Browsing all posts in Jokes.

Dec 4th
Tuesday


I have posted this every year since God only knows when.
After a not so recent comment from the author, (3.3.08) I’ve found  the man behind the story and have given him full credit.
Wonderful story, Bill.
It almost made me take the chino’s to Browntown . . .

An Italian Christmas

by Bill Ervolino

I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve.
I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.
So, I was wrong. Sue me.

I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation.
“I know these family things can be a little weird,” I told her, “but my folks
are great, and we always have a lot of fun on Christmas Eve.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Karen said.

I had only known my mother for 31 years when I told her I’d be bringing Karen with me.
“She’s a very nice girl and she’s really looking forward to meeting all of you.”

“Sounds fine to me,” my mother said.

And that was that.
Two telephone calls.
Two sounds-fine-to-me.
What more could I want?

I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the season — an Italian woman’s reason d’etre.
She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every minute of the entire evening.
Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for.
I should also point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it.

She doesn’t clean.
She doesn’t cook.
She doesn’t bake.

And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.

I brought her anyway.

7p.m.

We arrive.
Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. During that half hour, my mother grills Karen like a cheeseburger and cannily determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father is equally observant. He pulls me into the living room and notes, “She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being.”

7:30 p.m. –

Others arrive. Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted gifts.
We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies.
When I offer to make Karen’s plate she says, “Thank you. But none of those things, okay?”
She points to the anchovies. “You don’t like anchovies?” I ask. “I don’t like fish,” Karen announces to one and all, as 67 other varieties of foods-that-swim are baking, broiling and simmering in the next room.

My mother makes the sign of the cross and things are getting uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve.
Karen says, “Knockwurst.”
My father, who is still staring in a daze, at Karen’s chest,
temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, “Knockers?”

My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot.
None of this is turning out the way I’d hoped.

8:00 p.m. –

Second course.

The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to the table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she’ll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the kitchen. I take
My “Merry Christmas” napkin from my lap, place it on the “Merry Christmas” tablecloth and walk into the kitchen. “I don’t want to start any trouble,” my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands. “But if she pours this on my pasta, I’m going to throw acid in her face.” “Come on,” I tell her. “It’s Christmas. Let her eat what she wants.”
My mother considers the situation, and then nods.
As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder. “Tell me the truth,” she says, “are you serious with this tramp?”
“She’s not a tramp,” I reply. “And I’ve only known her for three weeks.”
“Well, it’s your life”, she tells me, “but if you marry her, she’ll poison you.”

8:30 p.m. –

More fish.
My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they hold. All the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights a cigarette.
“Why don’t you give them a little hand?” I politely suggest.
Karen makes a face and walks into the kitchen carrying three forks.
“Dear, you don’t have to do that,” my mother tells her, smiling painfully.
“Oh, okay,” Karen says, putting the forks on the sink.
As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass flies over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother says, “Whoops.”
I vaguely remember that line from Torch Song Trilogy. “Whoops?”
No. “Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft.”

More fish comes out.
After some goading, Karen tries a piece of scungilli, which she describes as “slimy, like worms.” My mother winces, bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a funeral home.
Aunt Mafalde does the same.
Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn’t know what to make of it.
My father’s dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.

10:00 p.m. –
Coffee, dessert. Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel.
When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with cannoli.
I guess it had to happen sooner or later.
Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up cannoli and slaps my mother with it.

“This is fun,” Karen says.

Fun? No. Fun is when you fall down an elevator shaft.
But, amazingly, everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer — even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs and
says,
“Get this bitch out of my house.”

Sounds fine to me.

May 2nd
Sunday

A monkey can tell a great joke.
This one is a classic . . .

M

*and yeah, new theme, go figger
8-)

Apr 14th
Tuesday

Gotta love a big banana.
You ladies do, right?
Hey, he’s got appeal.
Good and innocent carbs, low fat too.
But I gotta say that is one sick goddamn banana  . . .

{tanks, Gerry . . . 00Ps!}

Jan 29th
Thursday

An old Italian lived alone in New Jersey .
He wanted to plant his annual
tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard.
His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent,

I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won’t

be able to plant my tomato garden this year.

I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot.

I know if you were here my troubles would be over.

I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days.

Love,

Papa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Don’t dig up that garden.

That’s where the bodies are buried.

Love,

Vinnie

At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area
without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.
That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now.

That’s the best I could do under the circumstances.

Love you,

Vinnie

Jan 5th
Monday

I’ve known for a long time that a majority of my readers are women.
I don’t say that in a ‘oh, I’m so depressed that only women read me’ kind of way but more as a reason why
this post actually happened.
My daughters are forever showing me videos that they think are funny.
Some are great and some just suck.
Period.
These two videos are awesome {imho} and are living proof that I do live with multiple women (and yes, I love them all . . .  Cripes, I sound like a friggin’ Sheik).
This post is for you ladies that visit here.
This blog wouldn’t exist without your comments.
Enjoy the comedy of Anjelah Johnson (yeah, that’s her in the second video, too)
I’m not a big comedienne guy but this girl is the shit, folks.

