You’ve probably heard this one before…

Because it’s been a while since I regaled you all with a shaggy dog story.  And because I just bought my 3rd vacuum this year.

A little old lady, down on her luck, answered a knock on the door one day to be confronted by a well-dressed young man carrying a vacuum cleaner.

‘Good morning, Ma’am,’ said the young man. ‘If I could take a couple minutes of your time, I would like to demonstrate the very latest in high-powered vacuum cleaners.’

‘A door to door salesman!  I didn’t know you existed anymore.  Well, don’t waste your time here, Son.  You don’t have anything that could interest me.  I’m broke and haven’t got any money!’ said the lady said brusquely.

‘But if I could just-‘  The young man began.

‘Go away!’ And she proceeded to close the door.

Quick as a flash, the young man wedged his foot in the door and pushed it wide open. ‘Now, now.  Don’t be too hasty,’ he commanded. ‘You have to see my free demonstration.’ And with that, he tossed a bucket of manure onto her hallway carpet.

‘What do you think you are doing!’  The lady yelled, horrified.

The young man flashed a charming smile and said, ‘I’m about to prove to you that this vacuum cleaner is worth every penny.  It features 12 different high suction attachments for hard to reach areas and a retractable 30 foot cord for vacuuming convenience.   Designed with a easy to clean cannister, you will never need to by vacuum cleaner bags.  Also, it has a long lasting HEPA filter which will remove allergens and dust from your air.  It has received top Energy Star ratings, so it will actually save you money on your electricity bill.  But that’s not all!  Not only does it have the highest powered suction available on the market, it is guaranteed for life to never loose it’s suction power!  And if it doesn’t remove all of this manure from your carpet, Madam, I will eat whatever it leaves behind.’

The lady frowned and said, ‘I see.  Well let me ask you one question first.’

‘Certainly!’ said the confident young man.

‘Do you prefer a spoon or a fork?’

The young man was taken aback, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ the lady said, now smiling, ‘Do you prefer to eat with a spoon or a fork, because they cut off my electricity this morning.’

In honor of Tuesday Titters: A Tale of Two Clams

I don’t think this joke ever made an appearance for Tuesday Titters last year.  I don’t know why, it’s one of my favorite shaggy dog stories.

Once upon a time there were two clams, Sam Clam and Joe Molluscus.  Sam and Joe were best friends their whole lives.  But they were no exception to the circle of life, and one day they were both called to Heaven.

Upon reaching the Pearly Gates, St. Peter said to the two friends, “Welcome to Heaven, Sam Clam and Joe Molluscus.  You have both led exemplary clam lives, and as your eternal reward you may decide how you wish to spend your afterlife.”

Immediately Joe replied, “Oh, St. Peter!  I have always wanted to be a beautiful angel wandering about the heavens playing exquisite harp music for all to enjoy.  Nothing more and nothing less will be my desire for eternal bliss.”

St. Peter nodded, “As you wish, Joe.  Here’s your harp.  Go forth and play beautiful music and be at peace and be happy.”  At once a harp appeared in Joe’s hands and he glowed a heavenly light which mirrored the sheer delight of his soul.

Then St. Peter turned to Sam and said, “Have you decided how to spend your eternity?”

“Yes,” Sam replied.  “I have always secretly longed to own a disco.”

“A disco?!”  Said St. Peter in surprise.

“Oh, yes!”  Said Sam eagerly.  “Like Joe, I want to provide music to bring joy to all the people.  But I also want them to be able to participate and dance in their joy.  A disco is the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.”

“Well, then, as you wish Sam.”  Said St. Peter.

“Good by Joe Molluscus.”  Said Sam as he began to fade away in transport to his dream disco.

“But Sam Clam!  What if I miss you?”  Cried Joe in dismay.

“Then come and dance at my disco, friend!”  Sam called.  So there was nothing left but for Joe Molluscus to wander the heavens playing his harp and occasionally visiting Sam Clam.

After some portion of eternity had passed, St. Peter one day came upon Joe Molluscus, his heavenly glow extinguished, draped forlornly over a tuft of cloud, sans harp. 

“Why, Joe Molluscus!”  Exclaimed St. Peter at such a miserable sight.  “What ever has happened to you?  You look so sad, why don’t you play some of your beautiful music?”

“I can’t!”  Wailed the miserable Joe.

“Come now, why ever not?  Why are you so sad?”  Asked St. Peter in concern.

“Because, St. Peter,” said Joe.  “I left my harp in Sam Clam’s disco.”

Ouch!  That was a true groaner.

A Surfeit of Snails

Can you find the snail in this photo?

