SHOCK, AWE & OUTRAGE! Hilarious Mini-Melodrama on My Subway!

Shock, Awe & Outrage! A Hilarious Mini-Melodrama Enacted on My Local Subway!  #funny #subway #NYC #NewYork #humor

So then…I grab a seat, wedging myself between two other passengers on the subway car, as we barrel toward midtown Manhattan.

It’s not too crowded, so everyone has a seat as we calmly pass the time reading, avoiding eye contact, or staring blankly at the subway ads for plastic surgery and STDs.

Just then, a woman in her 50’s enters from the back of the subway car and quietly hands a pen to each passenger with a little note attached. She looks very sad as she works her way down the row of passengers.

The note says, “I am deaf. Please help me by buying this pen for $1. If you don’t want the pen, I will come back to pick it up. Thank you.”

Some people dig in their pockets and purses for a buck; others simply hold the pen until she comes back around for it.

She’s about halfway through collecting dollars or pens, when a conductor enters the back of the subway car and loudly announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, do NOT give this woman any money.”

Gasp! My head snaps up. Other passengers look startled! How heartless!

Is this subway employee going to tell us solicitations are against regulations? This poor deaf lady’s just trying to raise a little money!

The passengers stare at the conductor.

He continues, in a very cynical, world-weary tone, “This woman is not deaf. She has never been deaf. I have seen her speak and hear just as well as you and I. Do NOT give her any money.”

GASP! Now we all stare at the lady.

She whirls around and shouts at him in a garbled tone, “Howm day-ra you! I AMMN duffh! I AMMN duffh!”

DOUBLE GASP! She IS deaf!

How dare he accuse her of faking it! Just listen to her! She talks just like deaf people talk in movies!! Omigod, this conductor is cruel!

We all glare at the merciless conductor.

The conductor stares straight at her and says:

“If you’re deaf, how did you hear me say that BEHIND you?”

GASP GASP GASP!!!!

OMIGOD! Touché, conductor, touché!

Now our heads all whip toward the woman! Half of us are still clutching pens or dollars – mesmerized as this melodrama unfolds.

It’s like Wimbledon up in here with our heads whipping back and forth between the two players throwin’ down on the court of public opinion!

She scowls at him with an odious expression, turns on her heel, and storms out of the subway car into the next one in a blaze of fury!

He shakes his head wearily, then slowly follows behind her to thwart her next attempt.

As the subway door closes behind them, we all look at each other in awe.

We’re not sure whether we should applaud or not. It was like a mini-drama played out right before our eyes – a live street performance with a roller coaster of emotions encompassing pity, shock, anger, dismay, outrage – and finally the revelation!

Subway Theatre presents:
The Deceitful “Deaf” Lady
and the Crusading Conductor

Shows at 10:30, 2:45 and 4:15 daily
Admission: $1 (or not)

Damn, I love New York: every place, a stage – every person, a character – live theatre at its most authentic!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Heard of any similar cons or scams? Any interesting New York stories? Do tell!)

I Do NOT Want My Nipples There, Please

Oh - the sunglasses on my boobs?  Yeah - I can explain...  #funny  #kids #parenting #games #questions #crockpot #humor

So then…I’m standing there, minding my own business, slaving over an impressive gourmet dinner (aka checking the crockpot) – when my tween daughter Chloe enters and asks, “Would you rather have eyes for nipples – or nipples for eyes?”

Silence.

I look up from the crockpot, spoon in hand – furrow on brow.

“What?”

She sighs impatiently as if this is a matter of great urgency.

“MOM! Would you rather have EYES FOR NIPPLES – or NIPPLES FOR EYES?”

Omigod. Is this a decision I have to make right now? Is this a real thing?

My eyes dart around the kitchen. What does she know that I don’t know?

Is some grand master wizard — or satanic demon — or demented plastic surgeon about to burst in here and make me CHOOSE?

And really — what a dreadful choice!

How could people look me in the face if my nipples are where my eyes should be? I’d have to wear a face bra!

And if my nipples were eyes? Well, based on my low-hangin’ swingin’ bosoms, my eyes would be somewhere around belt-level. That would really limit my vision.

And how awkward when I’m talking to people. It would flip that whole “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here” upside down. “Yo dude, my eyes are DOWN here.”

