Spring and War

   Ah, Spring. Time for regrowth, daffodils and crocuses …

… and War.

   This weekend, the trees opened up their whatever it is they open and  armies of pollen spilled out of its orifices like over-caffeinated Huns. Riding the great steeds of air currents, they galloped mightily towards the welcoming dampness of nasal passages in the country of Norm, and encountering no resistance poured viciously inside whooping great war cries.

   From his post near the front, Commander Histamine  rallied his troops and they quickly poured viscous gunk into the passages in an attempt to slow down the horde of pollen.  He realized that this would cut off vital supply of air which would be needed back at the home base of Lungs, but like all great leaders  he also knew that there were certain sacrifices that would have to be made. The citizenry of Norm would have difficulty breathing, but at least they would not be overwhelmed by the hordes.

   But the gunk was not enough, because by sheer numbers alone the great band of pollen overwhelmed the heavy goo, leaving their fallen brethren stuck in the tremendous bog of gunk, and screaming like banshees the pollen swept deeper into the sanctum.  Commander Histamine knew he would have to use the big cannons, so waving his cilia, he gestured to his bombardiers, who promptly primed the heavy cannons.

**WAH-CHOO!**

   The cannons rocked from deep inside the fortress and a great explosive force blew past the cavern with explosive force.

   One of his soldiers rushed up and saluted. They’re assaulting the eyes now,” he said in a rushed rush.

   “Flood the ducts,” Commander Histamine commanded.

   “Yessir.”  Immediately buckets of tears poured from the ducts kept prepared for this moment (and other moments generally related to sadness, hysterical laughter or choking on a cookie) washing the pollen down the cool slopes of Mount Cheek.

   “Turn up the itchies,” the Commander shouted.

   “Yessir.”

   A moment later an enormous knuckle appeared, and rubbed the itchies.

   “I think they’re on the run now, Sir,” one of his soldiers reported, unable to keep a wide grin from his face.

   But before Commander Histamine could reply, he noticed another airborne attack sweeping into the Cavern of Nostril. “Oh, no, that was just the first wave!” Commander Histamine cried. “Send in the backup forces. Prepare more gunk!” The great engines that created gunk could be heard gurgling at high velocity.

   Immediately, the large group of Commander Histamine’s forces which had been kept in reserve, poured into the passages, their sheer numbers clogging the airways. “Link cilia,” the Commander ordered. And the forces linked their cilia together, creating an impenetrable wall.

   A soldier from the rear made his way through. “Sir, Headquarters is reporting respiratory problems.”

   Commander Histamine gritted what would have been teeth if he’d been humanoid. “No matter. This is a war we must win.”

   “But sir.”

   Commander Histamine swept the young soldier out of the way. “No, son. This must be finished today.”

   The second wave of pollen rushed into the cavern, whooping their war cries. “Do it for our children,” Commander Histamine urged. Buoyed by his courage, his forces rallied and stood strong, swelling the passages with their bodies alone.

   But as they packed the passages, the great air currents that kept the home base of Lungs pumping slowed to a trickle. But in his enthusiasm, Commander Histamine barely noticed.  Another soldier appeared, “Sir, Home Base is reporting critical overloads. They need oxygen.”

   Swept into a war frenzy, Commander Histamine was oblivious, and pushed the young soldier out of his way. “Fight on!” he cried. “More gunk.”

   Another soldier popped in and said in a Scottish brogue, “But Captain, I dunno how much more the engines can take!”

   “I’m Commander, you fool,” Commander Histamine growled. “Just bring me more gunk!”

   “Yessir,” the soldier saluted with fifty of his cilia, and rushed off to man the gunk engine.

   There was a great wheezing sound as home base of Lungs ramped up the two generators.

   “Sir!” a soldier cried. “Headquarters has demanded that you stand down.”

   “I stand down for no man,” Commander Histamine growled.

   “But Sir, another message from Headquarters ordering you to stand down.”

   “NO!” Commander Histamine cried, completely swept into a war frenzy.

   Suddenly a whoosh of air rushed in from outside, sweeping aside both the hordes of pollen and Histamine’s troops in one great flood of steroid spray.  “Oh, no!” Commander Histamine cried, as the Anti-Histamines released by his own allies rode in on their great war horses, grabbing him by the cilia and dragging him into the dungeons to stand trial for war crimes where he would ultimately be released to a hospital for wounded war heroes. For he was a hero, after all

   Soon calm was restored in the country of Norm. Yes, there were tense relations, and respiration and tension were at high alert,  but oxygen could make it to the engines in Lungs and peace reigned.

   In the distance, a commando robin dropped down in ambush over a worm sentry which had strayed too far from its post.

   “Aaaghh!!” the worm cried, as he was hauled off to enemy headquarters for questioning…

…and more. 

