Afternoon Chuckle

There’s this bar and in the bar there is a magic mirror.

If you tell a lie it will suck you in.

One day a brunette walks into the bar. She approaches the mirror and says ” I think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world” and it sucks her in.

The next day a redhead walks into the bar. She approaches the mirror and says “I think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world” and it sucks her in.

The next day a blonde walks into the bar. She approaches the mirror and says “I think…” and it sucks her in.

A blond, a brunette, and a redhead are interviewing for a new NASA experiment on sending women to different planets.

First, the panel of scientists asks the brunette, “If you could go to any planet, what planet would you choose and why?” She answers promptly, “I would go to Mars because it seems so interesting with all the recent news about possible extra terrestrial life on the planet.”

Next, the panel asks the redhead the same question. Without any hesitation, she replies, “I’d like to go to Saturn to see all of its rings.”

Finally, the NASA scientists ask the blonde the same question they asked the brunette and the redhead. After pondering for several minutes, she finally answers, “I would go to the sun.”

Several scientists suppress a laugh, but the lead interviewer, trying to take the blonde seriously, explains, “Well, if you went to the sun, you’d burn to death almost instantaneously.”

The blond smirks and puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t be stupid! I’d go at night!”

Three blonde friends die together in a car wreck. They find themselves standing in front of the pearly gates with St. Peter. He warns them that before they can enter heaven, they have to tell him what Easter is about.

The first blonde says, “Easter is a holiday where we give thanks, have a big feast and eat turkey.”

“Nooooo,” groans St. Peter. “You don’t get in.”

The second blonde says, “Easter is the holiday where we decorate a tree with pretty ornaments and give each other presents.”

“Nooooo,” groans St. Peter. “You don’t get in, either.”

The third blonde says, “Well, I know what Easter is all about. Easter is a Christian holiday which coincides with the Jewish Passover. After Jesus celebrated Passover with His disciples, He was betrayed by Judas and turned over to the Romans. They crucified Him on a cross. After He died, they buried him in a tomb and put a huge boulder in front of it.”

“Very good!” says St. Peter.

But the blonde continues. “Now, every year, the Jews roll the stone away and Jesus comes out. If He sees his shadow, we have 6 more weeks of winter.”

Q: Why does a blonde only change her baby’s diaper once a month?
A: The instructions clearly state, “good for up to 20 pounds

Q: What do you call a blonde with an IQ of 100?
A: A foursome.

Ask Auntie Linda, September 23, 2015

Dear Auntie Linda,  My five grown kids are moochers.  One of them is always needing something.  I sixty-eight years old, divorced, and drawing social security, but still have to work part-time just to get by.  My house needs a new roof, and my old car needs tires.  Just when I think I am getting a little ahead, one of the kids gets their lights cut off or runs out of milk for the baby. Two grandchildren spend the night four nights a week while my daughter works the night shift.  I want to help her since she is a single mother barely scraping by, but half the time she doesn’t bring diapers. They always seem to have money for fishing, cigarettes, and beer.   I raise a big garden and they pile in for tomatoes and vegetables, but never lift a finger.  How do I get them to grow up?  Worked to the Bone.

Dear Worked to the Bone,  You won’t always be here to help.  You just have to toughen up and say “No.”  It would be very uncomfortable to get by without electricity for a few days, but they would manage and figure out how to pay it next time.  The baby has to have milk, but you can make it clear you can’t buy milk or diapers, they can plan better.  Necessities come ahead of fishing, cigarettes, and beer.  If you haven’t told them what a burden they are, it’s time you did. It’s not hard to do the math.  Your income barely supports you. As for the garden, if they want goodies, they need to help. It’s a lot easier for them to yell for help than to plan ahead.   They are obviously quite comfortable depending on you to bail them out.  You are not a bank!  Auntie Linda

Dear Auntie Linda,  My husband I were childhood sweethearts, have been married four years and have a two-year-old.  We live about a hundred miles from our parents   We want the baby to know his grandparents so we go home for the weekend about every two months.   My parents and his only live about three miles apart.  Both sets are jealous and competitive about our time when we go home for a visit.  No matter how we divide our time up, somebody is mad.  Holidays are the worst.  We never get to visit old friends because of their demands.  How do we handle this?  Ragdoll

Dear Ragdoll, Your parents are fortunate you visit this often.  Since somebody is always mad anyway, it is up to you to decide how you spend your time.  You could alternate weekends, one this time, one the next, and have Sunday lunch with the other, and switch the next time.  You could also alternate holidays. It is your decision, not theirs.  If they want time with you, they could visit as well.  One hundred miles is not that far.  The road goes both ways.  Auntie Linda

Joke of the Day

A politician dies and ends up standing in front of the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks at him for a second, flicks through his book, and finds his name.

