance company had raised the price, and now I have to pay $120.77 more than I did last year. So, after I deduct my yearly $54.00 reward for good driving, I still have to pay $66.77 more in 2018 than I did in 2017. Consequently, I called my personable insurance agent and asked, “Why, with my excellent driving record, did the company raise my premium $120.77?”
    She replied, “Because you had a birthday.” “I had a birthday last year,” I said, “And they didn’t sock it to me then.” “Well,” she replied, “If, you are still driving in five years, the company will raise your rate again. They figure that as people get older, they are more accident prone because their reflexes slow down.”

    So, then, I said, “That’s age discrimination!” Sympathetically, she replied, “You are right, but all automobile insurance companies do that.” Feeling dejected, after my go around with my nice insurance agent, I decided to go to Trader Joe’s. That place never fails to cheer me up, and sure enough, I saw a sign that advertised, “Grass fed hotdogs.” I assume that hotdogs are now the new Miracle Grow for starving grass. Will wonders never cease?

    When I got home (sans hotdogs) my mailman delivered a letter from my Homeowners Insurance Company. It began, “Thank you for being a loyal customer. We’re happy to have you with us. Your bill should arrive in a couple of weeks.” That was the good news. The kicker came on the third page.

    “You may have noticed (you bet I did!) that we have increased your Dwelling Protection Coverage.” It’s called a Protection Insurance Adjustment (PIA) which “reflects changes in construction costs in your area.”

    Wow!  The estimated replacement cost of my home has gone up $12.00. No, I won’t call my insurance agent. She’s nice, but there’s even a limit to niceness. I would have asked my son, Josh about the nonsensical premise of this raise in premium, but the last time I asked him his opinion on an issue like this, he kindly said, “Mom, too bad it’s not rocket science, because that’s what I do.”

    I recently read a mystery book by Rex Stout called, SECOND CONFESSION. The book was just okay, but one line was memorable when the detective, Nero Wolfe, said, “You suffer from mental astigmatism.” I wish I had said that first.

    Esther Blumenfeld



    I was glad to read that after 11 days, Anthony Scaramucci, the President’s Communication Director , Favorite Bully and Master of Profanity is no longer in a position to play Trump’s, Game of Thorns. Scaramucci obviously had viewed his job as having the enjoyable duty to stick it to people whom the President wanted to eliminate. Anthony will not even garner a footnote in history after his inauspicious verbal poke at those in power.

    When I was a very little girl, my Father warned me about the power of words—that, “Words have meaning and weight, and everything that you say, and  everything that you do, affects other people.”

    I adapted this lesson to write the following conversation between “Papa” and “Rachel” in my play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS (Kansas City Repertory Theatre, 2003) and it went like this:


    It’s a good lesson Papa. I know that Patrick Murphy is going to watch his words from now on.


    What are you talking about? Who is Patrick Murphy?


    He’s a new boy at school. He is in the fourth grade, and his Daddy works at the Army, Air Force Base, and I don’t like him at all.


    Rachel. He is much older than you. Did this boy bother you?


    He called me a dirty German! I told him that I am not dirty, and that I am an American, and I closed my eyes, and I swung my fist, and I hit him on his nose, and he bled all over his shirt. Papa, I have never seen so much blood.


    Rachel! You were in a fist fight?


    No, Papa! It was no fight. He cried and ran away.


    Perhaps you should ask for his forgiveness for making him bleed. Give it some thought.


    I never saw Patrick Murphy again. I was sorry that I made him bleed, but I am not sorry that I hit him. I am an American girl!

    Patrick Murphy was my first experience with a bully. As I grew up, I learned to use my words to call out bullies, and I have discovered that not only are bullies cowards, but they have no sense of humor—especially about themselves. That is why ridicule works!
    A bully wants attention, wants his victim to act hurt or upset, and he wants a fight, but mostly not a physical confrontation.

    Happily in our great Democracy, besides having a free press, we also have a host of professional comedians, who can push back in the one way that bullies cannot stand—nor effectively defend themselves.

    Of course, when confronted with a bully, a person can take the high ground. As Michelle Obama said, “When they go low, we go high.” However, once in awhile, a metaphoric bloody nose really does give one pleasure.