I really like snails.  I don’t know why, precisely.  They just seem really cool to me.  They have a way of somehow moving slow and fast at the same time.  They have neat colors, and I’m fascinated by their bodies which can suck up completely into their shell.  When we began the fish tank after a freak goldfish win at the county fair a couple summers ago, I bought a snail at the pet store.  I paid almost $3 for it, and after a few months it was dead.  So, figuring we had bad luck I bought another.  A few months later, the second snail was dead.  At $3 a pop, no matter how cool I find them, I couldn’t find it worth the price, so we remained snail-less for some time.

Then, a few months ago, we decided to get a few new fish, as we’d finally lost enough that the tank was looking kinda lame.  At a different pet shop, we noticed their fish tanks swarming with snails.  I asked if there was some secret to keeping snails, to which the pet shop person said, “No, but if you know the secret to not keeping snails, let us know.  They breed like crazy and periodically we have to just clean out and dispose of tons of them.”

She gave me 5 free snails.  They were pretty small, smaller than a pea, but she said she was certain that in no time they’d breed and get bigger.  I was doubtful, after my last two snail experiences, but years and years ago I’d had pet snails and they generally were hearty, and so we decided to give it a try.

There were two kinds, and I don’t know their scientific designation, so bear with my sad description.  One appears like your stereotypical snail, round spiral shell.  The other had a long spiraling cone shape shell (if you click on the above photo to enlarge it, then look right next to the head of the large plecostomus, you can see one of the cone shaped snails, it’s a pale greyish color).  We put them in the tank, and then for a few weeks we played “Where’s Waldo” trying to spot the tiny snails.  Then, one day, I noticed that I could spot no less than 6 of the traditional shaped snails.  Our snails had babies!  Within a few weeks of that, I began to see 4 or 5 of the cone spiral shaped snails, and we were off to a J curve population boom.

Now, what will we do when the snails take over the tank?  Anyone want to have some snails?

And, this lead me to another question.  What do you call a group of snails, a surfeit of snails?  A slime?  A slew?  A sublime?

Well, according to www.ask.com a group of snails is called:

A group of Snails is called a walk, rout or escargartoire.

Or more specifically,

A group of snails is referred to as a Rout. A nursery of snails is known as Escargatoire.

And, www.ask.com also provided this other informational tidbit:

The Snail is a gastropod, a soft-bodied type of mollusk. The soft body is protected by a hard shell, which the snail retreats into when alarmed. They are found worldwide in the seas, in fresh water, and in moist areas on land.  Snail like creatures that lack a shell are known as slugs.

Eeewww!  Strangely enough while snails fascinate me, I loathe slugs.  They remind me of nothing more than self-motile  snot.

So, while we are talking snails, I thought in honor of Tuesday Titters, I will reblog one of my favorite jokes.:

A snail walked into a car dealership. Immediately a salesman came up to him and offered his assistance figuring a commission is a commission and if the snail had money that was all that mattered to him.

Salesman: Hello there, erm, Sir? Can I help you pick out a car?

Snail: Mr. Snail…. Oh…. Yes…. But… I… have some… special… requirements.

Salesman: Certainly, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for.

Mr. Snail: Well *he said slowly* I want something small and sporty that goes very fast.

Salesman: Not a problem, Mr. Snail.

Mr. Snail: But it must have vinyl seats, not cloth, not leather. For obvious reasons.

The salesman and Mr. Snail looked down briefly at a puddle of goo on the show room floor.

Salesman: Um. Right. Also not a problem!

Mr. Snail: Good. Then I want a special paint job. I’m tired of people over-looking me because they think I’m just a slow, dumb snail. I want something sleek, sharp. Something eye-catching that will stand out. Something that sizzles. Money is no object, so I’ll want it done exactly to my specifications.

Salesman: We will see what we can do. What were you thinking?

Mr. Snail: I want a fire-engine red car. Fire engines are fast, and they get noticed. That’s what I want. And, the car must have a bold letter “S” painted on each side, the hood, and the boot so people from all directions will know it is Mr. Snail when they see me drive down the street in my new car.

Salesman: O-kay. I think we can accommodate that. Is there any thing else, a vanity plate perhaps?

Mr. Snail: Oh…. Yes…. I think….

Salesman: The letter “S” maybe?

Mr. Snail: Oh, yesssssss.

So the salesman shook hand to pseudopod, some papers were slimed and some money changed over.

In a few weeks Mr. Snail returned to pick up his new car, and was very pleased with his purchase. The salesman had even made sure the new vanity plate was attached for his special customer. As Mr. Snail peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing and accelerator pressed flat to the floor, in his compact but fast, custom-painted car the manager of the dealership looked out the window said to the salesman, “What’s the deal with the special paint job and the vanity plate?”

The salesman, already planning on how to spend his commission said absently, “I don’t know, but you can’t help but notice that little “S” car go!”