And I wouldn’t be able to SEE anything if my tatas were covered, so I’d have to go topless everywhere – totally creeping everyone out with my eyeball on each boobie.

And I wear GLASSES to drive, for God’s sake! How will I strap the glasses to my boob eyes? I won’t even be able to see out the windshield anyway — since my boob eyes will be resting in my lap!

Really this whole switch thing is stressing me out.

“MOM! Answer the question!” she says.

“Why, Chloe? Why must I decide? Those are both appalling options!” I say.

“It’s a game!” she says. “It’s called Wouldja Rather. My friends and I play it all the time. Like ‘Wouldja rather have 3 toes on each foot and have to wear sandals everyday – or wouldja rather have only one giant nostril?”

I make the I-just-smelled-bad-cheese face.

“Or,” she continues, “a famous You-Tuber likes to ask ‘Wouldja rather change genders each time you sneeze – or not be able to tell the difference between a baby and a muffin?’”

OK, first of all – there are famous You-Tubers?

Second of all, changing genders each time I sneeze could get real awkward real fast.

What if I’m breastfeeding at the time? Or competing in a Miss America pageant? (Stop laughing. I could so compete in a Miss America pageant.)

And with my allergic multiple sneeze attacks — God forbid my sexual partner brings flowers into the boudoir – he-ey! It’s about to get ALL crazy up in here! I’m a chick! I’m a dude! I’m a chick again! Nope, a dude! Hell-o!

Third of all, who comes UP with such a bizarre notion that someone couldn’t tell the difference between a baby and a muffin? And I DO love me some muffins. If that’s the case, though — I tell you what, if someone sprinkles blueberries on that kid, he’s a goner.

“Chloe,” I say, “These choices are—”

“Oh!” she says, “Or how about THIS one? Wouldja rather slide into an erupting volcano — or jump blindfolded into a tank of sharks?’”

I put the spoon down and fold my arms. “Neither! Neither, Chloe! I do not want to do ANY of those things! I am anxious just THINKING about those things!”

She laughs and says, “Mom! It’s just a game! It’s fun to see what people choose and the reasons why. My friends and I debate the pros and cons. It’s fun!”

Honestly, what is wrong with these kids? Why can’t they just hot-wire cars and knock over liquor stores like normal teens?

“Chloe, why are all these choices so dire?”  I put on a cheerful voice and ask:  “Why not ‘Wouldja rather win a brand new beach house – or find a million dollars in your sweater pocket?’”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh Mom!” She picks up her books and goes into the living room.

I follow her, waving my spoon. “Or how about ‘Wouldja rather vacation in Paris — or Rome?’”

“Mo-om! You don’t get it!”

“Or ‘Wouldja rather dance with George Clooney — or bake cookies with Ryan Gosling?’”

She huffs, but starts grinning. “Stop, Mom! Just stop.”

I return to the crockpot, glad I’ve made my point.

But tonight, I’m CERTAIN I’ll have nightmares of sharks chasing me into volcanoes, while I hyperventilate through my one nostril — with my eyeball-boobies flapping in all directions!

— Darcy Perdu

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(OK, what choices would YOU make in the above “Wouldja Rather” options? And do your kids play this wackadoodle game?)

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AWKWARD! Mom Forbids Me to Do This Unless A Nun Approves!

AWKWARD!  Mom FORBIDS It; Makes Me Ask the NUN for Permission!  #humor #school #backtoschool #teacher #student #Bible #earrings #funny

So then… she says “Absolutely not,” with an air of such finality, it would stop Attila the Hun in his tracks.

Because when my Mom says, “no,” she means “NOOOO!”

But I’m a 16-year-old girl desperate to have my ears pierced.

I’ve been lusting after the earrings at the mall for weeks. They have little gold knots – and darling little hoops – and butterflies! Dainty little gold butterflies, people! MUST HAVE.

Attila ain’t got nothin’ on me. I shall not cease my relentless campaign! I shall scourge the earth and annihilate all obstacles until VICTORY IS MINE! – and those precious butterflies adorn my earlobes!

I follow my Mom into the kitchen, where she’s preparing dinner.