Norm

www.normcowie.com

Wonder

For some reason, I can’t stop wondering about weird things that other people don’t seem to wonder about.  In my mind, I think it’s that they don’t want to wonder about it and are just as happy to let someone else do the wondering. Which I’m happy to do, though I wonder why.

Today I found myself wondering about the whole left-handed, right-handed thing. I mean, how weird is it that we have two perfectly matched arms, virtually identical - though opposite, but we develop a slightly better relationship with one of them over the other? It’s sort of like the mother bird preferring one hatchling to another, sometimes to the point of shoving the non-preferred one out of the nest.

Some people do use both hands nearly equally, pianists and other musical people … whom I don’t understand because I’m not musical at all. And since I don’t understand musicians at all, well, we’ll move on and ignore them.

But say you took a dozen guys from a high school baseball team and asked them to throw a baseball. They’d throw splitters, and fastballs, corkscrews and sliders, and impress the heck out of you, until you tell them to take off the glove and throw with their opposite arm. Then they’d look like a bunch of women … not women who can throw, mind you, but women who can’t throw, but who otherwise are very attractive and intelligent and probably masters of many tasks I couldn’t handle, so please don’t take offense.

So what is it about lefties, who seem to be more artistic; and righties, who are more analytical. It’s something in the brain, because, as you know, the left side of our brain controls the right side of our bodies, and vice versa, hence, lefties are the only ones in their right minds. But again, why is any of this the case? Aren’t our brains complex enough to allow us to use both arms to the same extent? Or because we only utilize 20% of our brain, is that what stifles our ability to master both arms? Maybe if we found a way to use our entire brain, we could learn to master both arms.

I can understand worship of the Hindu goddess Kali, if for nothing else that she is equally adept using any of her many arms. Imagine having four arms and trying to butter your toast, or choosing which arm to use in a ping pong game. I couldn’t handle it. No matter she’s a goddess.

But all of this wondering is good for me. It gives me something to do when I’m swimming, or trying to fall asleep. And there are so many things to wonder about. Like hair. Because before the invention of scissors and SportClips, how did cavemen keep from tripping over their hair and falling victim to voracious cave weasels?

I wonder.

Norm

www.normcowie.com

I write a regular (award winning!) column for a credit magazine, and thought I'd pop in and post the most recent one here. The subject is labor charges by a contractor when ... well, I think you'll get the gist.  Enjoy.

“We got problem,” Grog said.

Trug lifted his eyes to the orangutan shape looming over him.  Trug was squatting on a rock outside of his cave sorting grubs in a sea shell he’d gotten in the nearby bay. He sighed heavily. “Just because we’re cavemen, it doesn’t mean you can’t use proper diction.”

(Actually, this was mostly grunted, but in the interests of story-telling, we’ll use contemporary language.)

Grog frowned, his heavy eyebrows sliding over thick supraorbital ridges like water over the Niagra.  “We gots problem?”

Trug snatched a grub attempting a kamakazi move over the lip of the shell. “No, we have a problem.”

Grog’s mouth dropped open, releasing a small cloud of Crest-not-discovered breath into Earth’s young atmosphere. “How’d you know? I didn’t tell you yet.”

“You just told me we did,” Trug said. Grog’s lips pursed, but before he could say anything, Trug interrupted. “Never mind. Tell me what the problem is.”

“See this?” Grog said. The hairy caveman lifted an arm that had never seen an antiperspirant.

“Agh, put it down!  Put it down!” Trug gasped, eyes watering from the stench. When his eyes cleared of water, he saw what Grog was holding. “A club? What about it?”

“This was supposed to be a crocodile-killing club,” Grog said.

“No, that’s a badger-killing club,” Trug said, after his expert eyes examined the ridged, bumpy club. “Is that why you have that?”  He pointed at Grog’s leg which had a fair sized crocodile clamped onto it.

Grog just grunted, and whacked the crocodile between the eyes. The big lizard snarled and bit down harder. “Krunk tell me this crocodile club,” Grog said, grimacing.

Trug closed his eyes. Krunk was a caveman from up the river who made the clubs that Trug sold to the caveman. He wasn’t supposed to deal directly with Trug’s customers, but once in awhile he did, and almost every time it caused a problem. So Trug tried to keep the talented clubmaker away from the paying customer.

“I want money back,” Grog said.

Trug sighed again. “You didn’t pay me money. We haven’t invented money yet, remember?  You gave me three pelts for this.”

“That’s right. Okay, I want my pelts back.”

“We do have a pelts-back guaranty, but wouldn’t you rather we do an exchange?” Trug said, always a salesman first.

Grog frowned. “You do that?”

Trug showed nearly carnivore incisors in a smile, which probably back then wouldn’t have appeared as scary as if it were seen today. “Sure, hand me the club.”

