Exit Strategy

There has been a monthly average of 160,000 troops in the Iraq theatre of operations during the last 22 months and a total of 2,112 US deaths.

That gives a firearm death rate of 60 per 100,000 soldiers.

The firearm death rate in Washington D.C. is 80.6 per 100,000 persons for the same period.

This means that you are at least 25% more likely to be shot and killed in the US capitol than you are in Iraq.

Conclusion: The US should pull out of Washington.

You Say Tomato, I Say Hemmorhoids

A Montana cowboy was overseeing his herd in a remote mountainous pasture when suddenly a brand-new BMW advanced out of a dust cloud towards him.

The driver, a young man in a Brioni suit, Gucci shoes, Ray Ban sunglasses and YSL tie, leans out the window and asks the cowboy, "If I tell you exactly how many cows and calves you have in your herd, will you give me a calf?"

The cowboy looks at the man, obviously a yuppie, then looks at his peacefully grazing herd and calmly answers, "Sure, why not?"

The yuppie parks his car, whips out his Dell notebook computer, connects it to his Cingular RAZR V3 cell phone and immediately surfs to the NASA site on the Internet where he calls up a GPS satellite navigation system to get an exact fix on his location which he then feeds to another NASA satellite that scans the area in an ultra-high-resolution digital photo.

The young man then opens the digital photo in Adobe Photoshop and exports it to an image processing facility in Hamburg, Germany.

Within seconds, he receives an email on his Palm Pilot that the image has been processed and the data stored. He then accesses a MS-SQL database through an ODBC-connected Excel Spreadsheet with email on his Blackberry and, after a few minutes, receives a response.

Finally he prints out a full-color, 150-page report on his state-of-the-art HP LaserJet printer and then turns to the cowboy and says, "You have exactly 1,586 cows and calves."

"That's right. Well, I guess you can take one of my calves," says the cowboy.

He watches the young man select one of the animals and observes querulously as the yuppie stuffs it into the trunk of his car.

Then the cowboy says to the young man, "Hey, if I can tell you exactly what your business is, will you give me back my calf?"

The young man thinks about it for a second and then says, "Okay, why not?"

"You're a Congressman," says the cowboy.

"Wow! That's correct," says the young expert, "but how did you guess that?"

"No guessing required," replied the cowboy. "You showed up here even though nobody called you. You want to get paid for an answer I already knew, to a question I never asked. You tried to show me how much smarter you are than me. And you don't know a thing about cows--this is a herd of sheep."

"Now give me back my goddamned dog."

A New Low

In finest corporate tradition at Editorial Board meetings, "pitchers"--in the most prurient homoerotic sense--present their anecdotal proposals to fellow Board Member "catchers" for their critical consideration and, if possible, sildenafil citrate-fuelled arousal. For reasons which will be intuitively oblivious, this failed spectacularly to occur in the case of the appalling narrative trainwreck set forth below which only appears here as a matter of Editorial Board record. Hugh Jorgen, hitherto one of The Journal's most stalwart and comatose contributors, has herewith been assigned back to the Folsom bureau whence he came for a period not to exceed six (520) weeks where he will be acting in his previous capacity as liaison to his associates in The Aryan Brotherhood.

A man is dining in a four-star restaurant and there is a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table.

He has been checking her out since he sat down but lacks the nerve to talk with her.

Suddenly she sneezes and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards the man.

He reflexively reaches out, grabs it out of the air and hands it back.

"Oh my, I am so sorry, " the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you," she says.

They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, after which they proceed to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest emotions, he shares his most profound hopes and they consume one another.

After paying for everything, she asks him if he would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast.

They have, to say the very least, a time neither of them would ever forget.

The next morning, she cooks eggs benedict to make Wolfgang Puck fall on his sharpening steel. Her paramour of the previous night has to rub his eyes and shake his head in disbelief, it has all been so incredible.

"My god," he blurted, "you're the perfect woman. Are you this good to every guy you meet?"

"No," she replies. "You just happened to catch my eye."

Moment of Silence

The Editorial Board is bibulously crestfallen to find itself in receipt of the appalling report appearing below, sent in by our Left Coast Bureau Chief, Hugh Jorgen.

Once a respected, albeit frequently exposed, member of the Editorial Board, Hugh now finds himself phenomenologically face-to-face with metastatic flatulence, tertiary syphillis and Senile Democracy™.