I set the table and say, “Mom, WHY can’t I get my ears pierced? I saved up my babysitting money – and I’ll make sure the piercings won’t get infected – and the mall is just—”

“It’s against the Bible.”

“What? The Bible says I can’t get my ears pierced?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

(I’m no theologian, but I don’t remember either of the testaments discussing ear jewelry!)

“Where does it say that?” I ask.

She stirs the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove and says, “The Bible says it’s a sin to self-mutilate.”

Self-mutilate!? I’m not mutilating myself!”

“Well, you want to cut holes into your ears, don’t you?”

“Mom, that’s not the same thing! The Bible just doesn’t want you to hack off your hand or something!”

She arches her eyebrows in that “you say potato; I say po-tah-to” sort of way and returns to her sauce.

Seriously! It’s not that she’s a religious fanatic – I mean we go to Church every Sunday, but she’s not a zealot. But she was raised in a pretty strict Catholic family, back in the days when the Mass was said in Latin.

Lots of hellfire and brimstone in those days.

Lots of hard and fast rules – with clear cut consequences leading straight to eternal damnation.

Pierced ears = self-mutilation = grievous sin = loose morals = immediate downward spiral into prostitution, pregnancy, tattoos, heroin addiction, and *gasp* — skipping Easter Mass.

So I beg and plead and debate and beg some more.

She is resolute. It’s like trying to move Mt. Rushmore just a couple inches to the left. She will not budge.

It’s a sin. It’s a sin. It’s a sin.

I insist that the self-mutilation in the Bible DOES NOT refer to pierced ears! Did.I.mention.the.butterflies.Mom?The.earring.butterflies.are.ADORABLE!

FINALLY, she agrees to CONSIDER it – IF and ONLY IF I consult with a priest or nun to CONFIRM that ear piercing does NOT qualify for Biblical self-mutilation.

Ahhhh! The clouds part, the angels sing: HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

Quick! Get thee to a nunnery! Find the youngest, hippest, coolest nun you can find!

All night long, I rack my brain to think who I can ask. My very life depends upon it.

Should I ask our parish priest at Mass on Sunday?

Should I ask one of the nuns who teaches at the Catholic school I attend?

Do I choose the youngest nun – the nicest nun – or the nun who teaches the class with my highest grade?

Finally, I settle on Sr. Rita. She’s not young, but she’s an awesome teacher and I love her class.

All day long, I fidget in my blue plaid skirt and white blouse, my legs shaking a mile a minute.

Finally the last bell rings. The rest of the students file out and I stay behind to timidly say, “Sr. Rita, may I please ask you a question?”

She looks up from her papers and says, “Sure.”

Suddenly I lose my nerve. Maybe my Mom is right! Maybe this IS a sin! I don’t want Sr. Rita to think poorly of me.

“Um…um,” I stammer, looking at my shoes.

“What is it, child?” she asks.

“Well, um, my Mom says that something I want to do is a VERY BAD SIN – and that I had to ask your permission before I could do it,” I say.

Sr. Rita raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms, and stares at me intently. “What’s the sin?” she asks.

“I want to…I want to…get my ears pierced!”

Sr. Rita suppresses a grin, her eyes crinkling, as she sighs with relief.

In retrospect, I now realize she probably thought I was going to ask about having sex — or doing drugs — or committing homicide!

In comparison, piercing ears hardly makes a “ding” on the Sin-o-Meter!

She pats my shoulder and says, “Yes, dear, yes. You may pierce your ears. It’s not sinful at all!”

I beam from ear to ear – (soon to be punctured ear to ear) – and thank her profusely!

I fairly explode with happiness! I share the good news with my Mom, who, trooper that she is, lives up to her promise to take me to the mall now that we have a religious blessing.

And I ensure that Sr. Rita is one of the first to see my darling little earring butterflies!

(Of course, I still end up a coke-addict junkie whore – but that’s completely unrelated to the pierced ears.)

Ha! OK, just kidding! Fear not, Sr. Rita, where ever you are: your decree was sound and just. I’ve not squandered your blessing. My pierced ears and I will see you in Heaven one day. (It may take some pretty heavy-duty negotiating to get me on the admit-list, but I aim to rock & roll up there in the Great Beyond!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Anything YOU wanted as a kid that was impacted by parental reluctance, outright disapproval, or religious beliefs?  Do you remember back when you got YOUR piercings?)

