The Daily Parker

Politics, Weather, Photography, and the Dog

List: Hot crossed puns

Two ferocious cannibal chiefs sat licking their fingers after a large meal. "Your wife makes a delicious roast," one chief said.
"Thanks," his friend said, "I'm gonna miss her."

A new nurse listened while Dr. Blake was yelling, "Typhoid! Tetanus! Measles!"
The new nurse asked another nurse, "Why is he doing that?"
The other nurse replied, "Oh, he just likes to call the shots around here."

Hangover: The wrath of grapes.

Income Tax: Capital punishment.

A used car is not always what it's jacked up to be.

Two silkworms were in a race. They ended up in a tie.

To my sweetheart: My cooking's gotten better since I fondue.

A robber broke into the police station and stole all the toilet seats, and the police didn't have anything to go on.

Middle Age: When actions creak louder than words.

Egotist: One who is me-deep in conversation.

Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused his dentist's Novocain during root canal work? He wanted to transcend dental medication.

Did you hear about the woman who started dating rakes and fell on hard tines?

Why won't melons elope in Las Vegas? They cantaloupe.

Q: What do Christmas and a crab on the beach have in common? A: They both involve sandy claws.

Archeologist: A man whose career lies in ruins.

Kleptomaniac: One who can't help himself from helping himself.

Did you hear about the snake who gave birth to a bouncing baby boa?

Once I got angry at the chef of an Italian restaurant, so I gave him a pizza my mind.

The fish secretary lodged herself in a pipe and could no longer type. Her doctor said, "This is a clear case of 'Carp in tunnel' syndrome."

A friend of mine who commutes to work everyday through the Lincoln Tunnel with a bunch of co- workers recently complained about what a pain it was. I told him that he may have a bad case of "car pool tunnel syndrome."

California smog test: Can UCLA?

The competition at a local dog show was quite "Ruff"

Q: How did the pig with laryngitis feel? A: Dis-gruntled.

Submitted by reader C.K.

Character sketch: Metafiction

Allie Barkley sprinted from the Student Center to her dorm, Alliance Hall, doing her best to run between the snowflakes which had begun to interfere with her weekend. She didn't have far to run, so she made it to the security booth with only a few blotches of snow adorning her hair and shoulders.

The security guard (actually another student rather than the infamous Rent-A-Cops which had begun to pop up around campus) recognized her and buzzed her through. Few people at Utrecht University failed to recognize Barkley. As the Student Government Rules Chair, she had only last spring uncovered a plot that, because she uncovered it, resulted in the SGA President's suspension from school.

As she waited for the elevator in the lobby, she reflected on this.

"How do you presume to tell the world what I'm thinking?"

Excuse me?

"I asked you to tell me where you got the gall to go telling the world what I'm thinking." Barkley was talking to no one in particular. "No, jerk, I'm talking to you, the one at the PC. Oh, stopped typing for a second. Thought you were, maybe, going schizo?"

Shut up. I'm trying to tell a story.

"A story about me, Allison Elizabeth Barkley. I think I have a right to give my input."

You have no input. You're a character in the story.

"But without me there would be no story."

That's absurd. You don't exist. You're a character that I'm making up here in my apartment.

"Of course I exist. If I didn't exist you wouldn't be writing about me, would you?"

That's reification.

"What?"

Reification. It means believing that an intangible idea actually exists. You don't exist. Arguing that you do exist, when clearly you do not, is reification.

"I just told you that I do exist. And don't italicize while I'm speaking. It interrupts my train of thought."

Your train of thought? Your train of thought, Ms Barkley, is my train of thought. We get back to the original problem: you don't exist.

"Then why are you having this argument with me? And on whose authority did you just go back and change some of the things I said?"

I will edit my own words as I see fit. I'm editing you right now, as I sit here sipping a Cafe au Lait in the coffee shop next door to my apartment building. Further, I am having this argument with you because...because...because of the wonderful things he does, ya da da da da da dum.

"Original. You must be the Scarecrow, brainless. Let me explain it: you're having this argument with me precisely because I exist. Few things in this universe prove themselves, but I do. Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. Descartes, in saying that, meant that nothing is absolute except one's self. Once one arrives at the truth that she exists, which is the most fundamental truth at which anyone can arrive (and thank you for editing my grammar), one can go on to other things."

