Saturday Snickers

There I was sitting at the bar staring at my drink when a large, trouble-making biker steps up next to me, grabs my drink and gulps it down in one swig.

"Well, whatcha' gonna do about it?" he says, menacingly, as I burst into tears. "Come on, man," the biker says, "I didn't think you'd CRY. I can't stand to see a man crying."

"This is the worst day of my life," I said. "I'm a complete failure. I was late to a meeting and my boss fired me. When I went to the parking lot, I found my car had been stolen and I don't have any insurance. I left my wallet in the cab I took home. I found my wife with another man .. and then my dog bit me."

"So, I came to this bar to work up the courage to put an end to it all, I buy a drink, I drop a capsule in it and sit here watching the poison dissolve; and then you show up and drink the whole damn thing!

I Love Mustard. (This is a true story. If you have children you will probably relate to this father).

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, Gourmet Mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands, but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.

Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich,’ she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers..

I love mustard.

I had no napkin.

I licked it off.

It was not mustard.

No man ever put a baby down faster.

It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my
tongue protruding out.

With a washcloth in each hand, I did the sort of routine
shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue.

Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my
wife Said, ‘Now you know why they call that fancy mustard
Poupon.’’

Bertha and Betty had been friends all of their lives.

When it was clear that Bertha was dying, Betty visited her every day.

One day Betty said, “Bertha, we both loved playing softball all our lives, and we played all through high school. Please do me one favor: When you get to heaven, somehow you must let me know if there’s women’s softball there.”

Bertha looked up at Betty from her deathbed and said, “Betty, you’ve been my best friend for many years. If it’s at all possible, I’ll do this favor for you.”

Shortly after that, Bertha passed on.

A few nights later, Betty was awakened from a sound sleep by a blinding flash of white light and a voice calling out to her, “Betty, Betty.”

“Who is it?” asked Betty, sitting up suddenly. “Who is it?”

“Betty — it’s me, Bertha.”

“You’re not Bertha. Bertha just died.”

“I’m telling you, it’s me, Bertha,” insisted the voice.

“Bertha! Where are you?”

“In heaven,” replied Bertha. “I have some really good news and a little bad news.”

“Tell me the good news first,” said Betty.

“The good news,” Bertha said, “is that there’s women’s softball in heaven. Better yet, all of our old buddies who died before me are here, too. Even better than that, we’re all young again. Better still, it’s always springtime and it never rains or snows. And best of all, we can play softball all we want, and we never get tired.”

“That’s fantastic,” said Betty. “It’s beyond my wildest dreams! So what’s the bad news?”

“You’re pitching Tuesday.”

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