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Possible Copyright Infringement

YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING OLD WHEN YOU CAN'T WALK PAST A BATHROOM WITHOUT THINKING. "I MIGHT AS WELL PEE WHILE I'M HERE."

A woman walks into a pharmacy and tells the pharmacist she wants to buy some strychnine. The pharmacist says “That’s a very deadly poison. We can’t just hand it out to anyone. Why do you need it?” The woman responds “To kill my husband.” To which the pharmacist replies “I don’t know if you are joking or not, but I cannot sell you strychnine.” The woman opens her purse, takes out a photograph, and hands it to the pharmacist. The photograph is of the woman’s husband in bed with the pharmacist’s wife. The pharmacist looks at the photo, then hands it back to the woman and says “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had a prescription.”

https://www.facebook.com/reel/2716442128557892/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Harvested from anther site. Deleted due to possible Copyright Infringement.

I get accused of that.................A LOT.

...... as long as you don't talk them into coming here .... 😬

Deleted. May be copyright.

You beat me to it. The Latin professor walked into the bar and told the bartender that he wanted a martinus. The bartender says, "You mean martini?" The professor says, "If I wanted two, I would have asked for two".

But...! The plural of "octopus" is actually "octopuses." "Octopi" is also sometimes (incorrectly) used, but "octopuses" is the preferred and more correct plural. "Octopi" is used because people assume it's formed like Latin loan words, like "fungus/fungi". However, "Octopus" is derived from the ancient Greek oktōpous, a compound form of oktō, 'eight' and pous, 'foot.' Y'all are quite welcome! (And I do like that pie!)

Or being German?