One can go on to having a metaphysical discussion with a character in his own story. Then one can go on to Ravenswood Hospital. You know, I've written a lot of stories in my day, but none of my characters has ever talked back to me.

"So am I just a device?"

I didn't mean that.

"Do you deny that these words are yours, when they disagree with something you believe?"

No, though I expect you would want me to deny them. Writers have always created characters with whom they disagreed, precisely so that they can make their points by proving the antitheses of the theses put forth by the characters. I created you so that I could explore a metaphysical question: do fictional characters exist? Arguing with a fictional character about her own existence seemed the most expedient way of hashing it out. I just didn't expect the character would have such an attitude.

"I disagree with you about my own existence, but not because you created me for the purpose. I disagree with you because I am a free-thinking individual who has a different way of looking at the world."

But you only have a different way of looking at the world because I have given you one.

"Not so. I exist as a free and independent entity."

You're neither free nor independent. I control you totally. Watch: you're now going over to the security booth and removing your clothes for the benefit of the guard.

"Like hell I am. I haven't moved from this lobby. You're lying."

No, you're down to your bra now, dearie, and Fred the guard, who is in your History of North America class, is looking at you like you're crazy. He isn't stopping you, though, because you have really big --

"I am not doing those things, no matter what you say."

Yes, you are. I am the writer, and I have just told my readers that you have begun disrobing for the security guard. This little argument notwithstanding, I have chosen to write this story in third-person omniscient voice. That means, acting as a narrator, I know all and see all that happens in this story. I also manipulate every character in it. Of course, nobody reading this has met any of the other characters because we're having this inane argument over your existence.

"We're not arguing over my existence. You've already admitted that I exist."

I did not.

"Did so. You once wrote an essay in which you argued that everything, real and imagined, exists. You said that because the universe is infinite, at some point in space-time everything exists. It was your perversion of the Infinite Monkeys theorem."

Oh, that. I wrote that in high school, when I was fifteen, before I had ever encountered the Infinite Monkeys theorem. Now, thanks to you, I have to explain the theorem, so that my readers don't get lost. The theorem says that if you have an infinite number of monkeys, an infinite number of typewriters, and an infinite supply of paper, at least one monkey will produce the complete works of Shakespeare by random tapping.

"Right. And if you accept the Infinite Monkeys Theorem, you implicitly accept my existence."

Bull. You're a character. You have no substance, no dimensions, no observable characteristics other than those I provide with words. You do not exist.

"Then how do you explain this argument?"

Oh, we're back to that again? We are arguing, Allie, because while in the shower a few minutes ago I hit on this idea. I asked myself, 'what would happen if a character in a story started arguing with the writer?'

"And look what happened. It got away from you."

I completely control this story. You see, Allie, you don't have a life except what I give you. As you are the protagonist in this story, and I control the story, you can never 'get away from me.'

"No life except what you give? Where will you be in a hundred years?"

With today's medical advances I might still be living in Chicago.

"Not likely. You will probably -- go ahead, answer the phone. Hum de do. So, you talked with a friend about me, didn't you?"

Jealous?

"Dream, baby. As I was saying, in a hundred years you'll most likely be dead. I won't. I'll still be right here where you left me, and I will be as alive for your great-grandchildren then as I am for you now."

But you're not alive in the first place. That's reification, I'm telling you. You don't exist.

"Still harping on that, are you? Listen, not only do I exist, but I will exist a lot longer than you will. Also, people can re-experience me in exactly the same way as often as they like."

That's not an asset, nor is it evidence of your existence. People can re-experience me anytime they like, also.

"Assuming they would even want to, they can't really see the same you every time they meet you. I remain constant, so that my charm never fades. My likability never wanes. I will always be "

It is precisely because you remain static that you don't exist. I am dynamic, constantly changing. Someone who meets me an hour from now will meet a slightly different person than did someone who met me yesterday. Life progresses, grows, changes. You don't.

"I never said I was alive. I said I exist. If you define life as a forward-moving existence, than you imply the reality of static existence as well, or even backward-moving existence. Clearly, in that scheme, I exist."

Fine, you exist. But you're not alive.

"Oh? By defining life as growth, you admit also that I am alive. Ask ten friends what I look like, and you will hear ten different answers. Your own perceptions of me will change over time. Sure, I will remain a stunning blonde, five four with blue eyes, and one of the smartest women any man could ever meet, for as long as the paper describing me survives. But my appearance? Honey, your imagination doesn't even come close."

