Tuesday, April 17, 2018


I want to invite you to our Comedy Writers Network. (April 2018)

If you scan down, you will be able to read forty original comedy short stories by just some of our very talented members from our Sun City and Summerlin's Writers and Poets Workshop - Las Vegas.

(Scan down)

Over several months I've tested the response to this new project and now determine it's a success. We want to thank our Italian bloggers that helped to make this site possible, some days even surpassing the U.S. numbers. 

We hope you enjoy this new site and will share a few laughs with family and friends. Remember, I will be posting new material almost every week for your enjoyment. Some of our members were professional stand up comedy writers and  continue to publish  their material.

Jerry Silvers - Webmaster

Your comments and recommendations are appreciated. If you like this kind of material, become one of my followers and you will automatically receive all the new postings. (Jerry Silvers - Google + Profile)


Thursday, April 12, 2018

'THE PUMPKIN SAGA' By Roger Storkamp

Two perky green sprouts broke through the crust of earth in the King’s pumpkin patch.
 “Aha, what have we here?” cried the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch. Crying back then meant something quite different. He could have hollered this discovery, but hollering had less dignity than crying, usually reserved for the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Swine, the lowest of king’s keepers. Whenever “Pig-hoo-o-o-ey” announcing hog-breakfast bristled throughout the cool predawn air, every swine in the realm—plus a few hungry serfs on hands and knees—gathered around the slop trough.
“What is it, my husband?” carelessly omitting his title, Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch, as required when she and everyone else addressed her husband in public. However, with the predawn mist still encircling the castle parapet, Rapunzel’s crest of golden hair had yet to drape over the window ledge in eager anticipation of a burst of morning sunlight—it seemingly gained length with each passing month. The balding king had a thing for long hair. Once her braids reached the ground—tested for length each morning at sunrise—the Arch Duke’s nephew was to marry Virgin Rapunzel.

Knees and heads touching, the wife of Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch hollered rather than cried (an obvious slam to her husband and a secret desire to have her duties reassigned), “Too close. The plants are too close, my husband, Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch.” (The sun had already peeked across the moat, creeping toward the castle window.) “We must cull one seedling to favor the other.” She blanched as vapors of nourishment from peasants’ night soil assaulted her nose.
Her husband whispered, “It is treason to destroy the king’s property.”
The wife of the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch glanced toward the castle window, taking a huge gamble. “Screw the king but save his heirs.”
A voice from the castle window, “Don’t despair, wife of the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch.” A braided rope of golden hair unfurled to within inches of the ground.
Glances exchanged, a secret co-conspiracy hatched.
The wife of the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch scowled at her husband. “Don’t blame me if these two plants produce pumpkins no larger than the King’s royal balls,” and off she pranced to conspire with the long-haired princess.

At his daughter’s request, the king appointed the former wife of the Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch to Protector-of-the-Kings-Hairs, an unfortunate misspelling of heirs that cost the Royal Printer any future progeny he might have hoped for.

We must move right along with this tale (600 word limit). In a fit of passion, the Arch Duke’s nephew stole the key to the princess’s suite just as the princess dipped below the window sill, The Keeper-of-the-Royal-Hairs releasing by inches a braided of golden rope from the coil near her feet.
“Her golden triangle has been preserved,” cried the Keeper-of-the-Royal-Hairs.
“Alas,” yelped the Arch Duke’s nephew. “And I came prepared,” his toga protruding.
Through a breathy whisper, The Keeper-of-the-Royal-Hairs chortled, “Well, I’m still available.”
The Arch Duke’s nephew cleared his throat and declared, “What the Hell. As long as I’m prepared.” He kicked the door shut.
The Arch Duke’s nephew and his betrothed, the ex-wife of the Keeper of the King’s Pumpkin Patch, ex-Keeper-of-the-Royal-Hairs were both reassigned as Keepers-of-the-King’s-Pig-Sty. Apparently, her screams of delight had attracted the attention of the king who rushed to his daughter’s bedroom at the most inopportune moment.

