Universal Laws

Fun Stuff and Humorous Stories by C.L. (Cindy) Beck

Although things can go wrong on any day of the week, Mondays seem to have a propensity for being the day that starts out dismal and then goes downhill. So, in honor of Monday—and may you all have a wonderful one instead of a bleak one—here is a list of universal laws.

Photo © Skeezix1000 at Wikimedia Commons


1. Law of Mechanical Repair - After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch and you'll need to use the bathroom.

2. Law of Gravity - Any tool, nut, bolt, screw, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.

3. Law of Probability -The probability of being watched is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act.

4. Law of Random Numbers - If you dial a wrong number, you never get a busy signal and someone always answers.

5. Law of the Alibi - If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the very next morning you will have a flat tire.

6. Variation Law - If you change lines (or traffic lanes), the one you were in will always move faster than the one you are in now (works every time).

7. Law of the Bath - When the body is fully immersed in water, the telephone rings.

8. Law of Close Encounters - The probability of meeting someone you know increases dramatically when you are with someone you don't want to be seen with.

9. Law of the Result - When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will....

10. Law of Biomechanics - The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

11. Law of the Theater and Hockey Arena - At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle, always arrive last. They are the ones who will leave their seats several times to go for food, beer, or the toilet and who leave early before the end of the performance or the game is over. The folks in the aisle seats come early, never move once, have long gangly legs or big bellies, and stay to the bitter end of the performance. The aisle people also are very surly folk.

12. The Coffee Law - As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.

13. Murphy's Law of Lockers - If there are only two people in a locker room, they will have adjacent lockers.

14. Law of Physical Surfaces - The chances of an open-faced jam sandwich landing face down on a floor are directly correlated to the newness and cost of the carpet or rug.

15. Law of Logical Argument - Anything is possible if you don't know what you are talking about.

16. Brown's Law of Physical Appearance - If the clothes fit, they're ugly.

17. Oliver's Law of Public Speaking - A closed mouth gathers no feet.

18. Wilson's Law of Commercial Marketing Strategy - As soon as you find a product that you really like, they will stop making it.

19. Doctors' Law - If you don't feel well, make an appointment to go to the doctor, by the time you get there you'll feel better. But don't make an appointment, and you'll stay sick.

Now that you've read them, drop off a comment and tell me which is your favorite. Mine is #18, because it's definitely true for me. (Thanks to Karlene Browning for sending this list to me in an email!)

A Close Shave ... by C.L. Beck

Fun Stuff and Humorous Stories by C.L. (Cindy) Beck

Today we're discussing the vital topic of the effect of fossil fuel combustion on earth’s atmosphere. But first, let's talk about an even more germane topic—body hair.

Last Christmas I bought Russ a new electric razor, and being the nice guy that he is, he offered to let me have his old one. I looked at it, cocked my head, and contemplated the possibilities. It could be used to shave my legs, which meant no more slices on my ankle that require ten stitches to close.

A few days later, while hurrying to get ready for church, a truly ingenious idea zipped into my brain. I said to myself, “That razor worked pretty well on leg hair ...."

"... so why go crossed-eyed trying to look into my armpits while shaving them with a safety razor, when I can look in the mirror and use an electric shaver?”

Perhaps I need to clarify. For those with beards, and for the other 90% of the women on the planet, a safety razor is the pink one with the double blade that sits in your shower for 2 years, and that you’ve used to shave your legs and underarms. The same one that at this point is so dull it pulls the hairs out one by one. And yet, if you run your thumb over it to see if the blade has any life left, you’ll need ten stitches to close the wound. Yup, that’s the one.

Well, as I said, this ingenious idea to shave my armpits with an electric razor zipped through my brain. I whipped it out (the razor, not my brain) and ran it across my left armpit—

“Aaaiiii!” My scream of pain bounced through the house and woke Corky Porky Pie, the dog, up from a sound sleep. He ran barking into the bathroom as I threw the electric razor into the sink and grabbed my stinging armpit. “Russ, come help me. I’ve cut myself!”

He barreled into the bathroom, and now the three of us stood crammed in a room the size of a telephone booth—only one with a toilet instead of a pay phone—and inspected my underarm. Russ patted me on the shoulder. “It’s not bleeding much yet, but you’ve cut it in several places and you might get a spot or two of blood on your church clothes if you don't wait a while to get dressed.”

Giving him my best Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry stare, while still holding my arm in the air and dancing around the room in pain, I said, “What do you mean it’s not bleeding yet? Of course it is! It's hemorrhaging! What can I use that will help?”

Russ looked dubious. “I don’t know. A dab of toilet paper?”

And that’s when I had my second brilliant idea of the day. Around our house we use a handy little product that functions as the perfect bandage—one that doesn’t fall off easily and seals the wounds so it heals in half the time. Fanning my stinging armpit, which coincidentally stung even more now that I could see it in the mirror, I said, “Go get the Super Glue!”

At that point, Russ failed me. Oh yes, he went and grabbed the Super Glue all right, but where he failed me is that he should have said, “No, that’s a harebrained idea if I’ve ever heard one. Let me take you to the doctor for such a mortal wound.”

What he did say while brushing on the adhesive was, “Hold still or you’re gonna have Super Glue running all the way down your ribs and as soon as you put your arm down, it’ll permanently stick to your side.”

By the time he finished painting the stuff on, I no longer felt the pain of the razor cuts. Instead, my brain was numb from the fumes, yet I had to continue holding my arm straight up in the air for fear of gluing my armpit to itself. I walked around for hours looking like a flagpole. Eventually, it all healed and days later the glue finally wore off … but not before it broke into stuck-tight chunks that kept stabbing me in my underarm.