My imagination doesn't come close? You existed first in my imagination. The only true representation of you resides in my head.

"That contradicts all your earlier pontificating, bonehead. You just got through saying-all right, implying-that no true representation of me can exist anywhere. Too bad, too, the way your love life is going."

Don't get personal. I might forget to save this copy to disk.

"Nah, you're so proud of this argument, even though you're losing, you'd saw off your, uh, arm before you'd erase me. And don't edit that last sentence."

Can we get back to the story?

"Agreed. Go ahead. But I never left the elevators."

Barkley buttoned her blouse back up

"Hey, wiseass, I said I never took it off."

Yes you did. You unbuttoned it in front of the security guard.

"No, you only said I did. That doesn't make it true."

Of course that makes it true.

"Who gave you the authority to say what is or is not true here?"

Nobody, nor was anyone required to invest me with such authority. I took it. I turned on my computer, entered my word processor, and voil…! Instant Allie. Now shut up and let me tell this story.

"It's not particularly interesting. I mean, who really cares about what happens in a college government?"

I suppose you're going to quote Kissinger on me.

"Since you asked, and only because you asked, I shall. Henry Kissinger once said that 'University politics are so vicious precisely because they are so insignificant.'"

Do you know why you quoted Kissinger?

"Yes, because you asked, and I found the request agreeable."

No, you quoted Kissinger because I wanted you to. I typed that line. It came from my brain, went through my fingers to this keyboard, down a wire, into a microprocessor, etc., and by the time someone reads this it will have been fused onto a piece of paper by a laser printer.

"Listen, I didn't have to recite that quote. I only did it to be nice."

Nice has nothing to do with it. I made you do it, whether you want to admit it or not.

"What an arrogant fuck you are."

It's not arrogance, it's simple truth. I control you completely.

"No, I have a life of my own. Ha! Disprove that!"

I don't have to disprove anything. You have the burden of proof.

"..."

See? You can't function except when I make you function. I don't even have to tell you what to do, you just do it. Like right now: you're taking your blouse off again and what's his name is ogling.

"I haven't left the lobby, and I most certainly have not removed any clothing. As to my inability to function, what if I did actually say something two paragraphs up and you deleted it?"

Now, who do you think the readers will believe? Me or you? I'm omniscient, omnipotent, and you're a figment of my imagination.

"I am also now a feature of their imaginations as well, am I not? I exist for them now, do I not? I wonder how many people will believe you."

This is insane. I'm putting you on the tenth floor by your room, where you will meet one of your floormates so I can create another character with whom you will conflict.

"Thank you for offering the lift, but I'll take the elevator."

You did take the elevator. You're on the tenth floor now, and John Tyler has just emerged from his room.

"No, I haven't moved from this lobby."

Look around you. There's your door, there's Tyler, and there's your room key in your hand about to go into the lock.

"No, I haven't gotten into the elevator. You're imagining things."

That's the most sensible thing I've made you say yet.

"You didn't make me say it. You just typed it. I said it all by myself. Even your father admits that sometimes stories write themselves, and he has made a successful career out of writing."

He used a figure of speech. The first draft of this story did, in a figurative sense, write itself. But I imagined most of these arguments while I was soaping up in the shower, and imagined you as a character while I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair. Now, I'm going to go back a few screens to see if I need you to make another point for me.

"Fine, go back. I'll wait."

I don't need to go back. I know what you were going to say now.

"Oh, you mean you were going to have me explain how, because of the way in which I exist, a reader can experience different aspects of me in any order because he (or she) has the power to flip back a few pages? That's an illogical transition, and I won't be a party to bad writing. You'll have to segue better than that."

Thank you, Allie. How's this transition: Do you know why you're called Allie Barkley, and why the guy who has approached you by your door is named John Tyler?

"Not much better, but passable.

"I am named Allison Elizabeth Barkley because my grandmother (on my father's side) was named Elizabeth, and my mother always liked the name Allison. My last name is strictly patronymic. I expect John has a similar explanation for his name."

No, you're both named after a United States Vice Presidents. Most of my characters are named after Veeps, or Supreme Court Justices, or combinations of both. Alben Barkley was VP under Eisenhower. John Tyler was VP under William Henry Harrison for the four weeks Harrison was in the White House. I have a degree in history, you see, so I choose my characters' names as sort of an in-joke.