The prediction of two tiny pumpkins turned out to be half true; one tiny and shriveled, other and any king would be proud to have as one of his own. The Keeper of the King’s Pumpkin Patch, in a desperate attempt to justify the shriveled pumpkin, carried it to the court on a satin pillow and made the unfortunate comparison to that part of the king’s anatomy his ex wife had so brilliantly alluded to.

Unattended by the late Keeper-of-the-King’s-Pumpkin-Patch, the larger pumpkin remained in the King’s Pumpkin Patch contemplating its future, until the night of the King’s Ball to find a wife for his son, the prince. (I forgot to mention that Rapunzel had a twin brother.)
This Grand Pumpkin observed six white horses trot past the King’s Pumpkin Patch pulling the chariot of three young ladies, two ugly and one beautiful wearing glass slippers.


Copyright 2018 Summerlin’s Writers and Poets Workshop – Las Vegas, NV.
Our author Roger Storkamp - check out his websites and books available on these websites.


Scan down to read up to forty comedy submissions from our very talented writers and poets. Your comments and recommendations are appreciated. If you enjoy our two blogs, join us as a follower and automatically receive notice of new postings. (Google + Profile Jerry Silvers)

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

"A SPACE MAN STORY" By Mort Harris

I was sitting on a bench facing the avenue when a stranger sat down besides me. I was willing to share the bench, except that he was wearing a space suit. I tried not to stare but he was studying a travel brochure, not just your ordinary catalog of places to visit, planets and stars filled the pages.

“Excuse me” I said, “What country are we in?”
And that surprised me, “The United States” I said curiously.
“Is that where Washington D.C. and the Grand Canyon is?”
“Yes” I said, wondering if I was about to be made a fool of.
“Have you been there?” he asked
“Yes” I replied.
“Is it worth visiting?”
“Why are you asking me these questions? Are you new here?” I asked.
“I am from outer space.”
I checked out his spade suit. “Are you serious?” I asked.
“Can’t you see this globe over my head? Do you think I am imitating a gold fish? Yes, I’m from outer space!”
Could this be true I wondered. “How did you get here?”
“In a space vehicle, of course.”
“Did you come here alone?”
“No” he said, “I’m here with a tour group. Your planet is one of the destination we booked.”
“Where your come from, they book tours of planets?”  I asked.
“Yes, it’s a hassle, but I enjoy it.”
“Do you do many tours?” I asked.
“They are too expensive for me.”
“But you were able to afford this trip?”
“Yes, I had frequent flyer miles, Besides your planet is one of the cheapest tours.”
“How is flying in your space ship?”
“First, you have to book your flight light years in advance, then it’s stand in line to check in your bags, which you hope will be there when you reach your destination, then it’s going through security till you get on board.”
“How would you describe a flight on the space ship?”
“It’s pretty smooth; you do get some turbulence when you get to the Milky Way.”
“It must be boring on such a long trip?”
“We have low budget “B” movies and when we reach cruising altitude we can open up our seat belts and float to the ceiling.”
“Do they feed you?”
“The food in first class is good, but in coach where I sit, the food is terrible.”
“How come you speak English so well?”

He said, “I was just going to ask you the same question? How is your backward life here on Earth?” “We” he said proudly, “are from a more advanced society, morally and intellectually.  We are superior, morally and technologically. You here, are far below other cultures in the universe. You are weak in many areas. Especially your morals. In my society, we are very pure morally. We pride ourselves in our standard of morality.”