Jorgen (left) is pictured here in conference with his long-time male companion prior to onset of PL™ (Plummeting Libido).

Would the readership kindly observe a moment of silence to mourn the passing of a wit once the envy of two winos and a displaced moron from the Probation Department down on Market Street in Fat City.


This may come as a surprise to those of you not living in Las Vegas but there are more Catholic churches than casinos in the desert metropolis.

Not surprisingly, some worshippers at Sunday services will give casino chips rather than cash when the basket is passed.

Since they receive chips from many different casinos, the churches have devised a method to collect and collate the offerings.

The churches collectively send their chips to a nearby Franciscan monastery for sorting and accounting. The chips are then taken to their respective casinos of origin, cashed in and returned, in perfect order, whence they came.

This work is performed by devotees known as chip monks.

Wedding Bell Blues

Unbeknownst to his numerous hagiographers, Hugh Jorgen was a virgin until the summer of 1996 when he accidentally stumbled into the Kuala Lumpur branch of Supercuts. He emerged an hour later, a convert to Islam with a smile on his face that, today, most closely resembles the Commander-in-Chief's choked rictus during those psychoactively suspect episodes of mid-sentence oratorical chuckles.

Hugh and Fatima joyously celebrated their 23rd anniversary last August during a conjugal visit at the Gonzales, California branch of Al-anon.


A roué with gambling debts is out on the links where, out of the blue, he takes a near supersonic 3-wood shot right in the crotch.

Writhing in agony, he falls to the ground.

As soon as he can manage, he stumbles to the clubhouse parking lot and drives himself to the doctor’s office.

“How bad is it doc?” he inquires in near panic. "I'm going on my honeymoon next week and my fiancee is still a virgin—in every possible way."

“That’s rich. You were in here just last Christmas with another case of the Santo Domingo Drip.”

“Yeah, I know, Doc, but for chrissake keep it on the QT, if the missus-to-be hears about it, I’m history. She’s beautiful. And rich.”

“Hippocratic, schmippocratic," mumbles the medico. “I'll have to put your schwanz in a splint to let it heal and keep it straight. It should be okay by next week," advises the physician. "But you need to shape up, boychik."

“Sure, doc—anything you say.”

The doctor takes four tongue depressors and forms a neat four-sided splint completely surrounding the wounded appendage, taping it skillfully together. He stands back admiring his handiwork, then shakes his head, telling the patient to take off.

The groom-to-be mentions none of this to his girl. They marry the following week and jet off to Maui for the honeymoon.

That night in the motel room, she rips open her blouse to reveal breasts to make you kill for.

"You're the first!” she cries in total passion. “No one has EVER touched these."

He immediately drops his pants.

“And look at this treasure, my Bouboulina! Still in the CRATE!"

The Fairway Sex

For the record, our Left Coast Bureau Chief, Hugh Jorgen, would like it to be known he does not now nor has he ever played the game of golf. He has other things to do with his balls.

A man staggered into a hospital with a concussion, multiple bruises, two black eyes and a five iron wrapped tightly around his throat.

Naturally, the Emergency Room doctor asked him, "What happened to you?"

"Well, I was having a quiet round of golf with my wife when, at a difficult hole, we both sliced our balls into a cow pasture."

"We went to look for them and, while I was searching, I noticed one of the cows had something white in its, er, rear end."

"I walked over, lifted its tail, and sure enough, there was a golf ball with my wife's monogram on it--stuck right in the middle of the cow's butt!"

"Still holding the cow's tail up, I yelled to my wife: 'Hey, Marge! This looks just like yours!'"

"After that, it's pretty much blank--"

Living Will

Last night, my wife and I were sitting in the living room and I said to her, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just put me out of my misery.”

She got up, unplugged the TV and threw both six-packs through the front window.

The Lawyer. And the Blonde.

Hugh Jorgen, our Left Coast Bureau Chief, is himself of jurispru- dential extraction.

Funny. He doesn't look jurisprudential.

He is not pictured here.

He's a good ole boy.

Who needs to avoid long flights.



A lawyer and a blonde woman are sitting next to each other on a long flight. The lawyer asks if she would like to play a fun game. The blonde is tired and just wants to take a nap, so she politely declines and closes her languid eyes to catch a few winks.

The lawyer persists, saying that the game is a lot of fun.

"I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer, you pay me only five dollars. You ask me a question, and if I don't know the answer, I pay you $500."

