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It's Almost Friday Humor Thread

Subdeacon Joe

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 There used to be a character in George Creel’s town in Missouri, a transplanted Kentuckian and a veteran of Shelby’s command, who was a born orator and an inspired romancer.

One sunny afternoon he was holding forth to an attentive audience upon the part he had played in the war between the States. It was rather to be inferred that he was one of the main reasons why the Confederacy endured, against odds, for four years. He progressed to where he was enriching history with an account of the first engagement in which he had participated.

“Gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “envisage the scene. There we stand, a little group, armed for the most part with nondescript weapons, with flint lock muskets, with scythes, with axes, even with cudgels. We are underfed, half shod and ragged, yet inspired by the dauntless resolution and splendid valor which sustained the Southern heart. Over the slope and straight against our line come pouring the Northern hordes, those relentless invaders of our beloved Southland, lusty and strong and equipped with every appliance for conducting warfare that modern science can provide.

“We are outnumbered three to one; we are weak from hunger while they are lusty with bacon and beef. But none among us quails. A righteous belief in our sacred cause inspires us, every one. Each one feels himself a giant. And what is the result? Suddenly we leap forward in the charge. We grapple with them, we fight like demons. And, gentlemen, such is the impetuosity of our attack, such the ferocity of our blows that soon the blue lines break and in mad disorder routed the enemy flees, unable to face that irresistible torrent of Southern manhood.”

From the audience spoke up a gray bearded listener.

“Say, looky here, Kurnel,” he said. “I was in that there fight myself and whut really happened wuz that them plegged Yanks give us a fust rate lickin’ and run us ten miles acrost country.”

With a magnificent gesture of surrender the Colonel rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “another instance of a good story spoiled by a damn eyewitness!”

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 Speaking of carrier pigeons—although no one has done so—reminds me of a yarn that was related at the front in 1918. A half company of a regiment in the Rainbow Division, on going forward early one morning in a heavy fog for a raid across No Man’s Land, carried along with the rest of the customary equipment a homing pigeon. The pigeon in its wicker cage swung on the arm of a private, who likewise was burdened with his rifle, his extra rounds of ammunition, his trenching tool, his pair of wire cutters, his steel helmet, his gas mask, his emergency ration and quite a number of other more or less cumbersome items.

It was to be a surprise attack behind a cloak of the fog, so there was no artillery preparation as the squads climbed over the top and advanced into the mist-hidden beyond. Behind, in the posts of observation and in the post of command, the Colonel and his aides and his intelligence officers waited for the sound of firing. When after some minutes the distant rattle of the rifle fire came to their ears they began calculating how long reasonably it might be before word reached them by one or another medium of communication touching on the results of the foray. But the ground telephone remained mute, and no runner returned through the fog with tidings. The suspense increased as time passed.

Suddenly a pigeon sped into view, flying close to the earth. While eager eyes followed it in its course the winged messenger circled until it located its portable cote just behind the Colonel’s position and fluttering down it entered its familiar shelter.


An athletic member of the staff hustled up the ladder. In half a minute he was tumbling down again, clutching in one hand the little scroll of paper that he had found fastened about the pigeon’s leg. With fingers that trembled in anxiety the Colonel unrolled the paper and read aloud what was written upon it.

What he read, in the hurried chirography of a kid private, was the following succinct statement: “I’m tired of carrying this damn bird.”

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 Possibly inspired by the missionary work of Pussyfoot Johnson, a Scotch Minister undertook a temperance crusade among the members of his flock. He announced that on a certain Sabbath he would deliver a sermon upon the evils of strong drink, with physical illustrations to prove his argument.


Upon the appointed morning a congregation which crowded the kirk greeted him. The dominie lost no time in making his demonstration. Upon the pulpit he placed two glasses; one containing whiskey and the other spring water. Then in an impressive silence he brought a small box from his coat pocket, opened the box and produced a long wriggling worm.

First he dipped the worm in the tumbler of water, where it coiled and twisted happily. Then he dropped it into the whiskey. Instantly the hapless creature shriveled, and after a few feeble contortions became limp and lifeless.


