An Attempt to Brighten Your Day

• What did the horse say after it tripped? “Help! I've fallen and I can't giddy up!”

• What do you call a sleeping bull? A bulldozer.

• What did the duck say to the clerk when she bought lipstick? “Put it on my bill.”

• You know you're getting old when, after doing nothing all day, you still need a nap to continue doing nothing.

• What's the difference between a poorly dressed man on a tricycle and a well-dressed man on a bicycle? Attire.

• Where do pirates get their hooks? At second-hand shops.

• What did one hat say to the other? “You stay here; I'll go on a head.”

• Why did the golfer take an extra pair of socks to the course? In case he got a hole-in-one.

• My wife just found out I replaced our bed with a trampoline. She hit the ceiling!

• I'm terrified of elevators, so I'm taking steps to avoid them.

• After the man who created the hockey pokey died, it took a while to get the body into the casket. They put his right foot in, they took his right foot out...

• Cats live lives of snacks, naps, and hissy-fits. Cats are my kind of people.

• What do you call a duck that gets good grades? A wise quacker.

• My wife told me to stop impersonating a flamingo. I had to put my foot down.

• I wish my wife had not taught our dog to read. Now he takes forever to go to the bathroom.

• I child-proofed my house, but somehow they still got in.

• What did the limestone say to the geologist? “Don't take me for granite!”

• Why do birds fly south in the winter? Because it's faster than walking.

• They say money talks, but   mine only says, “Goodbye!”

• Why do the French eat snails? They don't like fast food.

• Why was Cinderella so bad at soccer? Because she kept running away from the ball.

• Every cat deserves a home, but not every home deserves a cat.

• I'm not completely useless. I can always be used as a bad example.

• Despite the high cost of living, it remains popular.

• I used to have a job at a calendar factory, but I got the sack because I took a couple days off.

• Thought for the day: “You can observe a lot by just watching.” Yogi Berra.

 

Remembering Mom

It's hard to believe my mother was born almost 106 years old. Along with my wife, she was the sweetest and kindest person I've ever met.

Like her father, she was usually quiet and gentle, but she became an active volcano when agitated. Of course, being a near-saint, I never aroused her anger, but my sisters often ticked her off way past the breaking point. (If you believe this, I have some prime swampland to sell to you.)

Once she became so angry with them that she smacked the top of the dining room table with her paddle until pieces of varnish chipped off. After cooling down, she realized Dad would not be a happy camper if he discovered the damage done to his furniture. Therefore, Mom quickly re-varnished the tabletop, all the while hoping it would dry before the boss arrived. Just to be on the safe side, she made certain we ate in the kitchen that evening.

Mom was removed from school after finishing the eighth grade. The explanation was that she “had trouble learning.” Perhaps she did have some learning disabilities, but she wasn't lacking in smarts. In fact, she had what might be called a photographic memory. Amazingly, she remembered even the smallest, most insignificant details.

A relative or friend might ask a simple question about someone, but would also learn about that person's date of birth, from where and when they graduated, all kinds of information about their spouse, the date and place of the marriage (including the names of the attendants), the names and birth dates of their children and great-grandchildren, the person's occupation, and when and where they worked. Maybe I'm not her biological child, for I'm lucky to remember my own name.

Mom believed in justice. If a child misbehaved, he (as in I) should be punished in a way in which he would feel some pain. Her favorite instrument to administer justice was a paddle ball minus the ball. On one particular occasion, she began pounding my backside with a paddle, but it broke in half (the paddle, not my backside, thank goodness.)

She pulled another one out of the drawer, but could not find a pair of scissors to cut the string. Using her teeth didn't work; neither did yanking on it. So she commenced pounding on me with the ball and string intact. As the ball bounced around crazily, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

I had learned early in this game to pretend each whack with the paddle was causing excruciating pain. If she felt one suffered for his sins, she was not apt to tell Dad about the misdeed. If, however, one showed no pain, she would blabber to the old man. When he pounded on you with his big thick leather belt, you automatically showed extreme, and I mean extreme pain. That was to be avoided at all costs.

At least in one way, Mom was ahead of her time. One of my doctors told me about the importance of regular exercise. Well, for as long as I can remember, she walked just about every place, often even several miles to town and back.

