Tuesday Titters: Week 28; taking Homeland Security a bit too far

I can’t take credit for this gem.  It came to me by way of one of those joke chain mail letters, but I thought it was good enough to continue to share.

The other day I went to the grocery store and when I took out my debit card in the check out line, to my shock, the clerk turned and said to me, “Face forward, strip down please.”

I was in a hurry, and the line was long behind me, and so not wanting to cause a scene I complied; but I made a mental note to complain to my congresspersons about this ridiculous new level of security checks.  However, as I dropped my trousers, the clerk screamed. How was I supposed to know she was talking about the strip on my debit card.

Ba-dum, dum.

Tuesday Titters: Week 25; Caveat Emptor

A corrupt politician (is there any other kind?) died.

At the Pearly Gates he is met by St. Peter.

“Welcome.  As you may have guessed, I am St. Peter.  It is my duty to inform you of our new Eternity Processing procedures.”

“Eternity Processing Procedures?”  Repeats the politician.

“Yes.”  Says St. Peter.  “We now have a more democratic approach to processing your placement into the afterlife.  Now new admittees must choose Heaven or Hell.”

“Well,” says the politician, “there’s really not much of a choice now is there?  Naturally, I choose Heaven.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”  Explains St. Peter.  “Before you make your choice there is a mandatory 48 hour waiting period.  You must spend 24 hours of the waiting period in Hell, then 24 hours in Heaven.”

“But, I know I’ll choose Heaven.”  Argues the politician.

“Sorry.”  Says St. Peter.  “Rules are rules.”  And with that the politician finds himself hustled into an elevator which plunges down into the depths of Hell.  Much to his surprise, when the doors open he steps out into a beautiful country club.  He sees all his friends.  They rush up to greet him then before he has a moment to speak they whisk him off for a day of golf, fine dining, dancing and general revelry.

“Surely there must be some mistake,” the politician thinks.  “There’s no way this could be Hell, this has been the best day ever.”

Just then, however, a man with red skin, horns and smelling faintly of brimstone walks up to him wearing the finest fitting Armani Tux the politician has ever seen.  “Greetings.  I’m the Devil.  Welcome to Hell.  Are you enjoying the champagne and caviar?”  The man says in a deep rumbling baritone.

“You’re the Devil?  This is Hell?”  The politician asks incredulously.

“Yes.  Naturally.”

“But this place is wonderful.”

The Devil smiles and asks, “Have you had one of Sigrid’s Swedish Massages yet?”

“Swedish Massages?  No.  I would love one.  Can I get one right now?”  The politician asks eagerly.

“Sorry, I’m afraid not.”  Says St. Peter.  “Your 24 hours in Hell are up.  Please step this way.”

“Thank you for visiting Hell.  I hope you’ll come again.”  Says the Devil.

“But,”  Stammers the politician, “I don’t want to leave yet.  I haven’t had my massage.”

“Sorry.”  Says St. Peter ushering the politician towards the elevator.  “Rules are rules.”

The politician mutters something under his breath about mindless bureaucrats.

“What’s that?  I didn’t quite hear you.”  St. Peter says politely.

“Nothing.”  Says the politician as the elevator doors close and the elevator begins it’s ascent into Heaven.  At last the doors open to a sky of fluffy pure white clouds.  The politician is collected by a host of seraphim of unspeakable loveliness who usher him about the clouds.  He spends a day of tranquility and contentment playing the harp, singing praises to God, and watching and protecting over mortals.  At length St. Peter returns and collects him.

“Well.”  Says St. Peter.  “Your waiting period is over.  You must now decide where you will spend eternity.”

“I never would have believed I would say this,”  the politician began, “and Heaven is lovely, but.  Well, it is a bit dull.  And after all, I had such a good time in Hell and all my friends were there, and the Devil.  Who’d have thought he’d be such a delightful host?”

“So, you’ve decided then?”  Asked St. Peter.

“Yeah.  I want to go back to Hell.”