Hauling forth the dead thing and holding it in plain view of all present the minister said:

“Now then, my brethren, behold the effects of strong spirits upon this wee creature. In the water it took no harm; but the first contact with this foul stuff here instantly destroyed it. Need I say or do more to convince you of the effects of whiskey?”

From the body of the church there rose up a lantern-jawed person.

“Meenister,” he said, “might I ask where ye got the whusky in that tumbler?”

“I’m glad you put that question,” said the clergyman. “I purchased it at that den of iniquity, the public-house, which stands at the top of the street not a hundred yards from this place of worship.”

“Thank ye,” said the parishioner. “I’ll be goin’ there on the morrow. I’ve been troubled with worms myself.”

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12 hours ago, Alpo said:

 A Christmas entertainment was being planned in a remote Nevada town. The affair was to take place at the church, and the local Sunday school superintendent, a mild and gentle man, with a temperamental Adam’s apple and an aggravated habit of wearing white string ties on week days, had charge. Up until the eleventh hour it looked as though the manager of the show must depend exclusively upon home talent in making up the bill. But late in the afternoon of Christmas eve, as though directed by Providence, a shabby stranger dropped off a passing freight train carrying a slender instrument case under his arm. He sought out the superintendent, introduced himself—modestly—as a distinguished musician on tour and volunteered to take part in the night’s program.


Delighted at having enlisted a visiting star from out of the East, the superintendent assigned him the place of honor.

At the proper moment the pleased promoter in his rôle of master of ceremonies, came forth upon the improvised stage and announced that he had a delightful surprise and a wonderful treat for the audience. Prof. Bilbus, a famous clarinet player direct from New York city and at present sojourning temporarily in their midst, would now favor the assembled citizens with a solo. He stepped to one side and from the wings issued the visitor, who bowed low, and then, lifting his instrument to his lips, emitted one of the sourest and most dismal of notes.

In his shock and disappointment a big miner at the back of the house forgot the proprieties.

“Well, the blanketty blank!”he exclaimed in a voice which reached beyond the footlights.

Quivering with indignation the introducer sprang forward again to the centre.

“Wait!” he called out. “Who called the clarinet player a blanketty blank?”

From the audience a third voice was lifted:

“Who called the blanketty blank a clarinet player?”




  I have heard this'n in relation to military (all branches, all nations) food prepare-ers .......  :o

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 Back about 1905, in the Dark Ages of automobiling a veterinary surgeon in my town, whom I shall call Dr. Jones, bought a second-hand car. It already was beginning to shake itself to pieces before it came into his possession. In fact, so loudly did it rattle, when in motion, that it was known affectionately throughout the county as Jones’ Patent Pea-Huller. When the tires wore out the owner, who was by way of being a mechanical genius, equipped it with ordinary buggy-wheels.

One day an automobile run to a near-by town was organized. Every proud proprietor of a car joined in. As the procession headed out past the corporate limits it was met by a farmer, from the Massac Creek section on his way to the warehouse with a wagon-load of tobacco. His half-grown son rode with him.

As the head of the column loomed through the dust the farmer’s two mules, unused to the sight of automobiles, showed signs of skittishness.


The boy leaped down from his seat and held the heads of the team, the mules flinching and trembling as the cavalcade roared past.

Seemingly, the last car had gone by. The youth was in the act of climbing back to his place alongside his father when in the distance there arose a terrific clattering sound and over the crest of the hill appeared Dr. Jones, seated at the wheel of his machine and striving valiantly to overtake the tail of the vanished parade. On he came, with his gears grinding, the tormented vitals of his car shrieking, the wooden wheels clattering on the hard gravel of the turnpike and gusts of smoke issuing from beneath the body.


The astounded agriculturist caught one good look at the approaching apparition. Then as he set the brakes harder than ever and tightened his grasp on the lines he called out to the boy:

“Hold ’em, Wesley, for God’s sake, hold ’em! Here comes a home-made one!”

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 In an unthoughted moment a colored woman in a North Carolina town contracted a matrimonial alliance. But the honeymoon ended tragically.
Just two weeks after the wedding ceremony the happy bridegroom was fooling about the railroad yards and a switch engine ran over him—on the bias—and he, being of a fleshy build, was distributed for a considerable distance along the right of way becoming, to all intents and purposes, a total loss.

