Chip's Joke Book

The Pope lands in New York, and a limo picks him up. The Pope says to the driver, "You know, they never let me drive. Could I?" The driver can't say no.

The Pope gets behind the wheel and floors it, ninety miles an hour down the highway. A cop pulls him over, walks up, looks in the window, and goes pale. He radios his chief.

"Chief, I've got a problem. I pulled over somebody very important." "The mayor?" "Bigger." "The governor?" "Bigger." "The President?" "Bigger." "Who's bigger than the President?"

"I don't know, Chief. But the Pope is his driver."

A man sees a sign in a yard: Talking Dog For Sale, ten dollars. He knocks. The owner points to a lab in the backyard.

The man asks the dog, "Can you really talk?" The dog says, "Sure. I was discovered as a puppy. The CIA flew me around the world. I sat in rooms with heads of state, because nobody suspects a dog. I uncovered three spy rings. Then I retired, got married, had a bunch of puppies, and now I volunteer at the VA."

The man turns to the owner. "That's incredible. Why on earth are you selling him for ten dollars?"

The owner says, "Because he's a liar. He never did any of that."

Moses, Jesus, and an old man are playing golf. Moses hits into a pond. He raises his club, the water parts, and he chips onto the green. Jesus hits into the same pond. He walks out on the water and chips onto the green.

The old man's drive goes straight toward the pond. A fish jumps up and swallows the ball. An eagle swoops down and grabs the fish. Lightning hits the eagle. The eagle drops the fish onto the green, the fish spits out the ball, and it rolls into the cup. Hole in one.

Jesus turns to the old man and says, "Dad, if you're going to keep doing that, we're not playing with you anymore."

Ole dies. Lena calls the newspaper to place the obituary. The clerk asks what she'd like it to say. Lena says, "Ole died."

The clerk says, "Ma'am, it's five words for the same price. You have three more."

Lena thinks for a minute. "Ole died. Boat for sale."

A man walks into a bar he's never been to. At the far end, sitting on a stool, is a head. Just a head. No body. The bartender sets a whiskey in front of it like it's the most normal thing in the world.

The man stares. The head drinks the whiskey through a straw. And right before his eyes, a neck grows out from under the chin. Then shoulders. Then a whole torso.

The man turns to the bartender. "What on earth is going on?"

The bartender says, "Oh, that's Eddie. He's a regular. Lost everything in a terrible accident years ago. Then one night he ordered our house whiskey, and something grew back. So he keeps coming in."

The torso orders another. A pair of arms grows out. It picks up the glass with its own hands, finishes the drink, and orders a third. Out come the hips. Then the legs. Then the feet. Eddie is whole again, for the first time in years.

The whole bar goes quiet. Eddie stands up, tests his knees, and grins. He says, "Boys, I'm done. I'm going home to my wife." He walks out the front door, steps into the street, and gets hit by a bus. Dead on the spot.

The man sits there in shock. The bartender just shakes his head, wipes down the bar, and says, "He should have quit while he was a head."

Farmer Brown is hauling his livestock to market. A cow and a pig ride in the back of his old pickup. Out on the county road, a big delivery truck runs a stop sign and plows right into him. The pickup rolls into the ditch.

Six months later, Farmer Brown sues the trucking company. In court, the company's lawyer stands up, all smiles. "Mr. Brown, isn't it true that right after the accident, the state trooper asked how you were feeling, and you said, quote, 'Never felt better in my life'?"

Farmer Brown says, "Well, yes. But let me tell you what happened." The lawyer says, "Just yes or no, Mr. Brown." The judge leans forward. "I'd like to hear it. Go ahead, Mr. Brown."

"I'm lying in the ditch, hurt bad. My cow is lying next to me, mooing something awful, her leg all busted up. The trooper walks over, takes one look at her, pulls out his pistol, and shoots her right between the eyes.

"Then my pig starts squealing. He's screaming bloody murder, both legs broke. The trooper walks over to the pig, pulls out his pistol, and shoots him too.

"Then he walks over to me, gun still in his hand, and says, 'Sir, how are YOU feeling?'

"And I said, 'Officer, I've never felt better in my life.'"

Chip's verdict: banal.

A new CEO takes over a struggling company. On his first morning, the old CEO, the one who just got pushed out, slides three sealed envelopes across the desk, numbered one, two, and three. "This job will knock you down. When it does, open these. In order."

Six months later, sales slump and the board is restless. He opens envelope number one. It says: "Blame your predecessor." He does. The stock bounces.

A year later, margins shrink and a big customer walks. Envelope number two says: "Reorganize." He does. The press calls him a visionary.

Then the third crisis hits, the worst one yet. He locks his office door and with trembling hands opens the last envelope.

It says: "Prepare three envelopes."

A skinny little cowboy rides into a rough Texas town. He's dusty and tired after two weeks on the trail. He ties his horse to the rail outside the meanest saloon in the county and walks in for a drink.

He orders a whiskey. Then another. He takes his time, maybe an hour.

He walks back outside, and he stops cold. His horse has been painted green. Bright green, head to tail. Mane, saddle, hooves, everything.

The cowboy is furious. He kicks open the saloon doors, marches to the middle of the room, and shouts, "All right! Which one of you no-good, low-down sons of guns painted my horse?"