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!  #embarrassing #funny #school #bathroom #popular #humor

So then… I glance nervously at my watch as this bathroom line of high school girls inches its way slowly toward the stalls. Our Marching Squad Captain only gave us 15 minutes for a break before we need to perform our routine at halftime at the football game.

As a lowly freshman, I’m eager to follow the rules – especially since I’ve already received 3 demerits at past games – twice for being late and once for forgetting to wear my gold bloomers under my gold Marching Squad skirt. (Don’t worry — I wore UNDERWEAR, people! They just weren’t gold!)

This Louisiana stadium bathroom is hot and humid, filled with chattering girls, including the super hip and cool SENIORS on the squad. I try not to let my geeky awkwardness radiate beyond my personal space.

It’s so hot and time is so short, I almost abandon the mission, but I “gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” as they say, so I hang in there until – THANK GOD – it’s my turn to enter a stall.

But as soon as I close the door behind me, I see that the toilet paper is not on a roll – it’s little tiny individual square sheets!

Senior Senior

Do you know the kind I mean? They’re almost like miniature tissues. You pull one out, but it’s just a tiny square, then you got to pull the next one out – and it takes FOREVER – especially since I have to encase the ENTIRE toilet seat with paper before I can sit down!

I know the other girls are also anxious to make it back before halftime, so I don’t want to be the annoying freshman that takes FOREVER.

But I can’t possibly let my virgin derriere touch that toilet seat because I’m certain I’ll end up pregnant – or I’ll contract some hideous disease that will necessitate a butt-amputation – and won’t THAT be awkward.

So I frantically start pulling out the little tiny sheets to cover the seat, often losing some in the bowl in my haste. I can just IMAGINE the Seniors are out there, all whispering about why it’s taking me so long – and I have half a mind to yell out, “I’m not pooping! I SWEAR I’m not pooping!”

FINALLY, I create an impressive criss-cross pattern of sheets to covering every inch of the entire seat, so I can safely sit. I pee quickly, flush, and pop out the door.

The line of waiting girls is still long, hot, and impatient.

As I walk to the sink, super popular Senior Claire Markam passes me to enter my stall.

At that precise moment, I realize that I forgot to push all those little toilet paper squares into the bowl before I flushed!

I freeze at the sink. My eyes wide, my heart thumping – OMIGOD, HOW EMBARRASSING! I need to RUN AWAY right now!

Just then, Claire opens her stall door and calls out, “Hey, Darcy!”

Time stands still. In slow motion, my head turns toward her.

Is she going to mock my toilet “shrine” in front of all these Seniors — and burden me with a humiliating nickname that will follow me all 4 years of my high school career?

She grins at me, gives a thumbs up, and says, “Thanks!”

What!?

I suddenly realize she’s GRATEFUL that I’d taken the time to create a paper seat cover that she could use too!

She wasn’t going to ridicule me for my hygiene habits – she was going to do the exact same thing! And I saved her time by doing it for her! I guess she didn’t mind sharing paper with my little bony ass as long as she avoided contact with a public toilet seat!

So now, instead of feeling mortified – I feel PROUD!  

That super cool Senior admired my toilet-seat-wrapping skills!

I beam as I wash my hands.

But then I glance at that line of girls who are all looking at me oddly. They have no idea what’s in that stall.

They only know that Claire walked in my stall, then poked her head out to say, “Hey, Darcy! Thanks!”

Now they’re all wondering what I left in that stall for Claire to see.

A note?

A gift?

An amazing poop sculpture?

As I exit, it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to shout, “I didn’t poop. I SWEAR I didn’t poop!”

(Of course, you guys might know I do have some amazing talent in that field, as evidenced hilariously right HERE.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are YOU a dedicated seat-coverer? Terrified to poop in public too?  Any funny stories from your high school days?)

Is This a Playdate Fail by Dad — or Perfectly Reasonable Behavior?

Did this Dad Make a Playdate Faux Pas? Is this a funny blunder or WHAT?  #humor #playdate #dad #baby #embarrassing #funny #kids

So then…I plop on the hotel bed, moving my files over so I can chat with my 9-year-old daughter Chloe back home.

