Archive for the ‘Men vs Women’ Category

Now, about that Hearing Aid

Posted: November 15, 2015 in Family, Food, Men vs Women, Old Age
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older man with younger girl

Oh, to be young!

Morris, an 82 year-old man in spry condition, went to the doctor for his annual physical. For the most part, the man was very healthy, although the doctor did notice an irregularity with the man’s heart. Concerned that physical stress might worsen his heart’s condition and possibly threaten the man’s life, the doctor warned him against any heart-strenuous activities.

A few days later, the doctor saw the older man walking down the street with a gorgeous young woman on his arm, and from the way they were acting, it was obvious the man had ignored the doctor’s advice and found himself a sexual playmate. Now, Morris had been a patient of the doctor’s for years, and had always followed the doctor’s advice. The doctor considered Morris a friend, and was hurt that he ignored this piece of crucial advice.

A couple of days later, the doctor’s concern outweighed his annoyance, and he called Morris.

“Morris, you and I have been friends a long time, haven’t we?” the doctor began.

“Why, yes,” Morris replied.

“and you’ve always followed my advice,” he continued.

“Why, yes,” Morris replied.

“and because you have followed my advice, you’re really doing great, aren’t you?” he asked.

“well, certainly, Doc,” Morris said, and added, “I’m not sure what you’re gettin’ at…”

The doctor let him have it full-force: “Well, Morris, You came into my office the other day and I saw something that concerned me, so I gave you some advice and you just totally ignored me. The other day, I saw you with some hoochie-girl and it’s clear that you are in a very physical relationship.”

Morris replied, “But I am following you advice, Doc. You said, ‘You get a hot mama, pursue strenuous physical activity, especially sex, and you should be cheerful.'”

The doctor said, ‘I didn’t say that.. I said, ‘You’ve got a heart murmur, and pursuant to strenuous physical activity, especially sex, and you should be careful.”


Remembering Ice Cream

Posted: November 15, 2015 in Family, Food, Men vs Women, Old Age
Tags: , , , ,


Ice cream with strawberries.

   A Couple in their nineties are both having problems remembering things. During a check-up, the doctor tells them that mentally, they’re fine. He advises them that if they’re having trouble remembering things, they might want to start writing things down.

Later that night, while watching TV, the old man gets up from his chair. ‘Want anything while I’m in the kitchen?’ he asks.

‘Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?’


‘Don’t you think you should write it down so you can remember it?’ she asks.

‘No, I can remember it.’

‘Well, I’d like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so as not to forget it?’

He says, ‘I can remember that. You want a bowl of vanilla ice cream with strawberries.’

‘I’d also like whipped cream. I don’t want you to forget that, so write it down.’ she says.

Irritated, he replies, ‘Dang it, woman, I don’t need to write it down! I can remember it: Vanilla ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream – I got it, for goodness sake!’

Then he ambles into the kitchen and she hears him getting out bowls and flatware. After about 20 minutes, the old man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs. She stares at the plate in disbelief.

‘I told you, you should have written it down, she quips, ‘You forgot the toast.’

   This letter is written from a farm kid going through boot camp at Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Depot


Dear Ma and Pa: 

   I am well. Hope y’all are too. Tell Brother Walt and Brother Elmer the Marine Corps is easy and beats working for old man Minch by a country mile. They really ought to join up quick before all the places are filled.

   I was restless at first because they make you stay in bed till nearly 5:00 a.m., but I am getting so I like to sleepin in late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you has to do before breakfast is smooth your cot and shine your boots and buckles. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, hay to lay… practically nothing. Men gots to shave but it is not so bad, they’ve even got warm water.

   Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on the pork chops, fried potatoes, salt cured ham, steak, sausage, gravy and biscuits and other regular breakfast foods, but tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by some city boys that live on coffee and doughnuts. Their food plus yours holds you till noon when you get fed again. It’s no wonder these city boys can’t walk far.

   Speakin of walkin; we go on “route marches” which the Platoon Sergeant says are long walks to toughen us up. If he thinks so, it’s not my place to tell him different. A “route march” is about as far as to our mailbox at home. The countryside is nice but awfully flat. We don’t climb hills or nothin. Them city guys get sore feet and we all get to ride back in trucks. The Sergeant is like a school teacher. He nags us a lot. The Captain is like the school board. Majors and Colonels just ride around and frown. They don’t bother you none.

   This next part will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing. I keep getting medals for shooting! I don’t know why. The bulls-eye is purt-ear as big as a chipmunk’s head and it don’t move, and it ain’t shooting back at you like the Higgett boys do at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable and hit it. You don’t even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes.

   Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain’t like fighting with that ole bull at home. I’m about the best they got in this except for that guy Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I’m only 5’6″ and 130 pounds, and he’s 6’8″ and weighs near 300 pounds dry.

   Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.