Yet it was immediately to develop that in a deceased state, he had a financial standing which had been denied him in the flesh. For, with that desire to do justice speedily which ever marks the legal profession, a claim agent of the railroad got hold of the widow before any other lawyer could reach her and hurried her to his office and there showed her five hundred dollars in shiny new bills, which was more money that she thought there was in the world. With one eager hand she reached for this incredible fortune and with the other, using haste lest the beneficent white gentleman should recover from his impulses of generosity, she signed on the dotted line A of the quit claim.


Another colored woman who had come with her to witness this triumph and who was standing behind her, perfectly pop-eyed with envy and admiration, said: “Clarissa, whut you reckin you goin’ do now, sence you had all dis luck?”


Before the widow answered she lifted a rustling twenty from off the top of the delectable heap and fanned herself with it and inhaled its fragrance; and then she said:

“I don’t know as I shall do anything—fur a spell. I got to wait till time is healed my wounds an’ I’s spent dis yere money. Of co’se in the yeahs to come I may marry ag’in an’ then ag’in I may not—who kin tell? But, gal, I tells you right now, if ever I does marry ag’in my second husband is suttinly goin’ be a railroad man.”

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 The late Mr. Donovan had had a very close call from being a dwarf. Indeed, there are dwarfs in circuses not many inches shorter than he was. Despite his diminutive bulk and the handicap of lack of height he nevertheless had succeeded in the contracting business and when he died he left a tidy estate and his widow mourned him properly.

On the day before the funeral, having finished the preparations for the wake, she sat in the parlor of her home when Mr. McKenna, an old friend of the family, was announced. Dressed in his Sunday best Mr. McKenna entered and having shaken Mrs. Donovan’s hand stated that he would be unable to attend the ceremonies that evening owing to other engagements. He asked, therefore, if he might be permitted to take a last look at the deceased.

“Help yourself,” said the widow. “He’s laid out upstairs in the front room. Just you walk up, Mr. McKenna.”

So Mr. McKenna walked up. After the lapse of a few minutes he tip-toed down again, wiping away his tears.

The widow removed the handkerchief from her eyes.

“Did you think to close the hall door as you came down, Mr. McKenna?” she asked.

“I think so, madam,” he said. “I was so overcome wit’ me grief I didn’t take much note. I think so, but I won’t be sure.”

“Would you make sure, thin,” she said. “It’s twice to-day already the cat’s had him downstairs.”

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 An Aberdonian on his first visit to London got off the train at Euston station. While proceeding afoot along Euston Road on his way to his hotel he suffered a terrific misfortune. He dropped a sixpence and it rolled out of sight. The desolated victim put down his luggage and began a vigorous search for the missing coin. Presently a friendly policeman came along and having learned from the grieved Scot what the trouble was, proceeded to aid him in the hunt, but with no results, excepting the loss of fifteen minutes. Finally the Bobby said:

“You go along on your way and I’ll keep my eye open for your money. If it turns up I’ll have it for you, if you’ll come back this way this afternoon.”

All day the Scot was afflicted with distress. Promptly at four o’clock he was back on the spot where his sixpence had vanished. During the day the gas company had had a squad of men excavating in the street for new mains so that when the Aberdonian reappeared he found the paving torn up and a wide, deep trench extending from the house line to the middle of the road.


He gazed at the scene for a moment and then remarked to himself:

“Weel, I must admit one thing—they are verra thorough here.”

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A young man shopping in a supermarket noticed a little old lady following him around. If he stopped, she stopped. Furthermore, she kept staring at him.

She finally overtook him at the checkout, and she turned to him and said, “I hope I haven't made you feel ill at ease, it's just that you look so much like my late son."

He answered, "That's okay."

"I know it's silly, but if you'd call out Goodbye, Mum, as I leave the store, it would make me feel so happy."

She then went through the checkout, and as she was on her way out of the store, the man called out, "Goodbye, Mum."

The little old lady waved, and smiled back at him.

Pleased that he had brought a little sunshine into someone's day, he went to pay for his shopping.

"That comes to £121.85," said the assistant.

"How come so much? I only bought 3 items!"

The clerk replied, "Yeah, but your Mother said you'd be paying for her things too."