Suddenly, his phone rings. “It’s my tour group” he says, “They are looking for me.” “Yes” he answered on the phone. “I am talking to a native now. Yes, he seems friendly, no he hasn’t attacked me yet. “Okay” he said, “I’ll ask him.” He turned to me and said modestly “The guys want to know where we get some girls?”
Copyright 2018 Summerlin’s Writers and Poets Workshop
Las Vegas, NV.
Our author Mort Harris

Scan down to read many new comedy postings. We appreciate your comments and recommendation.
Check out our Summerlin’s Blog: summerlinww.blogspot.com

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

"LUCY'S GRAND SCHEME" By Jerry Silvers


                            (Breakfast with Lucy and Ricky)       

"Ricky, since Ricky Jr. is now in school full time, maybe it’s time I come back to the club and see how I can help.”

“No way Lucy, it took me two weeks to settle my team down from the havoc you did last time. Why don’t you try some volunteer week, work at McDonalds or maybe go back to school?” 

(Two months later, Lucy has been able to keep her secret – almost impossible for her, but she did it.)

“Ricky, I invited Fred and Ethel to come downstairs and join us, I have a special  announcement.”

“I hope you’re not pregnant – jokingly and kisses her!”
 (Fred and Ethel are now at the door.)

“Please everyone please, take a seat.  I have something important to show you.”  She holds up her frame diploma. “I just graduated from the school of Astrology and I am now a certified Astrologist.”  

Everyone applauds! “What’s an astrologist?” Everyone said simultaneously.

(Ricky)       “Lucy, are you telling us you’re a fortune teller?”

“No Ricky, Astrology is very scientific, everything is based on the Stars location at your birth.  Many Kings and Generals throughout history made decisions based on Astrology. Now take a look at my new business cards. I am offering a complete Astrological chart for an introductory price of $10.00.”

(Ricky) “Lucy, how many of these cards did you print up and distribute?’

“I only order 100 to start and posted about 50.”
Fred interrupts, “Lucy where are you going to run this business?’

“Right here in our apartment, so I can be home and watch Little Ricky and do all the cooking and housework.”

(Fred) “No you can’t Lucy, you can’t run a business out this apartment under our lease, I’ll have to evict you. You probably don’t even have a business license.”

“Fred, I am bringing you and Ethel as my partners, I really think this is a winner and I can’t do it alone.”

“Now, you’re talking.  Ethel and I will be glad to help!”

(Ricky)   “Wait one minute, we have a problem here, and everyone hold their horses.”. “You can’t print your home address on the business card and phone number, people will be showing and calling up day and night. We need to collect all those you posted and re-print them with a P.O. Box number and will have to bring in a second phone line and message recorder.  Ethel, can you go along with Lucy and collect the cards before the phone start ringing?”   

(Ring, Ring, Ring!) 

(Knock, Knock, Knock)  "Too Late!"

(Day one of Lucy’s new business)

Lucy looks gorgeous with her hair done, makeup, and dressed in a business suit. She is on the way to a guest appearance on the local television news show and several radio interviews.
She’s taken over the dining room table as her office and it’s now scattered with Astrology charts, reference books, typewriter, typing paper, envelopes, and files.

(Day number ten of Lucy’s new business)

Lucy still looks great, hair done, makeup just right and she is dressed in a silk blouse and jeans. She now comes to the realization that it takes her almost an hour to create the chart and type up each request. She needs to raise her price to at least $20.00.  Fred wants to place an ad in the local paper at $20.00 a chart. They all agreed, it was a good idea.

(Day 45 of Lucy’s new business)

The impact of the newspaper ad along with the television and radio interviews have now taken its hold. Orders are coming in droves. Lucy is now working all day and way into the night trying to keep up. She’s in her housecoat and pajama’s.  And her hair hasn’t been done in days and forget about the makeup. Ricky Jr. hasn’t spoken to his mom in three days, just occasional aha or okay, as she acts like she is in another world.

Ricky is taking notice and very concerned. Their home and life is a disaster and Lucy is so exhausted she is walking around in circles and can’t sleep.

(Ethel) “I quit, the phones don’t stop ringing, people want their money back, they say they received the wrong chart, they want to talk to Lucy, they want to drop it off because it’s a life and death situation.  I can’t sleep and we can’t keep up with the orders.