Your loving daughter,



Letter from a hillbilly mom

Letter from a college friend

Turtle Candies get their name from their whimsical turtle shape.

   Valentine’s Day, 1995. I bought my wife her favorite chocolate treat — Turtles. The combination of toasted pecans, soft caramel and smooth chocolate is impossible to resist. I decided to rather than just hand them to her in some sloven, unromantic way, that I’d make a game of it.
   I stopped by after work and bought the Turtles. Then, I rushed home to set my game into place. I knew I only had a few minutes until my wife got home, so I had to hurry. I carefully cut little place cards out of card stock, and wrote messages on each.  

The first note said,

Happy Valentine’s Day. To show you that I love you, I bought you a gift. But you must find it. You can start by looking on the dining room table.

   On the dining room table was another note card. This one said, “Before you search, you must first check the clock to see what time it is.”

Inside the wall clock was the third note. “It seems it is near dinner time. Maybe you should check the oven?”

   The fourth note was inside the oven. “You’ll want to clean up before you enjoy the delectable treat I have for you. Try checking the medicine cabinet.”

… and so it went. But she got home earlier than I expected. She was already hot on the trail, and I still had to place the last note and hide the candy. As she darted from room to room, I waited for my chance. The last note went on the bed, and said, “Not ON the bed, look UNDER the bed. I love you!” Then she would find her Turtles nesting under our bed.

Only they weren’t there yet.

   As soon as she headed for the back bedroom, I jumped up and ran to our bedroom. I quickly placed the last note card, and dropped the box of Turtles on the floor, giving it a quick kick under the bed. But it didn’t go. I crouched down and lifted the bed skirt. Oh, there’s the problem. My wife had something wrapped in a WalMart bag stuffed under the bed. I shoved it to the side and slid my Turtles in place. I hopped up and returned to the living room sofa, trying to hide the fact that I only planned and executed this little game 30 minutes earlier.

   She headed for the bedroom. There was a long silent pause. Then laughter. She came out carrying two boxes of Turtles, one from me to her and one from her to me — still wrapped in a WalMart bag.


A recipe for home-made Turtles.

!0 Rules for Dating TOP TEN Rules for Dating My Daughter.

The Lieutenant’s Cookies

Package of biscuits

‘Whump’ biscuits come in two sizes:
a five-count can, and a ten-count can.

This is a true story. It happened back around 1992. My wife and I had been married for six years and it was still just the two of us; we didn’t have any children yet.

Now my wife is a great cook. She’s so good, she can make sawdust taste good. But there’s one thing she cannot make — biscuits.

Her mother can make biscuits. Her mother makes biscuits that raise a full three inches high and weigh just ounces. Unfortunately, my wife’s biscuits don’t rise so much. In fact, they’re so thin, you can’t cut them in half. You have to use two to make a ham and biscuit sandwich. And they weigh nearly a pound a piece. So my wife sticks to ‘whump’ biscuits.

Whenever my wife would make whump biscuits, she’d pop a roll of ten and cook them up. But we rarely ate more than two or three each. So one day, I noticed in the grocery store that whump biscuits come in five-packs as well! Well, there’s a budget blessing if ever I saw one. I told her that if she bought the five-packs, we would not have to throw out the extra five that came in a ten-count can, and we could save money. I am so smart!! I bought a couple of cans.

That very night, she made biscuits.

I heard her ‘whump’ open a can of biscuits. Then I heard something disturbing: I thought I heard her whump open another can. “What is she doing?’ I asked myself. But I refrained from entering the ‘Forbidden Zone.’ (The kitchen is off-limits when she cooks). When she finally called me to set the table, I peeked in the oven. My greatest fear was realized – There were TEN biscuits in the oven. My mouth started running, not waiting for my brain to engage. “Why did you open two cans of biscuits?” I asked. “Are you stupid? We’ll only eat five and throw the rest away!” I yelled.

“I’ll show you throwing biscuits away!” she countered. Then she took the pan with ten biscuits and tossed it all out in the back yard.

“What are you doing?” I screamed, and I went to pick up the pan from out in the yard. To the side, I saw the neighbors were setting on their back porch watching things transpire. I grabbed the pan and headed back to the house. I took about two steps before I realized the pan was still close to 450 degrees hot. I dropped the pan, and kissed my swelling fingers. Then to show the pan who was boss, I jumped up and down on it and stomped it till there was no life left in it. I glanced over at the neighbor’s porch. At some point, I don’t know when, they had slipped back into their house and shut the blinds. I left the hot pan and half-cooked biscuits sizzling in the grass and headed back to the house empty-handed.

One of us went to bed hungry that night. I’ll let you guess who.

The End of the Roast.

Mature Southern Women know how to throw an insult without being insulting.

