Bad Jokes

Radio Question of the day:

According to a popular men's magazine, 52% of guys spend less than one minute doing what?
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There are 2 kinds of people in the world. Those who divide the world into 2 kinds of people, and those who don't. I’m one of those two kinds. How ‘bout you?

What’s 40 feet long and smells like urine?

Give up?

Line dancing at the nursing home.

Bad enough? How about what’s the difference between broccoli and boogers?

Don’t know?

Kids won’t eat broccoli.

Why do blonde nurses carry red pens? Easy. So they can draw blood. Those blondes.

What do Mack the Knife, Winnie the Pooh and Jack the Ripper have in common?

So obvious: Their middle name.

Bad jokes, lord I love’m. Bad jokes, cain’t get enough of’em.

That’s why I listen to Prairie Home Companion on PBS. They did a special joke show this past weekend.

They told bad jokes like the ones above, and the ones below:

News Flash! Energizer Bunny charged with battery!

I hate to say this but your girl friend looks like a monkey. True, but she's the gorrilla my dreams.

You know why they named "Beano" "BEANO?"

Because "WINDEX" was already taken.

A man walks into the psychiatrist's office and says, "Doctor, I work down the street at the pickle processing plant and lately I've developed this almost uncontrollable urge to stick my penis in the pickle slicer."

The doctor says, "This is quite serious, we must get you into counseling immediately!"

Every day for two weeks, the two meet until the psychiatrist finally feels that his patient has mastered his compulsion to stick his penis in the pickle slicer.

A few days pass and the doctor receives a phone call from the pickle plant worker. The man is extremely upset and there are sounds of commotion in the background. "Doc, I'm so sorry. I really thought you’d cured me, but today here at work, that old feeling came back and I just couldn't control myself and, yes, I stuck my penis in the pickle slicer. This so terrible -- they fired me and I let you down."

"Don't worry about that," replies the doctor, "what happened with, er…, you know, the pickle slicer?"

"Oh, they fired her, too."
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Answer to the radio question of the day:
Deciding what to wear.

Huh! About 75 percent of you guys look that way.

Happy Birthday 3D!

August 29th is the birthday of my daughter 3D. She's smart, sweet, and a true friend. Also very busy.

She was my first born. And she made me a grandmother. Twin girls. Grandma heaven.

Happy birthday dddragon!

Free classes for men

Radio Question of the Day:

Name the "rock group" that has four members, all of whom are dead, one of whom was assassinated...
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As usual I have absolutely nothin’ to say. So, I’ll say it anyway. I’ve been reading instead of doing lots of stuff I should be doing. Friend of mine said I should get my husband Niks to do the housework. That Irene. As if. (I know that there are lots of men who do some work around the house, but I didn’t marry one of those. Let’s make that SOME men who do housework. Not LOTS.)

So, Irene offered up some classes Niks could take in order for the old dog to learn some new tricks:

How To Fill Up The Ice Cube Trays --- Step by Step,
with Slide Presentation.
Meets 4 weeks, Monday and Wednesday for 2 hours.

The Toilet Paper Roll --- Does It Change Itself?
Round Table Discussion.
Meets 2 weeks, Saturday 12:00 for 2 hours.

Is It Possible To Urinate Using The Technique Of
Lifting The Seat and Avoiding The Floor, Walls and Nearby Bathtub? ---
Group Practice.
Meets 4 weeks, Saturday 10:00 PM for 2 hours.

Fundamental Differences Between The Laundry Hamper and The Floor
Pictures and Explanatory Graphics.
Meets Saturday at 2:00 PM for 3 weeks.

After Dinner Dishes: Can They Levitate and Fly Into
The Kitchen Sink?
Examples on Video.
Meets 4 weeks, Tuesday and Thursday for 2 hours
beginning at 7:00 PM

Loss Of Identity - Losing The Remote To Your
Significant Other. Help Line Support and Support Groups.
Meets 4 Weeks, Friday and Sunday 7:00 PM

Learning How To Find Things - Starting With Looking
In The Right Places And Not Turning The House Upside Down While Screaming.
Open Forum .
Monday at 8:00 PM, 2 hours.

Health Watch --- Bringing Her Flowers Is Not Harmful
To Your Health.
Graphics and Audio Tapes.
Three nights; Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 7:00 PM

Real Men Ask For Directions When Lost --- Real Life
Testimonials.
Tuesday at 6:00 PM Location to be determined.

Is It Genetically Impossible To Sit Quietly While She
Parallel Parks?
Driving Simulations.
4 weeks, Saturday noon, 2 hours.

Learning to Live --- Basic Differences Between Mother
and Wife.
Online Classes and role-playing ..
Tuesday at 7:00 PM, location to be determined

How to be the Ideal Shopping Companion
Relaxation Exercises, Meditation and Breathing
Techniques.
Meets 4 weeks, Tuesday and Thursday for 2 hours

How to Fight Cerebral Atrophy --- Remembering
Birthdays, Anniversaries and Other Important Dates and
Calling When You're Going To Be Late.
Cerebral Shock Therapy Sessions and Full Lobotomies
Offered.
Three nights; Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 7:00 PM

The Stove/Oven --- What It Is and How It Is Used.
Live Demonstration.
Tuesday at 6:00 PM, location to be determined.

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Answer to the Radio Question of the day:

Mount Rushmore

How droll: a rock structure...four dead guys...I get it.
Those radio guys.