***********************

Information on snails was obtained May 21, 2013 at 8:25 am from http://www.ask.com, URL: http://www.ask.com/question/what-do-you-call-a-group-of-snails

Joke is original material from Janie Jones at Janie’s Place.

Photos are original material taken by Janie Jones.

Tuesday Titters: Week 42; Haunt Cuisine a la Zombie

A zombie mother called her zombie family to dinner.  Her teenage zombie sons immediately began chanting, “Brains!  Brains!” and while shambling toward the morgue slab they fought over who could eat the most brains.

The youngest zombie child, lagging behind, finally came to the slab and, upon looking at the meal, complained, “Awww, not leftover Marcel Marceau again!”

The zombie mother said sternly, “Now, Junior, there are starving zombie children in Africa who would give their left arm to have such a fine meal.”

The zombie father added sagely, “And, you know, a mime is a terrible thing to waste.”

Tuesday Titters: Week 37 Dogs Like Beer, Too

It was a hot day.  One might even say it was among the hottest day of the dog days of summer.

A mangy old stray was thirsty and dry.  He noticed a lower level bar and the stairs to its door receded into what looked like a cool refreshing darkness.  After a moment he thought, “What the heck!”  And, he crossed the street and descended into the shady stair well.  He soon felt cooler, but still thirsty, so after another moment he nosed his way in, sauntered up to the bar, hopped onto a stool and barked out, “One beer please.”

The bartender turned around and, surprised, called out to the patrons, “Hey, who brought that mangy stray in here?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the dog, “I let myself in.  I’d like a beer.”

“We don’t serve dogs.”

“I’d like a cold beer please.  In a bowl would be nice.”  Said the dog.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me?”

“What?  I’m sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing.”  Replied the dog.

“Dogs aren’t allowed in this bar.”

“Not allowed?  What, not ever?”  The dog asked incredulously.  “I’m sure I’ve seen a dog come in here before.”

“Well, maybe a seeing eye dog.  But you certainly aren’t.”

“Huh?  What’s that?  Please speak up, I’m a little hard of hearing.” Said the dog.

“I said, you aren’t allowed because you’re not a seeing eye dog.  Now, get out or I’ll call the pound.”  Yelled the bartender.

“Okay, okay!”  The dog said as he slunk from the bar.  But now the dog had an idea.

A few moments later the bartender heard the door open and turned to see the old stray on seven foot tall stilts, his mangy fur brushing against the ceiling.

“I’d like a cold beer, please.  In a bowl would be nice.”  Said the dog.

“What’s the meaning of this?!”  Demanded the bartender.

“What’s that?”  Said the dog.  “I’m a little hard of hearing and way up here I can’t tell what you’re saying.”

“I told you before; no dogs unless you’re a seeing eye dog.”  Yelled the bartender.

“But now I am a ceiling high dog.”

Tuesday Titters: Week 33; Cleanliness is next to Godliness

A bus of nuns was involved in a horrible accident and tragically, many of the nuns died.  The accident happened quickly, so the dead nuns congregated in confusion at suddenly finding themselves before a breathtaking gate among the clouds.  Directly beside the gate was a small gilded birdbath, and the sounds of soothing music floated on the sweet air.

“How beautiful!”

“Merciful Heavens!  Where are we?”

“By the Grace of God, I think we are in Heaven!”

As the nuns commented on their new surroundings, a voice cut through their reverent murmurs of delight and surprise.

“Welcome to the Pearly Gates, Sisters!  I am St. Peter.  Before you can pass into Heaven, I’m afraid we must dispense with some formalities.  First, if you would queue up, then one by one you must confess your sins and be absolved.”

Eyes wide, the nuns looked between themselves and St. Peter, then obeyed, shuffling themselves into a line.

“Very good.”  Said St. Peter.  He gestured to the first nun to step forward.  “Sister Mary Frances, isn’t it?”

The nun nodded solemnly.

“Now, my sister, confess to me your sin.”

The nun looked nervously to the line of nuns behind her then at St. Peter.

“Come now, Sister, speak.”

The nun reluctantly spoke, “St. Peter, I am ashamed to admit that, as a girl, I had carnal thoughts of a young man.”

“I see.”   Said St. Peter.  “Is that all?”

“No.”  Said the sister meekly.  “I touched him.”

“You touched a man?  I think that is hardly a sin, Sister.”

“No, St. Peter, you see, I touched him beneath his, ah, his, um…  Well, under his fig leaf.  You know, in a carnal way.”

“Ahh.”  Said St. Peter.  “I see now.  Do you repent this carnal touching?”

“Oh, St. Peter, I do!  I have felt such remorse my whole life!”

“Then wash your hand in the holy water and wash yourself clean from sin.”  St. Peter gestured to the birdbath thing beside the gate.  Reverently, the nun turned to the font and plunged her hand into the water.  She rubbed her hand vigorously, and after a moment the soft music suddenly transformed into a fan fare, and the gate opened.

