Joke

Tone-deaf

My elderly father moved house recently and I called to see how he was going:

Me: “Hey dad, just wanted to ask..”

Dad: “Can you speak up please?”

Me: “Hey, I just wanted to a..”

Dad: “Speak up, I can’t hear you!”

Me: “I JUST WANTED TO ASK IF…”

Dad: “Haha just kidding, this is my answering machine. Please leave a message.”

Frog’ll rock

We’ve got the big four banks in Australia: The Commonwealth, the National Australia Bank, the Australia New Zealand, and Westpac, which used to be the Bank of New South Wales with the slogan, “You can bank on the Wales”.

One afternoon, a green tree frog hopped into the Canberra branch of Westpac, on City Walk.

Now, if you know this particular branch at all, it’s got the autoteller machines just outside, there’s the main door to the left and the first thing you meet as you enter is the enquiry desk.

This frog hopped right up to the desk and looked up at the young man on duty there with big frog eyes, and he looked back with his narrow, flinty banker’s eyes, wondering how a green tree frog with such big eyes and big lips would survive in the dog-eat-dog world of banking.

The frog looked up and said, “I’d like to ask about a loan.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the bank officer, who as well as being polite, had remarkably keen eyesight. “Our loans officer, Mrs Macgregor, will be with you shortly. Just take a seat, please. Can I have your name?”

“Kermit Jagger,” said the frog, and went off to sit by a window, where there might be a few flies.

After a while a young lady appeared, said “Mister Jagger?” and led him into her office.

He hopped in, sat down, and they looked at each other.

“Ah, I don’t want to be rude, but with that surname, and those lips…”

“Yes, yes, I get that a lot. He’s my father.”

“Oh, okay. You know, I just wondered. My name’s Patricia, by the way.”

They shook.

“Now, you want a loan, yes? How much do you need?”

“Thirty thousand dollars. I’d like to buy a new pad.”

“Hmmm. That’s a lot of money. Do you have any collateral?”

“Well, I know the manager here,” the frog smiled. It was a very wide smile. “He’s a good friend of mine.”

“That’s good, but we’d like something you could put up as security.”

“I have an elephant.”

The frog brought out a little ivory elephant, the size of your thumb, beautifully carved, except one of the tusks was chipped.

“Hmmm,” Patricia said, looking at it with a magnifying glass. “The tusk is damaged. I’ll have to ask the manager.”

So she walked into the manager’s office, told him the situation and showed him the tiny elephant. “He offered this as collateral, what do you think of it?”

The manager glanced at it. “It’s a knick-knack, Pattie Mac. Give the frog a loan. His old man’s a Rolling Stone.”

Laughing all the way

I know that this is a joke site, but I’m asking everyone to cross their fingers for me. I’m about to go speak with the bank manager, and if things work out for me, my life will be totally changed. I’m talking hundreds of thousands here, maybe millions. Wish me luck!

I’m so excited I can hardly get the stocking over my head!

Sixteen Tones

The receptionist let the man go ahead of the crowded waiting room, and all the patients looked very glad to see him get priority treatment.

“What’s the problem?” asked the doctor.

“I can’t stop singing.”

“I heard you in the waiting room. You know you’re also tone deaf?”

“No, but it would explain the looks people are giving me.”

“Well, how long has this been going on?”

“Last weekend. We went for a drive in the country, and I had this uncontrollable urge to sing The Green, Green Grass of Home. I saw a cat, and I sang What’s New, Pussycat at the top of my voice. Since then, I’ve been singing ll these old songs. Can’t stop. On the bus, at work, even in my sleep I was singing Delilah, and my wife insisted I get treatment.”

“Well, from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you have Tom Jones syndrome,” the doctor said, looking serious.

“I’ve never heard of it. Is it rare?”

“It’s not unusual.”

Toothsome smiles across the years

I’d bitten down hard on an apple, hit a seed,  and cracked a filling. You know how it is: there’s a little bit of metal in your mouth and everything’s fine for a few days. then you notice the odd twinge and after six months you’re drinking a bottle of scotch every day or so to kill the pain and your work is beginning to suffer.

I was sitting in the waiting room for my appointment with the emergency dentist, and once I’d worked through the gossip mags from two years back, the cartoon instructions on how to handle a toothbrush, the airconditioning unit’s manufacturer’s details, I noticed the dental diploma hanging on the wall, which bore the full name of the dentist.

Suddenly I remembered a tall, long-legged, well-stacked blonde with the same name who had been in my senior class at Morningside High thirty years back. She had been my secret crush all those years back, but I doubt she’d even noticed the awkward, pimply, tangle-haired introvert I’d been then.

Could she be the same knockout? Now that I had grown up, become a bit more confident, filled out into a fine figure of a man – and recently divorced by my nagging wretch of a wife who said I drank too much – well, maybe I could scratch that long buried itch…

The door opened, and, holding my breath, I entered the surgery. But the woman who turned to greet me as the nurse ushered me into the chair was far too old to have been my classmate. Her face was deeply lined, her hair was silvery grey, she sagged and bulged, her skin looked like it had seen seventy summers.

After she examined my teeth, making disconcerting noises with her tongue and muttering to the nurse, she looked at me, sizing me up for my ability to pay, no doubt.

“Didn’t you used to go to Morningside High?” she asked.

I admitted I did.

“So did I!” she exclaimed, her weathered face breaking into a thin smile.

“What year did you graduate?” I asked. Surely this hag must be from the previous generation.

She told me and I gasped.

“Oh my god, you were in my class!” I said.

And then this decrepit, grey-haired, wrinkled, dried up, fat-arsed, flat-chested wreck of a woman, asked me,

“What subject did you teach?”