The blonde is wide awake. She agrees to play the game.

The lawyer asks the first question.

"What's the distance from the earth to the moon?"

The blonde doesn't say a word, reaches into her purse, pulls out a five-dollar bill and hands it to the lawyer.

Now it's the blonde's turn. She asks the lawyer: "What goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?"

The lawyer cackles maniacally, pulls out his $5000 laptop replete with every bell and whistle known to man, hits all the search engines at once, sits back and with a small, self-satisfied smile, awaits the answer.

Nothing.

He snaps up the the Airphone and tries everyone he knows. Nothing. He hacks into The Library of Congress. He sends e-mails to every smart person he knows.

Nothing. Nada, rien, nichts, zipadeedoodah.

After three houses of searching he is crushed, defeated, depressed.

He wakes up the blonde and hands her the five c-notes.

The blonde takes the $500, tucks the money into her decolletage and goes back to sleep.

The lawyer is near apoplexy with not knowing the answer.

He wakes her up and says: "Ok, Ok! What goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?"

The blonde reaches into her purse, hands the lawyer five dollars and goes back to sleep.

Hermaphroditic

Hugh Jorgen writes:

Moments after a woman gave birth to her baby her doctor stood solemnly at her bedside and said: "I have something I must tell you about your baby."

"What's wrong?" the alarmed mother asked.

"Your baby is hermaphroditic."

"What's that?"

"It means your baby has both male and female parts."

"But that's wonderful!" the woman exclaimed. "Just think--he'll have a brain and a dick!"

Tinkle Tinkle Little Squirt

Hugh Jorgen presents:

A woman pregnant with triplets was walking down the street when a masked robber ran out of a bank and shot her three times in the stomach. Luckily the babies were OK. The surgeon decided to leave the bullets in because it was too risky to operate. She gave birth to two healthy daughters and a healthy son. All was fine for 16 years until the day one daughter ran into the kitchen in tears.

"What's wrong?" asked the mother.

"I was taking a tinkle and this bullet came out," replied the daughter.

The mother told her it was alright and explained what had happened 16 years ago.

About a week later the second daughter walked into the room in tears.

"Mom, I was taking a tinkle and this bullet came out."

Again the mother told her not to worry and explained what happened 16 years ago.

A week later her son walked into the room in tears.

"It's okay" said the Mom, "I know what happened. You were taking a tinkle and a bullet came out."

"No," said the boy, "I was playing with myself and I shot the dog."

What a Wonderful World

What a refreshing change this allegory is from the customary grist for the mills of gender war, corporate buggery, sectarian colonicism, cheapening of the currency and pandemic torpidity. Perhaps the reader too will sense the insistent voice of solace in this story of spiritual vicissitude which, surprisingly, comes from the desk of the normally cynical, embittered, pissed off and generally dyspeptic Hugh Jorgen, our Senior Left Coast Bureau Chief.


An atheist was taking a walk through the woods.

"What majestic trees! What powerful rivers! What beautiful animals!" he said to himself.

As he continued walking alongside the river, he heard a rustling in the bushes. Turning to look, he saw a seven foot grizzly charging towards him. He ran as fast as he could up the path. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the bear was already in attack mode and closing fast.

His heart was pumping frantically and he tried to run even faster. Then he tripped and fell on the ground. He rolled over to pick himself up but saw the bear raising his paw to deliver the coup de grace.

At that instant the atheist cried out: "Oh my God!"

Time stopped.

The bear froze. The forest was silent. It was then that a bright light shone down from the firmament upon the man below and an ethereal, woofer-busting voice came out of the sky.

"You denied my existence all these years. You told others I did not exist. You credited creation to a cosmic accident. And now you expect me to help you out of this predicament?"

The voice paused, then went on: "Am I now to count you as a believer?"

The atheist, although without faith, was also no hypocrite. He looked directly into the light and said: "It would be hypocritical of me to suddenly ask you to treat me as a Christian now," he humbly intoned. "But perhaps you could make the bear a Christian?"

"Very well," said the voice.

The light went out, and the sounds of the forest resumed. And then the bear lowered his paw, bowed his head and spoke:

"I heartily thank you, O Lord, for this thy bounty which I am about to receive and for which I am truly grateful. Amen."

State of the Union

The Editorial Board was divided as to the correct taxonomical designation for this Hugh Jorgen ground-breaker outta the Left Coast bureau.

