The Golden Years

Mike Rashoff, The Journal's Parking Lot Traffic Control Bureau Chief, was busy directing cars to empty spaces at 1:30 AM one morning at Costco when Al Gore ran up to him and excitedly ejaculated: "Mike! Mike! This story just came in from the War Department! The Japs are coming any minute, you gotta get this to The Journal immediately, oh Jesus, here they come, they're gonna strafe Costco!!"

Two weeks later, after voting for the Climate Change candidate, Rutherford B. Hayes, Mike forwarded this to the Editorial Waterboard ad hoc quorum in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn.

Readers cannot act too quickly in responding to this imminent threat to hearth and home. (The kids can--it goes without saying--go fuck themselves.)


After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security.

The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.

So the woman said, "Unbutton your shirt." I forthwith opened my shirt revealing my massive chest with its manly veneer of curly silver hair.

She said, "That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me" and immediately processed my Social Security application.

When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.

She said: "You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten Disability too."

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