(Fred)  “I quit also, the bank said that there were too many bounced checks, people forget to give us a return address, they forget to give us their birth date. I’m getting calls from the better business bureau and the cities commission on illegal enterprises. And when do we get paid?”

Lucy just stands there in a daze exhausted and crying.

Ricky takes her in his arms and says, “Lucy, don’t cry we will just close the business and that will be the end of it.”

“But Ricky, I don’t want to lose Fred and Ethel as our friends!”

“Don’t worry they will get over it, they love you.”

“Maybe when I get well, we can tell our clients, we were shut down for renovations, like they do in the restaurant business.”

“No Lucy, forget about going back into business. I want you to stay home and take care of little Ricky and me."


Copyright 2017 Summerlin’s Writers and Poets Workshop – Las Vegas, NV.

Visit our Summerlin's Writers and Poets Workshop to read several new postings by just some of our talented writers and poets.


Saturday, March 31, 2018

'INTER-OFFICE MEMO' By Roger Storkamp


Dear C. J.

         A brief note to thank you and your lovely missus for hosting our office party.  Not many bosses are so gracious as to invite their employees into their private mansions.  However, I feel a need to clarify a few matters and, by my wife’s reckoning, make a few apologies.
You must understand I’d been duped with what turned out to be a false rumor.  I now realize your bathroom, fancy as it is, doesn’t have a solid gold toilet.  But, I believed what I heard and, as a result, I wandered on to the bandstand and accidentally peed into that guy’s tuba.  You’ll have to admit, it gave a Lawrence Welk effect with the bubbles and all.
Since I was already at the microphone with everyone gawking at me, I decided to entertain them with a few phrases from the Star Spangled Banner.  Not many people I know can fart that range of notes. A guy from my bowling team made it all the way to bombs bursting in air before he crapped.  Talk about a coincidence.  Bombs bursting in air!!  Ha! ha!
The tack-on-the-chair gag is an oldie but goodie when a party lags, and what could be funnier than sticking the parson.  He did, shall we say, rise to the occasion, and with a reference to the Almighty in a voice I hadn’t heard him use in church.
The incident at the punch bowl could have been predictable.  I had just gotten my new set of teeth that morning, and the smoke from the candles irritated my nose.  I couldn’t stop sneezing.  I scooped them out with the ladle rather than just reach in and grab.
The matter of the Ming Vase on the fireplace mantle in your bedroom.  During the tour of your home, you made a point to tell us it contained your mother’s ashes.  If she smoked in your bedroom, I figured I could, too, so I lit up.  I was about to snuff out my cigarette in your mother’s fancy ashtray—by the way, doesn’t she ever empty it?   Well, as my butt hit your mother’s ash, Missus C. J. burst into the room, grabbed my arm and, well, that was when Ming went ping.  She passed out on the bed—and to think my wife thought I should apologize for getting drunk—so I picked out the broken glass and swept the mess into the fireplace.  From the amount of your mother’s ash, she must be a pipe or cigar smoker.  You don’t want that stuff tracked through your house.
I am willing to replace the ashtray with any from my collection, except my favorite from Déjà vu.  It displays a girl lying naked on her back with her legs spread, a glass ashtray molded to her stomach.  If you exhale into her pursed lips, a sexy voice says, “You got me hot,” and smoke finds its way out, if you know what I mean.

Other than those few complications, I had a good time and am looking forward to the next party you plan to host.

Your Loyal Employee,
Jeffery Goans
PS  I don’t mean to take advantage of the Holiday spirit and your good nature, but I am awaiting my next promotion at the office.


Dear Jeffery,
You outdid yourself, and I am rewarding you with a pink slip.
Your former boss,

Copyright 2018 Summerlin's Writers & Poets Workshop - Las Vegas, NV.

Our author Roger Storkamp - check out his websites and books available on these websites.

