Coming out of the supermarket the other day, I saw a scary sight. As a woman loaded groceries into her trunk, her shopping cart began to roll away. The scary part? It was heading straight for my car.
She ran after it, but was too late … the cart slammed into my driver’s side door. “How bad’s the damage?” I called out, running toward her.
“Bad,” she said, gathering her groceries. “I broke at least a dozen eggs.”
Bob, a 70-year-old, extremely wealthy widower, shows up at the Country Club with a breathtakingly beautiful and very sexy 25-year-old blonde-haired woman who knocks everyone’s socks off with her youthful sex appeal and charm and who hangs over Bob’s arm and listens intently to his every word. His buddies at the club are all aghast.
At the very first chance, they corner him and ask, ‘Bob, how’d you get the trophy girlfriend?’
Bob replies, ‘Girlfriend? She’s my wife!’
They are knocked over, but continue to ask. ‘So, how’d you persuade her to marry you?’
‘I lied about my age’, Bob replies.
‘What, did you tell her you were only 50?’
Bob smiles and says, ‘No, I told her I was 90.’
The good bishop knew very well that not only did everyone in his small town look to him for an example, but that all too often, all eyes were on him as potential fodder for the local gossip mill, as well. This could be wearing; but usually, he was able to provide the good example and escape the tattlers. One night, however, after a long, hard day, a social obligation beckoned on top of his church responsibilities, and he came to a sudden stopping place.
His hostess, noting that he looked tired, asked with concern, “A spot of tea, Bishop?”
“No, thank you,” he managed. “No tea.”
“Ah,” she said. “Coffee, then?”
“No coffee either, thank you.”
In the spirit of conspiracy, she leaned closer and murmured, “I could bring you a scotch and soda in an opaque mug?”
“My dear, this is my last word: NO soda.”