Saturday Stupidity

It's been quite a while since we’ve had a Saturday Stupidity post here. Here are a couple I found this week at The Irvins:

An elderly couple had dinner at another couple’s house, and after eating, the wives left the table and went into the kitchen.

The two gentlemen were talking, and one said, “Last night we went out to a new restaurant and it was really great. I would recommend it very highly.”

The other man said, “What is the name of the restaurant?”

The first man thought and thought and finally said, “What is the name of that flower you give to someone you love? You know . . . the one that’s red and has thorns.”

“Do you mean a rose?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” replied the man. He then turned towards the kitchen and yelled, “Rose, what’s the name of that restaurant we went to last night?”

A couple in their nineties are both having problems remembering things. During a checkup, the doctor tells them that they’re physically okay, but they might want to start writing things down to help them remember. Later that night, while watching TV, the old man gets up from his chair. “Want anything while I’m in the kitchen?” he asks.

“Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you think you should write it down so you can remember it?” she asks.

“No, I can remember it.”

“Well, I’d like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so’s not to forget it?”

He says, “I can remember that. You want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries.”

“I’d also like whipped cream. I’m certain you’ll forget that, write it down?” she asks.

Irritated, he says, “I don’t need to write it down, I can remember it! Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream — I got it, for goodness sake!” Then he toddles into the kitchen. After about 20 minutes, the old man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs. She stares at the plate for a moment.

“Where’s my toast?”

I’ve recently been told that this blog has become boring and degenerated into nothing but dry theology. Here’s one small attempt to prove otherwise. Stay tuned for more dry theology next week.

A poll was taken in California asking if people thought illegal immigration was a serious problem. The results showed that 29 percent said, “Yes, there is a serious problem.” But 71 percent said, “No es una problema seriosa.”

A Texas State Trooper pulled a car over and told the driver that because he had been wearing his seat belt, he had just won $5,000 dollars in the statewide safety competition. “What are you going to do with the money?” asked the policeman.

“Well, I guess I’m going to get a driver’s license,” he answered.

“Oh, don’t listen to him,” yelled a woman in the passenger seat. “He’s a smart aleck when he’s drunk.”

This woke up the guy in the back-seat, who took one look at the cop and moaned, “I knew we wouldn’t get far in a stolen car.”

At that moment, there was a knock from the trunk and a voice said, in Spanish, “Are we over the border yet?”

A young boy was sitting on the floor in the living room. He had just acquired a new kazoo, which he produced from his pocket and began to play. His father, sitting in his chair with the newspaper, winced at the squawking “music,” but patiently bore it.

After several minutes of this audio assault, he suggested that his mother might like to hear him play. To the father’s relief, the boy happily trotted off to the kitchen, where his mother was cleaning up after supper. There, he began to play with increased enthusiasm, marching around the room. Finally, his mother could take no more.

“O, honey, please! I’m getting a headache! Could you go play that outside?” somewhat discouraged, the boy moped outside, where his grandfather was sitting on the porch.

“Hi, Grandpa,” he said, dejected. “Don’t worry, I won’t play my kazoo near you.”

“Well, why not?” asked the old man, having heard the events inside, “I love music!”

“You do?” asked the boy, dubiously.

“Why, sure, I do! In fact, you could say that music saved my life!”

“How did it do that, Grandpa?”

“Well, it was back during the flood of ’39. We should have gotten out sooner, but we were young and dumb, and we never believed the water would come up as high as our place. Before your grandma and I knew it, we were surrounded by water, and the house was flooding. The water kept rising and the furniture started floating—we were really in a jam!”

“Golly, Grandpa, what did you do?”

“Well, the dining room table came floating by, and your grandma climbed up on it and floated to safety…”

“Wait a minute!” the boy interrupted, “How did you get out? And how did music save your life?”

“Well, you see,” Grandpa replied, “I accompanied her on the piano.”

A movie production company was filming on location in a remote village in a third-world nation. During the filming, they hired a several locals as manual laborers. Some were even given parts as extras.