Me: I’m so happy I’m almost done with my business trip! How was your day, honey?

Chloe: Great! After school, I went for a playdate at Maggie’s house!

I furrow my brow. That can’t be right.

Me: You mean Layla’s house?

Chloe: No, Maggie’s house.

Me: You mean Ashley’s house?

Chloe: No, MAGGIE’S house!

Me: You don’t mean the Maggie whose mom just had a BABY?

Chloe: Yes! Today was the first day they brought the baby home and I got to meet her!

Me: You had a playdate at Maggie’s house the SAME DAY HER MOM BROUGHT HOME HER BRAND NEW BABY?

Chloe: Yes! It was great! The baby’s so cute! I got to stay for dinner!

She prattles on and on about the baby –

and of course I make all the appropriate responses to share in her glee.

But the whole time I’m thinking: What the HELL?

When we finish, she puts her dad on the phone.

“Um…did you know you accidentally let Chloe have a playdate at Maggie’s house the same day her mom brought home the new baby?I ask, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh, that was no accident,” he says proudly. “Chloe asked if she could go see Maggie’s new sister, so I dropped her right off!”

“Did Maggie’s parents know about it first?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he says. 

“David! Don’t you think the last thing a sleep-deprived, just-endured-childbirth mom wants to see at her house on her first day home is someone else’s kid?”

“Oh come on,” he says. “It’s her 4th baby. She probably didn’t even notice our kid was there.”

Oh my God.

David’s a terrific dad, but sometimes I wonder if he understands basic social graces.

When someone has a new baby, you drop off a casserole.

Or a gift.

NOT your kid.

And CERTAINLY not for dinner!

To be fair, David’s the type who wouldn’t mind at all if the roles were reversed. If HE popped out a baby, he’d probably invite the whole neighborhood over as soon as we pulled in the driveway so he could proudly display his creation: “Tap a keg, grill some burgers, look what I just pushed out of my hoo-ha!” (or he-ha, as the case may be)

He was raised in a free-range neighborhood where kids constantly meandered in and out of each other’s homes, mooching meals whenever they were hungry, and everyone was cool with it.

I was taught that you don’t even call someone’s house before 10 am or after 8 pm – and never during dinner time – MUCH LESS just SHOW UP at their house!

Consequently David’s fine with anyone coming over anytime no matter what’s happening at our house. It’s practically like this:

“We’re having construction done at the house today – but come on over!”
“Sure, the kids all have the flu — but that’s ok — pop on by!”
“Don’t mind the termite fumigation tent – we’ll just barbecue in the backyard!”

OK, maybe not quite that extreme, but you get the picture.

And as moms go, Maggie’s mom is very chill.

When my kids take a tumble and bleed – I rush to console them, disinfect the entire limb, bandage it carefully, and mollycoddle the child endlessly, while surreptitiously checking WebMD on my phone to insure no signs of sepsis.

When her kids report scrapes and cuts, Maggie’s mom just says, “You know where the band-aids are.”

And damn, if her kids aren’t much more resilient and independent than mine!

(I’ll be bandaging my kids’ paper cuts when they’re 45 and still living in my basement.)

Maybe it’s the large quantity of kids that makes these moms so chill?

As soon as I return to town, I drop off a beautiful gift, coo over the darling new baby, and make apologies for the awkward timing of the surprise playdate.

Maggie’s mom just smiles and shrugs – no big deal. The new baby in her arms starts to fuss, so she shoots her a look, like “Hey, you know where the boobies are.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Who’s more observant of social graces – you or your spouse? Any funny examples? Am I crazy to think HE’S crazy for letting her have a playdate on Bring-Home-the-Baby Day?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket

So then…I wince and mutter some expletives, as the sirens wail and the lights flash.

I pull over. Busted for speeding.

Dammit, I’m going to be late for work at the airport.

Yes, I work at the airport – as a security guard.

A skinny, curly-haired 19-year-old girl as a security guard?

Yep, that’s me. (I keep telling them I’d appear more menacing if they let me pack heat – but so far, no go.)

It’s a pretty decent job for a college kid home for the summer — but I don’t make enough coin to cover a hefty speeding ticket.