A very merry unbirthday to you

I don't know all the birthdays out there, but I'm gonna cover you all with this post.

A very merry unbirthday
To me
To who?
To me
Oh, you

A very merry unbirthday
To you
Who, me?
To you
Oh, me

Let's all congrulate us with another cup of tea
A very merry unbirthday to you

Now statistics prove
Prove that you've one birthday
Imagine just one birthday every year
Ah, but there are 364 unbirthdays
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer

A very merry unbirthday
To me?
To you
A very merry unbirthday
For me?
For you

Now blow the candle out, my dear
And make your wish come true
A very merry unbirthday to you

(Lyrics: Robert B. Sherman)

Happy Birthday to Acton Bell

A toast to my daughter, Acton Bell, who turns 43 today. She's sweet, pretty and smart. Also refined.

She loves beer and she loves to run. So she's at the shore now, drinkin' and runnin'.

Happy Birthday girlie!

Gimme five!

Rabbit rabbit! Good luck in August.

Hoss has awarded me with a "Perfect Post Award" for July! He's so sweet. Bless his heart.

It was for my toilet post. But I'm not flushin'. Hoss is the funniest blogger in the world. He would write Bl*gger. We don't use the "B" word at his place.

Go check'em out. But y'all come back now. Y'hear?

Thinkin' 'bout things

We always called my mother “Mama.” I can’t imagine calling one’s mother, “mother.” That always sounded cold to me.

The women of my childhood who were called “Mother” by their kids were the kind of women who were a little uppity in my child’s eye. They were the kind of women who looked like Beaver Cleaver’s Mother. Not my Mama.

Mama was a scrappy little midget. I was as tall as she was by the time I was ten. She wasn’t what she would have called “tray chick” at all. Bless her heart. ( Southern women say, “Bless her heart,” about every other sentence.) Mama wore her hose rolled down to her ankles when no one was visiting. Don’t even pretend you know what I mean when I say that.

Mama wore housedresses (is that still a word?) all the time when she was at home, and stockings with garters. Panty hose had not been invented. To save the nylons from getting runs, and I guess the garters were uncomfortable, she rolled her garters down and ended up with stockings on her feet with little donut-stocking covered ankles. That Mama. Pretty silly looking. Bless her heart.

When folks were visiting and then they left, the last thing Mama would say to them as they drove off is, “Y’all come.” Sometimes it was, “Y’all come, ya hear?” Even if it was just one person who was leaving. Damnyankees misunderstand that. They think that southerners say “y’all” to just one person. But it always means “all of you.” So when Mama said “y’all come” she was saying, “I hope you and your family come to see us.” The “You hear,” part is just added emphasis meaning, “I really mean it.”

How ‘bout calling your father, “Father?” I never knew anyone who called their daddy, “Father.” We called our father, “Daddy.” Women in the south when I was comin’ up would refer to their husbands as, “the children’s father.” Actually the lesser-educated ones would say, “my baby’s daddy.” Mind you, these women were married to their baby’s daddy.

When you call kids to dinner in the north they’ll yell, “Just a minute!” We answered a call to come with, “drect-ly.” One day in the seventh grade a boy named Paul turned to me and said, “Did you know that “drect-ly” is really the word “directly”? I told him, “Nope. Who’dthunkit?” It was a revelation to me. We had been saying to our mothers “I will be there directly,” when we said drect-ly. I always thought it meant, “Yeah, yeah. I hear ya.”

Well, I’m done with thinkin’ about my childhood in the south. I’m fixin’ to go to bed now.

Y’all come back now. Ya hear?
Bless your hearts.

Happy Birthday to Our Grandtwins!

Happy 16th birthday to our darling granddaughters!

They can now learn to drive. Yea! Oh! Wait....

Don't Get Me Started

I told Sar of Belle of the Brawl not to get me started on public restrooms, but she did anyway. Why the hell do they call them REST rooms? They aren't restful at all!

You know when you have to visit a public women's restroom, you usually find a line of ladies, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, and you actually get inside the darn door to the place, you check for feet under the stall doors. Yep. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. WTF? It doesn't matter. You gotta go.

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mama,no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't - so you carefully but quickly drape it around your darn neck, (My Mama would turn over in her grave if I put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance." If you're female, you know the drill.

In this position our aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mama's voice saying, "Well, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more. That Mama. The older I get, the smarter my Mama seems.

You remember the tiny Kleenex that you blew your nose on yesterday -the one that's still in your purse. That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. Someone whose Mama didn't teach them to check for feet under the door. Those unfit Mamas. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping that precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down plop onto the dreaded TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course. Those other women!

You shoot straight up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

Mama would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, I'm positive, absolutely certain, that her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, "You can catch all kinds of horrible, ugly, disgusting diseases from a public toilet." (Mama always screwed up her face real good when she said this.)

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you give up. What's the point of pretending?

You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, or probably they're broken, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel, if there are any towels. Which there probably aren't. Sometimes there's a drinking fountain outside that you can wet your hands on.

As you leave the facility, a kind soul at the end of the line waiting to use the bathroom tells you that you have a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??)

You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it the woman's hand and tell her sweetly, "Here, you just might need this." No one tells you that you purse looks nice hanging around your neck like that but finally you notice it as you're walking around feeling dirty.

See guys? This is why women go to the bathroom in pairs.

It's so you have a friend to hold the damn door that won't lock, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Happy Birthday America

Not perfect, but a work in progress.