Is it agrarian-bucolic, restricted DNA pool?

Connubial?

Existential Despair?

The Kierkegaardian Knot?

For the record, 64% of the Editorial Board believe connubial pertains to the consumption of human flesh. With fries.




Three cowpokes were sitting around the campfire comparing notes on the marital duties of their respective wives.

The first good ole boy had married a woman from Montana and had duly informed her she'd be doing the dishes and housecleaning. It took a couple days, but on the third day he came home to a clean house with all dishes washed and put away in good order.

The second cow puncher had tied the knot with a woman from Texas. He'd given the missus orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, plus the cooking. The first day he didn't see any results, but the next day he saw the situation had definitely improved. Throwing out his chest, he informed his fellow bovarians that by the third day, the house was spic and span, the dishes spotless and there was a huge steak dinner on the table waiting for him when he arrived home.

The third cowpoke had married a girl from California. He'd informed his enamorada that her duties consisted of keeping the house spotless, dishes pristine, lawn manicured, laundry washed, starched and ironed, and haute cuisine prepared to a 4-star level upon his traversing the threshold upon arrival home after work. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything, but by the third day some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of the left eye, enough to fix himself a bite to eat and load the dishwasher.

You Say Geriatric, I Say Geriatrix

On a semantic note, the Editorial Board has determined that if the feminine counterpart of 'aviator' is 'aviatrix" (cf. the traditional "Happy Landings to You, Amelia Earheart"), then for the purposes of pioneering genderially correct standard English in this publication, the female equivalent of the standard "geriatric" is "geriatrix." This term has accordingly been incorporated into the relevant subsection of our mission statement as an integral part of our unending quest to glossographically cleanse the internet.

Meanwhile, Hugh Jorgen has drawn our attention to an article in last month's issue of our sister publication, The New England Journal of Medical Science, in which they announce the two (3) definitive signs of menopause:

1. you change your underwear after a sneeze; and
2. you’ve just sold your home heating system at a yard sale.

As a matter of interest, in a footnote on page 4 of the article, the authors offer a working definition of the generic term "old," viz. that condition to which the following colloquial and/or anecdotal conditions pertain:

1. going bra-less pulls all the wrinkles out of your face;
2. "getting a little action" means you don't need fiber today;
3. "getting lucky" means you find your car in the parking lot;
4. an "all-nighter" means not getting up during the night to urinate; and
   
5. you don't care where your spouse goes, just as long as you don't have to go along.

The Gift of Our Time

Hugh Jorgen sent this in because he felt the journal had waxed immorally tendentious, hard-bitten, crapulent, embittered and primarily fecal.

Hugh felt it needed a dash of sentiment to bring out the Hallmark side of the site's weltanschauung.

After all, life does have another side, one replete with warmth, inspiration and the indomitable human spirit--


We can make a difference when we give a child the gift of our time....

A young family moved into a house next door to a vacant lot.

One day a construction crew turned up to start building a house on the empty lot. The young family's 5-year old daughter naturally took an interest in all the activity going on next door and spent much of each day observing the workers.

Eventually the construction crew, all of them diamonds-in-the rough, more or less adopted the young girl as a kind of project mascot. They chatted with her, let her sit with them while they had coffee and lunch breaks, and gave her little jobs to do here and there to make her feel important. At the end of the first week they even presented her with a pay envelope containing a couple of dollars.

The little girl took this home to her mother who cooed all the appropriate words of approval and suggested that they take the two dollars "pay" she had received to the bank the next day to open a savings account.

When they got to the bank, the teller was equally impressed and asked the little girl how she had come by her very own pay packet at such a young age.

The little girl proudly replied, "I worked last week with the crew building the house next door to us."

"My goodness gracious," said the teller, "and will you be working on the house again this week, too?"

The little girl replied, "I will if those assholes at Home Depot ever deliver the fucking sheet rock."

Mature Senior Woman

First, let me register my customary sense of moral outrage in connection with the unnatural scenario set forth below, forwarded by Hugh Jorgen, no surprise there. In the interest of furthering the history of epistemological levity, our editorial board had no choice but to allow for this anecdote's inclusion owing to its legendary vintage--Tokay '68.


A farmer stopped by the local mechanic to have his truck fixed. The mechanic said it would take some time, more than the farmer would care to wait, so as the farmer didn't live far away, he decided he'd just walk home.

