Appearing rather nonchalant (with no "e") a chap gushed out, "You know, I do truly believe that I am looking more and more like my 'post-me period.'"


Just as the train was pulling into the North Corners Station, he leaped from his seat, waving a book and crying, "It says right here, 'Not without hope, we suffer,' and I ask you, does that mean that all who suffer still have hope, or, that you wouldn't suffer if you didn't have hope?"  Now jumping and screaming with increased volume he continued, "Now which is it, my friends – which is it, I ask you." (A stockbroker, a nurse, two thugs and a rabbi kindly gang-punched his ticket.)


The king put a distant cousin (who was otherwise qualified) in charge of "translating everything into something else"; the appointee says he's working on it.


Oh yeah –
this one guy
finally came to
a conclusion
and died.



An ole sorehead recently grouched, "How come everybody's 'road-to-ruin' seems so interesting, but mine?"