“Welcome to Heaven, Sister.” St. Peter smiled and gestured the nun through the gates.  Beaming with happiness and relief, the nun passed through the gate and on to eternity.

But, in the midst of this holy scene, St. Peter heard a scuffle and turned angrily to see who would dare disturb the wonder and beauty of the moment.  To his extreme shock and dismay he saw a few nuns thrown to the ground and in the midst of the queue were two nuns grappling with each other.

“BE STILL!”  He bellowed, his voice echoing off the clouds.

Startled, the nuns stopped fighting and stood wide eyed, panting, before St. Peter.  Slowly the other nuns returned to their feet.

“What is the meaning of this, this, sacrilege?”  St. Peter demanded.

Both nuns began to talk at once and tried to elbow their way in front of the other as they spoke.

“I said enough!  I am shocked and appalled by you.  This is your last warning.  Behave with civility or you will reap the consequences of your unchristian behavior.”

The nuns dropped their heads and looked into the clouds at their feet.

“Very well.  Who started this.”

A nun, having just pulled herself up from the clouds, hesitantly ceased wiping stardust from her habit and raised her hand.  “Yes, Sister Hannah?”  Said St. Peter.

“I believe, Sir, that it was Sister Mary Margaret who started it.  She pushed me to the ground.”

St. Peter looked at Sister Mary Margaret.  “Sister, you were at the back of the line, weren’t you?”  Sister Mary Margaret nodded.  “Why did you push Sister Hannah to the ground?”

Sister Mary Margaret raised her head and said in a rush, “After I heard Sister Mary Frances’ confession, I knew I had to get to the front of the line before Sister Agnes.”

Surprised, St. Peter replied, “But Sister Mary Margaret, there is plenty of room in Heaven, and you have all eternity.  There is no need to rush or to use violence.”

“But, Sir,” Sister Mary Margaret objected, “I would much rather gargle before Sister Agnes sits in the font.”

Tuesday Titters: Week 31; how well do you know your knots?

I can’t remember if I ever shared this particular joke with you.  I tried cruising my archives to see if I had, but gave up after I spent about 20 minutes getting lost in laughing at old posts.  So, I’m making the executive decision to tell it whether it’s been done here before or not because it is probably my most favorite shaggy dog story of all time.

A little background on this joke….

When I was a teeny-bopper, circa 1986, my parents had company.  Any company not related by marriage or blood was an event to be remembered, as my parents had no friends.  Probably because my dad is an ass, but that’s not the point of this story.  This gentleman visitor humored me and my brother by telling us jokes all night long.  I don’t remember any of them except this one, because in my mind they were your average, run of the mill knock-knock jokes, chicken cross the road jokes, and riddle jokes and I was way too old to be impressed by the likes of those jokes.  But then he told this joke.  I’d never heard a joke like this before.  And, with this joke my love affair with shaggy dog stories began.

A string had a very horrible day.  It was the worst day of his whole life, which was saying something.  As he was making his way home he decided to stop for a few drinks, hoping to forget about it all.  He found a little hole in the wall bar and hopping onto a bar stool called out for a shot of Tequila.   The bartender turned around and with a look of surprise said, “Hey, aren’t you a string?”

“Yeah.”  Said the string.

“You better get outta here.  We don’t serve your kind.”  Said the bartender.

“What?”  Said the string.

“You heard me.  We don’t serve your kind.  Now get.”

Confused the string tried to reason with the bartender.  “Look,” he said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.  I had a horrible day, and now I just want to drown myself in a bottle of Tequila.  My money is good.”  And, to prove his point the string slapped a fifty dollar bill on the bar.

Enraged, the bartender shoved the money back at the string and hollered, “I don’t care about your money or what kinda day you had.  We don’t serve strings here.  Get the Hell out of my bar or I’ll call the cops!”  At this point a few other customers rose up from their seats glaring at the string and flexing their muscles.

“All right!  All right!  I’m leaving!”  The string said as he backed away toward the door.

Once out in the street the string sagged against the wall of the bar.  He was angry, confused and he wanted that drink now more than ever.  Suddenly, an idea came to him.  He deftly folded his top half over and around his bottom half, until he looked like a pretzel.  Stretching his two ends away from each other he pulled until he had formed himself into a tight knot.  Then, with a smirk, he tore at the loose ends of himself until the fibers of his string body were frayed and strode purposefully back into the bar.

“Good evening bartender.  Gimme a Tequila, and leave the bottle!”  He jumped onto the stool and slapped his money on the bar.

The bartender looked him up and down and growled, “Hey, aren’t you that string I just sent packing?”

“Nope.  I’m a frayed knot.”

Happy Tuesday!