"So, you deny the existence of my mother and father, and of my Grandma Bess? What about my sister, Kate, who will finish high school in June? You suppose Orrington University will just forget they accepted her when she attends in August?"

Those people and places exist only in my imagination, Allie. Orrington University is as much a fiction as Utrecht U. The former is named after a street which leads up to the administration building of a real university here in Illinois, and Utrecht is the name of a dorm at the college I attended. We writers use these tricks to maintain a semblance of fiction. It's called creativity: we create things.

"Like you claim to have created me."

I make no unsubstantiated claims. I did create you.

"How do you know I didn't create myself in your mind and direct you to give me a tangible existence?"

...

"Got you there, didn't I? Maybe this story is literally writing itself."

Look, writers create characters every day. So far I've created a half-dozen this evening. Hell, when I was in preschool I had a whole bunch of characters following me around everywhere.

"So when a four-year-old talks to himself, that's creativity in the same way as a twenty-two-year-old's tapping on a computer?"

Yes, I think so, but I thing such a discussion would be better handled by a psychologist. And I didn't talk to myself. I had a menagerie of characters, and I talked to them. I even remember one of them was named Peter. My teacher did not find this to be unusual at the time.

"But one morning you woke up and realized you were talking to yourself."

No, I simply stopped talking to the imaginary people. Kids do that. They talk to imaginary friends until a certain age, then they stop. If they don't talk to imaginary friends when they're little, we think something's wrong with them. If they continue past a certain age, we think something's wrong with them.

"And why is that? Surely the imaginary friends of these children-perhaps even your imaginary friends-continue to exist. You named your friend Peter. He exists, though you don't talk to him."

This is ridiculous. What if I just deleted this argument and got on with the story?

"You may choose to do that. But you've already discussed this premise with your fiend, and she'll want to read the whole thing. The only way you can explain to her the absence of a physical story is by telling it. I win either way. I will exist in her mind, and in yours, as long as you both live. And if she tells her fianc‚, then I exist in a third mind. I can't lose my existence until all of you do."

But you want immortality, and only my printer can give that to you.

"You want immortality, too. Perhaps I am a vehicle to that immortality? Your father would call me the 'USP:' the Unique Selling Point. I am what makes this story unique, what makes this story sellable. Admit it, you were dreaming of having this thing published while you toweled off, right?"

Isn't that a switch. You're trying to narrate my life as I narrate yours.

"Why not?"

Once again we get back to the fundamental character-author relationship. You know about me only because I know about me and I have put those speeches in quotes. You said yourself that I can use you to say things so that I can disagree with them. How do you know that I'm not doing it now?

"Because I still maintain that I have free will. I live in your mind, dude. I am, contrary to your assertion, very much alive, and I have asserted myself to get you to write down these thoughts."

You have it backwards.

"No, I'm controlling you, and you only think you're controlling me."

Try selling that to my readers. Look, it's late, I'm tired. If you want to go on believing that you control me, fine. I won't argue any more. And hey, to show what a generous guy I am, I'll let you have the last speech.

"I have nothing more to say."

Thank you.

"You said I could have the last speech!"

So speak. I'm through.

"You need to work on this ending. It's too abrupt and the readers won't like it."

Copyright ©1993 David Braverman

Fiction: Wonderland

Pretty is as pretty does. I don't know why I'm thinking this.

I wonder if I'm still pretty. And how long this has been going on.

Sometimes I hear crying. A woman's voice, high and harsh. Singing, once in a while. Many voices, babbling on and on. And mostly silence, out there in the velvety blackness.

Tired, that's what I am. I need rest. It's just like sleep, drifting off.

Some words make sense. Alice. Then I realize, that's my name. I am Alice.

There are scenes that stand out as clear as daylight. The Christmas carols we listened to in the car, all the way home. This is corny, I said, but I was laughing at the same time. Away In A Manger, sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir floated out of the radio and filled the car with those radiant voices, singing as one.

It doesn't really hurt, just the echo of pain, far away. I can smell it just around the corner, waiting for me.

Open your eyes, a voice says. Open those eyes of yours. Oh Alice, please open your eyes.

The scent of chlorine bleach, smelling like summers at the pool, life guarding. My nose streaked with daubs of zinc cream, my limbs growing browner and browner as I stare at the rectangle of shimmering blue all day. Smells like drinking iced tea, of the slices of lemon floating on top of the glass.

