Dirty Jokes

dirty smileThe other day, some friends and I were sitting around solving world issues when one Mensa member asked, “Say, do you remember the first dirty joke you ever heard?”

The quality and aptness-of-thought of this joke might depend somewhat on your age, and how exposed you were to world cultures. This is mine, a joke I overheard Dad tell Mom. I remember it because she really laughed. Now that I actually get it, I still wonder why she laughed:

A cowboy was out riding one day when he happened upon a rattle snake. He drew his pistol to shoot it, but the snake spoke up: “If you don’t shoot me, I will grant you any three wishes.”

The cowboy decided a magic snake might just be worth playing along with. So he wished, “I would like to be as handsome as Clark Gable, as rich as Gene Autry, and hung like my horse.”

The next morning he arose and looked in the bunkhouse mirror. “Son of a gun, I look like Clark Gable!” He noticed his pockets were full of gold. “And I am rich as Gene Autry!”

Then he lowered his pants and stared in the mirror, with horror. “OH MY GOD!” he cried. “I was riding Old Nell.”

I can sort of recall my husband’s favorite childhood dirty joke. It involved a kid named Johnny Fukkerfaster. The punch line was, “I’m fucking her as fast as I can,” but I don’t remember the rest of the joke.

How about you? What’s the first dirty joke you remember?

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Growing Old Bitchily

This morning when I woke up, I had channeled Andy Rooney. Well, ok, maybe Annie Rooney. A blanket of hoar frost had descended on me, and I have a few things to say about getting old.

First, I hate rummaging around in this grab bag of a brain while it misfires with regularity. I go for one word and come up with another. For instance, I open the patio door and bellow “HERE LIZY” when that dog has been dead for two decades. No matter how much it confuses the current mutts, Dotty and Caesar, they’ll just have to work it out for themselves.

Second, a privilege of age is to change the rules. That’s not true; I just made it up. Therefore, I am no longer going to put the dinner napkin way down there on my lap where no part of my dinner ever lands. Much like the trajectory of the Kennedy magic bullet, a spill would have to head outward before curving down around my chest, then veer inward to wedge itself between the table top and the muffin top (OK, the fat roll) before free falling to the thighs. Ain’t never happened, ain’t never gonna happen. From now on, I will keep the napkin on the table, where it is easier and speedier to reach, and fuck you very much, Miss Manners.

Third. No matter how much I spend on serum, gel, elixir, and lotion to restore, smooth, brighten, firm, tone and lift, I still look ready for Mt. Rushmore. I’ve reached a point where there’s only so good I can look. From now on, a simple face wash and moisturizer. I’ll use no more make-up which is no great loss since I have never really been able to see well enough to apply it evenly anyway.

Fourth and final thought for the day. Last time a nurse checked my height, I am an inch shorter than I have been ever since I was thirteen. A whole inch! She was right, too, because I made her check it again. Shit, shit, shit.

Well that’s it for today. And how do your gardens grow?

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