................ what ?, ...... changing a lightbulb ?? .... 😉

PLANNING "He's an old man." "He is." "I could take him." Two men lifted their beers, took a drink. "Then what?" "Whattaya mean, then what?" "You take an old man. So what, he's an old man!" Beer bottles were lowered to the crumb-littered tabletop. "He's Sheriff." "And he's an old man." "So?" "So you step on a Sheriff's toe, every cop in the State will howl. You can't get away, they'll catch you and then what? You know what they'll say in gen-pop? 'He beat an old man. Big whoop.' " "They'll say I beat a Sheriff!" A derisive snort, a sip from a longneck. "Your funeral." An older man with twinkling, merry eyes and an iron-grey mustache looked up, grinned. "Howdy!" he called, amused at the surprised -- almost disappointed -- expression on the stranger's face. The stranger mumbled something in reply. "Pick up that saddle and fetch it over, would you?" Still surprised, the stranger turned, gripped the brand-new, just-unwrapped roping saddle: it was heavy, it was awkward, he had to reset his grip twice before dragging it off the sawhorse and waddling over with it. "Thank'ee kindly," the Sheriff said pleasantly: he gripped the saddle, hoisted it easily, laid it over the edge of the stall, whistled quietly: something big, furry, silent and solid! slid in between the stranger and the Sheriff. "Stand," Linn said quietly: the stranger slipped ahead, frowning as the Sheriff spun a saddleblanket over the stallion's back, smoothed it with a twitch and a swipe of callused palms: he laid a black doghouse stirrup across the saddlehorn -- "Not that it'll stay there," he complained good-naturedly to the staring stranger -- he picked up the saddle with a genuinely surprising ease, swung it back, then over the horse's back. The stallion took a restless step, tail slashing. "Oh, mutter your granny's hairbrush," the Sheriff chuckled: he bent, busied himself under the splotchy, brown-red-and-white horse's belly, straightened. "Do me a favor," the Sheriff said as he laid a hand against his stallion's throat, pressed gently, backed him up half a length: "grab those two bales of hay and set 'em over here for me? I'm gettin' puny in my old age!" The stranger was absolutely nonplussed: here was a man he'd intended to jump from behind, he'd figured to beat him into a bloody pulp, take him by surprise and murder him, and here he was being ordered around like hired help instead! Still -- the element of surprise was lost -- he squatted, spread his arms, tried to grip the bristly payload. The Sheriff came up beside him, working his hands into a pair of leather work gloves. "Easier way," he said, "like this" -- he dipped his knees just a little, ran curled fingers under the hay strings, stood: he picked up two bales, walked them over, twisted, swung one, then the other up, tossed then casually right where he wanted them. He turned, grinned at the stranger. "Ever put up hay?" His voice was gentle, friendly, almost ... fatherly. The stranger shook his head. "N-n ... no." "I just got done throwin' half a thousand bales. My elevator broke and had to get 'em into the hay loft by hand." He did a slow deep knee bend, frowned a little, looked up, his eyes still bright, as if ready to spread over the rest of his face with good natured laughter. "I'm still kind of sore after that!" The stranger opened his mouth as if to say something; he nodded, mumbled something, turned. Pale, knowing and somewhat amused eyes watched the stranger walk quickly away. Ambassador Marnie Keller excused herself: she discreetly withdrew around a corner, raised a cell phone to her ear, delight in her face and anticipation in her voice: "Susie?" She listened, blinked. "Susie, you did the right thing, now get out of there! I'll send a car!" Michael Keller raised a leather-gloved hand, knocked politely on the Farmall Cub's shining-red hood. Linn looked up, grinned. "Sir, did Marnie speak to you today?" "She did, Michael. Had supper?" "Victoria is inside just talkin' up a storm with Mama." Linn frowned. "I reckon we'd best get inside and take 'em to the Silver Jewel for supper, elsewise they'll figure to go to the City and you know what that means!" "Yes, sir," Michael grinned. "They'll both get new shoes, Victoria will want to wear those pretty new shoes and that means we'll hit every dance, every cotillion and every formal dedication this side of who-knows-where!" "I reckon she'll dance with a hundred men." "And get proposed to by twice that many." Father and son and a great white Snowdrift-dog sauntered toward the house. "Your sister talked with an old schoolmate, Susie Smith. You remember Susie?" "The one that got into drugs and trouble, sir?" "She's the one. Marnie got her clean, God knows how. I know she was off-planet for a while. She called Marnie and Marnie called me." Michael stopped suddenly, regarded his father with hard and pale eyes. "Sir?" Linn stopped, turned, regarded his son's suddenly-solemn face. "Yes, Michael?" "Sir, are you safe?" Linn laughed quietly: behind him, the front door opened, mother and daughter stepped out, pulled the door firmly shut behind them and set the alarm. "We're going out for dinner," Victoria called, sounding like a little sister threatening to tell on someone: "are you two coming?" Linn's eyes were tight at the corners, they were bright as they looked at his son, as he laid a gentle, fatherly hand on Michael's black-suited shoulder. "I am safe now, Michael," he murmured. "Marnie's warning and I took care of it, story at eleven." Two unwashed, disreputable sorts sat at a crumb-littered table, opened a fresh longneck apiece. "Where's Susie?" "Hell if I know. She left." "Take anything?" "Nah. Just left barehand. Can't have got far. Say, you jumped that old man yet?" A brow-furrowed glare was the only answer.

I'm maybe close to this, but there are other things too. I added an electrical circuit to the house today, and had a hell of a time being close enough to see what I was doing and being far enough away to have clear focus. Eyes no longer adjusting focus for distance, so cataracts may as well get fixed this spring. Anyway, installed the circuit and now a leg hurts (probably sciatica) from contorting myself to position for the work, and have bruising on the back of both hands from bumping into things. In better news, I have started mocking up my reloading setup.