On the way, he stopped at the hardware store and bought a bucket and a gallon of paint. He then stopped by the feedstore and picked up a couple of chickens and a goose. However, struggling outside the store he now had a problem--how to carry all these purchases home.

While scratching his head in befuddlement, he was approached by a little old lady who told him she was lost. She asked, "Can you tell me how to get to 1603 Mockingbird Lane?" The farmer said, "Well, as a matter of fact, my farm is very close to that house. I'd be happy to walk you there myself...but I can't seem to carry all this lot."

The old lady quickly took in the situation and said, "Why don't you put the can of paint in the bucket; carry the bucket in one hand; put a chicken under each arm; and carry the goose in your other hand?"

"Why thank you very much, ma'am" the farmer replied. And proceeded to do exactly as instructed and then walk the old girl to her destination.

On the way, he said, "Let's take my short cut and go down this alley. We'll be there in no time."

The little old lady looked him over with care. "I am a lonely widow without a husband to defend me," she declared. "How do I know that when we get in the alley you won't hold me up against the wall, pull up my skirt, and have your way with me?"

The farmer said, "Holy smokes lady! I'm carrying a bucket, a gallon of paint, two chickens and a goose. How in the world could I possibly hold you up against the wall and do that?"

"Set the goose down, cover him with the bucket, put the paint on top of the bucket, and I'll hold the chickens."

Agrarian/Bucolic/Limited Genetic Diversity (PC Version)

Slicker than owl shit, this came in from Hugh Jorgen last year. He originally used the word “redneck" which is not even remotely halal--this being a venue of impeccable PC pedigree. Accordingly, I have redacted this (and any other) anecdote so that it conforms to universally applicable standards of socio-political rectitude. Serendipitously, this was done in such a way as to render the political correction undetectable.


A small zoo in Oklahoma had a rare specimen of gorilla. Within a few years, the gorilla, a female, became difficult to handle. Upon examination, the veterinarian determined the problem. The gorilla was in season. To make matters worse, there was no male gorilla available.

Mulling the problem over, the Zoo Keeper thought of Bobby Lee Walton, a person of bucolic-agrarian extraction and part-time worker at the zoo responsible for cleaning the animal cages. Bobby Lee, like other persons from a background of restricted genetic diversity, had limited cognitive facility but possessed ample ability to satisfy a female of any species on a reproductive basis.

The Zoo Keeper thought Bobby Lee might be the solution so he approached him with a proposition. Would Bobby Lee be willing to mate with the gorilla for $500?

Bobby Lee showed some interest, but said he would have to think the matter over carefully.

The following day, Bobby Lee announced he would accept the offer, but only under four conditions:

"First", Bobby Lee said, "I ain't gonna kiss her on the lips." The Keeper quickly agreed to this condition.

"Second", he said, "You cain't never tell no one about this." The Keeper again readily agreed to this condition.

"Third", Bobby Lee said, "I want all the chil'drun raised as Baptist." Once again it was agreed.

"And last of all", Bobby Lee stated, "You gotta give me another week to come up with the $500."

Feminine Hygeine

This was forwarded by Hugh Jorgen who knows a thing or three about clean women and the bars they are unlikely to frequent. Actually, this was forwarded to him by a woman, he actually knows nothing about it. The following, told by Woman for Woman, is a brief, pithy, witty and compassionate summary of what broads face out there day-to-day--for the benefit of the women-baiting sonsabitches who visit this site, damn their eyes. Most of all, note how economical and terse is the writer's prose.


When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.

The dispenser for the modern seat covers (invented by someone's mother, doubtless) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't—so you carefully, but quickly, drape it around your neck, because you don’t want it to spend any time, at all, on that floor.

Then you yank down your pants and assume "The Stance."

In this position, your aging, toneless thigh muscles commence to quiver. You'd love to sit down, but you hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother’s voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have known there was no toilet paper!"

Your thighs shake with increasing frequency. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday—the one that's still in your purse. That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible to maximize surface area. It is smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The door slams against your purse which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.

"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide directly down onto the toilet seat. It is sopping wet.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every malevolent microbe known to mankind, all residing on the uncovered seat because you forgot to lay down that prophylactic toilet paper—not that there ever was any, but you had failed to anticipate this.

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being sucked in as well. At that point, you give up.

You are now soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You are exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

Now you can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting to enter the inner sanctum. You are no longer able to smile politely to these women.