One young man became so caught up in the excitement of it all that, when the filming was done and the cast and crew packed up to leave, he finagled a job and, without telling anyone or obtaining his family’s permission, got on the bus with the cast and headed off to the airport, California bound.

He had not gotten far, however, when his family discovered what he had done and took off in hot pursuit, with many other villagers joining the chase. They soon caught up to the bus and forced it to pull over, ordering everyone off the bus. The angry villagers surrounded the group of frightened actors and began picking up stones.

However, while acting as a mob is relatively easy and requires little courage, no individual could bring himself to throw a rock. Finally, the village leaders brought the young man’s father to the front of the crowd and said, “Let he who is without son stone the cast first!”

A widow had worked hard, sacrificing every comfort to raise her three sons and send them to college. Each of them had graduated with advanced degrees and went on to become very wealthy. One day, the three sons met to discuss their mother’s welfare. They had been looking after her, but they all agreed that they needed to do something special to thank her for the sacrifices she had made to secure their success.

Her oldest son built her a large mansion, fully furnished with all the most modern conveniences. The second son bought her a Rolls-Royce.

The third son was at a loss to find something he could add to these gifts. What else did she need? Finally, one night while watching television, he found it. There was a story on the news about a parrot in a monastery. The monks, after many years, had trained the parrot to recite the entire Bible. He could recite chapter and verse on command. It was perfect! His mother’s eyesight had failed to the point where she could no longer read her Bible, even with giant print.

He traveled to the monastery and asked to see this amazing parrot. One of the monks escorted him to the room where the parrot was kept. Testing the bird, he said, “Genesis 1:1.” Sure enough, the parrot recited the verse. “John 3:16,” he said. The parrot recited John 3:16. After testing the parrot with several passages, he was convinced.

“I’d like to buy him,” he said. “Who do I talk to?”

“O, we would never sell him,” the monk replied, “it took us many years to train him, and we’re really very attached to him. No, he’s not for sale.” He was determined, however, and price was no object. When he proposed that he would set up a trust that would generate enough income to fund the monastery indefinitely, it was an offer they could not refuse. The paperwork was done, the monks said goodbye to the parrot, and he was delivered to the old widow.

A few weeks later, when the three sons were able to coordinate their schedules, they went together to visit their mother. As they sat visiting, they asked her how she was getting along in her new surroundings.

Hesitantly, she replied, “Well, it’s all very nice, and I’m very thankful to you, but… it’s just so much, and not very practical. I’m only one person, and now I have this big house to look after. It’s lovely, but it’s just too much.”

To her second son, she said, “I really appreciate the car, but I can’t drive anymore, and I have friends who pick me up for church and shopping. I really don’t go anywhere else. It seems like an awful waste to keep and insure an expensive car like that when it never gets used.”

Speaking to her third son, she continued, “I hope you’re not planning to give me anything extravagant. I am just thankful for the little, thoughtful things. That chicken you gave me was delicious!”

Today's joke is extra stupid in honor of Tim Challies' birthday. OK, not really. It would have been stupid anway. By the way, here is his wishlist. If you buy him a book, he might just review it some day. If not, I still get the pleasure of embarrassing him by posting it here.

“Nice haircut,” someone said.

“Thanks,” he replied.

“Thanks for what? You haven’t ordered yet.” said the bartender.

“Didn’t you just…? Oh, never mind. Give me a beer.” He scooped up a few peanuts from a bowl on the bar.

A few sips, and he heard, “Love the tie!” he looked quickly behind him. No one was there. In fact, he was the only one in the bar. Strange, he thought. He scooped up a few more peanuts.

“Hey, that's a nice-looking watch! Is it a Rollex?” That same voice again, and no one in sight! Now he was getting nervous.

“Hey, bartender!” he called. The bartender appeared from the back room. “Is there someone else in this bar?”

“Just you, sir. It’s been slow all afternoon. It’s still early, though,” he replied.

“OK, then, what’s the joke?” the man demanded, somewhat irritated.

