Miss Cellaneous




Father O’Grady

Father O’Grady, as he always does after his Sunday morning service, was saying his goodbyes to the parishioners when Mary Clancy came up to him in tears.

“What’s bothering you so, dear?” inquired Father O’Grady.

“Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news,” replied Mary.

“What is it, Mary?”

“Well, my husband passed away last night, Father.”

“Oh, Mary” said the father, “that’s terrible. Tell me Mary, did he have any last requests?”

“Well, yes he did Father,” replied Mary.

“What did he ask, Mary?”

Mary replied, “He said, ‘Please, Mary, put down the gun.’ ”


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Available in three sizes – XXL, XXXL and Blimp.


Older Senior Citizen but Still Sharp as a Tack

A senior citizen in Florida buys a brand new Mercedes convertible. He takes off down the road, floors it to 80 MPH and enjoys the wind blowing through what little hair he had left on his head.

“This is great,” he thought as he roared down I-75. He pushed the pedal to the metal even harder. Then he looked in his rear view mirror and saw a highway patrol trooper behind him, blue lights flashing, siren blaring.

“I can get away …from him with no problem,” thought the man, as he bear down on it some more, and flew down the road at over 100 MPH… 110… 120 MPH.  Then he thought, “What am I doing… I’m too old for this kind of thing!”

He pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the trooper to catch up.  The trooper pulled in behind the Mercedes, and walked up to the man.  “Sir,” he said, looking at his watch, “my shift ends in 30 minutes and today is Friday. If you can give me any reason why you were speeding, that I’ve never heard before, I’ll let you go.”

The man looked at the trooper and said, “Years ago my wife ran off with a Florida state trooper, and I thought you were bringing her back.”
The trooper replied, “Sir, have a nice day.”


Quotes about Scotch:      :thumbsup:

I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis. –Humphrey Bogart

Scotch needs water like a fish needs a bicycle.  –W.C. Fields

I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.  –George Burns

So what are you planning to do with the rest of your life? Develop a drinking problem. More Scotch, please.  –Daniel Silva

One good thing about rain in Scotland. Most of it ends up as scotch.  –Peter Alliss

My family was a bunch of drunks. When I was six I came up missing, they put my picture on a bottle of scotch.  –Rodney Dangerfield

Whoever said laughter is the best medicine had clearly never tasted scotch. –Anne Taintor



Election Postmortem


“Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.”

-Thomas Jefferson


“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

-W. B. Yeats


“Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”

-H. L. Mencken

A Christmas (Tree) Story

My buddy Dave and I were driving out from our home town to pick out a live Christmas tree for his family.

Dave was my best friend.  He and I had known each other since eighth grade and now, both home from college Christmas break, we were driving through the scenic and very snowy northeastern countryside in search of that perfect tree.  Dave had this on his “to do” list every year.  His dad had died when Dave was very young so he was the man of the family and he had promised his mom and younger sister that he, along with his good buddy (that’s me), would go out into the hinterland in search of a fresh, nicely shaped pine tree.  We would stalk the tree, capture it, tie it to the top of Dave’s mom’s car and bring it back for decorating.

The upstate regions of the northeast have a bountiful supply of woodlands with plenty of “cut your own Xmas tree” signs on farmers’ properties so finding the tree was not a problem.  Capturing it and bringing it back?  Well, as you’ll see, that was not so simple.

It was a typical December in the northeast BGW (that’s Before Global Warming) so, on December 22nd, there was about a foot and a half of snow on the ground and the back roads, though cleared, still had packed snow on them.  It was about 20° F (or -6° C) and the air was crisp with a steady breeze, just enough to make you wish that you had stayed inside.  Still in our late teens, we retained the air of invincibility and so we dressed warmly but not warmly enough as it turns out.

It never takes long, even today, to move from the town – technically, a village – to the rural countryside, maybe ten minutes tops.  After driving through a few back roads, we came across a sign that said “Xmas trees, cut your own $2.00.”  There was an entire hillside filled with dark green pine trees so this seemed straightforward enough and we stopped.  We had found our tree’s lair; we just needed to stalk and capture our prey.

The owner gave us the rules.  Give him two bucks, climb up the hill with your saw, cut down the tree of your choice, haul it back down the hill, strap it to your car and be on your way.  The farmer even offered to straighten the cut-off trunk of the tree with his brush saw.

Off Dave and I marched up the hill and realized, within minutes, that we had failed to estimate the depth of the snow.  Dressed in moderately warm jackets, gloves and ankle length boots, we were no match for a northeastern hillside with snow drifts feet deep.  Snow crept into our boots, gloves and jackets as we staggered up the hill in search of our Christmas tree.  After fifteen minutes, the sweat we generated turned to frosty ice crystals and froze us even more.  We finally picked out a tree, about as tall as us, and cut it down with relative ease.  Now we had to get back down the hill.

If it had been a clear summer day, two young guys carrying a six-foot tree down a moderately sloped hill would have been a cinch but add a foot and a half of snow and drop the temperature by sixty degrees and that posed a slightly harder problem.  We struggled with this tree as though we were attempting to move a minivan.  More sweat, more snow up our gloves and feet and more frost around our ears and nose just added to the discomfort as, eventually, we reached the bottom of the hill and Dave’s car.  We looked much like two sad frozen rags as we emerged from the side of the hill. The farmer, as promised, trimmed the bottom of the tree squarely and helped us tie it to the top of the car.

As we were leaving, we both noticed the sign again.  Beneath the “Xmas trees, cut your own $2.00,” it read “freshly pre-cut trees $3.00.”  The fifteen-watt bulbs dimly lit over our heads as Dave turned to me and said “Why didn’t I just buy a pre-cut tree?  How would my mom and sis even know where the tree came from?”

You can send a kid to college but you can’t make him learn.

Bah! Humbug!

Happy Holidays.