TO WRITE A SERMON Gilead pushed through the heavy glass doors, stopped just inside, grateful for the warmth, for the lack of wind. He looked around at the familiar-yet-so-foreign interior of the Sheriff's Office. Sharon tilted her head, looked at the man curiously. "Hi," she said. "Umm ... hello," Gilead said uncertainly. "Help you find somebody?" Gilead looked to the rear of the lobby, toward a door with frosted glass and a six point star. "I'm here to see my father." Sheriff Jacob Keller looked up, surprised, took two long strides toward his brother. The Bear Killer flowed along beside him, greeted the newcomer with a canine version of the Hoover treatment. Jacob's grin was as wide as it was genuine: "You're just in time for dinner!" "Actually," Gilead said uncomfortably as The Bear Killer taste tested his hand, "I need your advice." "Easily got!" Jacob winked. "Come on in and say hello to Ruth, she'll be tickled to see you!" Jacob, Ruth, Gilead and young Joseph sat around the table, The Bear Killer happily beside Joseph, alert for fallout -- as Joseph was getting some size and responsibility about him, fallout was rare these days, but The Bear Killer kept station anyway. "I know I can have a meal fabricated," Ruth said quietly, "but it just doesn't seem right!" "Darlin'," Jacob said gently, and Gilead could hear their father's voice in his brother's throat, "if you went to the trouble to make it, you bet your bottom dollar I'll eat it and be glad for it!" Joseph looked from one adult to another: he hadn't spoken six words since Gilead came through the door with Joseph's father. Gilead winked at Joseph, looked at Jacob, who happily mopped his plate with a torn open sweet roll. "I know it's not mannerly," he said, "but it's so good I don't want to waste any!" "I'll agree there," Gilead echoed, looked at Ruth: "Thank you. I'm sorry, I should have sent word ahead." "Oh, pshaw," Ruth smiled, coloring. "I've fresh apple pie ... anyone?" Jacob rose, thrust his hand toward Joseph: "Twist my arm!" Joseph happily seized his Pa's wrist and Jacob flinched: "Ow, ow, ow, all right, I'll have pie!" Father and son laughed: Ruth looked at Gilead, concerned at the sadness she saw in his eyes. Ruth withdrew discreetly, allowed the men their privacy. Gilead sat, clasped his hands: he was leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, frowning: Jacob waited, recognizing the signs of a troubled man who was trying to think of the right way to say something. Jacob saw Gilead blink twice, rapidly, and knew he'd come to a conclusion. "Jacob," Gilead said, "do you think Pa can forgive me?" It was Jacob's turn to lean forward, only instead of sadness or concern, his face was genuinely surprised. "Come again?" Gilead looked miserably at Jacob. "You remember ... when Mama's oldest daughter ... they had such a screamin' fight and she left and ..." Jacob nodded. "Pa and I didn't come to words, I just left." Jacob waited, grateful he'd practiced the Poker Face. "I ... I realize now Pa would've supported anything I did." Jacob waited, listening closely, assessing his older brother's body language very carefully. "You recall Pa told us at some time or another, every boy figures he can whip the old man?" Jacob nodded, slowly, once. "I never figured I could whip him," Gilead admitted, "but I sure thought I knew more than he did!" "Did you?" "Academically, maybe, but good sense, no. No, Pa is far wiser than I." "You're farther ahead than most men your age." Gilead looked at Jacob curiously. "Most men don't really realize how smart the Grand Old Man is until they're well older than you!" Gilead grimaced, looked away. "At least he didn't slaughter the fatted calf," he muttered. "He was fixin' to, then you went in for surgery, Marnie got in a scrape, Angela threw some fella through a window when he tried to lay hands on one of her nursing students, then there was a tree fell across the fence, cattle got out, I don't recall what-all went on but he had his hands full." Jacob looked very directly at Gilead. "He wanted to throw a big feed for you and bring in dancin' girls, kags of beer and he was even goin' to import an couple fallin' down drunks for