A career criminal from Bexar county is caught robbing a gas station—armed robbery, shots fired—and sent to Huntsville for a long stretch.
He’s sitting in the cafeteria the first evening eating his supper, when another inmate stands up, raps on his table and yells out, “Number 24!”
The fish doesn’t know what to think of this.
A few minutes later another inmate—same drill but he shouts, 92!”
Roars of laughter. This goes on through supper.
The new con chews on this and asks the old con `Hey, what’s up with that?’ and the old timer replies:
“A lot of us are lifers. We’ve heard a lot of these jokes so many times we decided to give `em numbers to save time.”
Wanting to fit in he pounds on the table, stands up and says in a confident voice,
“And then the Texan stood up and chucked a Mexican out of the airplane!”
Dead silence. Abashed he sits down.
He turns again to his new friend and says, “That’s about the oldest, funniest joke I know, and I didn’t know the number so I just told the punch line.
“What the heck happened?”
And the old con shrugged and replied, “Some guys just don’t know how to tell a joke.”
That’s 41 btw.
My husband should just start numbering his jokes for me, too, but I don’t remember numbers very well or jokes at all, so they all kind of sound new to me, as long as he rotates them infrequently.