    Esther Blumenfeld (“The big drum beats fast, but does not realize it’s hollowness”) Melay Proverb



    A man, who isn’t a “senior” was given a senior discount at the movie theatre. The next time he went to the theatre, he said to the ticket seller, “The last time I came to a movie here, you gave me a senior discount,” and he got it.  His wife admonished him, “You shouldn’t lie in front of the children.”  So, was his action subjectivity of the truth, or an “alternative fact?”

    The term “alternative fact” is attributed to Kellyanne Conway, U.S. Counsel to President Trump, but actually, the term was coined many years ago in 1949 by George Orwell, who wrote the novel 1984. The book is about a totalitarian state that creates its own language called, “Newspeak.” The purpose is to  stifle free thought by twisting the English language. For instance, the word, “Bad” becomes “Ungood.”

    Truthfully, there is no such thing as an “alternative fact.” There is fact and then there is fiction. A horse is a fact. A unicorn is fiction. If someone tells you that she saw a unicorn, she is either hallucinating, lying or has just attended a Disney movie. The problem with blurring the line between truth and lies is that you don’t know who you can trust. Groucho Marx said,”Who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes?”

    The story about the little boy who cried wolf illustrates that the little boy lied so many times that when the real wolf appeared, no one believed his warning. In a make believe world, “pigs can fly.”  However, when “fake news,” which is spun from a blanket of lies, enters the realm of the believable, it’s no longer a game of “let’s pretend,” and it can become very dangerous.

    Reputable journalists are required to get the facts straight. As a former journalist and contributing writer to two magazines, I know that accuracy is so important that even if you misspell someone’s name, you land in deep doo doo.

    In the good old days, a person’s word was his bond, and contracts were made with a simple handshake. Today, a person is leery of “shaking on it,” because he might not get his hand back.

    In the Japanese film,  Rashomon (1950) various characters provide alternative , self-serving and contradictory versions of the same incident, which in part exhibits the unreliability of human memory or how it can be manipulated. Sophisticated proponents of propaganda know that if a lie is repeated over and over, it will eventually be accepted, by many, as the truth.

    When dealing with a liar, it is always good to listen to what he does not say rather than what he does, because lies always spin a web of deceit and depend on recollection.  Mark Twain said, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”

    The children’s game, Telephone has no winner. It is a game where a group of people sit in a circle and the first person whispers a secret into the ear of the person sitting next to her, and then the secret is whispered on from one person to another. The last person is charged to reveal the secret which is always different than the original secret. It demonstrates the inaccuracy of rumors as they are spread. For instance, the secret might be “I wrote a verse about my cat,” and it could end up, “Someone proved that the earth is flat.”  Everyone might laugh except the one person in the group, who might like the lie so much, that he puts it on Facebook, and some people will believe his “alternative fact” that the earth is indeed flat.

    If we are lucky, these simpletons will sail toward the horizon and fall off the edge of the earth—unless they are lucky enough to hail a flying pig.

    Esther Blumenfeld (“Liar, liar, your pants are on fire, and your nose is as long as a telephone wire.)



    I received such an overwhelmingly favorable reaction, from so many of you, about my encounter with the “Bloody Lady,” that, since I am on a roll, I decided to continue along the medical vein with my new story.

    Scheduling early morning appointments with doctors in the summer, in Tucson, makes a great deal of sense, since it’s really too hot to work up a sweat doing much of anything else. And, my doctors’ waiting rooms are usually cold enough to fool you into thinking you are on a cool vacation. Thus, I had a scheduled appointment with my ophthalmologist for 9:00 a.m.

    Unfortunately, the doctor’s scheduler called to change my appointment to 1:45 p.m., but that wasn’t too bad, since the outside temperature had cooled down to 108 degrees. I don’t know why my appointment had been changed, but I am sure that the doctor had a very good
    reason—or not!

    I arrived at 1:30 so the doctor would not have to wait for me, but then I found out that all of his morning patients had also been rescheduled for that afternoon.  It gave us an unexpected opportunity to mingle with his already disgruntled afternoon patients. All of the seats were taken in the waiting room, so I sat in the optometrist’s office next door. She was a very nice young woman who had recently moved to Tucson from Alaska, so she was very much at home in the frigid office. Not having much to do, she went around and cleaned everyone’s glasses and handed out breath mints.