the occasion so none of our people would have to get plastered." "Is this where I fetch out that block of salt?" Gilead deadpanned, and they both laughed. "Now I am not followin'," Jacob said with an exaggerated casualness: "what terrible thing did you do to fear Pa won't forgive you?" "Jacob, in Scripture ... there's so much that's symbolic. Any time someone goes East it's symbolic for rebellion, and I went East. I reckon Pa would have put me through divinity school and likely I could've found a church to pastor out here, but I got a bad case of stupid pride and wanted to do it myself." Jacob lifted his chin, considered, lowered his head, thought for several long moments as memories sorted themselves out and recollection arranged memory-pieces in a clearer order. "I met Adina and got married. Do you remember I brought a girl home and Pa didn't approve of her." "Vaguely." "She's dead now. Pa ... didn't like her and that went all through me, so I dropped her and hated myself ever since, but she's dead so there's no goin' back to fix that one." Jacob waited. "I put myself through school and got my ticket, I got a church to pastor and I was doin' just fine until that pair come in and they took my eyes." "That's when Marnie stepped in." "She did, bless her. Got me a church offworld, she did, and I was doing good work there." "I recall watching the vids where you took a knife in the guts keepin' your people alive, and you stone blind." Gilead's face paled a little -- his new eyes were not pale, but they showed a hardness, a deep and abiding anger, there and gone just as quick -- Gilead nodded. "And now we're here," he said. "And you wonder if Pa can forgive you?" "I was proud, Jacob. I left. I wanted to hurt him because my pride was bruised and that is no reason to cut off from family like I did." "Gilead." Jacob shifted in his seat, sat very straight. "I'm not Pa, and I won't presume to speak for him, but I reckon he is the forgivin' kind. He's long allowed as God plays fair if He plays a'tall, and he's done his best to run his life that same way." Gilead considered this carefully and finally nodded, then snorted and smiled with half his mouth. "You know, Jacob," he said quietly, "when things were at their worst for me -- after I'd lost my eyes and I didn't reckon I'd ever see my wife, ever again -- Pa's words ... those same words ..." His voice trailed off. Jacob turned, pressed a key, tapped a few more. "Pa will be at work. Your best chance will be to catch him at the Sheriff's office. I can open you up an Iris in the foyer between the outer doors and the inner." "Thank you. I'll take you up on that." Sharon watched the stranger disappear into the conference room, then she keyed the intercom. "Sheriff? A man to see you. He's in Conference waiting." That night Gilead sat in his comfortable old chair, leaned his head back the way he did when he was composing a sermon -- before he had eyes again, he'd have to memorize his sermons. Adina smiled as she brought him coffee, sat it on his desk the way she always did, in exactly the spot she always did, knowing consistency of placement is vital in the world of the blind. Gilead blinked, looked at his wife, smiled. "Darlin'," he murmured, "you are gorgeous!" "You told me that six times so far today!" she smiled. Gilead nodded. "Good." "You looked like you were composing your sermon." Gilead nodded, slowly, smiling just a little. "My best sermons have come from actual experience," he said softly. "How was your visit with your father?" "Do you mean, did he forgive me?" Adina nodded. Gilead rose, took his wife's hands in his own, his grip gentle, the way he always did. "Darlin', my father forgave me freely and completely, and turns out he never held my leavin' against me." "Did you tell him why you left?" "I told him I had a bad case of bruised pride and stupidity." Adina tilted her head, caressed his cheek. "But that's when you met me." Gilead gathered his wife into his arms, held her, felt her breathe, felt her warm and living and very real in his arms. He whispered in his wife's ear, and she suspected she was hearing the core of his Sunday sermon: "God plays fair if He plays a'tall."