When I was just an infant, Dad took his family to the fairgrounds. With the four kids piled into the back seat, he gave Mom one-time directions. He showed her the various gears and demonstrated the use of the clutch, brakes, and accelerator. Then he put her behind the wheel.

Dad had many virtues, but unfortunately for his wife, patience was not one of them. Every time she killed the engine, made the car lunge along like a giant frog, or hit a rut in the road, he let loose with a string of expletives. After one trip around the horse racing track, she stopped, turned off the engine, and pulled the brake. After handing him the keys, Mom declared she would never attempt to drive again. It's too bad she didn't have a more patient instructor; even Attila the Hun would have been a better choice.

My mother was one of the most decent and giving human beings I've ever had the pleasure to know. Only one time in her life was she selfish. She died on January 1, 1997, at the age of 77, and that was not enough. Perhaps being selfish myself, I would have loved having her around at least a few years longer. Rest in peace; remember that your kids love you, and by the way, thanks for those wonderful cookies with the jelly filling. I wish you could send me the recipe.

Age Discrimination

After his horrible debate with Donald Trump, many of President Biden's party members called for his replacement on the ticket. Then some talking heads in the media demanded an age limit for the highest office in the land. This, of course, is age discrimination.

The majority of people in their '80s are not suffering from some form of brain deterioration. This is no different from arguing that at a certain age, perhaps at 85, no one should be allowed to drive an automobile. I have seen senior citizens still driving but shouldn't be, but again, most older folks still do well behind the wheel. Remember, it is the youngest drivers who, percentage-wise, commit the most accidents and the most fatalities. Just this morning my wife and I were rear-ended by a young lady, not by some geezer. Perhaps the minimum driving age should be thirty. (Can you imagine the uproar?)

Why do we have senior discrimination? Perhaps the biggest reason is that it's the easiest way to deal with the minority of older people who can no longer complete a task successfully or safely, with no arguments or no lawsuits, because the rule or law applies to everyone.

A good example (or rather a bad one) involved the legendary University of Kentucky basketball coach, Adolph Rupp. At that time, all U. K. employees faced mandatory retirement at age 70. Rupp, who compiled a career won-loss record of 876-190, finished the '71-'72 season with a fine record of 21-7. He could still recruit and he could still coach. Yet, in March of 1972, at age 70, a still-extremely successful coach was forced out of his job. Shameful.

In the presidential race in 1984, the Democratic candidate, Walter Mondale, argued that President Ronald Reagan's age was a concern. Never pick on an actor-even an old one. Reagan put that argument to bed with the following quip: “I will not make age an issue of this campaign. I am not going to exploit for political purposes my opponent's youth and inexperience.” Even Mr. Mondale knew his goose had been cooked.

Senior citizens should not be forced to work, but the vast majority of them who can still do the job well and want to work should not be kicked into the ditch with a discriminatory mandatory retirement age. True, there's sexism and racism, but ageism also is alive and well.

Some employers have learned the value of retaining older workers. They have many years of experience, and according to businessmen to whom I have spoken, a wonderful work ethic.

Here are just a few older folks who made their mark in society: Laura Ingalls Wilder, whose work was the inspiration for the popular TV show, “Little House on the Prairie,” published her first book at age 64. Her last book came off the press when she was 76.

Grandma Moses, who lived to the ripe old age of 101, took up painting at the age of 76. Despite no formal training, she became one of the world's most famous artists.

Mother Teresa, who spent most of her life serving others, won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979 at the age of 69. She continued her mission almost to the end of her life in 1997.

The great Benjamin Franklin became a household name while he was still a young man, but his advanced age did not force him to the sidelines. At 70 years of age, he became the oldest signer of the Declaration of Independence. At 81 he attended the Constitutional Convention.

At age 70 Peter Mark Roget was forced out of London's prestigious Royal Society of Scientists. Instead of waiting to die, he published Roget's Thesaurus when he was 73 years old and continued to refine it until his death at 90.

Most senior citizens are still quick on their feet. The other day my better half asked me to clean the house because she was hosting a card party. I replied: “I'd like to dear, but my arthritis and my bum knee are acting up.”

“That's too bad,” she stated. “In that case, my arthritis and bum knee will keep me from making your supper tonight.”