 Scan down to read forty original comedy material from our very talented writers and poets. Your comments and recommendations are appreciate. Join our following on Jerry Silvers Google profile and receive updates on both blogs. 

Thursday, March 29, 2018

"NO TURNING BACK" By Mitchell L. Phillips

"And this concludes the reading of Conrad C. Klamen's last will and testament.”
To me my father left me his diary. To my mother he left his bills.
With tears still streaming from my eyes, I ran into the bathroom with my inheritance, the only place of privacy in our one room flat.

I opened to the first page and read, “Dear Diary, I went to the Peking Palace restaurant for lunch; below was a phrase that said, “If you walk a crooked road you will never find your fortune.” Signed Conrad Cookie Klamen. So, that was what the C in his middle initial stood for.

The next entry…“He who always walks with the sun at his back is destined to walk in circles,” My pulse quickened as I leafed through each page. I put the diary under my pillow and went for a walk, my head spinning from all this knowledge.

My mother May Ling had a dinner of meatballs and spaghetti waiting for me.

I asked how she met daddy and she told me how she nursed him back to health after a bad case of MSG poisoning. During his convalescence, they fell in love.  “Your father was a great man but he squandered his talents, never making much money. Now you must go into the world and find your destiny.”

 My mother helped me pack my knapsack and I was on my way.

I was only ten at the time.

I followed the stars and the Sun to find my destiny. Years passed, I dabbled in many religions, always returning to the wisdom of my father’s diary. Soon I had followers who sat at my feet waiting for words of wisdom. From donations of my flock, we bought some land in California overlooking the ocean, built a temple and in a glass temperature and humidity controlled case, placed my father’s diary. My mother joined the group and attended to our finances.

I embraced celibacy, after reading a diary entry that said, “Let no man or woman dissuade you from your destiny.”  Then Marsha entered our retreat. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Each day she sat to my right during lunch at the China Lantern Restaurant and would open my fortune cookie and read the saying.

My feelings for her grew… I would search my father’s diary looking for some wisdom that would allow Marsha and me to share more than just our chow Mein. I finally found an answer and would have discovered it sooner if not for the soy sauce stain. It said, “No man can live complete without his rib.”

The next afternoon over a plate of spareribs, I proposed… shocked by my proposal she rejected me.

My public proposal rippled thru the compound. Members became agitated; my purity of purpose came under question.  When I told them “no man can live without his rib”, they replied “bullshit!” In a short time, my spiritual guidance fell on deaf ears. My strength had been their strength. My followers began to drift away, replaced by lawyers trying to retrieve their donations.

I left with my father’s diary and my mother May Ling. We left no forwarding address. I put my arm on her shoulders and said “When dark clouds gather it is time to get off the golf course.” And she looked up at me, tapped the knapsack she carried… the same one I had left home with and replied… “my son… when the rains come it always pays to keep your knapsack full of hundred dollar bills.”

Copyright 2018 Summerlin's Writers and Poets Workshop - Las Vegas, NV.

Mitchell L. Phillips authored four eBooks: Rent a Muse, The E
Mitch's books are available on Amazon.Com 
Scan down to read several new comedy postings and visit our 
Writers and Poets Workshop Blog

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

"NO TURNING BACK" By Ginny Vennare (A Fictional Story)

I’ve always been a patriotic person and when I saw the NFL taking a knee during the national anthem it put me over the edge.  I wanted to make a point, that most Americans were more respectful to our country so at twenty years old I decided to join the army… all 5’2” 118 lbs. of me.

My parents wanted me to stay in college and my mother assured me that women in the military were all lesbians.  My father was especially angry and started to call me “Butch” around the house.  It was a difficult time but my decision was firm and there was no turning back.

The day came for my recruitment interview. The woman was friendly and informative but kept staring at my pink, ruffled blouse.
She said, “You know, the army uniforms aren’t very stylish.”
“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll be fine.”
“There is no a no make- up policy.”
“I’ll be fine. Sign me up.”