Or we will have to charge you a $25.00 late cancellation fee.

LOL.........Not having a sense of humor. Uno tells me that all the time. The last time he said that to me, I told him I did indeed have a sense of humor. I married him, didn't I?????

Pretty sure that them using "there" is part of the joke.

Now you have the Ls backward.

Have you noticed how adept I have become at it yet?

Must be a potty mouth.

She thinks they're marshmallows!

SHE DIDN'T "Good mornin'," a quiet voice said. A man moved, or tried to. He was stove up and sore and it hurt to move. He managed to throw an arm over, come up on his side, then awkwardly, painfully, up on all fours. He stayed there for a long moment, gathered his strength, felt blindly to his left, found a shelf of some kind. He managed to make his feet, steadied himself with one hand against a heavy timber wall. It hurt to move, it hurt to stand, it hurt to lift his head. He opened his eyes -- they were swollen, he raised his free hand to a bruised, tender cheek bone -- Good God that man can hit! he thought, and remembered the sight of a fist coming at him, just before his lights went out -- "Got coffee, if you're of a mind," the voice said mildly. "Thanks," he replied, forcing his eyes open a little further. Jail. I'm in jail. What the hell did I do this time? He managed to sway and stagger over to the bars. A tall fellow with pale eyes stood on the other side of the bars; he held a steaming tin cup, handle toward the prisoner. "How'd I get here?" "Wasn't peacefully." "Thank'ee." A pale eyed lawman waited while the prisoner took a sip, took another, drank. "Reckon you'll need the chamber pot. Bucket's in the far corner yonder." "Yeah, thanks." "Back shortly." Daisy Finnegan raised her fisted hand, belted the Sheriff's office door -- three hard, summoning slams of the heel of an Irishwoman's hand, demanding entry. A pale eyed lawman lifted the heavy latch. He didn't have to open the door. Daisy shouldered it -- hard -- pushed it and the lawman out of her way. She stopped, coffee pot in one hand, a cloth-tucked withie basket on her forearm: she glared up at the silent lawman, thrust an accusing finger at his chin -- "Not a word, you!" -- she stomped back toward the cells, snatched the keys off their peg, disappeared down the short hallway. Linn shook his head and sighed -- silently, as he knew any sound would bring more Irish ire down upon him -- he closed the door, set the latch, turned. Daisy was a woman driven by purpose and a red-headed Irish temper. She snarled as she thrust the key into the cell door's lock, grunted as she yanked it open, glared at the prisoner as he turned quickly away from her, set the bucket down: "Have done, woman, I'm not buttoned up!" Daisy's glare scorched his spine and her sharp tongue seared the air: "SAINTS ABOVE, HA'E YE NO DECENCY! THERE'S A LADY PRESENT! NOW GET YERSEL' READY AN' HERE'S BREAKFAST AN' YE'D BETTER EAT WI' A GUID APPETITE!" Linn stopped short of the hallway, unable to suppress the widening smile laying claim to his lean, tanned face: he folded his arms, leaned his shoulder against the timber wall, waited. He heard the faint clink of tin cup on blue-granite coffeepot spout. "This is fit t' drink," Daisy scolded, her voice harsh: "th' man can't make coffee fit t' drink if he had to!" Daisy thrust the cup at the man, handle first, then she set the withie basket on his pallet, snatched the covering cloth free: she turned, snapped the cloth open, then tucked a corner into the man's collar, Irish-green eyes snapping. She frowned at his discolored face, at one eye swollen nearly shut: she laid a gentle hand on his cheek and murmured, "Ye found me attractive enough last night!" -- she seized his shirt front in both hands, pulled him down or herself up, kissed him quickly, gave him a smoldering look and whispered, "A woman wants t' know she's still desirable!" -- then she shoved him away from her, whirled, stomped out of the cell: she SLAMMED the door shut, gave the big, heavy key a vicious twist, stomped down the hallway, slapped the keys into the Sheriff's chest -- "I'll need me dishes back!" she shouted. The prisoner heard the heavy door open, slam shut: he looked up at the Sheriff as the amused lawman sauntered to his cell. "What," he asked, "was all that?" "That," Linn said quietly, "is why you woke up here." "What did I do?" "You patted her fanny." "Dear God," the man groaned, "she beat me? -- feels like I got run over by a freight wagon!" Linn shook his head. "She didn't beat you," he said quietly. "Her husband did." He leaned a forearm across the bars, his thumping head on his forearm. "I got locked up for grabbin' her backside?" "No," Linn grinned, "so that big Irish fire chief couldn't get to you to finish the job!" Linn looked at the basket. "From the smell of that, you'd best eat while it's still hot. I'll look and make sure Sean's nowhere in sight and we'll get you turned loose from here, but was I you, I'd figure it's way healthier a couple counties away from here!"

Possible Copyright Infringement

You haven’t seen the like of “love bug” season in Florida or Cicadas in the Southeast in certain years!! I took two trips through a high school car wash in my leathers, on my old Harley one day after hitting a cloud of love bugs in Florida! I thought I would never get all that mess off of me or the bike!! 🤢🥴