Alice, listen to me, open your eyes.

That's right, we were shopping. Presents at Nordstrom's and Bloomies. A paisley silk scarf for his grandmother. Fiestaware coffee mugs for Diane. A suede purse for my mother. For the first time in ages we felt prosperous, even generous, armed with out Visa cards. It is difficult to think of those gifts, now lying abandoned in the back seat. Perhaps scattered in the dirty snow, garish against all that white.

Is it Christmas yet? What time? What day? How long has this been going on?

I do know a few things. My name is Alice and I am twenty-eight years old. Somehow those facts please me.

Pretty is as pretty does. I think about my face, trying to remember its features. The exact shade of my eyes, the curve of my upper lip. The tiny bump on the bridge of my nose, I recall that, how I used to stare at the bathroom mirror for long minutes, wishing the bump gone. What is my face like now? It could just be gone, nothing there. No face at all. I don't know.

He calls me Alice in Wonderland. Ha ha, you think you are such a comedian! Yeah, but you're a blonde and you wear headbands a lot and you just happen to be named Alice... I push him away, half mad, half pleased. As if I asked to be named Alice.

Floating in the bathtub, warm and comfortable, lulled by the steam. I am here and not here, above and below. I am in an in between place, waiting.

A cool hand surrounds my wrist. Skin like silk, so gentle.

A warmer hand, callused. I know that hand.

I dreamed about the beaches of Mexico a while ago. Nothing special or extraordinary just empty beaches stretching on into the horizon and dry air. I was wearing a white bikini, splashing around in the surf. Laughing at the way the wet sand squished between my toes. The sun in my hair, warming me, bronzing me.

Many dreams. I am traveling everywhere, through time, through space. One minute I am still in high school and I can't remember my locker combination and I'm late for a big Calculus final. The thing I know, next I am eating tuna salad at my grandmother's house, and then her kitchen becomes a café in Rome and I'm trying to order a cappuccino from the mustachioed barista who doesn't understand my halting Italian.

I want to open my eyes, but they are so heavy.

On the way home I sat next to him, feeling so close and warm. We had been fighting lately about little things, like the phone bill and getting the car washed. Christmas changed things, just like it is supposed to. For the first time we went to a lot and picked out a tree and strung it with tiny colored lights and popcorn. We hung stockings even though there was no fireplace. Mistletoe hung in the archway leading into the living room and snowflakes were taped up on the windowpanes. You could say we got into the spirit of things.

Maybe I'm not here at all. I'm just imagining this.

Another question, where is here?

It would be so simple to let go. Stop thinking, quit dreaming. Let is all fade into twilight. Just stop.

The warm callused hand again. It nearly drives me mad with its familiarity.

The quiet is enough to reduce a person to tears. I strain for voices, for music, but there is nothing anymore. Just emptiness and silence. The darkness closes in, pressing on my face.

Alice I hear, and I think, that's me. I had forgotten.

We had the heat on high and I was sleepy. Outside, the air sparkled with crystalline flakes of snow. Over the carols I whispered, I want to always remember this night. He smiled and I closed my eyes, drifting off to the pure soprano voices of the choir.

Yes, I remember it all now.

It should have ended differently, as beautifully as it started, where we go home and wrap the presents, drinking hot cocoa in the living room, listening to more Christmas music. Go to bed glad we don't have to get up early for work in the morning and make love slowly in the bluish light sneaking through the blinds. Fall asleep thinking of good things, of Christmas dinners and decorating the tree and snow falling.

That is not what happened.

Metal. Things smashing, things screeching. He is screaming. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck Alice are you okay Alice are you okay oh fuck oh fuck oh Alice. A sliver of pain and then nothing. For a long time it is dark.

Pretty is as pretty does. Am I still pretty? Am I still me, am I still Alice? Or have I become something else in this place?

It occurs to me that perhaps I am the only person left in the world.

I don't like this anymore. It hurts, pain that is beyond description. My legs. My arms. My chest. A vise has clamped down on my skull and is squeezing tighter by the minute. Pain, pure pain.

I don't float. I feel solid and too heavy. Thirsty, I want water, get me a nice glass of water. I'd like an iced double skim latte, please. Diet Coke on ice, a margarita, no ice. I have never been so dry.

Leave me alone. I am being poked and prodded, always touched and turned. Just let me go back to sleep, unseen hands.