“So, you’re a politician…”

“Well, yes, is that a problem?”

“Oh no, no problem. But we’ve recently adopted a new system for people in your line of work, and unfortunately you will have to spend a day in Hell. After that however, you’re free to choose where you want to spend eternity!”

“Wait, I have to spend a day in Hell?!” says the politician. “Those are the rules,” replies St Peter, clicks his fingers, and WOOMPH, the guy dissapears. He awakes, curled up with his hands over his eyes, knowing he’s in Hell. Cautiously, he listens for the screams, sniffs the air for brimstone, and finds… Nothing. Just the smell of, is that fabric softener? And cut grass, this can’t be right?

“Open your eyes!” says a voice. “C’mon, wakey wakey, we’ve only got 24 hours!” Nervously, he uncovers his eyes, looks around, and sees he’s in a hotel room. A nice one too. Wait, this is a penthouse suite… And there’s a smiling man in a suit, holding a martini. “Who are you??” The politician asks.

“Well, I’m Satan!” says the man, handing him the drink and helping him to his feet. “Welcome to Hell!”

“Wait, this is Hell? But… Where’s all the pain and suffering?” he asks.

Satan throws him a wink. “Oh, we’ve been a bit misrepresented over the years, it’s a long story. Anyway, this is your room! The minibar is of course free, as is the room service, there’s extra towels next to the hot-tub, and if you need anything, just call reception. But enough of this! It’s a beautiful day, and if you’d care to look outside…”

Slightly stunned by the opulent surroundings, the man wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows through which the sun is glowing, looks far down, and sees a group of people cheering and waving at him from a golf course.

“It’s one of 5 pro-level courses on site, and there’s another 6 just a few minutes drive out past the beach and harbour!” says Satan, answering his unasked question.

So they head down in the lift, walk out through the glittering lobby where everyone waves and welcomes the man, as Satan signs autographs and cheerily talks shop with the laughing staff. And as he walks out, he sees the group on the golf course are made up of every one of his old friends, people he’s admired for years but never met or worked with, and people whose work he’s admired but died long before his career started. And out of the middle of this group walks his wife, with a massive smile and the body she had when she was 20, who throws her arms around him and plants a delicate kiss on his cheek. Everyone cheers and applauds, and as they slap him on the back and trade jokes, his worst enemy arrives, as a 2 foot tall goblin-esque caddy. He spends the day in the bright sunshine on the course, having the time of his life laughing at jokes and carrying important discussions, putting the world to rights with his friends while holding his delighted wife next to him as she gazes lovingly at him.

Later, they return to the hotel for dinner and have an enormous meal, perfectly cooked. As everyone is falling about laughing and flinging bread sticks at each other, his wife whispers in his ear… And they return to their penthouse suite, and spend the rest of the night making love like they did on their honeymoon. After hours of passion, the man falls deep into the 100% Egyptian cotton pillows, and falls into a deep and happy sleep… and is woken up by St Peter.

“So, that was Hell. Wasn’t what you were expecting, I bet?” “No sir!” says the man. “So then,” says St Peter. “You can make your choice. It’s Hell, which you saw, or Heaven, which has choral singing, talking to God, white robes, and so on.”

“Well… I know this sounds strange, but on balance, I think I’d prefer Hell,” says the politician. “Not a problem, we totally understand! Enjoy!” says St Peter, and clicks his fingers again.

The man wakes up in total darkness, the stench of ammonia filling the air and distant screams the only noise. As he adjusts, he can see the only light is from belches of flame far away, illuminating the ragged remains of people being tortured or burning in a sulphurous ocean. A sudden bolt of lightning reveals Satan next to him, wearing the same suit as before and grinning, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a coil of razor-wire in the other. “What’s this??” He cries. “Where’s the hotel?? Where’s my wife??? Where’s the minibar, the golf-courses, the pool, the restaurant, the free drinks and the sunshine???”

“Ah”, says Satan. “You see, yesterday, we were campaigning. But today, you voted.”

I was having trouble with my computer. So I called David, the 11 year old next door whose bedroom looks like Mission Control, and asked him to come over.

David clicked a couple of buttons and solved the problem.

As he was walking away, I called after him, “So, what was wrong?”

He replied, “It was an ID ten T error.”

I didn’t want to appear stupid, but nonetheless inquired, “An ID Ten T error?

What’s that? In case I need to fix it again.”

David grinned, “Haven’t you ever heard of an ID ten T error before?”

“No”, I replied.

“Write it down,” he said, “and I think you’ll figure it out.”

So I wrote down: I D 1 0 T

I used to like that little boy.