The whole saloon goes quiet. The piano stops. Chairs scrape.

In the back corner, a man stands up. And keeps standing up. He's six foot eight and three hundred pounds, with arms like fence posts and a scar across his face. He cracks his knuckles, one at a time, and walks slowly over until he's looking straight down at the little cowboy.

"I did," he growls. "What about it?"

The cowboy looks up. Way up. He swallows hard.

"Well, sir... I just wanted to let you know. The first coat's dry."

Farmer Brown and two of his oldest friends, Harold and Walter, are sitting in the back row at a funeral. It's the fourth member of their poker group. After fifty years of Friday nights, there are only three of them.

They watch the line file past the open casket. People are saying the nicest things. "He looks so peaceful." "What a generous man." "He'd give you the shirt off his back."

Afterward, the three of them sit out on the church steps in the sun. They're quiet, thinking about it.

Finally, Harold says, "Fellas, when it's my turn, and I'm lying up there in that box, what do you want people to say about you?"

Walter goes first. "I'd like them to say, he was a fine doctor. Forty years of house calls. And a good family man."

Harold nods. "That's nice. For me, I'd want them to say, he was a devoted husband. A teacher who changed young lives. A man who kept his word."

They both turn to Farmer Brown. He's ninety years old and hasn't said a word all day. "Earl? When you're lying in that casket, and people are filing past, what do you want them to say?"

Farmer Brown thinks about it for a long time. Then he says, "I'd like them to say... look! He's moving!"

Farmer Brown has been deaf as a post for twenty years. The family has given up. At Thanksgiving, the children and grandchildren talk right over him. At Christmas, they talk about him like he's a piece of furniture.

Finally, at ninety-two, he goes to see Doc Henderson. The doc fits him with the newest hearing aid on the market. It's tiny and invisible, tucked down in the ear canal where nobody can see it.

The doc flips it on. Farmer Brown hears the birds outside the window for the first time in two decades. His eyes fill up.

A month later, he comes back for his checkup. The doc tests it. It works perfectly. He hears every word.

Doc Henderson says, "Earl, this is wonderful. Mrs. Brown and the children must be thrilled that you can hear again."

Farmer Brown leans back in the chair and smiles. "Oh, I haven't told them. I just sit in my recliner and listen. I've changed my will three times."

A preacher and a New York cab driver die on the same day. They arrive at the Pearly Gates together.

Saint Peter looks at his book and calls the cab driver forward first. "Welcome, my son." He hands him a robe of pure silk, woven with gold thread. Then a golden staff. Then the keys to a mansion on the hill, with a pool and a view of the whole of heaven. The cab driver walks off grinning, swinging his golden staff.

Now the preacher steps up. He's beaming. He spent fifty years in the pulpit, every Sunday, twice on Easter. He's thinking, if that cabbie got a mansion, wait until they see what I get.

Saint Peter hands him a plain cotton robe, a wooden stick, and the key to a one-room cabin out by the edge of the clouds.

The preacher is stunned. "Saint Peter, there must be some mistake. I'm a man of God. I preached the Gospel for fifty years. That man was a New York cab driver. He ran red lights. He cursed at everybody. How does he get the mansion?"

Saint Peter closes the book and says, "Up here, we go by results. When you preached, people slept. When he drove, people prayed."

A city fellow buys a little farm in Tennessee. He needs a mule to plow his garden. He drives out to see old Clem, who has one for sale.

Clem walks him out to the pen. "This here's Daisy. Best mule in three counties. Gentle as a lamb. She'll do anything you ask. But you got to ask her nice. Never yell at her. Never raise a hand. Just speak kindly, and she'll plow all day."

The city fellow pays five hundred dollars and leads Daisy home. Next morning, he hitches her to the plow. "Good morning, Daisy. Would you please walk forward?" Nothing. "Daisy, dear, let's get started. Giddy-up, please." Nothing. She just stands there chewing.

He tries for an hour. He tries sweet talk, apples, and sugar cubes. He sings to her. Daisy won't budge an inch. He calls Clem. "That mule you sold me won't move!"

Clem drives over. He looks at Daisy. Then he walks to the woodpile, picks up a two-by-four, and WHACK. He smacks her right between the ears. Then he leans down and whispers, "Daisy, honey, would you please walk on now?" And off she goes, plowing a perfect straight row.

The city fellow is horrified. "Clem! You told me never to raise a hand to her! You said just talk to her nice!"

Clem tosses the board back on the pile. "That's right. But first, you got to get her attention."

A small plane is flying over the Rocky Mountains with four people on board. There's the pilot. There's a famous professor, the one the newspapers call the smartest man in the world. There's an old parish priest. And there's a Boy Scout on his way to a jamboree.

Suddenly, there's a bang. Black smoke. Both engines quit.

The pilot comes running out of the cockpit. "We're going down! There are only three parachutes on this plane. I've got a wife and five kids. I'm sorry." He grabs one, throws open the door, and jumps.

The professor leaps out of his seat. "I am the smartest man in the world! My mind belongs to humanity! The world cannot afford to lose me!" He snatches a pack, and out the door he goes.

Now it's just the old priest and the Boy Scout. The wind is howling through the open door. The plane is diving.