~Michael


Sep 27th
Saturday

This was too funny not to share.
Once again, not sure of the authenticity but damn, these are funny.

Medical Stories

1. A man comes into the ER and yells, ‘My wife’s
going to have her baby in the cab!’ I grabbed my stuff, rushed out
to the cab, lifted the lady’s dress, and began to take off her
Underwear. Suddenly I noticed that there were several
cabs —and I was in the wrong one.

Submitted by Dr. Mark MacDonald, San Francisco

2. At the beginning of my shift, I placed a stethoscope
on an elderly and slightly deaf female patient’s chest wall.
‘Big breaths’, I instructed.
‘Yes, they used to be,’ replied the patient.

Submitted by Dr. Richard Byrnes, Seattle , WA

3. One day I told a wife that her husband had died of a
massive myocardial infarct. Not more than five minutes later, I
heard her reporting to the rest of the family that he had died of
a ‘massive internal fart.’

Submitted by Dr. Susan Steinberg

4. During a patient’s two week follow-up appointment
with his cardiologist, he informed me, his doctor, that he was
having trouble with one of his medications.
‘Which one?’ I asked. ‘The patch. The
nurse told me to put on a new one every six hours and now
I’m running out of places to put it!’
I had him quickly undress and discovered what I hoped I
wouldn’t see. Yes, the man had over fifty patches on his
body! Now, the instructions include removal of the old patch before
applying a new one.

Submitted by Dr. Rebecca St. Clair, Norfolk , VA

5. While acquainting myself with a new elderly patient,
I asked, ‘How long have you been
bedridden?’
After a look of complete confusion she
answered. ‘Why, not for about twenty years – when my
husband was alive.’

Submitted by Dr. Steven Swanson, Corvallis , OR

6. I was performing rounds at the hospital one morning
and while checking up on a woman I asked, ‘So how’s
your breakfast this morning?’ ‘It’s very
good, except for the Kentucky Jelly. I can’t seem to
get used to the taste,’ the patient replied.
I then
asked to see the jelly and the woman produced a
foil packet labeled ‘KY Jelly.’

Submitted by Dr. Leonard Kransdorf, Detroit

7. A nurse was on duty in the emergency room when a
Young woman with purple hair styled into a punk rocker mohawk,
sporting a variety of tattoos, and wearing strange
clothing, entered. It was quickly determined that the
patient had acute appendicitis, so she was scheduled for
immediate surgery. When she was completely disrobed on
the operating table, the staff noticed that her pubic hair
had been dyed green, and above it there was a tattoo that
read, ‘Keep off the grass.’ Once the surgery was completed, the surgeon wrote a short note on the patient’s dressing, which said, ‘Sorry, had
to mow the lawn.’

Submitted by Doctor . . .

AND FINALLY…

8. As a new, young MD doing his residency, I was quite
embarrassed when performing female pelvic exams. To
cover my embarrassment, I had unconsciously formed a habit
of whistling softly. The middle-aged lady upon whom I
was performing this exam suddenly burst out
laughing and further embarrassing me. I looked up from
my work and sheepishly said, ‘I’m sorry, was I
tickling you?’
She replied, ‘No doctor, but the song you were whistling was, ‘I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Wiener’.

Dr. wouldn’t submit his name (Go figure)

Aug 16th
Saturday

These are supposedly comments written on report cards by teachers from a public school in New York City.
While I can’t actually believe they are true, they are incredibly funny.
Received these through an email from my buddy Henry.
He never bothers to check the authenticity, probably why most of his emails are so damn funny.
I have a few days off from work and will be somewhat absent from the blog.
Not really going anywhere but I need some downtime.
I really do.
I’m going to try like hell to visit some folks tonight that I haven’t visited in a while.
Two blogs to maintain has left me speechless.
Head over to Moe’s to see a few interesting things from me.
In the meantime, be safe and be well.
Enjoy these comments.

1. Since my last report, your child has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.
2. I would not allow this student to breed.
3. Your child has delusions of adequacy.
4. Your son is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.
5. Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.
6. The student has a ‘full six-pack’ but lacks the plastic thing to hold it all together.
7. This child has been working with glue too much.
8. When your daughter’s IQ reaches 50, she should sell.
9. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn’t coming.
10. If this student were any more stupid, he’d have to be watered twice a week.
11. It’s impossible to believe the sperm that created this child beat out 1,000,000 others.
12. The wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead.

Mar 16th
Sunday

“The Brothel”

Two Irishmen were sitting at a pub drinking beer and
watching the brothel across the street.
They see a Baptist minister walk into the brothel, and one
of them says, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see a man of the cloth
goin’ bad.”

Then they see a rabbi enter the brothel, and the other
Irishman said, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see that the Jews
are fallin’ victim to temptation as well.”

Then they see a catholic priest enter the brothel, and
one of the Irishmen says, “What a terrible pity …one of
the girls must be dying.”

“Irish Cemetery”

Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Seamus, were stumbling home
from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road
which led past the old graveyard..

