Not too much later, dinner was served and everyone came to the table except little Herbie. Looking in his room, Herbie’s father found him lying on his bed, the sheets flapping up and down. “I’m just playing gin rummy,” explained the boy.
“But you’ve got no one to play with,” said his dad sternly.
“That’s okay, Dad, with a hand like this, you don’t need a partner.”
The reason I feel guilty is that I’m so bad at it.
—DAVID STEINBERG
Schmendrick was having problems with premature ejaculation and his doctor recommended a topical cream guaranteed to prolong erection. When asked later whether it worked, Schmendrick replied, “I came rubbing the stuff on.”
Memory
I have a memory like an elephant. In fact, elephants often consult me.
—NOEL COWARD (ATTRIBUTED)
When Robinson stretched out on the psychiatrist’s couch, he was clearly in a bad state. “Doctor,” he pleaded, voice quavering and hands twitching, “you’ve got to help me. I really think I’m losing my mind. I have no memory of what happened to me a year ago, nor even of a few weeks back. I can’t even recall yesterday with any clarity. I can’t cope with daily life—in fact, I think I’m going insane.”
“Keep calm, Mr. Robinson,” soothed the shrink. “I’m sure I’ll be able to help you. Now tell me, how long have you had this problem?”
Robinson looked up blankly. “What problem?”
Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet.
—KIN HUBBARD
Mort’s short-term memory was getting worse. So one afternoon he resorted to the time-honored remedy of tying a string around his finger to remind himself that there was something he wanted to do when he got home that day. He forgot all about it until after dinner, when the string caught his attention—but he had no idea why it was there. Frustrated, Mort decided that if he sat up long enough, the reason would come to him. And sure enough, at one in the morning it did: he wanted to go to bed early that night.
Harold saved for years and years for a his dream vacation—a weekend in Nevada, where prostitution was legal. However, since Harold worked for barely the minimum wage, the years stretched into decades, and he was ninety-one when he got off the bus in Reno in front of a glitzy bordello.
Harold tottered up to the front desk. “Isn’t this Adelaide’s famous Pleasure Palace?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” replied the incredulous receptionist. “How can I help you?”
“Don’t you have the most beautiful gals in town lined up and waiting?” Harold quavered. The receptionist nodded. “Well, I’m here to get laid,” Harold said.
“How old are you, Pops?” she asked bluntly.
“I’m ninety-one.”
“Ninety-one! Pops, you’ve had it.”
“Oh, really?” A disconcerted look passed over the old man’s face as his trembling fingers reached for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
What did you dream last night?
I don’t remember, I slept through most of it.
My grandfather’s a little forgetful, and he likes to give me advice. One day he took me aside and left me there.
—RON RICHARDS
A young woman was walking toward the bus stop when she saw a little old man sitting on the curb, sobbing his heart out. Moved by his grief, the woman bent over and asked him what was so terribly wrong.
“Well, you see,” choked the old man, “I used to be married to this awful bitch. She was fat and ugly, never put out, the house was a pigsty, and she spent my money like water. She wasn’t even a decent cook. My life was hell.”
His listener clucked sympathetically.
“Then she died,” sobbed the old man, “and I met this beautiful woman. Twenty-eight years old, a body like Sophia Loren and a face like an angel, a fabulous cook and housekeeper, the hottest thing in bed you could possibly imagine, and—can you believe it?—crazy about me! She couldn’t wait to marry me, and treats me like a prince in my own home.”
“This doesn’t sound so bad,” said the young woman.
“I tell you, I’m the luckiest man in the world.” The old coot bent over in a racking spasm, convulsed with sorrow.
“Well, then,” said the woman tentatively, “what’s to be so unhappy about? Why are you sobbing on the street corner?”
“Because,” he sobbed, “I can’t remember where I live!”
“I just hope it’s not Alzheimer’s,” confessed Lundquist. “Maybe there’s some kind of memory medicine you can give me. See, I’m getting terribly forgetful; I lose track of where I’m going or what I’m supposed to do when I get there. What should I do?” he asked glumly.
“Pay me in advance,” the doctor promptly suggested.
“My teeth may be gone, my digestion a mess,” remarked the old codger as he rocked back and forth on the porch, “but thank heavens I still have my memory, knock wood [he knocks on the arm of his chair]. . . . Who’s there?”
The retired couple was sitting at the table after their Sunday lunch when the wife looked over and said, “Know what I feel like? An ice cream. Will you go get me one?”
“Okay, honey,” said the long-suffering husband, getting up.
“But not just any ice cream,” she interrupted. “A sundae.”
“Okay, dear, a sundae it is.”
“But not just any sundae, a banana split. Should I write it down and put the note in your coat pocket?”
“No, dear,” said the husband, pulling on his coat. “You want a special sundae, a banana split.”
“Right, but not just any banana split. I want a scoop of chocolate on one side and a scoop of vanilla on the other. Sure you don’t want me to write it down?”
“I got it, I got it,” said the beleaguered husband, heading for the door.