The priest puts a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Son, I've lived a long, full life. I've made my peace with God. You have your whole life ahead of you. Take the last parachute. Go."

The Boy Scout says, "Relax, Father. There are still two parachutes. The smartest man in the world just jumped out with my backpack."

A state trooper is parked in the median on I-75, running radar. Farmer Brown's big old Buick comes flying past at eighty-five miles an hour, weaving a little. And Farmer Brown isn't driving it.

The trooper hits the lights and the siren and takes off after it. He pulls up alongside, ready to wave the driver over.

He looks in the window, and he can't believe his eyes. Behind the wheel is Mrs. Brown, eighty if she's a day. Blue hair. Pearls. And she's got two knitting needles going, click, click, click, with a ball of yarn in her lap, steering with her knees.

The trooper flashes his lights. She doesn't notice. He blasts the siren. Nothing. Click, click, click.

So he rolls down his window, gets right up next to her, and yells as loud as he can, "PULL OVER!"

Mrs. Brown looks over, smiles sweetly, holds up her knitting, and shouts back, "NO! SOCKS!"

It's Saturday morning at the country club. Old Doc Henderson, a retired surgeon, is sitting at the bar in the clubhouse, nursing a Bloody Mary.

The door bursts open. In hobbles Frank, one of the regulars. He's red-faced, limping, and grimacing with every step. He drops onto the stool next to the doc. "Doc, you've got to help me. I've had the worst morning of my life."

"What happened, Frank?"

"I'm on the first tee. Beautiful drive, right down the middle. I'm walking up the fairway, feeling great. All of a sudden, a bee flies right up my pant leg. I'm hopping around, swatting at it, and the darn thing stings me."

The doc sets down his drink. "Oh, that's no good. Where'd it get you?"

Frank lowers his voice. "Between the first and second hole."

The doc thinks about that for a moment. Then he picks his drink back up, takes a sip, and says, "Well, Frank. Sounds like your stance is too wide."

It's January in Minnesota, twenty below. Ole decides he's going ice fishing. He loads up his auger, his bucket, his bait, and a thermos of coffee, and heads out.

He finds a nice flat spot on the ice and gets down on his knees. He starts cranking the auger. Grind, grind, grind.

Suddenly, a deep voice booms from above: "THERE ARE NO FISH UNDER THE ICE."

Ole freezes. He looks around. Nobody's there. He shrugs it off, picks up his gear, moves twenty feet over, and starts drilling again. Grind, grind, grind. "THERE ARE NO FISH UNDER THE ICE."

Now Ole is scared. His hands are shaking. He moves all the way to the other side, gets down, and starts drilling one more time. "I SAID, THERE ARE NO FISH UNDER THE ICE."

Ole drops the auger. He looks straight up toward heaven, takes off his hat, and whispers, "Lord? Is that you?"

And the voice booms back, "No. This is the manager of the hockey rink."

Every year, Farmer Brown and Mrs. Brown go to the county fair. And every year, out by the livestock barns, there's a fellow with an old open-cockpit biplane, selling rides for ten dollars a head.

And every year, Farmer Brown says, "Ma, I'd sure like to ride in that airplane." And every year, Mrs. Brown says, "Pa, ten dollars is ten dollars." This goes on for twenty years.

Finally, the year Farmer Brown turns eighty, he plants his feet in front of that biplane. "Ma, I'm eighty years old. If I don't ride that airplane this year, I never will." Mrs. Brown says, "Pa, ten dollars is ten dollars."

The pilot has been listening to this for twenty years. He walks over. "Folks, I'll make you a deal. I'll take you both up. If you can sit through the whole ride without saying one single word, the ride is free. But if either of you makes a sound, you pay me twenty dollars."

Mrs. Brown thinks it over. "Deal."

Up they go. The pilot throws everything he's got at them. Loop-the-loops. Barrel rolls. Flying upside down. A nose dive straight at the cornfield, pulling up at the last second. There's not a peep from the back seat.

He lands, taxis up, and turns around, amazed. "Mr. Brown, I've been flying thirty years. I've never seen anything like it. You didn't say one word."

Farmer Brown says, "Well, I'll be honest with you. I almost said something when Ma fell out. But ten dollars is ten dollars."

Back when Farmer Brown was a young man, he and Mrs. Brown had a boy named Junior. Ten years old. All elbows and mischief. The farm had no indoor plumbing yet, just an old wooden outhouse perched on the bank above the creek.

Junior hated that outhouse. Cold in winter. Hot in summer. Spiders everywhere.

One spring morning, the creek is running high from the rains. Junior sneaks down, puts his shoulder to the back wall of the outhouse, and pushes. It creaks. It tips. And over it goes, tumbling down the bank, splash, into the creek. It floats away downstream.

That evening at supper, Farmer Brown sets down his fork. "Somebody pushed the outhouse into the creek. Who did it?"

Silence. Mrs. Brown looks at Junior. Junior looks at his plate.

Now, that very week at school, the teacher had told the class about young George Washington. How he chopped down his father's cherry tree. How his father asked who did it. And how George said, "Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it." And his father was so proud of his honesty, he didn't punish him at all.

So Junior stands up, puts his hand over his heart, and says, "Pa, I cannot tell a lie. I pushed the outhouse into the creek."