“And so it shall be.”  Said St. Peter.  The politician jumped into the elevator and eagerly waited for the doors to re-open thinking of his Swedish Massage and wondering if he could get an Armani Tux as fine as the Devil’s.  At last the elevator stopped.  The doors opened, and to the politician’s horror he was dumped out into a barren wasteland filled with burning trash.  The acrid smell of fetid burning garbage burned his lungs and he fell to his feet.

“Get up you lazy turd!”  Bellowed a deep booming baritone.  The politician smelled brimstone over the burning trash.  The Devil stood looming over him.  He thrust a trash bag at the politician.  “Get to work!  Stop wasting time!”  The politician looked up and noticed all his friends, now naked and burned, walking amongst the flaming piles of trash painstakingly filling garbage bags.  As soon as one pile would be removed a new heap would fall from the sky so that they toiled for all eternity moving endless piles of filth.

“But.  But.  I don’t understand!  The day before I was here, it was beautiful!  I played golf with my friends, I danced with beautiful women, I ate fine cuisine.  I drank champagne.  And what happened to Sigrid and the Swedish Massages!”  The politician stammered.

The Devil shrugged.  “The other day we were campaigning.  Yesterday you voted.”

Tuesday Titters: Week 24; where are you?

Sorry folks, I missed week 24.

I came back from my camping trip and was buried in work and life.  But, now I’m done with my job I hope to get caught up.  I know it’s not Tuesday, but here’s a quick funny by way of back tracking:

A husband and wife were out hiking one day and got lost.  The wife maintained that they should stop and ask for directions.  The husband objected, insisting he wasn’t lost.

The wife said, “We’ve been walking in circles.  Everything looks the same. ”

“Nonsense,” said the husband, “I know exactly where we are.  We’re camped just a bit up this stream.”

“Are you sure?  This is the same stream?”

“Positive.”

“Oh, really?  How can you be so sure?”  Demanded the wife.

“I recognize this patch of clover.”

“That’s absurd.”  The wife said.  “You know you can’t judge a brook by it’s clover.”

Tuesday Titters: Week 21, it’s beer-thirty

Once upon a time there were two turtles who were best friends.  Ray and Bud were very competitive and one day while sunning on a log they began to argue about who was smarter.  All the other critters grew tired of their bickering.  Bart, a huge old bullfrog, suggested they have a battle of wits to determine the smartest turtle between them.  They loved the idea, but needed a judge to determine the winner, so they prevailed upon Bart.  Bart consented, if they would accept his judgement and promise to stop arguing.  When they agreed he set them to several intellectual challenges, each more difficult than the last.  All the critters watched as the competition between the friends got fiercer and fiercer.  Finally, Bart announced the challenge was over and he had determined the winner.

“Well, who’s the smartest turtle in our swamp?”  The other critters asked excitedly.

“Yes, tell us!”  Cried Ray and Bud.

“It was a very close call.”  Said Bart.

“Well, who’s wiser?”  They demanded.

Bart cleared his throat and croaked, “Bud’s wiser!”

Tuesday Titters: Week 20, It Ain’t Easy Being Green

A frog decides to do some remodeling around his lily pad, but after talking with a contractor, the expense is more than he will have on hand.  So he decided to go down to the bank for a home equity loan.

“Good morning, Sir.  I’m the loan officer, Patricia Whack.  I understand you want to apply for a loan.”

“That’s right Miss Whack.”  Said the frog.

“Very good!  I just need you to fill out an application and our loan committee will review it.  I should have your answer in just a few days.”

“Super!”  Said the frog, who quickly filled out the required paperwork.

As promised a few days later the loan officer called.  Unfortunately, she had bad news.

“I’m very sorry, Sir.”  She said, “Unfortunately, it seems like you have no credit history and there is insufficient equity in your lily pad for the bank to hold as collateral.”

“Oh no!”  Cried the frog.  “Isn’t there anything else to be done?”

“Well,”  Said the loan officer, “Occasionally we might give out a loan using some other valuable item as collateral like say, perhaps a vehicle,  other property, stocks, or especially valuable jewelry or antiques.”