“But that’s not all,” she shouted after him. “I want it to be special. I want whipped cream and a cherry on top. Let me write it down for you.”
“No, no, no,” protested her husband. “You want a special ice cream sundae: a banana split with a scoop of vanilla here, a scoop of chocolate there, some whipped cream, and a cherry on top.”
“And don’t forget the chopped nuts.”
“Chopped nuts,” repeated the husband as the door closed after him.
Two hours later the husband returned and put a greasy paper bag on the kitchen table. The wife walked over, looked inside, and saw four bagels. Looking up at him in intense irritation, she snapped, “I knew it—you forgot the cream cheese.”
Men
Is there a way to accept the concept of the female orgasm and still command the respect of your foreign-auto mechanic?
—BRUCE FEIRSTEIN
Guys will actually judge women based on the way they’re built. . . . A lot of guys think the larger a woman’s breasts are, the less intelligent she is. I don’t think it works like that. I think it’s the opposite. I think the larger a woman’s breasts, the less intelligent the men become.
—ANITA WISE
I was talking to a businessman and I said, “Don’t you think most men are little boys? And he said, “I’m no little boy! I make seventy-five thousand dollars a year.”
And I said, “Well, the way I look at it, you just have bigger toys.”
—JONATHAN WINTERS
No nice men are good at getting taxis.
—KATHERINE WHITEHORN
I hate when women compare men to dogs. Men are not dogs. Dogs are loyal. I’ve never found any strange panties in my dog’s house.
—WANDA SYKES
Giving a man space is like giving a dog a computer. The chances are he will not use it wisely.
—BETTE-JANE RAPHAEL
The male is a domestic animal, which, if treated with firmness and kindness, can be trained to do most things.
—JILLY COOPER
I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid.
—DOROTHY PARKER
A smart hus
band is one who thinks twice before saying nothing.
How can a real man tell when his girlfriend’s having an orgasm?
Real men don’t care.
I like two kinds of men: domestic and foreign.
—MAE WEST
Why did God create men?
Because a vibrator can’t mow the lawn.
Why are men like paper cups?
They’re dispensable.
How is a man like the weather?
Nothing can be done to change either one of them.
Where do you have to go to find a man who is truly into commitment?
A mental hospital.
How can you tell if a man’s playing around?
He sends you love notes that are photocopied and begin with the line, “To whom it may concern . . .”
What is the difference between men and pigs?
Pigs don’t turn into men when they drink.
How many men does it take to wallpaper a feminist’s house?
Only four if you slice them thin enough.
How does a man show he is planning for the future?
He buys two cases of beer instead of one.
Middle Age
Middle age occurs when you are too young to take up golf and too old to rush the net.
—FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
I may be forty, but every morning when I get up, I feel like a twenty-year-old. Unfortunately, there’s never one around.
He must have had a magnificent build before his stomach went in for a career of its own.
—MARGARET HALSEY
When you are about thirty-five years old, something terrible always happens to music.
—STEVE RACE
I don’t think it’s fair to call people middle-aged just because they’re not so young anymore.
—SYD HOFF
An enthusiastic tennis player, Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black was advised by his doctor that the sport was inadvisable for someone in his forties.
“In that case,” rejoined the judge, “I can’t wait to turn fifty so I can play again.”
Miscellaneous
Sister Christen’s first post as a missionary was in a remote tribal area in East Africa. She realized that the first step in converting the heathen would be to teach them her language. She began with the tribal chieftain. Leading him into the countryside, she pointed out a banyan tree and said, “Tree.”
“Tree,” the chief repeated obligingly.
Next they came across a herd of monkeys. “Ba-boons,” explained Sister Christen.
“Ba-boons,” he repeated.
“Very good.” The nun beamed.
At the riverbank they encountered a herd of hippopotami.
“Hip-po-pot-a-mus,” repeated the tribesman dutifully. And then, what should they encounter in the rushes at the water’s edge but a couple making love. Blushing scarlet, the nun blurted, “Man on bicycle.”
Paying no attention, the chief thrust his spear into the man’s back.
“Chief, why did you kill him?” screamed the horrified nun.
“Him on my bicycle,” he explained with a shrug.
Ever since Eve gave Adam the apple, there has been a misunderstanding between the sexes about gifts.
—NAN ROBERTSON
Why does the crack in your ass go up and down instead of across? So that when you’re sliding downhill, you don’t mumble.
A nymphomaniac goes to the supermarket and gets all hot and bothered eyeing the carrots and cucumbers. By the time she gets to the checkout line, she can’t hold out much longer, so she asks one of the supermarket baggers to carry her groceries out to the car for her. They’re halfway across the lot when she slips her hand down his pants and whispers, “You know, I’ve got an itchy pussy.”
“Sorry, lady,” says the bagger, “but I can’t tell one of those Japanese cars from another.”