I rustle around in the glove compartment for the registration. The cop car is parked behind me, no doubt running my plates.

I’m squeaky clean, otherwise I wouldn’t have passed the background check at Burke Security, the firm that provides security guards for our little Louisiana airport.

How little? We have two gates. Only one has an xray machine.

So that means those of us at the non-xray gate have to check the passengers’ carry-on bags BY HAND.

While the passengers are standing there.

Watching us.

This can make for some very uncomfortable moments.

We’re rifling through their personal items, unmentionables, and wish-I-hadn’t-seen-its.

And they’re standing there witnessing this invasion of privacy.

Many times I’ve wanted to cock my head, raise a brow, point to the carry-on and say, “Really? Really?”

The Slim Fast Bar surrounded by a dozen Snickers and Butterfingers.

The business reports interspersed with girlie magazines.

The week’s worth of laundry so filthy, it’s practically writhing.

And don’t get me started on the questionable wardrobe choices. “Oh, honey, you cannot pull off this peach pantsuit.”

In our searches, we haven’t encountered much in the way of weaponry.

But I’m not sure if that’s because our 2-gate airport isn’t much of a terrorist hub – or if it’s because we guards lack the enthusiasm to thoroughly search people’s possessions BY HAND.

If the incendiary devices aren’t in plain view on the top layer of the bag, it’s likely they’re going right through to the plane.

If I so much as SEE someone’s tighty-whities, they’ve got a free pass!

I.am.not.touching.your.underwear.

So far this summer, the only things we’ve confiscated from passengers are several bags of weed — and in one case, a harpoon.

Interestingly, there was no other scuba or fishing equipment in the bag. Just normal stuff and a big-ass harpoon. Our seizure of the instrument was met with some objection.

Harpoon Guy: “You don’t understand. (twitchy, with wild eyes) I NEED this harpoon.”

Oh, no, Harpoon Guy – I think we understand perfectly.

The car door slams behind me. The cop is making his way over to my car.

Maybe he’ll let me go when he understands how critical I am to the safety and well-being of America’s aviation industry. I’m saving pilots from surprise harpoon attacks!

I glance in the side view mirror to assess my challenger.

He looks like a good ole boy. A strict no-nonsense Southern cop.

CopStunnedbyMyResponseNoBackground 350

What ploy will work best to weasel out of this ticket?

Shall I feign innocence?

Flirt a bit?

Weep uncontrollably?

Hmmm. I hop out of the car, to best display my navy blue dacron-polyester Burke Security uniform with the light blue piping.

The cop says sternly, “You know you were speeding, right?”

I say, “Yes, but surely you wouldn’t give a ticket to a fellow officer.”

Silence.

He squints at my uniform with the sewn-on “badge” showing the Burke Security logo.

And then he laughs.

A but-gusting, holy-hell-this-is-HILARIOUS laugh.

And he cannot STOP laughing. He is practically CHOKING, he is laughing so hard.

“Fellow officer?” he sputters.

“Yes, I mean – as a professional courtesy between law enforcers – ” I say seriously, spreading my hands.

He busts up laughing again.

The sight of this scrawny little girl in a cheap rent-a-cop security uniform trying to procure professional privilege SLAYS him.

Between guffaws, he says, “OK, OK, you got me. I can’t ticket you. Off you go. And slow it down, Officer.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, on his way back to his car.

Hot damn and hallelujah!

I vow to keep a spare uniform in my car for any future cop encounters.

— Darcy Perdu

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P.S. No passengers were harmed in the making of my summer job. We weren’t the most diligent baggage searchers, but none of our flights encountered any difficulty. It was many years ago, before people got all crazy, trying to hide combustibles in their shoes & lotions & potions. If I were a security guard now, I’d strip search everybody. But I’d only work at private jet airports frequented by Ryan Gosling and Thunder from Down Under Dancers.

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket - Burke Security with Darcy Face

Yeah, boy – rockin’ my bell bottom security pants!

