A Perfect One-Liner

Comedy

To my mind there’s nothing wrong with being a perfectionist….
….but they’d probably find something

I’m not fat….
….but my 100 meter dash record is about 54 meters

People told me not to smear glue on my hands before going to the firing range….
….but I’m sticking to my guns.

My girlfriend asked me to name all my sexual partners in order….
….I probably should have stopped when I got to her name

Dad, how do stars die?….
….Usually an overdose

Did you know the first French fries weren’t cooked in France?….
….they were cooked in Greece

What’s black and rhymes with snoop?…
….Dr. Dre

My top 3 assumptions when the doorbell rings….
….1 – a murderer
….2 – police telling me my wife and kids were killed in a crash
….3 – delivery of that book on positive thinking I ordered

Why was the archaeologist so depressed?….
….because his life was in ruins

I just saw an Apple store being robbed….
….so the policed called me as an I-witness

These days, the ‘grade’ in ‘Catholic grade school’….
….is a lot like the ‘grade’ in ‘weapons grade uranium.’

I was telling some sheep jokes the other day…
….but none of them laughed, and one ran away saying ‘baa’.

I just burned 2000 calories….
….that’s the last time I leave brownies in the oven while I nap

How do Mexicans feel about Trump’s wall?….
….they’ll get over it

If I died right now….
….my life would be complete

I wonder what Eli Whitney’s Cotton Gin tasted like….

It cost me $500 to fly economy class, and what a waste of money….
….I still know nothing about economics

I’m against gay marriage….
….for the same reason I’m against straight marriage.

What gets bigger the more you take from it?….
….the lower class

Classy Manners

While I’m all for respectful social comportment, “good manners” is often like “good Christians”, just another way for those at the top of the pile to enforce their version of acceptable behavior on those subordinate to them.  Often, the reason for certain behavior is lost or changed, but the demand for ritual continues.  Kitchen forks and knives came into existence to reduce the slashings and stabbings with daggers at Renaissance banquets.

Much of good manners is either the rich trying to get the poor to imitate them, or the poor trying to pretend they are not poor.  Everything is relative.  The, a plate for this food and a glass for that wine, means nothing to a kid from Kenya who is lucky to have an old tin can or half a gourd to hold a little food.  When first married, my father always left a little something on his plate, and it disturbed my Scottish mother.  When asked about it, he said that an aunt had told him that it showed you were well-off enough to waste a bit.  Mom soon cured him of that.

Don’t pick up food with your hands, because we can afford cutlery.  Don’t lick your plate or bowl, because we can pay for more food.  The only one that makes sense is the, don’t lick your knife, admonishment.  You might cut your tongue.  You can be sure that the Kenyan kid is licking his food holder.

When it comes to manners, much is expected of us, simply because it is expected.  England, supposedly the home of freedom and democracy, even today, is rigidly stratified by wealth and region.  The lower the position on the social totem pole – assigned by those at the top – the more one is expected to know your place, and act your role.  In one of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, two murderers are caught for an otherwise perfect murder, because they didn’t speak to the housekeeper.  Why didn’t they ask Evans?

In a perfect world, no-one would be disturbed by anything, but the world is far from perfect, and some people’s expectations and turn-offs are somewhat excessive.  I once bathed, immediately before going to work.  I put on clean clothes, from the skin out, including a brand-new pair of socks.

After working 8 hours I had to remove a shoe and sock in the locker-room.  Even I was shocked to see the foot was completely black.  Some bitchy wimp asked, “Don’t you ever shower?” After I explained that I seldom shower, I assured him that I had just had a nice long bath.  The black on my foot was just fiber from the new socks.  “Yeah, well, it’s still gross!”  What do you answer to that?  It’s not my problem.  It’s his!

Go Transit, the commuter railroad in southern Ontario, has instituted *quiet zones*, cars where there are no loud talkers, no cell-phones, and no music leaking from earphones on empty heads.  A Toronto Sun columnist wants to transfer that to the streetcars and subways of the Toronto Transit Commission, and adds his list of dislikes.  Here’s why I don’t think he has a chance.

He rails against coughers, spreading germs.  He wants them to cover their mouth, and wonders why they don’t just stay home.

You’re sitting down, while I have one hand full of strap, and the other with a tote-bag with my Joe-Job uniform.  It doesn’t leave many free limbs to suppress coughs.  I’m going to work, with my cold, because I have a shitty job, with shitty pay, and a shitty boss.  I need the income, and I need the job!  I’m gonna keep ridin’ the bus, till the day after they embalm me.  You could peel off $300 and say, “Here, take a couple of days off.  What’s your boss’s name and address?  I’ll tell him what a stand-up guy you are and slip him a C-note to pay for a temp, and to hold your job.”  Until you do, Shut Up!

Sniffers, just bring a Kleenex, or a simple handkerchief to clear the nasal passages, so I don’t have to listen.

Plug in your earphones, because I suffer from hyperhidrosis.  I am constantly producing saliva and nasal fluid.  It’s a steady post-nasal drip.  I could blow my nose with aloe flavored tissues till I sand it off, and it would still drip down my throat.  You think it’s irritating on the outside for a half-hour ride; you should try living with it on the inside, 24/7!