Farmer Brown stands up. He slowly unbuckles his belt. "Son, come with me to the woodshed."

"But Pa! Teacher said when George Washington told the truth, his father didn't punish him!"

Farmer Brown says, "That's true, son. But George Washington's father wasn't in the cherry tree."

Farmer Brown is out in his pasture one morning, leaning on the gate, watching his sheep graze.

A brand-new silver BMW comes flying down the dirt road and skids to a stop in a cloud of dust. Out steps a young man. Italian suit. Designer sunglasses. Bluetooth thing in his ear. Shoes that cost more than Farmer Brown's tractor.

He strides up to the fence. "Morning, old-timer. I'll make you a bet. If I can tell you exactly how many sheep you've got in that pasture, will you give me one?"

Farmer Brown looks him over. Looks at the flock. "Sure. Why not."

The young man pulls out his laptop. He connects it to his phone, pulls up satellite images of the pasture, and runs some software. He opens a spreadsheet with about three hundred rows and types furiously for twenty minutes. Then he prints out a forty-page report on a little printer in his trunk, complete with charts and graphs.

He hands it over with a flourish. "You have exactly one thousand, five hundred and eighty-six sheep."

Farmer Brown flips through the report. "Well, I'll be. That's exactly right. A deal's a deal. Go pick one out."

The young man walks into the pasture, picks one up, and loads it into the back seat of his BMW.

Farmer Brown says, "Now hold on, son. Let me make you a bet. If I can tell you exactly what you do for a living, will you give it back?"

The young man laughs. "Sure, old man. Go ahead."

"You're a consultant."

The young man's jaw drops. "That's amazing! How did you know?"

Farmer Brown says, "Easy. Nobody called you. You showed up anyway. You charged me for telling me something I already knew. And you don't know a thing about my business. Now give me back my dog."

Farmer Brown and Mrs. Brown decide to take their first real vacation in forty years. Two weeks in Europe. They're flying out of New York City.

So Farmer Brown drives the old pickup all the way to Manhattan. Rusted fenders. One headlight. Hay in the bed. Chickens' feathers still stuck to the tailgate. He pulls right up in front of the biggest bank on Wall Street.

He walks in, still in his overalls and his John Deere cap, and asks to see a loan officer. A slick young banker comes out, looks him up and down, and tries not to laugh.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to borrow five thousand dollars. For two weeks."

The banker smirks. "And what do you have for collateral?"

Farmer Brown hands him the keys. "My truck. It's parked right out front."

The banker looks out the window at the old pickup. He chuckles. But he does the paperwork, approves the loan, and has a valet drive the truck down into the bank's private underground garage. As soon as Farmer Brown leaves, the whole office has a good laugh. "Did you see that? A farmer borrowing five grand against that heap."

Two weeks later, Farmer Brown comes back, tanned and rested. He pays back the five thousand dollars, plus interest. Fifteen dollars and forty-one cents.

The banker says, "Mr. Brown, while you were gone, we ran a background check. It turns out you own four thousand acres of farmland, three grain elevators, and a big stake in the local bank back home. You're worth about forty million dollars. Why on earth would you need to borrow five thousand dollars?"

Farmer Brown takes his keys and smiles.

"Son, where else in New York City can I park for two weeks for fifteen dollars?"

One morning, Farmer Brown's old horse, Buck, won't get up. He's lying in his stall, groaning. Farmer Brown calls the vet.

The vet comes out, examines Buck, and shakes his head. "Earl, it's a bad virus. I'll leave you some medicine. Give it to him for three days. If he's not up on his feet by the third day, we'll have to put him down."

Now, the pig is in the next pen over, listening to the whole thing.

Day one. Farmer Brown gives Buck the medicine. Buck just lies there. As soon as Farmer Brown leaves, the pig trots over to the stall. "Come on, Buck. Get up. You can do it."

Buck groans. "I can't. I'm too tired."

Day two. More medicine. Still nothing. The pig comes over again. "Buck, listen to me. Tomorrow's the third day. You heard the vet. If you don't get up, they're going to put you down. Come on, buddy. Get up!"

Buck lifts his head. Then lets it fall again.

Day three. Farmer Brown gives Buck the last of the medicine. The vet's truck is coming up the drive. The pig runs to the stall, frantic. "Buck! This is it! The vet's here! Get up! Get UP! You can do it! Come on, come on, come on!"

And with a great heave, Buck staggers to his feet. Then he trots out of the barn. Then he breaks into a gallop, racing around the pasture, tail high, kicking up his heels.

Farmer Brown runs out of the house, yelling, "Ma! Ma, come quick! It's a miracle! Buck is up and running!

This calls for a celebration. Let's kill the pig!"

Farmer Brown is ninety-one years old, and he's dying. He's lying in the big bed upstairs, under the quilt Mrs. Brown made the year they married. The doctor has come and gone. The family has said their goodbyes. It's only a matter of hours.

He drifts in and out. And then, from somewhere downstairs, a smell floats up through the floorboards. Warm butter. Brown sugar. Chocolate.

Mrs. Brown's chocolate chip cookies. The best in the county. Seventy years he's been eating those cookies.

