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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.



    Come Fly With Me

    Every time I plan a trip overseas, someone asks me, “How long is the flight?” and I reply, “Depends on who’s sitting next to me.” It seems as if I always attract an inordinate number of talkers. I do not initiate conversations, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

    On a flight to London, I had earphones, a good book, and shades for my eyes. That should have been a tip off, but nothing stopped the wind-up chatty woman in the seat next to me. She talked, and talked and talked, and said absolutely nothing. When I said, “I’d like to read now.” She replied, “Oh, what are you reading?” and kept talking. She even drowned out the music on my earphones. Her lips kept flapping and created a breeze. Finally, I turned off my overhead light and said, “I’m going to get some shut eye now,” and she proceeded with a bedtime story of her life. She finally fell into a snoring sleep as we taxied down the runway at Heathrow. If I weren’t wearing shoes, I would have put a sock in her mouth. 

    The aisle seat is my favorite because I need to uncramp my legs, and I dislike crawling over people. When I boarded an El Al flight from Tel Aviv to New York, I was dismayed to discover that I had been assigned a window seat with two hefty seatmates in my row. The woman on the aisle had taken a sleeping pill, and the man in the center was dribbling an onion and garlic sandwich down the front of his shirt. I awakened the woman in the aisle seat, and told them both that I would be getting out of my seat frequently, and since she was going to sleep the whole way, perhaps she would like to switch. She refused. The guy in the seat in front of me promptly put the back of his seat into my lap. 

    The first time I crawled over the man in the center seat, he enjoyed it too much, so I asked the flight attendant to tell him to get up and let me out. She said, “You tell him.” This was, after all, El Al, the safest but not politest airline in the sky. By the time we landed, everyone hated me. 

    It was a school holiday in France when my husband and I flew on Air France from Paris to New York. The plane was filled with screaming, crying and shouting children. All of them were running up and down the aisle. When one of these drippy-nosed urchins climbed into my lap, I shouted, “Where is this child’s mother?” No one answered. The kid was a brat and I didn’t speak French. When the cart rolled by, I traded him for a drink. 

    My husband had a seat-kicking child behind him and beseeched me to trade seats with him. “Just a little break,” he begged. “Sure,” I replied. We switched seats and he plopped down next to the Ukrainian woman wrestler, who put one of her sleeveless arms on the back of his seat. He bolted forward before getting entangled in her armpit hair, and yelled, “Want to trade again?” “Nope,” I replied, “Want a lawn mower?”

    And then there was the broken seat on a flight to Hong Kong. I was moved to a seat in a section where I was in the middle of a family reunion of 100 Chinese people going to a wedding. I didn’t speak Chinese and they didn’t speak English, so since they couldn’t ask me if I was a relative of the groom or the bride, we all smiled and nodded a lot. To this day, I feel guilty that I didn’t bring a gift. 

    Esther Blumenfeld (oxygen please.)



    Last week a young man from Comcast came to the door and explained to me that since I already subscribed to their computer and television service, I can save money by bundling my home phone into the mix.  Anyway, I thought he said, “bundling,” but he must have said, “bungling.” 

    Joe, the installer arrived at 8 a.m. the next morning. It was his first appointment of the day. By the time he finished adjusting his tool belt, it was 9 a.m. He then took out his spyglass and began to examine my wiring. No, not my wiring, but the wiring connected to my house. He ran outside into my front yard to check a magical box and then back into the house. Then he ran into the neighbors yard to check their magical box before running back into my house. By now it was 10.a.m. Finally, he said, “You need two more wires. I’m going to drill a hole into the wall, throw a wire over your roof, and connect it to the wall on the other side. I asked him if he was bundling my phone or launching it. He ignored me. 

    The wiring was completed by 11 a.m. and my phone was bundled. Unfortunately, now my inter-net connection wasn’t. He fiddled with a few wires and everything started to hum. As he got into his truck, my computer stopped humming. I chased his vehicle down the street in my bare feet. He obviously had no rear view mirror on that truck. 

    The Comcast advertisement on television is so pleasant.  A smiling woman says, “If you call, you will reach a live person.” Think about it! Of course, she doesn’t tell you that before you can reach the one or two live people that work for Comcast, you first have to talk to a robot who orders you to push buttons on your newly bundled phone, and none of the choices have anything to do with your problem. 

    After screaming at the Comcast machine, I finally reached a man in India who told me to unscrew a wire on my router. I now deadened my telephone and probably killed the only live person that works for Comcast. I screwed the wire back in, and finally reached a woman in the Philippines, who told me to get on the floor with my router and connect my computer to---. I yelled, “I am not paying Comcast to crawl on the floor and I want a live person to come back to my house today.” I begged her not to leave me. She connected me to a woman in Utah who told me that they were having a blizzard but would send someone to my house by 1 p.m.  I told her that I didn’t live in Utah and it was 70 degrees outside. 