Three traveling salesmen ran out of gas not far from a hospitable farmer’s house. He and his eighteen beautiful daughters invited them in out of the rain and said they could spend the night, although the farmer apologized because there was only one spare bedroom and two salesmen would have to sleep in the barn. The three salesmen gratefully accepted his offer, for there were no towing services available at that time of night.
The next morning the salesmen went on their way and in the car they began to compare notes about the evening’s experience.
“All I dreamed about was straw,” said the first guy, “because I had to sleep with the horses.”
“You think that’s bad,” piped up the second guy. “All I dreamed about was mud, because I was down there with the pigs. How ’bout you, Phil?”
“I’ll tell ya,” said Phil blearily, “all I could think about was golf.”
“Why golf?” asked the driver.
“Hey, if you shot eighteen holes in one night, that’s all you’d be able to think about either.”
It was a little town—when I was a kid we used to play Monopoly on it.
—DONNA JEAN YOUNG
How can you tell when a town’s really small?
The local hooker stands under a flashlight.
It was a really formal event. There were so many limousines it looked like a Mafia Tupperware party.
—BOB HOPE
Andy wants a job as a signalman on the railways and he is told to meet the inspector at the signal box.
The inspector puts this question to him: “What would you do if you realized that two trains were heading for each other on the same track?”
Andy says, “I would switch the points for one of the trains.”
“What if the lever broke?” asked the inspector.
“Then I’d dash down out of the signal box,” said Andy, “and I’d use the manual lever over there.”
“What if that had been struck by lightning?”
“Then,” Andy continued, “I’d run back into the signal box and phone the next signal box.”
“What if the phone was busy?”
“Well, in that case,” persevered Andy, “I’d rush down and use the public emergency phone along the track.”
“What if that was vandalized?”
“Oh, well, then I’d run into the village and get my uncle Silas.” This puzzled the inspector, so he asked, “Why would you do that?”
“Because he’s never seen a train crash.”
Why don’t lobsters share?
They’re shellfish.
What’s white and crawls up your leg?
Uncle Ben’s Perverted Rice.
I have a friend who’s so cold he once sent artificial flowers to an artificial heart recipient.
—RED BUTTONS
When Selma answered her telephone, it happened to be an obscene phone call. The man on the other end began describing in detail all the kinky, perverted sexual acts he wanted to engage in with her.
“Now hang on, wait just a minute,” Selma interrupted. “All this you know from me just by saying hello?”
A talking horse, Plug, had problems getting out of the starting gate. He would hesitate whenever there was the announcement over the loudspeaker, “They’re off!”
The jockey complained to Plug’s owner, and suggested that, perhaps, since Plug was a stallion, his hormones were interfering with his attention to the rider. So the owner had Plug gelded.
After a period of soreness and healing, Plug was once again in the starting gate. But when the race started, he sat down on his haunches.
“What the hell are you doing?” angrily shouted the jockey.
“Well,” said the horse, “I was really going to win this race, and I was thinking about how being a gelding would be helpful, but when the gate opened, and there was the announcement over the loudspeaker, ‘They’re off!’ I just sat down and cried.”
The newly rich real estate developer splurged on a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow and couldn’t wait to show it off. So after a meeting with the manager of his bank, he offered him a ride home.
“Whadda
ya think?” he couldn’t resist asking his passenger after a mile or two. “Pretty snappy, eh? I bet you’ve never ridden in one of these before.”
“Actually I have,” replied the banker graciously, “but this is my first time in the front seat.”
Once there was a beautiful woman who loved to work in her vegetable garden, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t get her tomatoes to ripen. Admiring her neighbor’s garden, and his beautiful bright red tomatoes, she went over one day and asked him to tell her his secret.
“It’s really quite simple,” the old man explained. “Twice each day, in the morning and in the evening, I expose myself in front of the tomatoes and they turn red with embarrassment.”
Desperate for the perfect garden, she decided to try the same thing and proceeded to expose herself to her plants twice daily.
Two weeks passed and her neighbor stopped by to check her progress.
“So,” he asked, “any luck with your tomatoes?”
“No,” she replied excitedly, “but you should see the size of my cucumbers!”
If an athlete gets athlete’s foot what does an astronaut get?
Mistle toe.
A guy works in the circus, following the elephants with a pail and shovel. One day, his brother comes to see him. He says, “Sam, I’ve got great news. I’ve got you a job in my office. You’ll wear a suit and tie, work regular hours, and start at a nice salary. How about it?”
Sam says, “What? And give up show business?”
Burford gets his jaw badly broken in a barroom brawl and goes to the hospital. The doctors have to wire his jaw shut, so he’s forced to eat through his rear end.
One day, he mumbles to his wife, “Honey, I gotta have a cup of coffee.”
His wife starts feeding him a cup of coffee through the tube that goes into his ass, and Burford starts kicking and jumping around.
She says, “Is it too hot?”
Burford grunts, “No, it’s too sweet.”
The freeloading son of a wealthy businessman said to his father one morning, “Have a great day, Dad!”
Friar's Club Encyclopedia of Jokes Page 28