I met Sargent Allen the first day of basic training in Houston Texas. She was a tall muscular woman with short brown hair. She had one eye brow extending the entire length of her forehead. I wanted to attack her with a pair of tweezers but since she had about 20 lbs. on me I reconsidered.  Her face squinted up as she barked out orders.
“Line up in alphabetical order. Count off beginning with one. Now line up in three lines with 8 in each line.”

Since my name began with a “V” I was in the last row. 

We marched to the supply tent to get our military clothes.
“Now, take your clothes to the barracks, change into them and meet back on the field in fifteen minutes.”

We were all lined up on the field like dominoes waiting further orders. I was the shortest woman on the field. The others  looked like they worked out on a regular basis. I was the Beetles Bailey of the troop.

Number twenty-three stood next to me. She must have been six feet tall but seemed friendly so I started up a conversation.  

“My name is Ginny, what’s yours?”
“Margaret.” (She had a very deep voice)
 “What made you join the army?”
“I heard they were starting a very special unit here.”
“How so?”
“Well let’s just say my name used to be Mike.”
“Oh, an unusual name for a girl.”
“I’m trans.”
“What… you mean you used to work for Trans Am?”
“No, I’m a transgender woman.”
“Uh…a woman none the less. We’re both here for the same reason, to serve our country.”
“Did you know that this whole troop is made up of women like me?”
“You mean…trans..”
“Yes, like me. What about you?”
“Ahh, here comes the boss.”

Sargent Allen came onto the field.
I got my courage up and said, “Sargent Allen, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Make it snappy number twenty-two.”

I tried to whisper.
“I think I’m in the wrong troop.”
“Explain please.”
“I mean I wasn’t born with any extra parts, you know, down there. Everyone is so much stronger than me I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up.”
“Quit whining and come with me.”
She grabbed me by the collar and practically dragged me across the field to another building. There was a woman typing at a desk as we entered. The Sargent started to speak,
“Louise, this little twerp was mistakenly assigned to the “special” troop that I command. Please get her re-assigned to Troop 5 ASAP.”
“Yes sir Sargent Allen, right away Sargent Allen.”

I could have melted into a puddle of relief I was so happy.

I was immediately reassigned and finished out my 2 years of inactive service in Germany and 2 years of active duty in Afghanistan.  I made my parents proud and never regretted my commitment of no turning back.
Copyright 2018 Sun City Writers Workshop - Las Vegas, NV.

 Our author Virginia Vennare


Scan down to read several new postings. Our members appreciate your comments and recommendations. Join us as a follower under Jerry Silvers profile. I publish new original material several times a week on both blogs. 

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Saturday, March 24, 2018

"ASSERTIVE? MAYBE." By Mort Harris

I always wanted to be assertive, but I guess it was not in my nature. I wanted to grab the bull by the horns but I'd end up getting gored.
There were times I wanted to make a statement, but I always backed down. I tried putting my foot down, but it would always get stepped on. I just follow along.

For a vacation, my temperament was best suited for a leisurely cruse or a hotel by beach; not my wife. Excitement and adventure was in her genes. She packed up for a hike in the woods one day.

"I'm not going," I told her.
"What are you saying?" she asked.
"I'm asserting myself, I'm not going."
"Assert yourself when we get back, pick up the bags."

On the trail she pointed out the trees and dead leaves, when suddenly I heard a rustling in the bushes.

"What's that?"
"It's only a squirrel," she said, "listen to the birds."

All I wanted was to find a small snack stand somewhere. Suddenly, I froze, terrified. I heard a growl.

"Oh relax. It's just your stomach."
"Well, it sounded angry." We continued on, me hoping to find an arrow pointing to a sign that said "EXIT."

In winter, she dragged me to the ski slopes. I have trouble standing -up on ice and here I am struggling to walk with slats tied to my feet.