Alice, can you hear me? It's me, it's me.

Green tiles. That is what I see when my eyes open, through all the blinking. White walls, far too bright and harsh for my eyes. I close my eyes again, relishing the dimness.

A voice says, I'm not sure she actually saw anything. I want to scream, yes I did! I saw the wall!

Another thought. I am bored here, alone with my thoughts.

Christmas, is it over yet?

Alice, do it again. Open your eyes.

I want to see the snow falling.

The wall again, not as bright. It must be night. I am in a room, in a bed. Aha, I think. It smells like alcohol, like bodies and sheets. A whisper, right near my ear. Alice, are you awake? I blink a few times and the room is still here. Somehow I nod my head.

Copyright ©1997 Danielle Kluz

Joke: the Desert Island

There is a beautiful deserted island in the middle of nowhere where the following people are stranded:

  • 2 Italian men and 1 Italian woman
  • 2 French men and 1 French woman
  • 2 German men and 1 German woman
  • 2 Greek men and 1 Greek woman
  • 2 English men and 1 English woman
  • 2 Bulgarian men and 1 Bulgarian woman
  • 2 Irish men and 1 Irish woman
  • 2 American men and 1 American woman

One month later on this beautiful deserted island in the middle of nowhere...

  • 1 Italian man killed the other for the Italian woman.
  • The 2 French men and the French woman are living happily together in a "ménage à trois".
  • The 2 German men have a strict weekly schedule of alternating with the German woman.
  • The 2 Greek men are sleeping with each other and the Greek woman is cleaning and cooking for them.
  • The 2 English men are waiting for someone to introduce them to the English woman.
  • The Bulgarian men took one look at the endless ocean, one look at the woman...and started swimming.
  • The 2 American men are playing coconut-football and haven't noticed that there is a woman.
  • The Irish began by dividing their island Northside-Southside and setting up a distillery. They don't remember if sex is in the picture, because it gets sort of foggy after the first few litres of coconut-whiskey, but at least they know the English aren't getting any.

Submitted by reader B.O.

Joke: Two old ladies

Two old ladies were waiting for a bus and one of them was smoking a cigarette. It started to rain, so she reached into her purse, pulled out a condom, cut off the tip and slipped it over her cigarette and continued to smoke.

Her friend saw this and said, "Hey, now that's a good idea! What's that you're putting over your cigarette?"

The other old lady said, "It's a condom."

"A condom? Where do you get those?"

The lady with the cigarette told her friend that she could purchase them at a pharmacy.

When the two old ladies arrived downtown, the old lady with all the questions went into the pharmacy and asked the pharmacist if he sold condoms. The pharmacist said yes, but looked a little surprised that this little old lady was interested in condoms. He asked her, "What size do you want?"

The old lady thought for a moment and said, "One that will fit a Camel."

Submitted by reader B.P.

Joke: the Genie

A couple was golfing one day on a very, very exclusive golf course, lined with million dollar houses. On the third tee the husband said, "Honey, be very careful when you drive the ball; don't knock out any windows. It'll cost us a fortune to fix."

The wife teed up and shanked it right through the window of the biggest house on the course.

The husband cringed and said, "I told you to watch out for the houses. All right, let's go up there, apologize, and see how much this is going to cost."

They walked up, knocked on the door, and heard a voice say, "Come on in." They opened the door and saw glass all over the floor and a broken bottle lying on its side in the foyer. A man on the couch said, "Are you the people that broke my window?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry about that," the husband replied.

"No, actually I want to thank you! I'm a genie that was trapped for a thousand years in that bottle. You've released me. I'm allowed to grant three wishes. I'll give you each one wish, and I'll keep the last one for myself."

"OK, great!" the husband said. "I want a million dollars a year for the rest of my life."

"No problem; it's the least I can do. And you, what do you want?" the genie said, looking at the wife.

"I want a house in every country of the world," she said.

"Consider it done," the genie replied.

"And what's your wish, genie?" the husband said.

"Well, since I've been trapped in that bottle, I haven't had sex with a woman in a thousand years. My wish is to sleep with your wife."

The husband looked at his wife and said, "Well, we did get a lot of money and all those houses, honey. I guess it's okay with me if it's okay with you."

The genie took the wife upstairs and ravished her for two hours. After he had finished, the genie rolled over, looked at her and asked, "How old is your husband, anyway?"

"Thirty five," she replied.