(Any inventive ways YOU’VE escaped a ticket? Or funny cop encounters? How about an odd summer job or interesting job from your youth?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket #cop #speeding #police #car #funny #airplane  #pilot

Back-to-School giveaway from Boogie Wipes. Three winners will win a backpack and mommy clutch - full of school supplies, gift cards and Boogie Wipes. Ends August 22. Enter now!
It’s time to head back to school, and I’m teaming up with Boogie Wipes to offer an awesome Back-to-School Giveaway for kids and moms!
Three lucky winners will receive a backpack stocked with school supplies (and Boogie Wipes) and a Mommy Clutch – full of everything moms needs (including gift cards!)

How to Enter

From following Boogie Wipes on social media to instagramming a picture of your favorite Boogie Wipes products, there are dozens of ways to enter – and a few ways to enter every single day.
Back-to-School giveaway from Boogie Wipes. Three winners will win a backpack and mommy clutch - full of school supplies, gift cards and Boogie Wipes. Ends August 22. Enter now!
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Looking for Great Back-to-School Ideas?

Visit the Boogie Wipes blog for six back-to-school ideas for parents, plus a coupon to save on your favorite Boogie Wipes products.
Great back to school ideas for parents. Must read!
Good luck!  Giveaway is live Tuesday, August 5, 2014 until midnight on August 22, 2014. US and Canada residents only (excluding Quebec). Three winners will be randomly chosen and notified via email. So Then Stories received no compensation for sponsoring this event, and is not responsible for the delivery of the prize. Prize delivery is the sole responsibility of Boogie Wipes.

Justin Bieber Forbids Me to Do WHAT?

Justin Bieber Forbids Me to Do WHAT?  #funny #Bieber #concert #music #humor

So then…we head to the bar to slake our thirst. And thanks to the brutal Vegas heat, we’re truly in need of genuine hydration – so we buy 4 bottles of water in addition to our drink order.

It’s a bit rowdy at the arena bar – this is, after all, a Lady Gaga concert, so the concessions are packed with all my new “friends” – cool, crazy, costumed characters that they are.

My sister and I are in the line of customers, where there is much jostling – and if we’re here much longer, probably some fondling as well.

Finally my sister orders — and I see the bartender bring over 4 bottles of water, unscrew each cap, TOSS THE CAPS IN THE TRASH, and shove the uncapped bottles toward my sister.

What the hell?

My sister is not pleased. And now she and I are trying to pick up the uncapped sloshing water bottles and figure out how to carry them — along with all our other snacks and accessories.

“Can’t we have the caps?” I ask.

The bartender says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Justin Bieber,” the bartender says.

What!? Justin Bieber doesn’t want me to have caps on my water? This isn’t even a Justin Bieber concert! It’s a Lady Gaga concert!

I look around for Justin. Is he here? Is he watching me? Have I proven myself untrustworthy with bottle caps in the past?

I rack my brain. What’s he worried about? I’m not 3! I’m not gonna swallow it! Oh sure, I occasionally suck on a pen cap – or dangle a paper clip from my lip, but I’m not gonna accidentally ingest a bottle cap!

Maybe there’s a special promotion where you can win cash and prizes by looking at the underside of your bottle cap — and Justin wants to keep all those chances for himself!

Well, that’s just stingy, Justin. YOU have buckets o’ money – and I could really USE a new washer/dryer.

Clumsily, my sister and I make our way through the throngs of concert-goers, spilling water as we waddle through.

“Why doesn’t Justin want us to have bottle caps?” I ask, raising my voice above the din.

“The bartender says it’s because someone threw a bottle of water at Justin at a concert – so from now on, they have to remove all bottle caps!” says my sister.

“Are you KIDDING me?”

“Nope,” she says. “I guess they figure if someone throws an uncapped bottle, the water will spill out before it reaches him.”

Omigod, is Justin in THAT much danger of projectile bottles that we now have a RULE about it?

Then I recall something in the news awhile back — and sure enough, I find the headline from a Brazil concert: Justin Bieber Hit by Water Bottle Thrown by Fan and Storms Off Stage

(The article says the bottle is “thrown by a fan” — but I’d THINK a fan would be more likely to throw some roses or panties onstage. What’s the thought process there? “I really dig this singer – let me pelt him with this pint of liquid!” or maybe “I REALLY love this singer – someone hand me a fire hose!”)

But Justin’s not even here. This is a LADY GAGA concert!