    Happily, I ran into an old friend who was also waiting to see the doctor. We had a very nice chat, until a woman interrupted and said something like, “Do you want to hear my life story?” My friend was called into the doctor’s inner-sanctum, so I was left alone to hear about this woman’s estranged son who lived in Chicago. I was planning to also become estranged, but my name was finally called for my eye exam.

    Sitting in the examination chair, I watched my doctor’s harried staff running up and down the hall, and I patiently waited for the doctor’s assistant who would check my vision.  I knew that teenagers could be grocery checkers, but I swear that I never suspected that this little kid who came into the office could be an actual eye checker. He told me to put my face into the eye machine and read the eye chart with my right eye. Suddenly, I had double vision. “I can’t read any of  the letters,” I said. “Try it with your left eye,” he said.  “Okay,” I replied. All of the letters were still double.  “Tell me when it’s better,” he said as he flipped the lenses. “Nothing makes it better,” I yelled. “This is really weird,” I said. “My vision was just fine when I came in.”

    He handed me my glasses. “Can you read the chart now?” “Perfect!” I replied. “Good!” he said, “You don’t need a new prescription.” “So what was the problem?” I asked.  He replied,
    “Sorry, I had the lens positioned for astigmatism.” “I guess I don’t have that,” I said. “Nope,” he replied. “Put your head back,” he said.  “I am going to put drops into your eyes.” He added, “This may sting.” He was right, the drops stung my lips.  But, I guess he got some into my eyes, because my vision started to get a bit blurry.

    Finally, he left and my renowned eye surgeon came into the room. He checked me out and said, “Everything is good, however, your cataracts have changed a bit. But since they aren’t interfering with your vision yet, you don’t need surgery now.  Come back to see me in six months.” Ever the optimist, I made my appointment for 9 a.m. on January 4, 2018. The drops, that had stung a bit, really kicked in when I started my car, and I kind of drove myself home. Next week, I go to the dentist. I hope it won’t be a tooth for a tooth day.

    Esther Blumenfeld




    Yesterday was blood workup day in anticipation of my annual physical exam next week. Consequently, I went to pay a visit to my cheerful phlebotomist, the person who gets paid to stab me with a needle. I had made the appointment for early in the day, because I was required to fast before the procedure. It’s no sacrifice to skip a bowl of cereal, but it’s not so easy to leave the house without my morning caffeine fix.

    I arrived on time, but in my zombie-like state, sans coffee, I had to park my car twice in order to line it up between the white lines in the parking lot. Since it was so early, none of the parking places had yet been taken, but it would have been really greedy to occupy three of them.

    Shortly after I entered the building, I was ushered into the laboratory for my test. I am not squeamish, nor do I faint at the sight of blood, however it’s never a good day when the technician can’t find a cooperative vein. That’s why I always say, “The veins in my right arm look good, but I can promise you that they will rock and roll away from you, and collapse as soon as you come anywhere near them with a needle.

    Unfortunately, last year, my regular phlebotomist was on vacation. So I was stuck with the Evil Blood Lady, who said, “Hold still while I draw you.” I was hoping she would paint my portrait, but after using my right arm for a pin cushion, the Evil Blood Lady grinned and said, “Sorry, I guess I should have listened to you.” I looked at her and said, “Not to worry, black and blue are my favorite colors. You can take the needle out of my arm now.”

    Many years ago, I experienced my most unusual encounter with a phlebotomist. When I entered the laboratory, I was confronted by a medical lab technician with no fingers. Happily, she could grasp a needle with her knuckles, and I didn’t come out with a tattoo.  It was kind of like getting your teeth cleaned by a blind dentist, who knew exactly where your nose was supposed to be.

    Happily, this year my phlebotomist had returned from her vacation just in time to come at me with a sharp object. No problems!  I took myself out for breakfast and had a pancake and three cups of coffee to celebrate. I wore my elastic bandage the rest of the day, just to be sure that the blood would stay exactly where it was supposed to be in my really cooperative left arm.

    Esther Blumenfeld