humor

Wheels

By the time I was in second grade, it seemed like all the town kids had bikes. I was wildly envious of them parking their bikes as I stomped off the bus like the clodhopper I was. Fortunately, bikes were off limits on the playground so I didn’t have to feel deprived about that.

Of course, as Christmas approached, I started in on Mother. I knew just what kind of bike I wanted, a blue Schwinn Spitfire. A realist, Mother let me know I definitely wouldn’t be getting a bike.

“Can’t Santa bring me one?” I asked.

“No, parents have to help pay for the things Santa brings. We don’t have the money.”

That cleared up all my questions about Santa Claus. I wanted to stamp my foot and say “Darn!” but I knew better.

Horse Joke

A man is driving along a country road in England, there are fields both sides. Suddenly his car sputters to a halt, he gets out, in the closest field are two horses looking at him over a fence. The man opens the cars bonnet to look at the engine, suddenly he hears a male voice, it tells him to look at his spark plugs, he quickly looks about to see who had spoken, but he was alone, except for the two horses, a chestnut and a grey. The man bends down to tinker with the engine again, once more the voice tells him that it is definitely his spark plugs, he looks up again, then one of the horses looks straight at him and says “why won’t you listen, you need to replace the spark plugs”. The man screams and runs for about a mile and a half down the road until he sees a pub, he runs in and locals stop talking and stare at him, the landlord wants to know what is wrong, after a quick drink to steady his nerves, the man tells the landlord what happened, after giving him a strange look the Landlord asked which horse spoke, the man said “the chestnut” at that the Landlord sighed in relief and replied ”thank goodness for that, that grey knows nothing about engines”.

Nostalgic Christmas Gifts: A Tricycle Story

I got a bright shiny, red tricycle like this one might have looked the Christmas of 1953. My older sister got the big kid version. It had a gigantic front wheel and step for an additional rider. That was fortunate, since in the manner of three-year-olds everywhere, I carelessly abandoned it where I finished riding, right behind the back tire of Daddy’s truck.

Of course, he backed over it, destroying it. Naturally, it scared the pudding out of him. In the manner of 1950’s parents, he wore my behind out for scaring him and making him ruin my tricycle. That was a wasted lesson. He’d already demonstrated what a truck did to a tricycle. To make it worse, the smashed tricycle lay near the front gate for a while before hitting the trash.

Fortunately, my sister let me ride behind her all over the yard. When she was otherwise occupied, I appropriated it and propelled it like a scooter. I remembered my previous lesson and didn’t park it behind Daddy’s truck.

In the prosperous days before my parents indulged begetting, we got bigger Christmas gifts. One memorable Christmas, I got a Radio Flyer Red Wagon, my second set of wheels. I convinced my parents to let me bring it to my uncle’s house on Christmas Day. My cousin and I got one unforgettable ride down a steep gravel road narrowly missing plunging into a deep creek before it occurred to my parents to set limitations on its use.

Fortunately, my precious red wagon wasn’t damaged.

Good Ones!

The nurse was talking to a hospitalized patient wearing an oxygen mask. “Are my testicles black?” the man asks. The nurse reassures him that everything is fine, but he is adamant “Are my testicles black?” The nurse again reassures him there are no problems, but a third time “are my testicles black??”. Finally she takes a look and tells the man the testicles are fine. The man tears off the oxygen mask, and repeats “Are my test result back?” OOPS

“Doctor doctor, what happened to that man who fell into the circular saw and had the whole left side of his body cut away?”

“He’s all right now.”

A man goes to his doctor for a complete checkup. He hasn’t been feeling well and wants to find out if he is ill. After the checkup, the doctor comes out with the results of the examination.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. You’re dying and you don’t have much time,” the doctor says.

“Oh no, that’s terrible. How long have I got?” the man asks.

“10…” says the doctor.

“10? 10 what? Months? Weeks? What?!” he asks desperately.

“10…9…8…7…”

A man working with an electric saw accidentally saws off all 10 fingers. He rushes to the emergency room.