"How are we going to get up the mountain?" I asked.
"On the T-Bar, of course."
"It doesn't look very safe," I said.
"Don't be a baby, just get on."

I stood at the top of the slope, sore from the T-Bar slapping my ass. It was a long way back. "How are we going to get down?"

"Follow me," she said. 
I tumbled down the slope after her.

Next we were up in a small plane. She strapped a parachute on my back and another on my belly. 

"What's this," I asked, "a barf bag."

"That's your reserve parachute," she said.
"A reserve chute? What do I need that for?"
"In case you're main chute doesn't open."
"You mean my main chute may not open?"
"We'll worry about that later," she said.
"I'm worrying about it now."
"Look," she said, "I've dived before and I'm still here."
"I've never dived before," I said, "that's why I'm still here!"
"You'll get the hand of it, follow me." She jumped.
"Aren't you coming with us," I asked the pilot.
"I have to fly the plane." he responded.
"Why don't you jump?" asked the pilot.
"I forgot how to open the chute."
"Didn't she show you how to open it?"
"I wasn't paying attention, I was too busy praying."
"You have a toilet on this plane?"

I plunged in a panic as I passed my floating wife.
She yelled, "You're getting the hang of it."

Since then she has softened and is more down to earth. My wife slowed down physically, she's now part of the Police Swat team, but she was still obstinate.

Copyright Mort Harris 2018 Las Vegas, NV.

Mort's a long time member of the Sun City Writers Workshop and  over the years had contributed comedy material to many famous stand-up comedians. Scan down to read some of his other submissions. 

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Tuesday, March 13, 2018



Customer Service Department
Atlas Airlines
2500 Kings Plaza
Garden City, NY 10022

Dear Sir or Madam:

            Although you will be hearing from my lawyer—J. Worthington Abernathy III-- in the near future, I felt it incumbent upon me to enlighten you concernng my mental state following my unwarranted expulsion from your Flight #770 from Boston to Las Vegas. Blaming me for that unscheduled landing in Buffalo, NY, garnered me both bad press and significant business losses.

            I have been a member of your Atlas Friendly Fliers program for years, amassing many frequent flier miles. What must be noted, however, is my increasing fear of flying. Although I flew for many years without trepidation, the increasing number of terror threats and the burgeoning number of unpleasant incidents aboard flights, caused me to become aerophobic to the point where I was unable to fly. It was my personal physician, Dr. Harold Bornstein (the same doctor who declared our president the healthiest man ever to run for the presidency) who suggested that I might be able to resume flying with the assistance of an emotional support animal.

            As a celebrated author with a successful writing career that takes me to far-flung places for radio and TV appearances and book-signings, I have chosen to live in an upscale and luxurious, but quite small, condo in Boston, allowing me the freedom to travel disencumbered. As you might imagine, I have very little time to devote to the typical companion animal. Dogs and cats would require too much care to contemplate. Instead of emotional support, they would cause me emotional distress! After researching various alternatives…voila…I adopted Terrance!  No one in my building objected and when I consulted with Dr. Bornstein (remember, he’s that same doctor who declared President Trump to be the healthiest man to ever run for president) he thought my solution was perfect and gladly wrote the documentation letter you require to bring aboard an emotional support animal.

As an aside: I never realized how pet ownership could enrich one’s life until I adopted Terrance! It has brought me incredible satisfaction to greet him each day and to see him attack his meals with gusto! His small size makes him so easy to care for and as long as he stays in his cage, I love watching him run around. I anticipated no difficulty when bringing him on Flight #770.

Imagine my dismay when after takeoff, the woman next to me screamed bloody murder upon glimpsing Terrance. For heaven’s sake, he was in his cage! He was actually sleeping at that moment…silent as a lamb. When the flight attendant came over, she too became very upset and asked how I’d managed to get Terrance onto the plane. I explained that he’d been in my purse and I’d only taken him out after sitting down. I thought that would be the end of it, but the next thing I knew, the pilot announced that the plane was making an unscheduled landing in Buffalo. And that’s where Terrance and I were escorted off the plane by an air marshal. Oh, the indignity!

