Humor Additions for Friday, July 18th


    My Little Sister's Jokes > Recent Addition List 

New jokes posted on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Happily maintained  by the Community of Emmitsburg, MD.

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E-mail us at: humor@emmitsburg.net


One-line puns that didn't quite make it to the big time ...
  • A bicycle can't stand on its own because it's two-tired.
  • What's the definition of a will? (It's a dead giveaway)
  • A backward poet writes inverse.
  • In democracy it's your vote that counts. In feudalism it's your count that votes
  • A chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.
  • If you don't pay your exorcist you get repossessed.
  • With her marriage she got a new name and a dress.
  • Show me a piano falling down on a mine shaft and I'll show you A-flat minor
  • When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.
  • The man who fell into an upholstery machine? He's fully recovered.
  • A grenade thrown into a kitchen in France would result in Linoleum Blownapart
  • You feel stuck to your debt if you can't budge it.
  • Every calendar's days are numbered.
  • A lot of money is tainted. 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.
  • The short fortuneteller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large
  • Those who are too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.
  • Once you've seen one shopping center you've seen a mall.
  • Those who jump off a Paris bridge are in Seine.
  • Bakers trade bread secrets on a knead to know basis.
  • Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.
  • Acupuncture is a jab well done.
  • Marathon runners with bad footwear will suffer the agony of defeet.

Submitted by Bill, Narberth, Pa.
 

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An older Jewish man who needed surgery insisted that his son ...

... a renowned surgeon, perform the operation. As he lay on the operating table about to receive the anesthesia he asked to speak to his son.

"Yes Dad, what is it?"

"Don't be nervous, son, do your best and just remember ... if it doesn't go well, if something happens to me ... your mother is going to come and live with you!"

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On a clear day during the waning years of the depression in a small Idaho community ...

... I used to stop by Mr. Miller's aside stand for farm fresh produce as the season made it available. Food and money were still extremely scarce and bartering was used extensively.

One day Mr. Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas.

I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas ... sure look good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I got's my prize marble here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not zackley ... but almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."

"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."

I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them.

Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits

and white shirts ...all very professional looking. We walked slowly up to Mrs. Miller who was standing next to her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty

light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.

"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size ... they came to pay their debt."

"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.

Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.

Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.

Submitted by Sister Wink, Yonkers, NY
 

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