The doctor says, “Give me the fingers and I’ll see what I can do.” “But, I don’t have the fingers!” “Why didn’t you bring the fingers?!” asks the incredulous doctor. “Doc, I couldn’t pick them up.”

A man goes to the doctors and says, “Doctor, I think I’m going deaf!”

And the doctor says, “Can you describe the symptoms?” 

The man responds, “Yes, Homer is fat and Marge has blue hair.”

Payin’ for My Raisin’

I used to hear that phrase a lot when I messed up as a kid. “You’re gonna have to pay for your raisin’.” Truer words were never spoken. At ninety-six, my mother lives quite happily in an independent living apartment. Well, she should be happy. She has friends, eats three meals a day in the dining room, has her apartment cleaned, and her laundry done. The only thing she does is make her bed.

This morning, I picked Mother up at nine am for her doctor’s appointment. I drooped her off right at the entry, parked the car, and escorted her to the office, got her seated and checked in.

“How long till they take us back?” she asked.

“Probably not long.” I told her. “We’re a few minutes early.”

“I hope not.” she grumbled. “It’s cold in here.”

They called her in at nine-thirty on the dot, her appointment time. “Right on time.” I said. “That’s good.”

They weighed her, took her to a room, and checked her vitals. A very nice medical assistant took her medication list and history. “I’ll be back to take you for a scan. she told Mother.

“I hope she gets right back. There’s no point in keeping me waiting. What else does she have to do?” Mother complained.

The woman was back in seven minutes. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I had two ahead of you.” she explained. She took Mother’s arm, carefully walking her to the scan. I relaxed, looking forward to checking my email while Mother was occupied. It seemed like they were back in less than five minutes.

“I’ll tell the nurse you’re ready.” the assistant said.

“How long will that nurse be?”Mother queried before the door closed.

“I don’t know. You saw the office was full. Maybe it won’t be too long. “ I said.

“They ought not to book so many.” She was kind of crabby. I reminded her she only has this big check up yearly and has to have a lot done. Last year we were here three hours.

“It will take as long as it takes. We’ll go to lunch when we’re done.” I reminded her.

“I’m already hungry. Oh yeah. I have to take my medicine!” She dug through her jacket and pants pockets fruitlessly. “Dern, I don’t have it. What’s gonna happen if I don’t get it on time? I’ve never been late before.”

That was news to me. I could have sworn we’ve been through this dozens of times.

“Mother, look again. I’m sure you have it. There it is! You can get a cup of water when the nurse comes in.” No such luck. I had to ask for a cup of water.

We waited. Mother fussed. “Where is that nurse? Did she go off to lunch and leave me waiting?” Mother is not usually fussy but she was wound up today.

“Mother, they have a lot of staff here. I’m sure they don’t go off and leave you waiting. They’ll be here when they get here. We just have to wait.” I tried to sound patient.

At eleven, the nurse saw Mother,and broke the news it would be a short wait till she could see the doctor as well as have an xray and go to lab. Mother smiled sweetly. When the door closed, I braced myself.

“We’ve been here forever. I’m ready to go!” She spouted.

“Well, we can’t till we’re done.” I told her. By noon we were out the door. Can you imagine how many times Mother lived through this scenario with five children?

The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”,  as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.

Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner.  I was repulsed  when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.  It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her.  At least she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, she could still run just fine.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.

Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off.  I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest.  Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition.  Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to do manage on their own.

Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck,  swung it around a few times in a wide arc,  giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck.   The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.

Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head  and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.

indian-dress-and-henBy now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering.   Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.  Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won.  All’s well that ends well.