Grog smacked the crocodile again, which stubbornly held on, and then handed it over. In a moment, Trug was back with a larger club. “Here you go. And because of my vendor’s mistake, I won’t charge any more for the larger club.”

“Well. That’s okay, but what about labor charges?”

Trug frowned. “What do you mean?”

Grog gestured to two other cavemen who were holding the crocodile’s back legs. “These guys?  I hired them to help me carry the crocodile after I clobbered it. They aren’t cheap and the job is taking way longer than it’s supposed to. I shouldn’t have to bear that expense.”

Trug sighed again. “Look, I’m just the distributor.”

It was Grog’s turn to frown. “You’re a car part?”

“No, we haven’t invented cars yet, though we did invent the wheel. No, I’m a distributor, meaning I sell what others make. If the problem was the manufacturer’s fault, we have to go to them for that.”

“You mean Krunk?”

“Yep. Let’s go talk to him. If you have a labor charge, it’s better to get you and the manufacturer together rather than both of you blaming me. That way you can sort it out.”

Grog nodded. “Sound good to me.” Using his new club, he klonked the crocodile over the head. His two cavemen dragged it away and Grog followed Trug down the path near the river to where Krunk was outside his cave, working on a spear.

“We have another labor charge,” Trug said when Krunk looked up.

A wary look flitted over Krunk’s face. “Do we have to resolve it the normal way?”

“Yep,” Trug said. “I’ve always found that it’s easier for you two just to bang out problems directly.”

“Fine with me,” Krunk said.

“Me, too,” Grog said.

Trug handed them each a club and backed away.

(Yep, this is how you handle labor charges.  If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy my full length novel, Bonk & Hedz, a caveman … and woman… story, available on Kindle and Amazon)

Norm

www.normcowie.com

Death by Cookie

I remember once when I was a teenager, I was sitting at a table across from my best friend Brian and we were demolishing … as only a couple of teenaged boys can … a plate of enormous chocolate chip cookies.  And when I say enormous, I mean cookies about the size of my credit card debt.

“Bet you can’t get a whole cookie in your mouth,” he challenged.

Ah, a dare.    “Oh, yeah?” I retorted, and without thinking I jammed an entire cookie in my mouth.

His eyes widened, in admiration … and hopefully … shock and awe.  Then his eyes narrowed, and he quickly stuffed one in his mouth.  Because this is what guys do.  Dumbness and dumbness repeated.

So we leveled a look at each other over the table like Clint Eastwood and a bad guy. 

Then I tried to bite down on the cookie.  But couldn’t. It was wedged too far in my mouth.  I tried to break the cookie in half with my tongue.  It … the cookie … was too thick.  Frantically I tried to poke a finger in my mouth to break the cookie’s clutch.

Nothing.  There was no room for my finger.  I grabbed a shoehorn … no, I didn’t … but I wish there had been one.  I looked up and saw that Brian was having the same problem.  His mouth was stretched out like a hammerhead shark with a mouth full of tennis racquet.

Then I started laughing. Not much of a laugh, mind you.  More like a choked, gargling sound like what a gum chewing turkey might make.  Brian saw me laughing, and the wave of laughter carried him away.  He dissolved in silent laughter, tears of mirth leaking from his eyes.  He crumpled and fell to the floor.  I wasn’t far behind.

Laughing, not dying.  But if I was going to die, there are worse ways to go than dying while laughing.

Until this moment I had never understood the phrase, ‘rolling on the floor laughing.’  Anyway, when God invented enzymes and acids and stuff to break down foods in our mouths and stomach, I doubt if He did so with figuring it would save me from a cookie some day.  

When I write, I write what makes me laugh.  Manic dialogue, ridiculous situations and a frenetic pace.  Things that are funny because they are true, or funny because they are unexpected.  

I draw upon techniques that the great comedians have gleamed over the years.  Like the observational humor of the late, great George Carlin, “Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot and anyone driving faster is a maniac?”  Or misdirection, a favorite technique of Steven Wright, “I bought some batteries, but they weren’t included.  So I had to buy them again.”

My first attempt at writing a book was a horror demon book and my second was a kidnapping book.  Neither saw the light of day or of one of those really bright moon-lit nights or even the muted glow of a night light.  Then one day I bonked my elbow on something which reminded me that I had a funny bone.  What’s more fun to read than fun stuff, things that make you chuckle, laugh or snort your Dr. Pepper? 
So as long as I can avoid death by cookie (you know, like a sudden cookie avalanche, or stumbling into a vat of cookie dough that sucks me down like quicksand, or the Cookie Monster crawls out from under my bed to devour me like a Norm-Oreo cookie), I'm gonna keep writing humor. 

Norm

(Norm Cowie is the founder of the Humor Writers of America and author of seven humor books.)