Text 3277, 90 rader
Skriven 2005-12-20 09:06:16 av Greg Sears (3:633/104)
     Kommentar till en text av George Pope
Ärende: Re: poly ticks at Chris Mouse time
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   -=[19-Dec-2005 12:44; George Pope was saying F unny stuff to all]=-

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   >                    Political Holidays
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  Seasons Greetings George Pope, have you read this one. . . .


  Little Bobby's parents bought him a parakeet and the boy promptly
developed an inordinate affection for the bird. He hated to leave for
school each morning and in the afternoons he rushed straight home to
play with his pet.

  Arriving home one day he found his beloved parakeet lying dead on
the bottom of his cage, his little feet sticking straight up. The boy
went into hysterics. He shrieked and screeched and kicked and flopped
around on the floor and his mother could not get him calmed down, so
she telephoned her husband and urged him to hurry home.

  Bobby was still howling and raging against Bitter Fate when his
father arrived. "Come now, Bobby," said his father, "lets sit down
and talk about this." He took the boy in his arms and sat down and
then began discussing the tragedy in a soothing voice.

  "I'll tell you," he said, "what we'll do. I'll go down in the
basement and make a pretty little coffin that will just fit Chirpy.
We'll wrap him up in some white silk and put him in the coffin and
tack the lid on. Then we'll go out there in the back yard and dig a
little grave alongside the forsythia, and I'll fix up a nice
headstone for him, with his name and the date on it, and your name
too. Then we'll give him a wonderful funeral."

  By this time no more than an occasional sob was coming from Bobby,
and he was paying close attention.

  "This will be," went on his father, "the best funeral any parakeet
ever had. You can invite all your friends__ten, twelve, fifteen,
twenty if you want. We'll take the phonograph out there and have some
soft music, and if you want to do it, you can speak a tribute to
Chirpy, deliver what they call the eulogy, and say whatever you want
to about him. Then he'll be buried, and after that . . . well, I tell
you what. All of your friends will stay right here, and we'll have
what they call a wake. There'll be all the ice cream that anybody can
eat, five different flavors, and half a dozen different kinds of cake
and a bag of candy for every kid present, also a little gift for
each one, and in addition to that..."

  A slight noise was heard in the room and they turned toward it.
Chirpy the parakeet was back on his feet, eyes wide open, shaking
himself. Father and son jumped up and crossed the room and stared at
the resurrected bird. They stood there speechless, one long minute,
and then Bobby spoke:   "Let's kill 'im!"


> OBJoke: for our Moderator and all-round friend/servant


  These three Nashville businessmen were on a hunting trip in the
Tennessee mountains. They had been climbing around in the hills all
morning and at last they came to a little grocery store stuck off in
the woods and run by an old hillbilly guy right out of the classical
mold.

  The huntsmen were having some sandwiches and one of them began to
speculate about the weather prospects for the remainder of the day
and the old storekeeper spoke up.

  "Ah was just up to muh cabin," he said, "and Ah heard the man on
the radio say it was gonna rain this afternoon."

  "Oh, well," said the hunter, "in that case I think we'd better just
turn around right now and head back for the place where we left the
car."

  "Now, jist a minute!" spoke up the hillbilly. "Don't you pay any
mind to what I jist tole you. It's only a cheap little ole radio."



Salutations from --Christchurch-+
  ICE-man in      /\            |          \ | /   Mountains, Sunshine
 New Zealand     /  \/\         |  /\     -- O --   Forestry, Farming
-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^/      \!!ii,,..@-/==\---^-^-^-^-^ Beaches and Surfing


... ÜßÜßÜÜßÜßÜÜßÜßÜ ‹ DRi¥K tì màkˆ éÂhÉ© pˆ•plä ¡Nt‰R‰StiïG. ßÜßÜßßÜßÜßßÜßÜ

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