Chapter 987

Used Car

It was a small town and the patrolman was making his evening rounds.
As he was checking a used car lot, he came upon two little old ladies
sitting in a used car.
He stopped and asked them why they were sitting there in the car. Were
they trying to steal it?
‘Heavens no, we bought it.’
‘Then why don’t you drive it away.’
We can’t drive.’
Then why did you buy it?’
‘We were told that if we bought a Used car here we’d get screwed ... so
we’re just waiting.

This compliments of Joe S.

Great Answer

During a recent press conference, a reporter with MSNBC hollered from the press corps, “Where is President Trump hiding his tax returns?”

Press Secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, astutely responded, “We’ve found a very secure place and I’m certain they won’t be found.”

“And just where is that?”, said the reporter, sarcastically.

Mrs. Sanders grinned sardonically and said, “They are underneath Obama’s college records, his passport application, his immigration status as a student, his funding sources to pay for college, his college records, and his Selective Service registration.

“Next question?”

These are compliments of Allan B.

A new monk arrived at the monastery. He was assigned to help the other monks in copying the old texts by hand. He noticed, however, that they were copying copies, not the original books. The new monk went to the head monk to ask him about this. He pointed out that if there were an error in the first copy, that error would be continued in all of the other copies.

The head monk said, “We have been copying from the copies for centuries, but you make a good point, my son.” The head monk went down into the cellar with one of the copies to check it against the original.

Hours later, nobody had seen him, so one of the monks went downstairs to look for him. He heard a sobbing coming from the back of the cellar and found the old monk leaning over one of the original books, crying. He asked what was wrong.

“The word is ‘celebrate’,” said the head monk.

Under a spreading gooseberry bush the village burglar lies,
The burglar is a hairy man with whiskers round his eyes
And the muscles of his brawny arms keep off the little flies.
He goes on Sunday to the church to hear the Parson shout.
He puts a penny in the plate and takes a pound note out
And drops a conscience-stricken tear in case he is found out.

My marriage has unraveled
Because of Robert Frost.
When I take the road less traveled
My wife insists I’m lost.

He wandered down the mountain grade
Beyond the speed assigned--
A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.
He went alone, that none might know
If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
The differential gear!

As I was going to St Ives
I met a man with seven wives
Said he, ‘I think it’s much more fun
Than getting stuck with only one.’