Although I'm at an advanced age, somehow my body made a swift and complete recovery. 

When I Decided Santa Was a Fraud

Until about the age of six, I believed everything my parents told me. When, for example, they informed me about a special rabbit that would lay colored eggs and then somehow distribute them worldwide, I was all in. However, eventually, I began to question their entire Santa Claus story.

I was told Santa lands on your rooftop and then slides down the chimney. We had no chimney, just a tiny exhaust pipe that even a fat snake couldn't get through. Moreover, on those Christmas mornings when there was snow on the roof, there were never any sleigh or reindeer tracks.

Dad said since we had no chimney, he left the front door unlocked for the Jolly Old Elf. But again, on snowy days there was no evidence that Santa or anyone else had “parked” in our front yard.

Just like clockwork, after Thanksgiving Mom reminded me that Santa's elves would be keeping watch over me to make certain I was a “good boy,” deserving of gifts other than coal. Eventually, I suspected this was simply a way to force me to clean up my act.

I worked hard to behave, and I must say, coal was never left in my stocking, but my sisters never received coal, either, and right up to Christmas Day they continued to be their normal evil selves (Any of you guys who have older sisters will understand. By the way, it's amazing how they turned into wonderful adults!)

Although I drastically improved my behavior in the days leading up to Christmas, still I was no angel. A few weeks before the big holiday, Dad would buy the most wonderful chocolates and place them under the tree. Unbeknownst to him, I developed the ability to unwrap the box, help myself to a few goodies, rearrange the remaining chocolates, and then expertly re-wrap the package. If those elves were doing their job, then certainly they would have reported these misdeeds to their boss, and as a result, my stocking would have been filled with coal.

Santa certainly was not a progressive, for he was not concerned about equality when it came to passing out gifts. Sometimes each of us kids would get one toy apiece, while at other times we had to share one toy or game. On the other hand, my best friend usually received more neat stuff than my three siblings and I put together. Was Santa a capitalist pig? This inquiring mind wanted to know.

Furthermore, the toys we received were supposed to have been made by Santa's elves, yet often they had printed on them the names of well-known manufacturers. Did Santa own those companies?

My folks said there was only one Santa Claus, yet just about every department store had its own. Some of them were fat, but a few definitely had pillows under their red coats. Even more disheartening, many of these department store Santa Clauses wore fake beards! I began thinking if my parents had been related to Pinocchio they would have had very long noses!

Yet, there was still some doubt in my mind. Usually when Dad or Mom said something, it turned out to be true. For example, if one was crying, Dad would bellow: “Stop that crying or I'll give you something to cry about!” He could and he did.

Mom and Dad left such treats as cookies and candy for Santa to eat while he was delivering presents to our house. Was it a coincidence that the goodies just happened to be Dad's favorites? I think not.

The piece of evidence that broke the camel's back, so to speak, occurred one evening after school. Mom told me the Santa on our local TV channel was going to announce the names of more local kids who had made his “good list.” Through some miracle, I had made it (So had my sisters, so I should have smelled a rat right there).

Grabbing a cookie and a glass of milk, I planted myself on the sofa and watched as Santa began reading the list. I was on it but the Jolly Old Elf badly mispronounced my surname!

That fat old man evidently had thousands of elves serving as his spies, watching everything we little kids did. They knew if I was naughty or nice, but had no idea how to pronounce my name? At that point, I knew for certain Santa was a fake! Now I'm beginning to wonder about that Easter Bunny! 

On the Golf Course

For most of my life, I’ve been a sports fan. I’ve spent hundreds if not thousands of hours watching football and basketball games, and occasionally I’ll even catch a few innings of baseball, but I just can’t watch golf on TV. It’s just too weird listening to announcers speak in whispered tones.

Unfortunately, I’ve never had any golf lessons, and the three or four times I’ve been on a course have been a disaster. The other day Bob, my fanatical golf friend, invited me to join him for eighteen holes. Why do I say he’s a fanatic? On his wedding day, he brought his golf clubs to the church. When he was questioned by his wife-to-be, he replied: “Certainly the wedding won’t take all day!” Twenty years later she asked Bob if he remembered the day they were married. “Of course I do,” he replied. “That’s the time I had two birdies and an eagle.”