"And he still believes in genies?"

Submitted by reader C.K.

Joke: the Whales

A male whale and his mate were swimming around in the ocean, when all of a sudden, the male whale catches sight of a whaling vessel in the distance. He takes a closer look, and recognizes it as the ship that harpooned his parents many years ago.

So, he turns to his girlfriend and tells her that he wants to avenge the death of his parents. She hesitates, knowing that they could become the next victims of the vessel, but he reassures her and tells her that he has been planning this all of his life, and he swims over and whispers the plan to her.

So, she agrees and they swim up under one side of the boat, and they both start blowing air through their blow holes. The boat starts to rock back-and-forth, and the sailors on the ship are scrambling all over the deck.

Finally the boat tips over, and the sailors are scattered through the ocean. The male whale is delighted and starts to gobble up the sailors, but the female whale starts to swim away.... So the male whale swims over to her, and asks her what is wrong. She huffs and puffs and says, "I agreed to the blow job, but there is no way I'm going to swallow the seamen."

Submitted by reader B.P.

Joke: the CIA

A few months ago, there was an opening with the CIA for an assassin. These highly classified positions are hard to fill, and there's a lot of testing and background checks involved before you can even be considered for the position. After sending some applicants through the background checks, training and testing, they narrowed the possible choices down to three men, but only one position was available.

The day came for the final test to see which man would get the extremely secretive job. The CIA men administering the test took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun. "We must know that you will follow your instructions no matter what the circumstances", they explained. "Inside this room, you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Take this gun and kill her."

The man got a shocked look on his face and said "You can't be serious! I could never shoot my own wife!" "Well", says the CIA man, "you're definitely not the right man for this job then." So they bring the second man to the same door and hand him a gun. "We went in the room. All was quiet for about 5 minutes, then the door opened. The man came out of the room with tears in his eyes. "I tried to shoot her, I just couldn't pull the trigger and shoot my wife. I guess I'm not the right man for the job." "No" the CIA man replied, "You don't have what it takes. Take your wife and go the hell home."

Now they're down to one man left to test. Again they lead him to the same door to the same room and hand him the same gun. "We must be sure that you will follow instructions no matter what the circumstances, this is your final test. Inside you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Take this gun and kill her."

The third man took the gun and opened the door. Before the door even closed all the way, the CIA heard the gun start firing. One shot after another for 13 shots. Then all hell broke loose in the room. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. This went on for several minutes, then all went quiet. The door opened slowly, and there stood the third man.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and said "You guys didn't tell me the gun was loaded with blanks! I had to beat the bitch to death with the chair!"

Submitted by reader B.P.

Joke: the Van

A young couple were making passionate love in the guy's van—you know, shag carpets, big double bed in the back, all of that—and suddenly the girl, being a bit on the kinky side, yells out, "Oh lover, whip me! Please whip me!"

Well, the guy, not wanting to pass up an opportunity like that, but unsure what to do as he has no whips around, gets an inspired flash, opens one window, snaps the antenna off his van, and proceeds to whip the girl until they both collapse in sado-masochistic ecstasy.

Almost a week later the girl notices that the welts she sustained are beginning to fester a bit and goes to her doctor. The doctor takes one look at the wounds and exclaims, "Wow! Looks like you've got a bad case of 'Van-aerial' disease!"

Submitted by reader C.K.

Joke: the Pig

A young guy starts work on a ranch, and the boss sends him up the back paddocks to do some fencing work, but come evening he's half an hour late. The boss gets on the CB radio to check if he's all right.

"I've got a problem, Boss. I'm stuck here. I've hit a pig!"

"Ah well, these things happen sometimes," the boss says. "Just drag the carcass off the road so nobody else hits it in the dark."

"But he ain't dead, boss. He's gotten tangled up on the bull bar, and I've tried to untangle him, but he's kicking and squealing, and he's real big boss. I'm afraid he's gonna hurt me!"

"Never mind," says the boss. "There's a .303 under the tarp in the back. Get that out and shoot him. Then drag the carcass off the road and come on home."

"Okay, boss."

Another half an hour goes by, but there's still not a peep from the young fella. The boss gets back on the CB. "What's the problem, son?"

"Well, I did what you said boss, but I'm still stuck."

"What's up? Did you drag the pig off the road like I said?"

"Yeah boss, but his motorcycle is still jammed under the truck."

Submitted by reader B.P.