There was one small consolation to the incident, however. I figured out why the razor sliced and diced instead of shaving. Because I had deodorant on, the razor’s blades stuck to the skin, acting more or less like an electric meat cleaver, and thereby giving me such grievous wounds.

I’ve learned my lesson. From here on, if I accidentally cut any sensitive areas, I am not using Super Glue. And I’m not shaving my armpits with an electric razor, either … instead, I’ll let the hair grow long and put it in French braids.

------ © C.L. (Cindy) Beck------

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Funny Puns

Fun Stuff and Humorous Stories by C.L. (Cindy) Beck

It's Monday ... and that says it all, right? It's my opinion that whoever is in charge should do away with Mondays and give us two Saturdays in the week. Unfortunately, it's unlikely the Wish Fairy will grant that anytime soon (bad ol' fairy), so here are a few fun puns to brighten your day.

Funny Punnys
(Received in an email, author unknown)

Local Area Network in Australia : the LAN down under.

He often broke into song because he couldn't find the key.

Every calendar's days are numbered.

A lot of money is tainted - It taint yours and it taint mine.

A boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

He had a photographic memory that was never developed.

A plateau is a high form of flattery.

A midget fortune-teller prison escapee is a small medium at large.

Those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.

Once you've seen one shopping center, you've seen a mall.

Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead-to-know basis.

Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.

Acupuncture is a jab well done.


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For the Love of St. Patrick's Day ... by C.L. Beck

Fun Stuff and Humorous Stories by C.L. (Cindy) Beck

I love St. Patrick’s Day—the leprechauns, the shamrocks, the spaghetti. Come to think of it, it was the spaghetti that got me into trouble....

“St. Patrick’s Day is coming,” I said to my son, Davey, while thoughtfully stroking my chin. “What can we do to celebrate?”

Being a nine-year-old, he came up with a brilliant suggestion. “We could ride bikes!”

I patted him on the head, and wondered where I’d gone wrong in life if he couldn’t come up with something more exciting than riding bikes. Where was his imagination, his zest for life, his sense of advent—

“We could ride bikes up in the hills and jump them off cliffs!” he said, beaming at the idea. I turned pale, envisioning the medical costs. There’d be plenty o’ green if we tried that one ... green in the doctor’s pocket.

I reached out to pat his head and decided to pat his shoulder instead. Just for a change of pace. “That’s not quite what I meant. I was thinking more along the lines of cooking. What could we cook for St. Patrick’s Day that would be fun?”

Davey’s face went blank. “I dunno.”

What was wrong with the boy? What nine-year-old mind wouldn’t be brimming with cooking ideas? Where was his imagination, his zest for life, his sense of advent—

“I know what we could do, Mom. We could cook green spaghetti!”

I tried to envision spaghetti sauce the color of shamrocks. Somehow I wasn’t certain how to accomplish that. Make it with green chilies? Naw, that didn’t sound too appetizing, and despite the color, it didn’t sound very Irish, either.

And then it hit me. Dye the spaghetti noodles!

I pulled out a big pot, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Then I went hunting for the food coloring. I added a few drops, and it all but disappeared in that ocean of water. So, I added another two or three drips ... or maybe ten.

Aaaah yes, now the water seemed appropriately green. Davey took a long look at it. “It looks like swamp water, Mom.”

Critic. It seemed that everyone was a food critic. I gave him my best Wolfgang Puck stare and said, “Vhat? You tink dis food is gonna taste like a svamp?”

Davey looked at me questioningly. Okay, so maybe my accent wasn’t quite Puckish enough, and I should have quoted Adam Savage (from Mythbusters), “I reject your reality and substitute my own.”

Fifteen minutes later, when the spaghetti noodles were supposed to be ready, they were still hard as rocks. Possibly because of the dye, but more likely because I’d forgotten to turn on the burner.

And wasn’t it strange how the noodles were turning more of an off-green color? Oh well, it would all be remedied once the water boiled and they cooked. Then they would be a lovely, sparkling green. Green like a gem in a leprechaun’s pot o’ gold … er … pot o’ emeralds.

Fifteen minutes later, the noodles were ready—warm, succulent, wonderful.

I set them on the table, and my husband, Russ, did a double take. “I think there’s something wrong with those noodles. Have they been in the fridge too long?”

Davey scrunched down in his seat, probably trying to look invisible, as if he hadn’t been the one to add food coloring to the water.

Oh, okay, so he hadn’t been the one. That was no reason to let me take all the blame. I shrugged my shoulders and with my best imitation of a snobby, high society chef from the cooking show, Hell’s Kitchen, said, “Of course they haven’t been in the fridge too long. I just cooked them a few minutes ago!” To emphasize my point, I pulled a long strand of spaghetti out of the bowl and dangled it for Russ to see.

It did look a little less than emerald. In fact, it looked more like mold-green … as in, sat-in-the-refrigerator-for-six-months green. Not that I would know from experience about things turning color in the fridge for six months. Four months is my limit.

Davey didn’t seem to mind the spaghetti at all, and ate his fill. Russ managed to eat a few forks full before he gave up and ate green beans and green gelatin for his St. Patrick’s Day dinner. But hey, at least the gelatin was shiny and looked like an emerald, albeit, a jiggly one.

I learned my lesson and no longer cook green spaghetti. And with St. Patrick’s Day not far off, I’ve already started planning my menu. I’m thinking this year I’ll try something really unique—green hamburgers should impress everyone!

------ © C.L. (Cindy) Beck------

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