Farmer Brown opens his eyes. He thinks, if I'm going, I'm going with one of those cookies.

He gathers every ounce of strength he has left. He rolls out of bed and drops to the floor. He crawls across the bedroom. He drags himself to the top of the stairs. One step at a time, he slides down, gasping, all the way to the bottom. He crawls down the hallway and into the kitchen.

And there, on the kitchen table, cooling on wax paper, are three dozen of Mrs. Brown's chocolate chip cookies.

With his last bit of strength, he pulls himself up on a chair. His hand trembles. He reaches out. His fingers touch a warm cookie...

WHACK. Mrs. Brown smacks his hand with a spatula.

"Pa! Leave those alone.

They're for the funeral."

Every fall, Farmer Brown cuts firewood for the winter. Forty years he's done it the same way. A double-bit axe and a crosscut saw. Ten trees a week, if his back holds out.

This year, the salesman down at the hardware store gets ahold of him. "Earl, it's time you joined the twentieth century. This here is the brand-new Thunder King. Top of the line. Guaranteed to cut fifty trees a day. If it doesn't, bring it back and I'll refund every penny."

Fifty trees a day. Farmer Brown pays six hundred dollars cash and drives home grinning.

Next morning, he's out in the woodlot at sunrise. He works all day long. He's sweating, grunting, his arms are shaking. When the sun goes down, he counts. Twelve trees.

Well, he figures, I'm just new at this. Next day, he starts at four in the morning, works by lantern light until ten at night. He doesn't stop for lunch. He doesn't stop for supper. He counts. Twenty trees.

Third day, Mrs. Brown packs him three meals. He works from three in the morning until midnight. He's half dead. He counts. Twenty-three trees.

Next morning, Farmer Brown storms into the hardware store and slams the Thunder King down on the counter. "This thing's a lemon. I near killed myself. Twenty-three trees, best day. I want my money back."

The salesman frowns. "That's strange. Let me take a look." He sets the saw on the floor, grabs the cord, and gives it a big pull.

VROOOOM!

Farmer Brown jumps back three feet. "WHAT IN TARNATION IS THAT NOISE?"

Lord Hargreaves of Hargreaves Hall is a proper English gentleman. Tweed jacket. Clipped moustache. Four hundred years of family portraits on the walls. And for thirty years, he has been served by the same loyal butler, Jenkins.

One afternoon, His Lordship comes home from London a day early. He hands Jenkins his hat and umbrella, and without a word, he marches straight up the grand staircase to Her Ladyship's bedroom.

A moment later, the bell rings. Jenkins climbs the stairs and appears at the bedroom door. "You rang, my lord?"

Lord Hargreaves is standing by the window, his back to the room. He doesn't turn around.

"Jenkins. Close the door."

"Very good, my lord." Jenkins closes the door.

"Jenkins. Take off Her Ladyship's dress."

Jenkins hesitates. Then, slowly and with great care, he takes off Her Ladyship's silk evening dress.

"Now, Jenkins. Take off Her Ladyship's stockings."

A long pause. Jenkins clears his throat. "Very good, my lord." Off come the stockings.

"And now, Jenkins. Her Ladyship's pearls."

Jenkins takes off the pearls and lays them on the dresser. He stands perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

Lord Hargreaves turns around slowly and fixes him with an icy stare.

"Jenkins. If I ever catch you wearing my wife's clothes again, you're sacked."

The new Baptist preacher in town needs a horse to ride out to his country churches. Somebody tells him Farmer Brown has one for sale. So the preacher drives out to the farm.

Farmer Brown leads out a fine chestnut mare. "Reverend, this here is Grace. Best horse I ever raised. But you need to know something. I trained her a little different. She don't go on 'giddy-up.' She don't stop on 'whoa.' To make her go, you say, 'Praise the Lord.' To make her stop, you say, 'Amen.'"

The preacher smiles. "Mr. Brown, I believe that horse was meant for me."

He pays, climbs in the saddle, and says, "Praise the Lord." Grace starts walking. "Praise the Lord, praise the Lord!" She breaks into a trot. "PRAISE THE LORD!" And off she goes at a full gallop, across the pasture, down the road, up into the hills.

The preacher is having the time of his life. Wind in his face. Coattails flying. And then he looks up.

Straight ahead, not two hundred yards away, is the edge of a cliff. A sheer drop, five hundred feet down to the river.

He panics. He pulls the reins. "Whoa! Whoa, Grace! WHOA!" She keeps galloping. What was the word? What was the word?

One hundred yards. Fifty yards. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts to pray. "Dear Lord, forgive me my sins, and receive me into Your kingdom. Amen."

Grace skids to a stop. Her front hooves are right on the edge of the cliff. Pebbles tumble over and fall, and fall, and fall.

The preacher opens his eyes. He looks down at that five-hundred-foot drop. He lets out a long breath, wipes the sweat from his brow, raises both hands to heaven, and shouts,

"PRAISE THE LORD!"

Sister Mary Margaret works as a visiting nurse in the hills of north Georgia. Every day she drives her little old Ford from farmhouse to farmhouse, checking on the sick and the shut-ins.

One afternoon, coming down a long country road, the engine sputters, coughs, and dies. She's out of gas.