“Come have a look over here,” says Paddy, “It’s Michael
O’Grady’s grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe
old age of 87.”

“That’s nothing,” says Sean, “here’s one named Patrick
O’Toole, it says here that he was 95 when he died!”

Just then, Seamus yells out, “Good God, here’s a fella
that got to be 145!”

“What was his name?” asks Paddy.
Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match
to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims,

“Miles . . . from Dublin.”

“Irish Last Request”

Mary Clancy goes up to Father O’Grady after his Sunday
morning service, and she’s in tears.
He says, “So what’s bothering you, Mary my dear?”
She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. Me husband passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Oh, Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, did he
have any last requests?”
She says, “That he did, Father…”
The priest says, “What did he ask, Mary?”
She says, “He said, “Please Mary, put down that damn gun.”

“Lent”

An Irishman moved into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry.
He walks into the local pub, orders three pints of Guinness takes them to a table and proceeds to drink them taking his time.
He repeats this two times and then leaves the pub.

A few nights later he returns to the pub, orders three pints of Guinness, takes them to a table and drinks them taking his time. He repeats this two times and leaves the pub. He continues this for several weeks.
Soon the entire town is talking about the “Three Pint Man.”

Finally, one day the pub owner on behalf of the entire town broaches the subject to the man. “I don’t mean to pry, but folks are quite curious why you order three pints each time you come in .”

The man replied, “I have two brothers – one in America and one in Australia. When we parted ways we all promised that each time we had a drink, we would order an extra two pints as a way of keeping up with each other.”

The pub owner and the entire town thought this was wonderful and were pleased that the brothers meant so much to each other. “The Three Pint Man” became a celebrity not only to the town but to the surrounding area.

One day the man came into the pub and orders only two pints of Guinness. The pub owner poured them with a heavy heart knowing in his soul that something dreadful must have happened. The news spreads around town and people are offering prays for the “Three Pint Man.”

This went on for a few weeks and the pub owner says to the man, “I want to offer our condolences due to death of your brother. We are all heart broken. You know the two pints and all.”

The man ponders this for a few minutes and replies, “You will be glad to hear that my brothers are alive and well. It’s just that I, meself, have decided to give up Guinness for Lent.”

“Vat O’ Guinness”

Brenda O’Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door.

“Brenda, may I come in?” he asks. “I’ve somethin’ rather important to tell ye.”

“Of course you can come in. You’re always welcome here, Tim.” says Brenda. “But where’s me husband, Shamus?”

“That’s what I’m here to be tellin’ ye, Lass. There’s been a simply tragic accident down at the Guinness brewery…”

“Oh, God no!” cries Brenda. “Please don’t tell me…”

“I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is gone. I’m dreadfully sorry, Lass.”

Finally, Brenda looks up at Tim and tearfully asks, “Please tell me how it happened, Tim.”

“Aw, Lass, it was terrible. Poor Shamus fell into a vat o’ Guinness Stout and drowned.”

“Oh my Sweet Jesus! But please tell me true, Tim. Did he at least go quickly?”

“Well, no, Lass… not exactly.”

“No?”

“No, fact is, he got out three times to visit the men’s room.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, folks!

And a tip o’ the hat to this Lass
For tomorrow is her birthday (39! . . . same age for the past five years!)
Breithlá sona duit!

~m

 

Jan 2nd
Wednesday

  • I hate every bone in her body but mine.
  • I ain’t never gone to bed with an ugly woman but I sure woke up with a few.
  • If the phone don’t ring, you’ll know it’s me.
  • I’ve missed you, but my aim’s improvin’.
  • Wouldn’t take her to a dogfight ’cause I’m real scared she’d win.
  • I’m so miserable without you, it’s almost like having you here.
  • My wife ran off with my best friend and I miss him.
  • She took my ring and gave me the finger.
  • She’s lookin’ better with every beer.

    And the Number One bad title is . . .

    • It’s hard to kiss the lips at night (that chewed my ass out all day long).

    A shout out to my good cigar-smoking bud, WM for the email.
    You made Henry proud with this one, dude.

    ~m

    Oct 21st
    Sunday

    A female CNN journalist heard about a very old Jewish man who had been going to the
    Western Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time.
    So she went to check it out and there he was, walking
    slowly up to the holy site.
    She watched him pray and after about 45 minutes, when he turned to leave, using a cane
    and moving very slowly, she approached him for an interview.

    “Pardon me, sir, I’m Rebecca Smith from CNN. What’s your name?”

    “Morris Fishbein,” he replied.

    “Sir, how long have you been coming to the Western Wall and praying?”

    “For about 60 years.”

    “60 years! That’s amazing! What do you pray for?”

    “I pray for peace between the Christians, Jews and the Muslims. I pray for all the wars
    and all the hatred to stop. I pray for all our children to grow up safely as responsible adults, and to love their fellow man.”

    “How do you feel after doing this for 60 years?”

    “Like I’m talking to a fuckin’ wall.”

    ~m

    ps. thanks to LS for the email!

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