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 It seems the mother was determined her six year old daughter should learn table manners and especially that she should eat what was put before her without question or complaint. On a morning at breakfast the lady sat behind the coffee urn reading her mail. Little Mildred was perched upon a high-chair at the other end of the table. In front of the latter the maid put down a cup holding a soft-boiled egg.

“Please, mama,” said Mildred. “I don’t want an egg this morning. I had an egg yesterday morning.”

“Never mind what you had yesterday morning,” said the mother without looking up from her reading. “Eggs are good for you. Now you open that egg and eat every bite of it.”


Mildred sniffled but obeyed. Presently her voice was again uplifted in protest:

“Mama, I don’t like this egg. I don’t think it’s a very nice egg.”

“It is a nice egg,” contradicted the mother, still immersed in her correspondence. “Go right ahead.”

Another pause ensued, punctuated only by muffled sobs and gulps from Mildred. Then:

“Mama, I’ve eaten nearly all of it. Can’t I stop now?”

“Mildred, I don’t want to have to speak to you again. I’ve told you what you had to do.”

“But, Mama——” and now Mildred’s voice rose to a wail——“do I have to eat the bill and the legs, too?”

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This is a true story from my traveling past….


Arriving in Kyiv, I collected my checked baggage, I needed to exit through Customs. The white haired lady was watching folks exiting on the green line [nothing to declare]. She spotted me, I’m clearly not Ukrainian. She pulled me aside and started asking questions. I knew she was not looking for contraband as much as she was looking for a bribe to ignore contraband. I had given her $500 in the past.

She saw a tag on my luggage. “I see you have been to Turkey, perhaps you have gold, silver, jewels?”

I was visiting a friend and bringing gifts from Victoria’s Secret. I said, “panties.”

The *itch was unfamiliar with the word and repeated, “panties?”

we went back and forth a few times until I said “trusiki”.

she laughed and let me go.

I visited Ukraine many times and was always prepared for her.



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An Aussie and a Maori walk into a bakery.

...The Aussie steals three pastries and slips them into his pocket. He turns to the Maori and says, "Pretty slick aye, bro? The owner didn't even see me."

Unimpressed, the Maori replies, "Typical dishonest Aussie, bro. I'm gonna show you the honest way and still get the same result."

The Maori calls out to the owner of the shop and says, "Bro, I want to show you a magic trick." Intrigued, the owner comes over. The Maori asks him for a pastry, which the owner gives him, and the Maori eats it. He asks for another and eats that, too. He asks for a third and eats it as well.

The owner says, "C'mon, mate. Where's the magic trick?"

The Maori points to the Aussie and says, "Check his pockets."

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Stolen from the web


Sometime in the 1980s, when Hungary was still in the Warsaw Pact, the army had a couple of Mi-24D helicopters. Well, we still have them. They’re sturdy birds for sure.


The Hinds were stationed in Szentkirályszabadja, but don’t even try to pronounce that. It was one of the few places where it was fun to serve. Officers were friendly to conscripts, duties weren’t hard, food was better than at other units, so those who ended up there were lucky.

One winter night, a lot of snow fell. All conscripts were sent to clean up the tarmac. It soon turned into a huge snowball battle. History did not record which unit won, but at least everybody had fun. The runways were clean too, so the officers let it pass. A Mi-24 soon took off for a routine flight, flew around the country for a few hours, then returned. Only after they landed, did the pilots notice that some funny conscripts inserted two snow shovels into the empty rocket tubes under the winglets. Probably while they were already in the cockpit, going through the takeoff checklist. Nothing happened, nobody was really upset. It was a harmless prank.

Fast forward a few years. Europe changed, and Hungary was aspiring for NATO membership. Western delegations visited every military base in the country, and of course they were curious about their former adversaries’ secrets. One day a group of NATO air force officers visited Szentkirályszabadja. They were shown around, and for many of them, this was the first time to see the once dreaded Mi-24 from up close. One of these officers asked a question:

“A few years ago our spy satellites spotted a Mi-24 taking off from this base. It was carrying some unknown ordnance. We could only determine that it had a large metal wing, and the body was made of organic material. Can you reveal what it was? Some experimental missile perhaps?”

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