Luckily, there's a filling station about a mile back. She walks there in her habit, in the July heat. But when she gets there, the attendant shakes his head. "Sorry, Sister. Somebody borrowed my only gas can and never brought it back. I've got nothing to put it in."

Sister Mary Margaret thinks a moment. Then she remembers. In the trunk of her car, she has her nursing supplies. Bandages, a thermometer, and a clean bedpan.

So she walks the mile back to the car, gets the bedpan, walks the mile back to the station, and has the man fill it up with gasoline. Then she walks the mile back again, very carefully, holding that sloshing bedpan out in front of her with both hands.

Just as she gets to her car, a pickup truck pulls onto the shoulder behind her. Two good old boys in feed caps are sitting in the cab, watching.

Sister Mary Margaret unscrews the gas cap. She lifts the bedpan, tips it, and starts pouring it into the tank.

The two old boys stare. They don't say a word. Their mouths are hanging open.

Finally, the driver turns to his buddy and says,

"Bubba, I'm telling you right now. If that car starts, I'm turning Catholic."

It's an election year, and the Governor is working the back roads, shaking every hand in the county. On Sunday, he shows up at the First Baptist Church homecoming supper, right after the morning service.

The church ladies have outdone themselves. Long tables under the oak trees. Fried chicken. Deviled eggs. Butter beans. Biscuits still steaming from the oven.

The Governor gets in line with his paper plate, smiling and nodding. At the end of the table stands Mrs. Brown, in her Sunday hat and apron, with a dish of butter and a little knife. One pat of butter on every biscuit.

The Governor holds out his plate. Mrs. Brown puts one pat of butter on his biscuit.

He smiles. "Ma'am, could I trouble you for one more pat?"

"Sorry. One pat per person."

He chuckles. "Ma'am, I don't think you understand. I'd like two pats of butter."

Mrs. Brown doesn't move. "One pat per person."

The Governor's smile tightens. He leans in. "Ma'am, do you know who I am? I'm the Governor of this state. I command the State Police. I sign the budget. I appoint the judges. I have the power to pardon a man on death row."

Mrs. Brown looks him dead in the eye.

"And do you know who I am?"

"No, ma'am. Who are you?"

"I'm the lady in charge of the butter. Move along."

It's a Saturday night in Galway, and Paddy O'Toole is coming home from the pub on the last bus. He's had a few. Well, more than a few. His cap is crooked. His tie is over his shoulder. There's lipstick on his collar, and it isn't his wife's shade. He's got the racing form sticking out of his pocket, with three losing horses circled.

He staggers down the aisle and drops into the only empty seat, right next to Father Flanagan.

Paddy pulls a folded-up newspaper from his coat, squints at it for a while, then turns to the priest.

"Father. Can I ask you a question? What causes arthritis?"

Father Flanagan looks him up and down. He's been waiting twenty years for this moment.

"I'll tell you what causes arthritis, Paddy O'Toole. Loose living. Drinking until all hours. Gambling away your wages on the horses. Running around with fast women. Never darkening the door of a church. That's what causes arthritis."

Paddy's eyes go wide. "Well, I'll be."

He goes quiet and stares out the window for the rest of the ride.

The bus pulls up at Paddy's stop. Father Flanagan feels a pang of guilt. He was a bit hard on the man. He puts a hand on Paddy's arm.

"Paddy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Tell me. How long have you had the arthritis?"

Paddy holds up the newspaper.

"Oh, I don't have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Bishop does."

At the little Baptist church out on the county road, the most faithful member is Miss Ida Mae. Eighty-four years old. Front pew, right side, every Sunday for sixty years. And every time the preacher says something she agrees with, she lets him know.

This particular Sunday, the preacher is on fire. Sweat on his brow. Bible in the air.

"Brothers and sisters, we have got to stop the drinking!"

Miss Ida Mae waves her hanky. "Amen!"

"We have got to stop the gambling! The card games and the dice and the lottery tickets!"

"Amen! Preach it!"

"We have got to stop the cussing! The taking of the Lord's name in vain!"

"Amen! Amen!"

"We have got to stop the carousing! The running around! The honky-tonks on Saturday night!"

Miss Ida Mae is on her feet now. "Glory! Tell it, preacher! AMEN!"

The preacher pounds the pulpit. "And we have got to stop the dipping of snuff!"

Miss Ida Mae freezes. She slowly sits back down. She reaches into her pocketbook and feels for the little round tin of snuff she's carried every day since 1958.

She turns to the lady next to her and mutters,

"Well. Now he's done quit preaching and gone to meddling."

Built to test Chip's scale: aimed at an 8.

Years after the three pints, Paddy O'Toole's brothers finally came home. Rory came back from Boston. Finn came back from Sydney. And every night since, the three O'Toole brothers have sat on the same three stools at the end of the bar at Flanagan's. Same stools. Same corner. Same jokes.

One night, Rory sets down his glass and goes quiet.

"Lads. I've been to see the doctor. It's the heart. He gives me a month, maybe two."

Paddy stares at his pint. Finn stares at his. Nobody says a word for a long time.

"Ah, Rory."