The frog got excited, “I have just the thing!”  He cried.

“Okay.”  Said the loan officer,  “Bring it in and we’ll have the loan committee consider it.”

So the frog hurried back to the bank and plopped a heavy green and golden frog figurine on Patricia Whack’s desk.

“What is this?”  She asked.

The frog replied, “It’s my collateral.  It’s been in my family for generations and is priceless.”

“A priceless piece of junk.”  She blurted.

“Hey!”  Croaked the frog, “The guy from antiques roadshow said it was worth thousands of dollars.”

All the commotion attracted the attention of the bank president.

“What seems to be the problem here, Miss Whack?”  He asked.

“This frog wants to offer this thing,” Miss Whack waved vaguely at the figurine, “as collateral for a loan.  I have no idea even what it is!”

The president looked at the item and said, “It’s a knick-knack, Patty Whack, give the frog the loan.”  Then this old frog went hopping home.

Tuesday Titters: Week 9; A bird that ran a ‘fowl’ of his owner

I think there is more than one version of this joke out there, but I seem to recall having heard a version somewhat like this one some time ago…

This guy had inherited a parrot who had outlived his crude and foul mouthed uncle.  The first week after he inherited the parrot it did nothing but scream chauvinistic remarks, racial slurs and various obscenities morning noon and night.  The guy’s wife grew tired of it and demanded something be done.  So, the man had a talk with the parrot.

Man:  Polly, you’ve got to clean up your act or it will be history for you!  Please dial down the mouth!

Polly:  *Squwack!*  Polly want’s to screw you!

A few days went by and nothing much changed.  Eventually the wife gave the man an ultimatum.

Wife:  If you don’t shut that bird up, I’ll take matters into my own hands!

So the man once again talked to the bird.

Man:  Polly, now I’ve asked you very nicely to clean up your mouth.  My wife is getting very upset, you don’t want her to take matters into her own hands, now do you?

Polly:  *bobs head and clicks tongue*  Polly want’s to get ugly on that *%$@ ^&#@ing bee-otch!

Man:  No!  Polly!  Please.

Wife:  That’s it!  I’m going to cool you off, you beastly bird!

And the wife grabbed the parrot and stuffed him in the fridge over night.  The man pleaded with his wife, but she steadfastly refused to let the bird out until morning.  Finally morning came and the wife opened the fridge to find the bird huddled shivering in the back of the fridge.

Wife:  So.  Have you learned your lesson?

The bird glared at the woman and muttered.

Wife:  What was that?

Polly:  Nothing, you *%$@ ^&#@ing bee-otch!

And so the wife threw the bird back in to the refrigerator and slammed the door.

That evening the man came home from work and ran to the refrigerator to check on the parrot.  He opened the door to the fridge and gasped in horror.  There was bird poop every where and all the food had been strewn about, ruined.  The bird instantly flew out of the fridge. 

Man:  What have you done!?!

Polly:  *Squwak!*  I’ll show that *%$@ ^&#@ing bee-otch!  *Squwak!*

Man:  Shh!  She’ll hear you!

Polly:  Who the bloody ^&#@ing hell does that *%$@ ^&#@ing bee-otch think she is! 

Unfortunately all the noise got the wife’s attention, and she came into the kitchen.  She took one look at the mess and screamed in rage.

Man:  I’ll take care of it honey!  It’s okay.

Wife:  No!  Get out of here.  I’ll handle this.

As the man walked out of the kitchen he heard screaming, thumps and crashes and flapping of wings.

Polly:  Oh, I’m not going back into that !+? >@~= refrigerator you *%$@ ^&#@ing bee-otch! 

Wife:  Okay.  Fine.  You can cool off in here instead!

There was a slam and then it went quiet.

The man was too afraid of upsetting his wife to ask what went on in the kitchen.  The next morning the man was still too nervous to ask his wife about what happened in the kitchen, so instead he gave her a kiss and headed for the door.