    At 2 p.m. Joe the installer called and said, “What did you do?” I told him, I didn’t do anything, and that someone had better come to my house or I would rip his wiring off my roof. At 2:30 p.m. a tattooed fellow named John arrived riding a white horse. No white horse, but he was my hero. He worked with the computer for one hour until he looked down at the router (one of the boxes buried under the tangled wires on the floor) and said, “Why are both ends of this little cord plugged into your router box?” I told him, “I have no idea. The only person fooling with my router box was Joe the Comcast guy.” John flexed his tattooed arm, disconnected both ends of the extra cord and the computer was fixed. I thanked John and as he left at 3:30 p.m. I said, ”John, please call your buddy and say, “Joe, what did you do?” He promised he would.

    Today, I set my house alarm off by mistake. The phone went dead. 

    Esther Blumenfeld (connected, I think)


    In Tents Dislike

    Recently, a friend called to ask if I’d like to go to summer camp with her. I responded, “Maybe,” but I really meant, “Hell, No!”

    When I was a kid, my friends attended all kinds of exciting specialty camps that offered horseback riding, classical music, ballet, drama, or science and technology. These places had beautiful names such as: Mountain Meadow, Eagle Hill and Chestnut Lake, and they cost a bundle. My parents didn’t have a bundle, so I was exiled to Camp Stagnant Water in South Dakota. 

    My cabin roof leaked, but only when it rained. It rained the entire week. I had chosen the bottom bunk, so I stayed relatively dry, but my bunkmate kept flicking spiders off her bed and they landed on me. Every night I watched her sagging mattress as it swayed and dipped closer to my face. She must have suffered from motion sickness because she threw up into my shoes twice. Obviously, her digestion wasn’t as good as her aim. 

    Counselor Bruin Hilda called the parents of one of the other girls in the cabin to come and get her because she put a pillow over the face of her snoring bunkmate. The snorer didn’t make it through the week either because she had chosen constipation over the snake rimmed outhouse, and had picked a bouquet of poison ivy.

    I only swam once in the river at Camp Stagnant Water, because when I got to shore, I was covered with hanging leeches. It was an educational experience. Counselor Bruin Hilda was waiting for me with lit matches. She kept yelling, “Stand still!” That was not easy to do with bloodsuckers clinging to my body and Bruin Hilda lighting them like firecrackers. 

    Camp is obviously not my favorite activity. However, as a teenager, my son was an avid camper. He backpacked for 50 miles in the desert, slept in tents, slogged through mud and muck, and his postcards confirmed that he loved every minute of it: 

    “Dear Mom and Dad,” Great trip! We put out the fire on the bus. Love, Son.” 

    “Dear Mom and Dad, It’s real hot here. We haven’t had any rain for two weeks. The dust is pretty bad. I spend most of my time in the water or mud. I got a sunburn. It doesn’t hurt that much anymore. Camp is really fun. Love, Son.” 

    “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m learning about reptiles. Wait until you see my collection. We are having pizza for dinner. Today I saved a camper’s life. Thanks for the cookies. Love, Son.” 

    Esther Blumenfeld (survivalist.)



    Welcome to the Neighborhood

    For some unknown reason, my neighborhood seems to attract an inordinate number of whacky doodle residents. After living here for 16 years, I have seen many homeowners come and go, and once they are gone, I guess they are fair game. So from time to time, I will entertain you with their stories.

    Ralph was a skinflint. For those of you who don’t know the expression, a skinflint is so cheap he will skin a flint to save a penny. If you don’t know what a flint is, look it up, because it has nothing to do with this tale. 

    Ralph’s favorite possession was his wheelbarrow, and from time to time he went around the neighborhood collecting things. He seemed to have a special passion for rocks, and the rock garden in his front yard was especially beautiful. Unfortunately, the rock garden at the community’s front entrance became exceedingly sparse as Ralph’s garden blossomed. 

    No one really took notice until the day one of the neighbors was replacing decorative rocks in her front yard, and suddenly they turned up missing. Discovering them lining Ralph’s front walk, she ordered her workmen to retrieve them posthaste, and threatened to jam one of them up Ralph’s personal back porch if he ever wheeled near her yard again. 

    Ralph was a clean fellow and showered daily, but he calculated that he could lower his water bill by shaving and showering in the men’s room at the community clubhouse, which was only a short stroll from his home. So every morning, Ralph could be seen wearing his big, white bathrobe on the way to the clubhouse. Luckily for Ralph, his bathrobe had pockets roomy enough for a roll of toilet paper or a couple of light bulbs that he filched before strolling back home. Ralph was not only clean but also well wiped and lit. 