My therapist has told me that it may take years of work to overcome the emotional distress I suffered. I believe I followed all of your regulations and it’s certainly not my fault if the passengers surrounding me were arachnophobes. Terrance was pretty traumatized too, as much as a tarantula can be. He hasn’t been himself since we were unceremoniously thrown off that plane, and his entomologist believes he may have injured one of his fangs in the scuffle.

I hope you are prepared for the lawsuit to come because Attorney Abernathy and I are in this for the long haul.

Regretfully yours, from a former loyal customer,

Hortense J. Beakworthy

Copyright 2018 Sun City Writers Workshop - Las Vegas, NV.

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I always watch the commercials on TV for this face cream that instantly makes you look younger. Didn’t know if it really worked or not but decided to send away for it anyhow.

On the day it arrived I was excited as could be and immediately  put it on my face, following the directions by patting it ever so slightly on to my skin.

Only a few minutes had passed but when I looked into the mirror a younger woman was staring back at me.
I couldn’t wait until my husband Jim came home to show him. Every time I went past a mirror I couldn’t resist looking at myself. This cream was unbelievable.  

There was some shopping that needed to be done for a romantic evening I was planning with my husband, but first I thought I would take a nap.

45 minutes was all I needed to be rejuvenated for my shopping trip. Off I went to Lee’s Liquor for a nice bottle of Merlot.  While checking out the cashier asked me for some identification. “What…wait…are you serious?”

“Yes mam I am.” 
“I’m 74 years old.”
“ Just show me your ID and I’ll sell you the wine.”
“I want to speak to your boss.”
A nice older man approached and introduced himself as Ralph, the store manager.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“No problem. This cashier wants to see my ID before he will sell me a bottle of wine.”
“Yes, that’s our policy mam.”
“Is he playing some sort of joke on me? I’m whey over 21”

I pulled out my driver’s license & gave it to him.

 “Sorry mam this isn’t your license. This woman’s picture is much older looking than you.”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. All this stress was affecting my bladder and I had to go to the bathroom. I excused myself and went into the ladies room. I was finishing up, washing my hands and looked into the mirror above the sink. Holly Jumpin Ballheaded Rebecca!! I looked like a teenager. I was getting younger and younger as the day wore on.

Since they wouldn’t  sell me the wine I left the store in a huff and got quite a few stares. The cashier and Ralph were whispering and laughing as I walked out.

I had to get home before Jim to try and wash off some of this cream.

I rubbed and rubbed but that little teenager was still staring back at me. I heard the door and Jim shouting, “Honey I’m home & I bought your favorite bottle of wine for a nice dinner tonight.”
I walked into the living room. Jim looked startled, “”Who in the hell are you?’
“It’s me.”
“If you’ve done anything to harm my wife you’ll have hell to pay.”
“It’s me Jim, honest.”
“I don’t know who you are, my wife is my age and you obviously are not. Get out right now.”

I was begging him now.

“Look (as I ripped off my clothes) is this the body of a teenager? Do you recognize me now?”

“That’s my wife’s body alright. If you put a bag over your head then I would probably believe you.”

“Honey, just tell me you still love me. Jim…Jim. I was calling his name out louder and louder…
Next thing I know he was sitting on the bed beside me.”
“Ginny, are you alright? How was your nap? Did you have a bad dream?”
“You can’t even imagine.”
“Your skin looks so nice and smooth, did your new cream come today?”

I jumped out of bed, grabbed the cream and threw it into the waste paper basket. I was definitely not ready for a “Life Changing Experience.”

Copyright 2018 Sun City Writers Workshop - Las Vegas, NV. 

 Our author Virginia Vennare.

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