   Someone once noted that a Southerner can get away with the most awful kind of insult just as long as you add the disclaimer “Bless her heart” or “Bless his heart” somewhere within the insult. For example, “If they put his brain on the head of a pin, it’d roll around like a BB on a six-lane highway, bless his heart.” Or how about, “Bless her heart, she’s so bucktoothed, she could eat an apple through a picket fence.”

   There are also the sneakier insults that I remember from tongue-clucking types of my childhood: “You know, it’s amazing that even though she had that baby seven months after they got married, bless her heart, it weighed 10 pounds!”

   As long as the heart is sufficiently blessed, the insult can’t be all that bad, at least that’s what my Great-aunt Tiny (bless her heart, she was anything but) used to say. I was thinking about this the other day when a friend was telling me about her new Northern friend who was upset because her toddler is just beginning to talk and he has a Southern accent. My friend, who is very kind and, bless her heart, cannot do a thing about those thighs of hers, so don’t even start, was justifiably miffed about this.

   After all, this woman had CHOSEN to move South a couple of years ago. “Can you believe it?” she said to my friend. “A child of mine is going to be taaaallllkkin’ a-liiiike thiiiissss.” I can think of far worse fates than speaking Southern for this adorable little boy, who, bless his heart, must surely be the East Coast king of mucus. I wish I’d been there. I would have said that shouldn’t fret, because there is nothing so sweet or pleasing on the ear as a soft Southern drawl.

   Of course, maybe we shouldn’t be surprised at our “carryings on.” After all, when you come from a part of the world where “family silver” refers to the large medallion around Uncle Vinnie’s neck, you just have to, as Aunt Tiny would say, “consider the source.” Now don’t get me wrong. Some of my dearest friends are from the North, bless their hearts.

   I welcome their perspective, their friendships, and their recipes for authentic Northern Italian food. I’ve even gotten past their endless complaints that you can’t find good bread down here.

   The ones who really gore my ox are the native Southerners who have begun to act almost embarrassed about their speech. It’s as if they want to bury it in the “Hee Haw” cornfield. We’ve already lost too much. I was raised to swanee, not swear, but you hardly ever hear anyone say that anymore, I swanee you don’t. And I’ve caught myself thinking twice before saying something is “right much,” “right close” or “right good” because non-natives think this is right funny indeed. I have a friend from Bawston who thinks it’s hilarious when I say I’ve got to “carry” my daughter to the doctor or “cut off” the light.

   That’s OK. It’s when you have to explain things to people who were born here that I get mad as a mule eating bumblebees. Not long ago, I found myself trying to explain to a native Southerner what I meant by being “in the short rows.” I’m used to explaining that expression (it means you’ve worked a right smart but you’re almost done) to newcomers to the land of buttermilk and cold collard sandwiches (better than you think), but to have to explain it to a Southerner was just plain weird. The most grating example is found in restaurants and stores where nice, Magnolia-mouthed clerks now say “you guys” instead of “y’all,” as their mamas raised them up to say. I’d sooner wear white shoes in February, drink unsweetened tea, and eat Miracle Whip instead of Duke’s than utter the words, “you guys.” Not long ago I went to lunch with four women friends and the waiter, a nice Southern boy, you-guys-ed all of us within an inch of our lives. “You guys ready to order? What can I get for you guys? Would you guys like to keep you guys’ forks?”

   Lord, have mercy. It’s a little comforting that, at the very same time some natives are so eager to blend in, they’ve taken to making microwave grits (an abomination), the rest of the world is catching on that it’s cool to be Clampett. How else do you explain NASCAR tracks and Krispy Kreme doughnut franchises springing up like yard onions all over the country?

   To those of you who’re still a little embarrassed by your Southern-ness, take two tent revivals and a dose of redeye gravy and call me in the morning.

Bless your heart!

   (My personal favorite was uttered by my aunt who said, “Bless her heart, she can’t help being ugly, but she could’ve stayed home.)

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Typical Southern directions

The South’s most collectible Limited Edition Barbies

   The old man’s stomach was bothering him. He knew he should not have had the Bran Flakes before church. Not wanting to get up and disrupt the service, he decided to just let it ease out without drawing attention. Unfortunately, he choose to release during the quietest part of the church service. He leaned over and told his wife, “I just let out a ‘silent but deadly,’ what should I do?” She replied, “Put new batteries in your hearing aid.”

   She was a really cute brunette, sitting there in her white top and tan shorts with her Starbuck’s Grande Cinnamon Dolce Latte. But you could tell something was bothering her. Bothering her on a physical level. She was very uncomfortable. The music was somewhat loud and you could tell she was enjoying it. Then I saw it. And I heard it. She started swaying back and forth, timing her farts with the beat of the music. After a few short bursts she started to feel better. She finished her coffee and smiled at me. I smiled back, and then suddenly she realized she was listening to her iPod.

My first blind date

Happy Valley Retirement Village