The January Diet Resolution


’Twas the month after Christmas and all through the house,
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I’d nibbled, the eggnog I’d taste
At the holiday parties had gone to my waist.
When I got on the scales, there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber),
I’d remember the marvelous meals I’d prepared:
The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared.
The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese,
And the way I’d never said, “No thank you, please.”
As I dressed myself in my husband’s old shirt,
And prepared once again to battle with dirt,
I said to myself, as only I can,
“You can’t spend a winter disguised as a man!”
So, away with the last of the sour cream dip.
Get rid of the fruitcake, every cracker and chip.
Every last bit of food that I like must be banished,
’Til all the additional ounces have vanished.
I won’t have a cookie—not even a lick.
I’ll only just chew on a long celery stick.
I won’t have hot biscuits, or cornbread, or pie,
I’ll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
I’m hungry, I’m grouchy, can’t fit through the door,
But isn’t that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!
~ Author Unknown



New Year’s Resolution Prayers


God, grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway, the good fortune to
run into the ones that I do, and the eyesight to tell the difference.
Dear Lord,
So far this year I’ve done well. I haven’t gossiped, I haven’t lost my temper, I haven’t been
greedy, grumpy, nasty, selfish, or overindulgent. I’m very thankful for that. But in a few
minutes, Lord, I’m going to get out of bed, and from then on, I’m probably going to need a
lot more help. Amen

New Year’s Resolution over the Years
2019: I will get my weight down below 180 pounds.
2020: I will follow my new diet religiously until I get below 200 pounds.
2021: I will develop a realistic attitude about my weight.
2022: I will work out three days a week.
2023: I will try to drive past a gym at least once a week.



Football or Food
As in many homes on New Year’s Day, Janet and Jim, a happily married couple, faced
the annual conflict of which was more important—the football game on television or the
special meal.
Hoping to keep the peace, Jim ate lunch with the rest of the family, and even lingered
for some pleasant after-lunch chat before retiring to the lounge to turn on the television.
Some minutes later, Janet looked in to see how he was. She even graciously brought him a
cold beer. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and asked what the score was. Jim told her it
was halftime and that the score was still 0–0.
“See?” Janet said happily. “You didn’t miss a thing.”


©ActivityConnection.com – Funny New Year’s Resolutions & Jokes – Page 2 of 3
New Year’s Morning Lecture
Early New Year’s morning, Daniel was in no shape to drive, so he sensibly left his van in the
parking lot and walked home. As he was wobbling along, he was stopped by a policeman.
“What are you doing out here at four o’clock in the morning?” asked the police officer.
“I’m on my way to a lecture,” answered Roger.
“And who on earth, in their right mind, is going to give a lecture at this time of the night?”
inquired the constable sarcastically.
“My wife,” slurred Daniel grimly.

Why Patient Assessment is Crucial in Nursing

One of my nursing instructors shared this story. I’m so glad it didn’t happen to me. I’m sure I’d have an anal sphincter malfunction.

Her cancer patient had asked for a pain shot. Of course she’d developed critical anxiety dreading giving her first injection. It took her forever to check and recheck herself in preparation. Eventually, the big moment came. Her instructor helped her position the unfortunate patient and guided her through the shot and repositioning the patient. She sighed with relief till her instructor told her to her to check the patient’s vitals. To her horror, she couldn’t find a blood pressure, heartbeat, or respirations. Having no confidence in her skills, she tried again. Nothing! Terrified she had just killed her patient, she looked to her instructor who spoke to her levelly. “Always assess your patient before you do anything. She died while you were gone to get her medication.”

I’m sure she never forgot that lesson. I certainly didn’t.

Battery Socks

My brother was an avid deer hunter. That Christmas Mother bought him a gift of battery-powered heated socks. This seemed like a great idea, since deer season fell during cold weather. Bill was up long before dawn, dressing for the hunt. Sadly, the Christmas budget hadn’t extended far enough for the purchase of hunting boots. Never fear. His new socks would keep his feet warm. He layered his clothes down to his fine, new battery socks. To ensure his comfort, he pulled plastic bread bags on over his shoes.

He set up in his deer stand, knowing he’d be comfortable. All went well for a few minutes until the heated socks encased in plastic bread bags made his feet sweat. It felt like ants were eating him up. Frantically, he stripped of bread bags, shoes, and his fine, new battery-powered socks, leaving him standing on the cold, cold ground with his sweaty feet. What a treat for a frosty morning!