‘We got a million of ’em’
Last week’s silly family sayings (see ‘What’s not to lichen?’ for some nifty examples) seemed to strike a chord, so I thought I’d regale you this week with some equally silly family jokes.
(I was going to write about late March snowstorms and sprinkle the story with some extremely cute photos of kids hiding in snow forts and whatnot, but I can’t get my darned scanner to work. Oh well, maybe it’s for the best. Snow — even funny stories about it — seems so over now that’s it’s finally Spring, don’t you think?)
Speaking of regaling, the photo at the top of this post shows The Child wowing the crowd at my Dad’s retirement party (that’s Dad, making the introductions). She had two guaranteed-to-crack-’em-up jokes at that age, and she told them both. Here’s the first one:
Kangaroo walks into a bar, orders a martini. “That’ll be fifty bucks,” says the bartender. The kangaroo looks shocked, but reaches into his pouch, pulls out fifty bucks and hands it over. Whereupon the bartender hands him his martini. The kangaroo’s sipping away when the bartender remarks “You know, we don’t get many kangaroos in here.” Kangaroo: “Well, I should say not. Not at these prices!”
Now, before you smarties remark in the comments that male kangaroos don’t have pouches, let me say in The Child’s (and my) defense that it’s just funnier that way, with the pouch and all. Oh, here’s the other joke. It had to do with a lady and a duck:
A lady was walking along a country road, carrying a duck. Why, I’m not sure. But this farmer passes her and calls out “What are you doing with that pig?” So the lady says “This isn’t a pig, you silly man. This is a duck.” And the farmer goes “I was talking to the duck.”
I know I know. But I bet your family has jokes like that. You know, jokes that get told over and over, and never fail — at least among your own family members or maybe a long-suffering family friend or two.
Even The Dude’s family had family jokes. I don’t remember his mom telling any jokes, but his dad did. Dude’s Dad was a doctor, so he specialized in medical humor. Here’s one I remember him telling (and telling more than once).
There was this man who was diagnosed with a horrible contagious disease. His doctor tells the guy he’s putting him on a special diet, and that the only thing he’ll be able to eat is flounder. “Flounder?” asks the super-contagious super-sick guy. “Will eating flounder help?” “Who knows?” says the doctor. “But it’s the only thing we can slip under the door.”
Okay. Brace yourselves. Because The Dude’s Dad wasn’t just a doctor, he was a urologist. So he had urology jokes. I kid you not. Here’s his favorite:
A guy goes to his urologist and says “Doctor doctor, I’ve got a problem!” “Well, what seems to be the trouble?” asks the urologist. “I have five penises.” “Five penises?!? My goodness! How does your underwear fit?” “Like a glove.”
Baddaboom. He told this joke a lot. Usually at the dinner table. Cracked up those Whitmores every time. The Whitmores, though, were usually more into sight gags. Though, perhaps not surprisingly, even the sight gags often involved underwear humor.
Oh, before I forget, there was a joke that was told by both Henrys and Whitmores. I made this discovery when I told the joke this snowy weekend at our friends’ place up in the Catskills. You’ll be happy to hear that our friends remained our friends even after they heard this one:
There were these three old prospectors camping out, looking for gold. None of them liked to cook; in fact, they all hated it. So they drew straws to see who had to cook. And they decided that if anyone complained about the food, he would have to take over the cooking duties. So this one guy draws the short straw, and has to cook. Every night he makes the food (usually a stew) more and more disgusting — he puts in too much pepper, he throws in a rotten tomato, he even uses dog food instead of hamburger. Nothing works. The other guys grit their teeth and eat whatever he makes. Then one night he gets an idea. He heats up the dishwater and serves that. First guy takes a spoonful, makes a face, and says “My stars! This tastes just like dishwater.” The cook starts to grin, thinking he won’t have to make dinner anymore — when the guy adds “…but good, mind you!”
Okay. I can hear you all crying “uncle”, so I guess that’s enough of that. But before I leave you to take a nice relaxing swim up at Asphalt Green, let me return to Dad’s retirement party, and something else somebody said that was pretty funny, even if it didn’t involve kangaroos or even ducks.
My Dad was a man of many hobbies, pursued with great passion, but usually one at a time. He would become enthralled with something, like golf or even oil painting, and do that one thing with great intensity. Then a new interest would pop up, and, well, let me just say that we had a lot of fly-fishing gear down in the basement.
So. At the time of his retirement, Dad was into growing roses. Really into it. He had dozens of rose bushes and dozens of prizes for the roses he grew on them. One of his favorites? The Dolly Parton.
Anyway. As a retirement gift, Dad’s colleagues went in together and got him a computer. When they presented it to him, my Oldest Younger Brother Scott remarked to those assembled “Well. There go the roses!”
See you next week. If my scanner’s working, I’ll show you some cute snow photos. Or not.
New York City. March 2017