A man wakes up in the hospital, bandaged from head to foot.
The doctor comes in and says, “Ah, I see you’ve regained consciousness. Now, you probably won’t remember, but you were in a massive pile-up on the motorway. You’re going to be okay, you’ll walk again and everything, but. . . there was one aspect of the accident which you need to be aware of. I’m trying to break this gently, but the fact is, your penis was chopped clean off in the wreck and we were unable to find it.”
The man groans, but the doctor goes on, “You’ve got £9000 compensation to come to you from the insurance company and we have the technology now to build you a new penis that will work as well as your old one did – better in fact! But. . . the thing is, it doesn’t come cheap. It’s £1000 an inch.”
The man perks up at this.
“So,” the doctor says, “It’s for you to decide how many inches you want on your new penis. But it’s something you’d better discuss with your wife. I mean, if you had a five inch one before, and you decide to go for nine inches, she might be a bit put out. But if you had a nine inch one before, and you decide only to invest in a five incher this time, she might be disappointed. So it’s important that she plays a role in helping you make the decision..”
The man agrees to talk with his wife.
The doctor comes back the next day. “So,” says the doctor, “have you spoken with your wife?”
“I have,” says the man.
“And what is the decision?” asks the doctor.
“We’re having granite worktops in our new kitchen.”
Mom was lecturing the kids about waste. “We’ve got to make better use of our leftovers. For instance, what can we do with leftover carrots?”
Nothing but puzzled shrugs came from the kids.
“Okay, so you can’t figure it out? You can make carrot pie. That’s what we can do with leftover carrots. Doesn’t it make sense?”
Mom paused to give them a chance to absorb her words. Then she asked, “Any questions?”
The oldest boy raised his hand raised and asked, “So Mom, what can you do with the leftover pie?”
Another variation on one we’ve had before.
Mrs. Jones, deeply troubled, was consulting a psychiatrist. “My husband,” she said, “is convinced he’s a chicken. He goes around squawking constantly and sleeps on a large bar of wood he has fixed up as a perch.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist thoughtfully. “And how long has your husband been suffering from this fixation?”
“For nearly two years now.”
The psychiatrist frowned slightly and said, “But why have you waited till now to seek help?”
Mrs. Jones blushed and said, “It was so nice having a steady supply of eggs.”