"Now listen. I've a last request." Rory points up to the top shelf behind the bar, to a dusty bottle that's been sitting there since 1970. Flanagan's finest. Twenty-five-year-old Irish whiskey. "Paddy, you're the eldest. When I'm gone, I want you to buy that bottle. And I want you to come up to the graveyard, and stand over me, and pour every drop of it on my grave. Will you do that for me?"

Paddy's eyes fill up. He puts a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

"Rory. I'd be honored. I'll do it.

Just one thing. Would you mind if I strained it through my kidneys first?"

A man walks into a bar. Right behind him, a kangaroo hops in, climbs up onto the stool next to him, and orders a beer.

The bartender blinks. But business is business. He pours the beer and sets it down.

The kangaroo reaches into his pouch, pulls out a twenty, and slides it across the bar. The bartender figures a kangaroo won't know the price of a beer. He rings it up and slides back one dollar in change.

The kangaroo sips his beer. The bartender keeps wiping the same glass, staring. Finally, he can't help himself.

"You know, we don't get many kangaroos in here."

The kangaroo looks at the dollar bill in front of him, looks back up at the bartender, and says,

"At these prices, I'm not surprised."

A man walks into a bar. It's his bar. He just bought it, and tonight is his very first night as the owner. He's behind the counter, polishing glasses, nervous and proud.

Around closing time, he hears a little tap, tap, tap at the front door. He opens it and looks down. It's a snail.

The snail says, "Evening. Could I get a beer?"

The man is in no mood. Long day. First night. He winds up and kicks that snail as hard as he can, clear across the parking lot and into the weeds. He slams the door and goes back to his glasses.

Two years go by. Business is good. The bar is a success.

One night, around closing time, the man hears a little tap, tap, tap at the front door. He opens it and looks down.

It's the snail. Covered in dust. Shell a little scuffed. And he says,

"What was THAT all about?"

A man walks into a bar and takes a seat at the end. A minute later, a duck waddles in, hops up onto the stool next to him, and says to the bartender,

"Got any grapes?"

The bartender says, "No. This is a bar. We don't have grapes."

The duck hops down and waddles out.

Next night, the man is back on his stool. In comes the duck. Hops up. "Got any grapes?"

"No! I told you yesterday. We don't have any grapes."

The duck waddles out.

Third night. Same man, same stool. In comes the duck. "Got any grapes?"

The bartender slams down his towel. "Listen, you! For the last time, we do not have grapes! If you come in here one more time asking for grapes, I'm going to nail your little webbed feet to this bar!"

The duck waddles out. The man at the end of the bar sips his drink and waits.

Fourth night. In comes the duck. Hops up on the stool, looks the bartender right in the eye, and says,

"Got any nails?"

The bartender says, "No."

The duck says, "Got any grapes?"

A man walks into a bar, sits down at the end, and orders a whiskey. Then he just stares at it. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't move. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. Just sits there, staring into that glass.

A big trucker at the next stool has been watching him. Six foot four. Tattoos. Mean as a snake. He figures he'll have a little fun. He reaches over, picks up the man's whiskey, and drinks it down in one gulp. Then he slams the empty glass on the bar and grins.

The little man puts his face in his hands and starts to cry.

The trucker feels bad. "Aw, come on, buddy. I was just kidding around. I'll buy you another one. I can't stand to see a man cry."

The man shakes his head. "No, it's not you. It's just been the worst day of my life.

"This morning, I overslept, so I was late for work. My boss fired me on the spot. I walked out to the parking lot, and my car had been stolen. The police said there's nothing they can do. So I took a cab home, and as the cab drove off, I realized I'd left my wallet in the back seat. I walked into my house, and there was my wife, with the mailman. I walked out, and I came here.

"And just as I'm working up the courage to put an end to it all, sitting here, staring at the glass I just poured the poison into...

"You come along and drink it."

Chip: "That was horrible." Lawyer put-down misses his taste.

A man walks into a bar in downtown Atlanta with a twelve-foot alligator on a leash.

Not a little one. A full-grown Okefenokee swamp gator. Four hundred pounds. Tail sweeping the barstools over like bowling pins. Teeth like a row of steak knives. It drags its belly across the floor, leaving a long wet streak, and every man in the place climbs up onto the pool table.

The man sits down at the bar. The alligator settles in next to him, swishes its tail, and knocks the jukebox off the wall.

The bartender is pressed flat against the liquor shelf. He's holding a bottle of gin like a club. His voice comes out about two octaves high.

"Mister. Can I... help you?"

The man folds his hands on the bar, calm as a deacon. "Just one question. Do you serve lawyers here?"

The bartender blinks. "Lawyers? Well... yes. Sure. We serve lawyers. Half the courthouse drinks here."

The man nods. "Good.

I'll have a beer. And my alligator will have a lawyer."

A man walks into a bar with the most magnificent parrot anyone has ever seen, perched on his shoulder.

A giant scarlet macaw. Three feet from beak to tail. Feathers of red and gold and electric blue. It looks like it flew straight out of a museum painting. Every head in the room turns. Somebody drops a pool cue.

The bartender comes over slowly, staring. "My Lord. That is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen in my life. Where on earth did you get him?"

The parrot looks the bartender up and down. Ruffles its feathers. And says,

"Jacksonville. They've got thousands of 'em down there."

Aimed at a 9 on Chip's scale. Animal joke.