If someone lobbed a bottle at Gaga…

She’d just bat it away with her microphone!

> at Madison Square Garden on October 27, 2008 in New York City.

Or bounce it off her shell bra!

JustinBieber-Gagashellbra 427

Or just swallow it whole!

JustinBieber-GagaMouth 427

But not Bieber.

One fan throws one bottle – and now, no one at concerts can have a bottle cap!

This is why we can’t have nice things, Justin.

It’s like that damn wannabe shoe bomber. One guy tries to sneak a bomb in his footwear – and now millions of passengers have to take their shoes off in airports around the globe every day. And have you SEEN what’s on the airport floor? I don’t know that guy’s name, but I curse him every time I have to take my shoes off (even when I’m not at TSA).

I almost feel bad for the Biebs. Here he is, trying to maintain a rep as a hip, edgy musical artist – and now this is what he’s known for? Kinda hurts the street cred, don’t ya think? “I love fast cars, fast women – I’m a straight-up gangsta — and oh yeah, by the way, please don’t fling a water bottle at my noggin.”

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It’s a bit embarrassing. Does he really want to be known as the Agent of Social Change for de-weaponizing liquid refreshments?

Back of the Bus? “No!” retorted Rosa Parks.
Mistreatment of migrant farm workers? “No!” shouted Cesar Chavez.
Bottle caps at concerts? “No!” cried Justin Bieber.

It’s also a bit unfair. Someone throws a bottle at Justin and bottle caps are banned. But when the Biebs lobs eggs at his neighbor’s house, are eggs banned? Noooo. Although that WOULD have been pretty hilarious! Can you imagine looking for eggs at your grocery store and the clerk says, “Sorry, no more eggs.” (looks around nervously, then whispers:) “Because of Justin Bieber.”

So I guess I won’t worry that the bottle-cap-brouhaha is damaging the reputation of the egg-throwing, car-speeding, mop-bucket-urinating Bieber –

And perhaps there are other performers who also prompted the bottle cap ban at arenas –

But as I struggle to ensure my bottle doesn’t capsize during the concert, soaking the patrons seated in front of me — I vow to smuggle bottle caps of various sizes into all future concerts.

Go ahead, Security — pat me down! No drugs, no booze, no firearms – just a few plastic bottle caps secretly stashed in my bodacious bra!

— Darcy Perdu

For 2 more funny true tales a week, pop your email address right HERE!

(Have you run into the Bottle Cap Ban? If YOU had the power to ban something, what would it be? Any odd rules you’ve encountered at work, school, or public places?)

RCOJ 429

THE RELUCTANT CAT OWNER’S JOURNAL

Cary Vaughn - Shirt Photo 380

Yep, that’s me, Darcy Perdu, rockin’ the awesome shirt for RCOJ (Reluctant Cat Owner’s Journal), the hilarious blog written by Cary Vaughn. Thank you, Cary, for your gift – yes, I DO look fabulous – and yes, I AM super skinny. Thanks for noticing.

If you’re not reading RCOJ yet, you should definitely check it out. Although Cary hated the idea of having animals in his house, he loves his animal-loving partner, so he agreed to take in a stray cat. Now they have five – count ‘em, FIVE – cats who rule the roost.

When Cary’s not creating hilarious and wholly impractical inventions to deal with the cats (i.e. Butt-Scooting and Cat-Feeding), he’s entertaining theatre-goers with his rendition of Sir Lancelot in Monty Python’s Spamalot — or a football player in Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical. (Yeah, you heard me – Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical.)

At RCOJ, Cary shares lots of funny adventures – but he also has a wonderful way of writing about ordinary everyday things that just cracks me up. He once wrote a whole blog post about watching a musical when he suddenly lost his Iphone between the seats that had me in stitches. You can also find him over at LeftyPop with some funny and thought-provoking posts.

Also — he’s the best damn lookin’ blogger on the internet.

Cary Vaughn - Handsome 429

And the goofiest.

Cary Vaughn - Goofy

I swear I didn’t beat Cary up for my RCOJ shirt. He gave it to me willingly. I swear!

Cary Vaugh - Beat Up (top of photo) 429

Go check out The Reluctant Cat Owner’s Journal.  Let him be your guilty pleasure!