Anyway, after getting to the first hole Bob spent about three minutes giving me instructions. After arranging my stance he told me to address the ball. “Hello, ball!” I exclaimed. Bob was not amused, but the two ladies waiting behind us thought I was hilarious. If they thought that was funny, they should have watched me go on to kill earthworms, tear up huge clumps of soil, and knock bark off trees.

So after I got into the proper stance and took a few practice swings, I yelled “eight” and proceeded to hit a booming forty-foot drive into a thicket to the right of the fairway.

“What are you doing?” Bob screamed. “Why are you yelling ‘eight?’ If you have to yell something, say ‘fore!’”

Looking back at him with a straight face, I replied: “There’s no way I’m going to do this hole in four strokes. Even eight is overly optimistic.”

Golf is not an easy game. Sometimes even great athletes struggle. For example, Hank Aaron, one of the all-time baseball greats, said the following: “It took me seventeen years to get three thousand hits in baseball. I did it in one afternoon on the golf course.” That’s nothing, Henry; I must have had three thousand hits on the first hole to go along with several swings and misses.

There seems to be an unwritten law of golf that a slow group will be in front of you while a fast group will be right behind you, urging you to speed up your game, which, of course, is impossible with the slow pokes in front. This situation puts a lot of pressure on a duffer like me.

The great Yankee player Yogi Berra supposedly once said that one cannot think and hit a baseball at the same time. That goes for golf, too. I did much better by just placing the ball on the tee, getting into my stance, and blasting away. Most of my “worm-burners” and slices came about when I put too much thought into what I was trying to accomplish.

After completing the fifth hole I asked Bob what might be wrong with my game. “You ‘re standing too close to the ball after you’ve hit it,” he solemnly replied. I asked him how he gets so much backspin on his shots. “Your tee shots are only going about fifty-five yards,” he replied. “Why would you want to have any backspin?” Good point.

Bob is a decent golfer, but occasionally he cheats, and as they say, a golfer who swears that he never cheats is also a liar. He’s what you might call a scratch golfer; he writes down all his good scores and scratches off the bad ones. Of course, I’m one of the few players who needs a calculator to keep score.

An important rule of golf was learned that day: no matter how badly you are playing, you can and will get worse. The closest thing I came to a birdie was on hole eleven when my shot banged off a gigantic pine tree, startling a poor woodpecker that was searching for bugs. At least I didn’t come close to getting an eagle; they’re endangered, you know.

You don’t think Bob is a golf nut? By the time we reached the twelfth hole a heavy rain was falling. He proceeded to make fun of the “idiots” he spotted fishing in a nearby river. On the other hand, as far as Bob is concerned, it’s never too wet to play golf until the cart capsizes.

Am I really a terrible golfer? Let me put it this way: I’ve had a good day if I don’t fall out of the cart. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a hole-in-one, or even a hole-in-four, for that matter. On the thirteenth, however, which was one of my better holes, I sank a two-foot putt for a hole-in-eleven!

Remember, golf spelled backward is “flog,” and that aptly describes what I did to the golf balls all day on that course. Mark

Twain had it right: “Golf is a good walk spoiled.”

In the future, I’ll stick with bowling. Although my scores in both sports are similar, I only lose one or two bowling balls per game. 

Funny Business

• When you're down by the sea and an eel bites your knee that's a moray.

• I think we should stop killing buffaloes for their wings!

• Don't tell your secrets in the garden. The potatoes have eyes, the corn has ears, and the beanstalk.

• A cat's song: “Mess up the song, you're the piano cat! Walk on the keys today! When the human is playing a melody, it's your job to get in the way!”

• I'm inspired to get out of bed every day, mostly because of my bladder.

• Everyone talks about leaving a better planet for our children. Why doesn't anyone try to leave better children for our planet?

• So after winning the game, I decided to throw the ball into the crowd, just like they do on TV. Apparently, it's unacceptable in bowling.

• What happens when you eat alphabet soup? You begin to have a vowel movement.

• Nothing tops a plain pizza!

• My dog was so happy when I brought a Christmas tree into the house. He sees it as indoor plumbing.