The Great Zambini is a magician on a cruise ship. Twice a night, every night, in the ship's lounge. Card tricks. Disappearing coins. Pulling doves out of a top hat. It's not the big time, but it's steady work, and the audience changes every week, so he never needs new material.

There's just one problem. The captain's parrot.

The parrot lives in a brass cage right next to the stage. And after three years of watching the same show, twice a night, that parrot knows every trick by heart. And he can't keep his beak shut.

Zambini makes a card disappear. The parrot squawks, "It's up his sleeve! It's up his sleeve!"

Zambini pulls a coin out of a lady's ear. "It was in his other hand! Other hand!"

Zambini makes a dove vanish. "Trap door in the hat! Trap door in the hat!"

The audience roars. Zambini smiles through gritted teeth. Night after night. Year after year. He hates that bird with every fiber of his being.

Then one night, in the middle of the North Atlantic, during the big finale, the ship hits an iceberg. There's a tremendous crash. The lights go out. The ship rolls over and sinks in minutes.

When the sun comes up, there's nothing left on the ocean but a single wooden plank. And on that plank, soaking wet, are the Great Zambini and the parrot.

They drift for a day. Neither one says a word.

They drift for two days. The parrot just stares at him.

They drift for three days. Not a word. Just that bird, staring, staring.

On the fourth morning, the parrot finally ruffles his wet feathers, leans in close, and says,

"All right. I give up. What did you do with the ship?"

Chip: "the punchline was weak." Score is Claude's revised guess, not Chip's number.

A traveling salesman is driving down the county road past Farmer Brown's place, doing about fifty miles an hour. He glances out the window, and he nearly drives into the ditch.

Running right alongside his car, keeping pace, is a chicken. A chicken with three legs.

He speeds up to sixty. The chicken speeds up to sixty. He hits seventy. The chicken passes him, cuts across the road in front of him, and darts down Farmer Brown's driveway.

The salesman slams on the brakes, turns in, and follows it all the way up to the barn. There's Farmer Brown, leaning on the fence. And behind him, scratching around the barnyard, are about two hundred chickens. Every last one of them with three legs.

"Mister, I just clocked one of your chickens at seventy miles an hour. And it's got three legs!"

Farmer Brown nods. "Yep. I breed 'em that way."

"Why on earth would you breed a three-legged chicken?"

"Well, it's like this. There's me, there's Ma, and there's our boy Junior. And all three of us like the drumstick. Every Sunday supper, there's a fight. So I spent twelve years crossbreeding, and I finally got me a chicken with three legs. A drumstick for everybody."

The salesman shakes his head in wonder. "That's incredible. So tell me. How do they taste?"

Farmer Brown spits in the dirt.

"Couldn't tell you. Ain't caught one yet."

A sincere deathbed build, a list of hard times, one dry reversal.

Farmer Brown is laid up in the hospital in town. He's been in and out of it for three days. Doc Henderson isn't saying much, which is never a good sign.

And the whole time, Ma Brown hasn't left his side. She sleeps in the vinyl chair. She eats out of the vending machine. She holds his hand all night.

On the fourth morning, Earl opens his eyes. He looks over at her. He motions her closer.

"Ma," he whispers. "Come here."

She pulls the chair right up to the bed.

"Ma, you know... you have been with me through all of it.

"In '74, when the bank took the tractor, you were right there beside me.

"In '81, when lightning hit the barn and it burned to the ground, you were standing right next to me.

"When the hogs got the fever and we lost every one of them, you were there.

"When I fell off the silo and broke my hip, you were the one who found me.

"When the flood took the bottom forty, you stood on that porch and held my hand.

"And now here I am, flat on my back in this hospital. And there you are. Right beside me. Same as always."

Ma's eyes fill up. She squeezes his hand. "Oh, Pa. Fifty-one years. Where else would I be?"

Earl nods slowly. He stares up at the ceiling for a long time.

"Ma... I think you're bad luck."

Two hunters are out in the woods. One collapses and stops breathing. The other calls 911 in a panic. "My friend is dead! What do I do?" The operator says, "Calm down. First, let's make sure he's dead." There's a silence, then a gunshot. "OK. Now what?"

"One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know." (Groucho Marx)

"Doctor, it hurts when I do this." "Then don't do that." (Henny Youngman)

"My psychiatrist told me I was crazy. I said I want a second opinion. He said, okay, you're ugly too." (Rodney Dangerfield)

Holmes and Watson go camping. In the night Holmes wakes Watson and asks, "What do you see?" Watson says, "Millions of stars. Astronomically, it tells me there are billions of galaxies. Theologically, it tells me God is great. What does it tell you?" Holmes says, "Someone stole our tent."

"I have a large seashell collection, which I keep scattered on beaches all over the world." (Steven Wright)

"I used to do drugs. I still do. But I used to, too." (Mitch Hedberg)

"I used to be addicted to soap. But I'm clean now." (Tim Vine)

"I told my wife the truth. I told her I was seeing a psychiatrist. Then she told me the truth. She was seeing a psychiatrist, two plumbers, and a bartender." (Rodney Dangerfield)

"An economist is an expert who will know tomorrow why the things he predicted yesterday didn't happen today." (Laurence J. Peter)