Watching somebody spend 30 minutes putting on makeup is just off-putting.  Organize your morning ablutions.

Gee, Bob, why don’t you close your eyes and doze off.  I’d like to.  I’m a working Mom, and I’ve been up since 5:30 AM.  I woke a husband and two kids, made sure they all got washed and dressed while I made them breakfast and lunches.  I got Hubby off to work, and the kids delivered to daycare, and now I have to endure the ride-from-Hell, to work.  I finally have a free minute to call my own, and you don’t like it?  If you don’t want to see me apply my makeup, why don’t you get up a half hour earlier, and take a different train?

He did have an insightful comment about seat-baggers, but it just proves what sheep most people are.  Who knew that bags and parcels get tired?  That must be the reason some people feel the need to sit on one seat and take another for their carry-ons.  It is both rude and selfish.

When I took the bus home from a day-shift, I rode the same one that the Good-Christian, Catholic School students took.  Since my stop was almost the last, on the outbound run, I tried to sit on the raised section behind the back door, to give others room.  That’s where the students always rode, too.  Some of the loving couples must have felt a bus seat was less expensive than a motel room, but provided an entertaining, in-flight movie.

I stepped up there one day, and there was only one seat open (?).  It had José the Jock’s school-books in it.  I looked at him, and then at the seat.  He looked at me, and then looked away, dismissively.  I walked over, picked up the pile of books, dropped them in his lap and sat down, with my carry-bag on my lap.  My working ass is more tired than your books.  There are places where these actions might be more dangerous, but the look on his face was priceless.  Somebody gotta teach ‘em some manners.

 

Ironically Christian

I found a Saint Jude’s medal the other day….and laughed until I could barely breathe.  I guffawed until I was bent over, and my sides hurt.  Why all the mirth and merriment you ask, at least you’d better, if you know what’s good for me.

At first, I thought that I’d found a dime wedged behind a railing at a French-fry wagon.  It was small, round and shiny, with printing on it.  Not until I read it, did I realize what it really was.  I keep my eye open wherever people handle money, and am often rewarded with a stray coin.

People often won’t bother to bend down to pick up a dropped penny, and now the Canadian penny is on its way to extinction.  I also find nickels, dimes, quarters and sometimes even bills.  One day I got 40 pennies from the overflow chute of a coin-counting machine.  My best day was when I picked up a hundred-dollar bill that two other shoppers had walked on, at my Detroit Meijer’s.

The first irony is that someone lost a St. Jude’s medal.  The Catholics followed Church instruction, and, for years, prayed to St. Jude, among their plethora of single-use saints, to help them find lost items.  That’s the second piece of irony.  St. Jude is not the patron saint of lost things; he is/was the patron saint of lost causes.  That’s the third piece of religious irony.  If finding your car keys is a lost cause, what good would come from praying to the guy who represents failure?

I was going to use the word final, but will settle for fourth, because the Catholic Church, and all churches, and all religions, are a rich source of irony and hypocrisy.  The fourth bit of irony is that, after years – centuries, of mindless Church-ordered supplication to St. Jude, the Catholic Church downgraded him, just like the Astronomical Society did to poor minor-planetoid Pluto.

Despite being the go-to guy for the church, apparently they did some checking on his marriage licence.  They found that he didn’t have one.  In a time and place where it was common to take a wife without the Official Blessing of the Church, Jude lived with a woman in a common-law relationship.  After having centuries to discover that fact, and despite the good that the Church claimed he did, suddenly the Unchanging Church revoked his sainthood.  It is now especially ironic that he represented lost causes.  Now, if you lose your car-keys, you have to pray to your husband or wife.  Sorry Jude, no offence.

From this general area of the planet, the Catholic Church has appointed its first Native American (Indian) saint.  A woman, no less, she was born in northern New York, and lived near Montreal.  I don’t know what the big rush is, she’s only been dead since 1680, but you know the Catholic Church, always right on top of things.

She is Saint Kateri, AKA Katherine, Catherine and Kateri Tekawitha.  I’m not sure what she did to win on the big Church show, “So You Think You Can Bless,”…. or was it, “Anointing With The Stars”?  Perhaps she helped Sacajawea get Lewis and Clarke one of those, Buy One Bison, Get The Second One Free, coupons at Wal-Mart.  The Church claims that a young man in the 1700s was cured of smallpox, by being touched with a piece of Kateri’s decayed coffin.  Of course, the beneficent Church insisted that he renounce Protestantism, and become a Catholic before they would treat him.  Sort of the same loving game they played with Pat Morita in 1943.

I’m not sure why, but a local school, full of white kids, was named for this Indian woman, who lived five hundred miles away. The name used to be The Blessed Kateri School.  Now that she’s been given a big promotion into management, the local Catholics want to bask in all the reflected glory they can get.  Despite her only being “Blessed” when the school was named, and the expenses involved, the Church is upgrading the name to The Sainted Kateri School.  I wait for scholastic results to rise.

As you may have surmised, I am greatly underwhelmed by the bureaucratic side of religions.  The reason that I take the occasional swipe at them, is that I unthinkingly believe that they deserve it.  And we all know that the churches are big on unthinking belief.