• My wife said to me: “I think you need a hearing test!” I replied: “Why would I need a hairy chest?”

• Oh my gosh! If olive oil is made from olives, from what is baby oil made?

• Do you know why the pony couldn't sing? He was a little horse.

• I want to lose weight but I don't want to get caught up in one of those “eat right and exercise” scams.

• I like my candy in mint condition.

• If you're having second thoughts you are two ahead of most people.

• What does a chicken with hiccups lay? Scrambled eggs.

• My wife sat down next to me as I was flipping channels. “What's on TV?” she asked. I replied: “Dust.” That's when the fight began...

• Kitchen remodelers are counter-productive.

• I put a dart board on the ceiling. It made me throw up.

• No matter how far you push the envelope, it remains stationary.

• I have learned from my mistakes, so I've decided to make more mistakes so I can learn more.

• The chicken went to the gym to work on his pecks.

• Some days I feel like I'm surrounded by idiots. Other days I realize it's not just some days.

 

Down on the Farm

Down on the Farm

On a certain Sunday long ago (The Browns were still competitive, so a VERY long time ago indeed), Dad announced: “Get ready; we're going to your grandparents' house.” In just a few words he had destroyed my well-laid plans. That afternoon my beloved Cleveland Browns were meeting the Green Bay Packers to determine who would be NFL champions, and I had planned to watch the game.

Thinking quickly, I hastily replied: “Gee, that would be great, Dad, but I have to study for tomorrow's big math test.”

“You can do that when we get back,” said Dad, thus effectively ending the conversation.

From a young person's point of view, visiting Grandpa and Grandma on their farm was a total bore, unless by sheer luck a cousin also was visiting. During our younger years, cousin Dave and I had a blast roaming the farm's hillsides while dressed in our homemade superhero outfits. Cousins Ron and Rick were great to talk to about sports.

Unfortunately, no one else showed up that day, so I was on my own. One could “borrow” a few ears of corn from the crib to feed the hogs or climb the steep hill behind the house to reach the tasty apples hanging from a large tree. Then there was the pond, where one could burn some time by skipping rocks.

For many years Grandpa had no TV set, and when he finally did get one, the picture was fuzzy and the channel selection was limited. He did, however, subscribe to a magazine I believe was called “True Detective.” The stories were fairly interesting,but from the point of view of a young boy, the pictures of scantily-clad young ladies was the best part.

On this particular day, I was mad as a wet hen because Dad had denied me the opportunity to watch my beloved Browns battle the Packers. Then something gave me hope that not all was lost. While looking around the parlor I discovered a transistor radio. Surprisingly, it worked, so while sitting on the sofa, I began turning the dial, searching for the game..

Quite clearly several stations played music or talked politics, but I could not find a station covering the game. Then, at the very end of the dial, I heard the announcer say, “And the Packers have the ball.”

Unfortunately, the game reception was atrocious. Two or three words were followed by noises usually associated with a breakfast cereal: “Fumble by SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!” I knew this was the game, but I had no idea what the score was.

In desperation, I raced from one room to another in a vain effort to gain better reception. Standing in the stairwell did no good; neither did hanging out an upstairs window. Leaving the house, I found no improvement listening from the hayloft or even halfway up the aforementioned apple tree. All I knew was that the field was muddy and a player on one of the teams had fumbled.

After we arrived home I discovered that the Browns had lost, so in a way, I didn't feel so bad about missing the game. Unfortunately, due to my fib earlier in the day, in an attempt to stay home, I had to pretend to be studying for a math test.

Looking back all those years ago, I realize that my attitude had been totally wrong. My grandfather, who was born in 1896, could have been a source of historical information about which I can only read.

A few weeks ago we took a tour of President William McKinley's home in Canton, Ohio. In the eighth grade, our history teacher assigned each student a president to research. Each research paper was to be four or five pages in length, but I became so interested in McKinley that my report stretched to 50 pages or so.

At that time my grandfather was still living. Moreover, he had been alive when McKinley took office! What a first-hand source of knowledge he could have been.

If I could once more visit my grandparents on their farm, I'd pick their brains about their early lives and their interpretations of important events. As an adult, I certainly wouldn't be bored, especially if my cousin was there with his superhero outfit (Does it still fit?)