“Joke? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on! Someone keeps talking to me – telling me I look good, ‘nice tie,’ stuff like that. You’re the only one here, so what’s the joke?” he demanded.

“Oh, that; that’s the peanuts,” the bartender said.

“The peanuts? How stupid do I look?”

“I’m telling you, it’s the peanuts,” he explained. “They’re complimentary.”

Quasimodo, the hunch-backed bell ringer of Notre Dame Cathedral, was getting old and feeble. When the priest suggested that he retire, Quasimodo agreed that it was probably time. The priest asked him to train a new bell ringer before taking his retirement, and Quasimodo agreed. Ads were posted around the city, and Quasimodo began to interview applicants.

One day, a young man with no arms came to interview for the position. Quasimodo was polite, and allowed him to fill out the application, which he did by holding the quill between his toes. Finally, Quasimodo decided he should be honest with the poor fellow.

“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” he said, “but how will you pull the rope? You have no arms.”

“If you give me a chance, I’ll show you. I can do it,” the man, whose name was Bob, replied. So, Quasimodo led him to the top of the bell tower, and they waited. At noon, Quasimodo instructed him to ring the bell twelve times. Bob backed up, and ran full speed into the bell, striking it with his face. Eleven more times he repeated it, and then sat down, exhausted and dazed.

Amazed, Quasimodo said, “That was incredible, but can you do that every hour, day after day?”

“Absolutely, I can do it,” he replied. He was hired, and Quasimodo could now retire.

Bob performed his duties reliably, day after day. Then one day he went to the priest and said, “I have a brother who is looking for some extra work. Could I have him ring the bell sometimes, so I can have a day off?” The priest had no objections, so Bob’s brother, Ed, who also had no arms, came to be Bob’s substitute, doing the job just as well, and in the same bizarre way.

One day, when it had rained, and the wind had blown water in on the bell-tower floor, Bob went up to ring the bell. As usual, he ran toward the bell, but this time he slipped on the wet floor and slid past the bell and out the window, falling to his death. People gathered around, and one spectator called out, “Who is he?”

Someone closer looked at the poor, broken body on the ground and answered, “I don’t know his name, but his face rings a bell.”

Ed was called in to take over the job. The very next week, after a rain, the same thing happened. Ed, slipping on the wet floor, plummeted to the ground, stone dead. Once again, spectators gathered around. Someone commented, “He looks like Bob, but it can’t be – he died last week.”

Another onlooker replied, “It’s Bob’s brother, Ed, but you’re right – he’s a dead ringer for his brother.”

This is a sorry excuse for a Saturday Stupidity post, but I’m trying to maintain the theme of David’s current God Gave C₂H₆O series.

How many Baptists should you invite to go fishing with you?
At least two. If you take only one, he’ll drink all of your beer.

What’s the difference between a Baptist and a Presbyterian?
A Presbyterian will look you in the eye at the liquor store.

…and one for the Catholics, and to make up for the previous stinkers.

A Irishman entered a bar one evening after work, sat up to the bar, and ordered three beers. The bartender lined them up, and the Irishman slowly drank them before getting up and heading home. The next evening, he did the same thing. This time, the bartender asked, “Wouldn’t you rather have me pour one at a time?”

“No,” replied the Irishman. “You see, when I came here from Ireland, I left my two brothers behind. We promised each other that, wherever we were, we’d have one for them and think of each other. That way, it’s like they’re here with me.”

“Well, that sounds nice,” remarked the bartender, and filled three mugs. This continued for some time, until one night he came in and ordered only two beers. The bartender silently filled two mugs and left him to himself.

After a few days passed, and the Irishman continued to order only two beers, the bartender approached somberly and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. It must be difficult, being so far from home and all.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Irishman.

“Your brother, I mean. You haven’t said so, but you’ve been having only two beers for the last few days, so I assumed…”

“O, no,” replied the Irishman, “my brothers are both fine. It’s just that I’ve given up beer for Lent.”