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you needed it?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it into the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long? And why is your purse hanging around your neck?"

This explains to men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Parking Space

An Hasidic Jew walks into the Manhattan branch of a major international bank and asks for the loan officer. He says he is going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000.

The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for such a loan, so the man hands over the keys to a new Rolls Royce parked on the street in front of the bank. Everything checks out and the bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan.

An employee drives the Rolls into the bank's underground garage and parks it there.

Two weeks later, the man returns, repays the $5,000 and the interest, which comes to $15.41.

The loan officer says, "We are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely, but we are a little puzzled. While you were away, we checked you out and found that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is why would you bother to borrow $5,000?"

The Hasidic Jew replied, "Where else in New York can I park my car two weeks for 15 bucks?"

Unforgettable, that's what you aren't

This collection was forwarded by Hugh Jorgen, based solely on anecdotes he heard in a bar. He has no personal knowledge of these incidents. It's like the old song by Dylan Bob. May forever you be....no, that wasn't it. You be young, May. Nope. Uh, lessee....


Chapter One

Three sisters, aged 92, 94 and 96, live in a house together. One night the 96-year-old draws a bath. She puts her foot in and pauses. She yells to the other sisters, "Was I getting in or out of the bath?"

The 94-year-old yells back, "I don't know. I'll come up and see." She starts up the stairs and pauses: "Was I going up the stairs or down?"

The 92-year-old is sitting at the kitchen table having tea listening to her sisters. She shakes her head and says, "I sure hope I never get that forgetful, knock on wood." She then yells, "I'll come up and help both of you as soon as I see who's at the door."

Chapter Two

Three retirees, each with a hearing loss,were playing golf one fine March day. One remarked to the other, "Windy, isn't it?"

"No," the second man replied, "it's Thursday."

The third man chimed in, "So am I. Let's have a beer."

Chapter Six

A little old lady was running up and down the halls in a nursing home. As she walked, she would flip up the hem of her nightgown and say "Supersex!"

She walked up to an elderly man in a wheelchair. Flipping her gown at him, she exclaimed, "Supersex!"

He sat silently for a moment or two and finally answered, "I'll take the soup."


Chapter Six

Two elderly ladies had been friends for many decades. Over the years, they had shared all kinds of adventures. Lately, their activities had been limited to meeting a few times a week to play cards.

One day, they were playing cards when one looked at the other and said, "Now don't get mad at me--I know we've been friends for a long time, but I just can't think of your name! I've thought and thought, but I can't remember it. Please tell me what your name is."

Her friend glared at her. For at least three minutes she just stared and glared at her.

Finally she said, "How soon do you need to know?"

Chapter 11

As a senior citizen was driving down the freeway, his car phone rang. Answering, he heard his wife's voice urgently warning him, "Herman, I just heard on the news that there's a car going the wrong way on Interstate 77. Please be careful!"

"Hell," said Herman, "It's not just one car. It's hundreds of 'em!"

Prologue

Two elderly women were out driving in a large car--both could barely see over the dashboard. As they were cruising along, they came to an intersection. The stoplight was red, but they just went on through.

The woman in the passenger seat thought to herself, "I must be losing it. I could have sworn we just went through a red light."

After a few more minutes, they came to another intersection and, sure enough, the light was red. Again, they went right through. The woman in the passenger seat was almost sure that the light had been red but was really concerned that she was losing it. She was getting nervous.

At the next intersection, the light was yet once again red and they went straight on through. So, she turned to the other woman and said: "Mildred, did you know that we just ran through three red lights in a row? You could have killed us both!"

Mildred turned to her and said: "Oh Christ, am I driving?!"

Mensa Invitazione

This was forwarded by Hugh Jorgen during The Cold War. That is to say, the good old days. Hugh was asked, rather early on, to resign from Mensa for intentionally shitting his pants during the prayer breakfast.

The Washington Post's "Mensa Invitational" asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supplying a new definition.

1. Intaxication (n.): Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
2. Reintarnation (n.): Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from pentrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
4. Foreploy (n.): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
6. Giraffiti (n.): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
7. Sarchasm (n.): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
8. Inoculatte (n.): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
9. Hipatitis (n.): Terminal coolness.
10. Osteopornosis (n.): A degenerate disease.
11. Karmageddon (n.): It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido (n.): All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler effect (sci.): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic fit (sci.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (pron.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
18. Ignoranus (n.): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.