Joke

Jonesing for KC

A friend and I hit Kansas City one evening. We’d booked into the Raphael, which was an indulgence on my part, but was a pretty classy joint, right across from the Plaza. We spotted a bar opening off the lobby and went in for a nightcap after a day on the road.

It was really nice. Dim light, a piano player, bar staff in formal clothes. Instead of my usual beer, I ordered a martini, and sat there sipping it, basking in the glow.
The piano player was quite an entertainer. Believe it or not, he had a pet monkey, and he talked to it and it did tricks as part of the act. Sat on his shoulder, reached down and tinkled a few keys, waved to the audience.
The musician took requests and was rattling out some good tunes. “Piano Man!” someone asked, and he gave us a great version, rolling his eyes and voice in over-the-top Billy Joel.
The monkey hammed it up for a while and then went visiting, jumping up on tables, begging for pretzels and nuts. It came to us, squatted over my drink, and then to my astonishment and horror dangled its testicles into the glass.
“Get away out of it, yer filthy little bastard!” I snarled, and it scampered back to its master.
I followed, fuming, and the piano man looked up at me as his monkey sought refuge on his shoulder.
“Do you know your monkey dunked his nuts in my martini?”
“Uh no,” he replied, “but if you hum a few bars I’ll pick it up.”

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The human juke box

Dad: Challenge me. I’ve been committing to memory every song that contains a person’s name. Give me any name and I’ll tell you a song that has that person’s name in it.

Sue: Um, Sue?

Dad: A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash

Sam: Pick me!

Dad: Telegram Sam by T Rex

Alfonso: What about my name, smarty-pants?

Dad: “Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Alfonso…”

 

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What’s that on the road a head?

This last year has been a bad one. So many deaths of famous people. So many great names.

Not to mention attending family  funerals. That always gets me down.

So I’ve been thinking of my own mortality quite a bit recently. I want a funeral and a will that will reassure my family that I’ve thought of them and provided for one last adventure.

I’ve set aside enough for a family trip down Route 66, where they can bond, remember, and scatter my remains along the old road.

And, after the long trip from Chicago to LA, there’s some money earmarked for a day at Disneyland, where the last remnants of whatever’s left of me can be cast over the happiest kingdom of them all!

What’s that? No, I don’t want to be cremated.

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Sunday morning coming down and letting go

After service this morning we lingered, we three:
The Reverend Golightly, my dear wife, and me.
The sun streamed in as we stood by the door,
The stained glass tinting the old wooden floor.
I relaxed for a second, and then with a sigh
My breakfast beans blew quietly by.

I thought I’d escaped, and I would have had if
It hadn’t been quite so much of a whiff.
My wife ceased her chatting, sniffed, and said, “Pooh!”
Then gazed at me sternly, “Was that awful smell you?”

She gave me a Look, and my heart gave a lurch;
What, admit before God that I’d farted in church?
“Of course not, my dear,” I said without thinking,
Standing my ground as they both stood there blinking.
A moment of hush, and the reverend mused,
“Oh! It must have been me then. Please do excuse!”

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