1. If you take an Oriental person and spin him around several times, does he become disoriented?
2. If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren’t people from Holland called Holes?
3. If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
4. Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?
5. Why are a wise man and a wise guy opposites?
6. Why do overlook and oversee mean opposite things?
7. If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys deranged, models deposed, tree surgeons debarked, and dry cleaners depressed?
8. I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered what do Chinese mothers use? Toothpicks?
9. No one ever says, ‘It’s only a game’ when their team is winning.
10. Isn’t making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?
11. Why if you send something by road in a car, it is called a shipment, but when you send it by sea in a ship, it is called cargo?
Bill had been getting progressively more bald at a very young age, and it was depressing him quite a bit.
Eventually, he decided to get a wig, and the following evening he came into the pub looking 10 years younger, with a full head of jet black hair.
The locals admired his new look, and complimented him on how realistic it looked.
Eventually, Joe asked him for a closer look, and, though slightly embarrassed, he slipped the wig off and handed it over.
However, as soon as Joe took the wig, he began to complain about everything: the weather, his job, the quality of the pint, anything and everything you could think of.
Puzzled by this irresistable urge to moan, he handed the wig to Tom to give back to Bill, and suddenly his normal good humour re-asserted itself.
Tom, however, even in the few seconds he had the wig in his hands, had already announced to the pub that his wife was useless: couldn’t cook, and was ferociously dirty around the house, but not, unfortunately, when she got to bed.
Again, as soon as he had handed the wig back to Bill, the torrent of complaints dried up, and he was his old cheerful self again.
The three friends, completely confused and puzzled, were starting to discuss what on earth had happened, when the barman leant across the counter towards them, and told them not to worry about it.
“Why?” they asked.
“Ah, ’tis perfectly natural, lads!” he said. “Sure doesn’t everybody complain when they have Bill’s toupee?”
Three old guys are out walking.
First one says, ‘Windy, isn’t it?’
Second one says, ‘No, it’s Thursday!’
Third one says, ‘So am I. Let’s go get a beer.’
A man was telling his neighbor, ‘I just bought a new hearing aid. It cost me four thousand dollars, but it’s state of the art.. It’s perfect.’
‘Really,’ answered the neighbor . ‘What kind is it?’
With the death this week of Michael Jackson, the world seemed to hold its collective breath, awaiting every word. I was never a fan of his music, and less so of his impact on popular culture. Of course I am not a particular fan of what, today, passes for popular culture at all. Anyway, I dug this old poem out of my archive, since it seems appropriate for the current situation mentioned above, plus it mentions Michael and Madonna as representing the debasement of our culture. Not that they are alone in that, but were at the time I wrote this, highly representative of that debasement. I wrote it about the time of Jackson’s last child molestation trial, just to put it into a time frame.
A madman shakes a dead geranium
and the world just rolls on.
A sickly priest coughs in the night
and another day is gone.
Down the block a dog barks,
a car sputters to life.
The silence that surrounds all this
cuts through like a knife.
Blue aura of television glows
around the drawn shades.
Clouds invade a full-moon night
and ambient light just fades.
All seems right with our world,
if you think the worlds’ alright.
In daylight we shake our heads,
and we do the same at night.
Pop stars and movies queens
teach us how to live.
Never mind how unreal are
the lessons that they give.
The news is all about them,
not a word about plain folk.
Michael here, Madonna there,
our lives are just a joke.
But behind family walls
the tube just flickers on.
For an hour or two each night
we delay tomorrow’s dawn.
We cry at portrayed sadness
and laugh with the crowd,
making gods of the images
on TV turned up loud.
Beyond our doors is darkness,
but we are illumined
in the light from the set
that makes us all feel human.
Meanwhile the madman
still roams empty streets,
and priests breathe their last
wrapped in sweaty sheets.
The world goes on without us,
but yet we play our part,
our feelings are up on the screen,
having fled our empty heart.