    Ralph crowed about his generosity, “I lent my daughter money for the down payment for her house,” he bragged. “And, I’m only charging her 10% interest!” He was the treasurer for five different charitable organizations. Don’t know if he encouraged inventories. 

    When Ralph moved away, Eugene moved in. He also enjoyed showers. But, Eugene liked showering outside in the fresh air. So he let it all hang out, singing loudly, standing in the buff, in the shower stall at the community swimming pool. As the French would say, “nu en nature.” He also moved away. The neighbors took up a collection for a renovation/exorcism. 

    Esther Blumenfeld (rub a dub dub)




    My Give A Damn's Busted (Jo Dee Messina)


    It was Saturday night and the restaurant had a forty-five-minute wait, so my friend Jeanne said, “Have you ever tried, O’Hara’s down the street?” “No,” I replied. “I’ve never even seen it.” Turns out that the reason I had never seen O’Hara’s was because it wasn’t exactly down the street. It was down an alley near the street. 

    When we arrived, I noticed that there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, but there were a couple of motorcycles and a flatbed truck. The restaurant sign read, “Irish Food and Sing-Along.” Before I could protest, Jeanne had disappeared through the front door. As I entered, I bumped my head on a hanging basket. “I see twinkling lights,” I said, rubbing my head. “They’re in the basket,” she assured me. We sat at one of the tables facing the piano, and watched a man crooning “My Way” into the microphone.” If I had my way,” I said to Jeanne, “he’d button his shirt.”

    The waitress came over and shouted, “My name is Saxony.” Jeanne said, “That’s a beautiful name,” and I said, “You are lucky your folks didn’t name you Vandal or Goth.” There weren’t any other customers, so she sat down and joined us.  She also pointed out that the little boy who was running around the bar was her son. Assuring me that the kid wouldn’t mix my martini, I ordered one with the stipulation it arrive quickly. Since all of the other tables were empty, I was assured that this was certainly possible. 

    There were two men sitting at the bar. Saxony told us that the man wearing the American flag shirt was the proud owner of O’Hara’s, and that his friend was the biker. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off his jumping biceps tattoo of a grinning skull. 

    The “My Way” singer started coming toward me, so I gave him my best, “Get out of my face look,” and said, “Isn’t it time for you to take a break?” He agreed and handed the microphone to a Vietnamese waitress who removed her apron and started slaughtering songs from Phantom of the Opera. I kept hoping that a basket of twinkling lights would fall on her head, or that a Phantom---any Phantom--- would take her to the restaurant basement, but no such luck.  She sang on and on and on. Finally, my vermouth-with-a-touch-of-vodka-and-three-maraschino cherries arrived. Obviously, it was an arts and crafts project complements of the bar running kid. I sent it back and ordered a glass of water and a menu. 

    Spaghetti with tomato sauce wasn’t exactly Irish but it seemed the most harmless choice. I put down my menu and looked around. The restaurant wasn’t exactly filling up, but several people entered, sat down, cleared their throats and obviously began waiting their turn to sing.

    Suddenly, a scarecrow woman ran out of the kitchen with our salads. She tossed them on the table, and then grabbed the mike. She, was, it turns out, our chef.  Jeanne asked me, “Are you feeling okay?” I replied, “God help us. That song is from Sweeny Todd.” Turns out that the spaghetti was pretty tasty, especially when mixed with buttered cinnamon carrots.  It was a weird combination, but kind of fit the place.

    Two heavily made up buxom women—one blond and one redhead—had obviously escaped their coven, and created quite a stir when they flew in and sat at the bar. Impatiently, they flipped their long locks and drank their beers, waiting for the chef to retreat back to her kitchen. The minute she stopped to take a breath between a high and higher note, the redhead ran over, gave her a little shove, grabbed the mike and began to warble ‘Love for Sale.” Finally, realizing that no one was buying, she mercifully quit.  

    The door swung open and a 300-pound woman wearing a glittering, black dress entered.  She must have been a local celebrity because three tough looking guys followed her in. She sat at the table in front of us mercifully blocking our view. 

    No one wears glitz to an Irish sing along restaurant unless they seriously plan on singing. By now, my stomach was doing spaghetti/carrot flip-flops, so I said to Jeanne. “Let’s get out of here, before those thugs block the door.” I only hit my head on the twinkling basket once before the aria began---and Puccini turned over in his grave.

    Esther Blumenfeld (shut up and pass the Guinness)