Wife:  Oh, wait a minute dear.  I was going to make stuffed chicken tonight but I’m afraid that in all last night’s commotion, I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer.  Please stop on the way home and pick up some steaks or pork chops for dinner.  Unless you want fresh poultry for dinner.

Man:  No, no dear.  I’ll stop for something.  I won’t forget.  I promise.  Have a nice day.

All day long the man wondered and worried about the parrot.  He didn’t forget his shopping errand either.  He even left work a bit early so he could arrive home in good time with two plump filet Mignon and a large bouquet of roses.

His wife seemed happy, the house was quiet and they had a lovely evening like they hadn’t had since he’d inherited the bird.  At last the man went to the family room and sat down to the television.  He was startled by a soft, sweet voice coming from the corner of the room.

“Good evening, sir.  Hello.  Did Sir have a nice day?”

The man looked around and noticed the parrot shivering on a perch in the shadows next to the heat register.

Man:  Polly!  I didn’t know you were there.  What’s the matter with you?  Are you cold?

Polly:  Hello!  Polly is warming up nicely, Sir.  Would Sir like a cracker?  Does Sir want a cigar?  Hello!  Get Sir some slippers!

The bird flew off and returned with the man’s slippers.  The man was stunned.

Man:  Polly!  Thank you!  My goodness, you’re like a different bird.  What happened?

The bird shivered and cried:  Did you see what that c%$k- s#@king bee-otch did to that poor G+d damn chicken?  I didn’t want to bloody f*cking end up like that bugger!

Happy Tuesday

Tuesday Titters: Week 6; shaggy dog gets a lift

A very vain, narcissistic woman decided to get a face lift.  She went to a premier plastic surgeon.  However, in a few years she began to be dissatisfied with her looks again and went back to the surgeon to complain that the treatment did not last.  The surgeon attempted to explain with delicacy that the woman was not a spritely young thing anymore and that gravity would eventually win.  The woman ranted, raved and wailed at the cruelty of the doctor and of time and finally begged him to do something, anything.  She would do anything and pay any cost to keep her face and skin smooth and taut.  At last the doctor hesitantly offered an experimental treatment, but he cautioned that it was very powerful and very expensive.  Without hesitation the woman asked to have it done as soon as possible.

A week later the woman awoke from anesthesia.  The doctor was there, he offered her a mirror to view the results.  She was thrilled.  “Now,” said the doctor, “reach up to the nape of your neck.  There is a knob there now.  In a few years, when you begin to see some wrinkles or some sagging skin, just give the dial a turn, about an eighth of a turn should do.”

“Really!”  Exclaimed the woman excitedly, “That’s it?  No more surgeries?  Just spin the dial and voila!  I’m young again?  This treatment is worth every penny!”

“Now, just a minute.”  Cautioned the doctor.  “This is a new experimental treatment, and it is extremely powerful.  Do not over do it.  Just an eighth of a turn every couple of years should do the trick.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes.”  The woman replied gazing admiringly at her reflection and fingering the knob.

The woman left feeling very pleased with herself and the world.  However, as the years passed and the woman grew older she began to feel less and less pleased with her appearance until she found that an eighth of a crank every year or two was not enough, then it wasn’t enough every 6 months.  Eventually she began turning it further each time, a quarter crank, a half crank, a whole crank.  Eventually the cranking became painful and no matter how far she turned the crank she was dissatisfied.  So she phoned the plastic surgeon’s office and demanded to speak to him.

The surgeon got on the phone and said, “Ma’am I see you had a self permalift knob procedure 35 years ago!  How has the procedure has held up?”

“Well,” said the woman, “for the first 25 or 30 years it was great.  However, recently it’s become less and less effective.  And you never warned me about the hair.”

“Hair?  What problems do you seem to be having?”

“Well, when an eighth of a turn didn’t seem to work any more I began cranking it further and further.  Then it began to pinch rather painfully.  Now, no matter how far I crank it, I can’t seem to get rid of these huge bags under my eyes and the last time I cranked it unsightly, coarse, kinky hair appeared on my chin.”