It was 9:30 in the evening when my stomach began to growl and complain of emptiness. There's a Subway Sandwich Shop on the corner of our street, and the cool nights here in Arizona make it an enjoyable ten minute stroll. I never walk fast, but my stride is smooth as yogurt without the fruit.

I asked my wife if she wanted me to bring something back, but Mary told me she was going to bed. Before leaving, I assured her that I was not sneaking out to rendezvous with the hairy woman living next door. My wife's indifference seemed mocking.

Our street has adequate lighting which allows me to spot snakes before they get too close. This is the time of year when the reptiles are out in large numbers. Last year I had a close encounter with a rattler, but that's a story for another day.

We live on the outer edge of Tucson, and there aren't many homes on our street. The area is continuing to develop, and more houses are going up every day. The three homes that share my street are dark and the night is still. People that live in the desert go to bed early. The green neon Subway sign at the corner beckons me like a lawyer to an accident.

The parking lot is empty as I step inside the sandwich shop, and it pleases me to realize that the lone customer is me. This means no waiting in line. The aromas of baked bread, fresh sliced meats, and bleach surround me. A frail young employee is sitting behind the counter reading a book. He has bright orange hair, and freckles splattered across his face and arms. He glances up from his reading, and seems to be mildly annoyed by my presence. I apologize for interrupting his busy evening. The large plastic tag on his shirt reveals that his name is Randy.

I'm right in the middle of explaining to Randy what type of roll I want for my turkey sub when a man brandishing a shotgun bursts through the door behind me. This guy must really be hungry. I press myself against the counter to avoid the oncoming gunman while inquiring of Randy if the basil rolls are fresh.

The gentleman waves the shotgun in the general direction of Randy and demands money. Didn't this guy see the ATM machine over in the corner?

The shotgun wielder has long greasy hair spilling out beneath a baseball cap. He is unshaven, and it looks like the poor guy has had a rough week. My proximity to the man allows my nostrils to be assailed by his pungent body odor. It reminds me of the time I smelled my cat's paw.

Randy is starting to sweat profusely, and he's shaking like a televangelist asking for money. As perspiration trickles down the side of his face, I remind him not to drip in my sub.

The robber swings the shotgun in my direction as if noticing me for the first time. It can be irritating when nobody pays attention to you. Having the business end of the weapon pointed in my direction makes me glad that I urinated before leaving the house. I am not a hero, but I am hungry.

Randy has emptied the register, and is attempting to hand the cash to the distracted thief. People have told me that my mind is warped, but I don't believe them. With the robber facing me, I suddenly realize that he looks just like the guy who delivered my Chinese food last Friday. I thank him for the extra soy sauce.

In response to my gratitude the gunman smashes me in the stomach with the butt of the shotgun causing my breath to take leave of my body. I'm on my hands and knees doing a close inspection of the floor. The tile doesn't seem particularly clean, and I might need to reconsider my choice of eateries. Spittle drips from my open mouth onto the floor as I attempt in vain to suck in some air. I am thankful that my sphincter muscles are in good shape.

During my extensive examination of the tile the robber has made his escape. Randy is calling 911 and he shouts over the counter to inquire about my condition. His concern for my welfare is touching, but I'm disappointed that he doesn't ask if I want bacon on my sub.

I'm breathing normally by the time the police arrive, but my stomach hurts. The next hour is spent giving statements, declining medical treatment, and devouring my long awaited sub. My buddy Randy gave me the sandwich for free, but the turkey was dry.

The police gave me a ride back to the house, and it was nice not to be in cuffs this time. Mary was sleeping soundly as I slipped into bed.

The next two hours were spent trying to figure out how I was going to explain to Mary about the mark on my stomach that looks like a horse hickey.

If truck driving was a fairytale and drivers valiant princes, wise kings, industrious dwarfs, handsome woodsmen or hunters, beautiful princesses and even a few regal queens, The Bronx, New York would be the deep, dark woods, the place where lost children hopelessly wander only to be eaten by wicked witches, where hideous minions of the dark stump about like soulless zombies in a twilight world, where the sun's warmth cannot penetrate the dense canopy of trees.

After a few days off, my first since I left for Lisa Motor Lines in early March, I was concerned about how soon I would get a load call that would put me on the road again. Truckers don't make money if the wheels aren't turning, so we are always waiting for that message over the Qualcomm telling us we're 'under load' once again.

I was surprised when I received a phone call instead of a Qualcomm message. The dispatcher, one in Fort Worth I had not met, sounded a little desperate; wanted to know exactly where I was, did I already have a load and how soon could I be ready to go. Her urgency excited me, so I assured her I was all set to take on the load.

Upside: the load was currently heading my way from Illinois, the driver could not take the load all the way to its destination, so I would 're-power' the load meaning I would take it off his hands and to its final destination. Hooray for the home team!

Downside: the load had to go to The Bronx, New York! As much as I like driving and New York City, I've never wanted to mix the two! The only vehicle I want to ride in is a limo through Central Park on its way to The Plaza Hotel!

During Lisa's orientation I sat through a safety lecture designed to elicit proper comportment from its drivers. The Bronx was used as a cudgel, like "...or you'll go to the Bronx," or, "...this could happen to you if you ever go to The Bronx." I was waiting for "...and your nose will grow" or "...the zombies will pluck your eyes out," or, "you'll grow hair all over your body and howl at the moon." Each threat ended with "if you go to The Bronx."

In reality the threat was a little more down to earth, but no more comforting. "The biggest problem you'll face in The Bronx is getting lost," our Safety Officer said. "It's no big deal if you get lost. Just call 911," (Really? You call 911? You don't just call Triple A?). "It's no big deal," he said, but repeated, "just call 911." Then another show-stopper: "and watch out for low bridges. New York has lots of low bridges. You don't want to hit a low bridge. It would be...bad," then added "Call 911 - and stay in your truck."

I was supposed to be at my destination by 7:00 a.m. At 5:00 I arrived at my final fuel stop before driving into New York. "How long does it take to drive to The Bronx from here?" I asked the woman at the fuel desk inside the truck stop.

"You want any cash?" she asked. I told her 'no' and she closed out my bill. "A couple of hours," she said. I told her I needed to be there by 7:00 and she said, "You'll never make it - traffic."

I called Lisa's dispatch office to advise I might be late. I confessed I was pretty nervous about driving into The Bronx and the young woman on the other end of the phone said, "Why does everybody make such a big deal about driving into The Bronx? It's no big deal!"

"Really?" I said.

"Really!" she assured. "Just keep your doors locked, don't open them for anybody and keep your windows rolled up. Don't stop. If anybody climbs up on your truck ignore them. Don't talk to them and don't role down your windows. You'll be fine!"

"I will?"

"Yeah!" she continued. "My dad used to drive down there."

"Oh, okay," I said feeling a little relief.

"Yeah. He was robbed once and stabbed twice." (I am not making this up!) She said this so calmly she could have been polishing her fingernails at the same time.

"STABBED?"

"Yeah, in the leg. He shouldn't have opened the door! But that was a long time ago. I'm sure it's changed. You'll be fine. Just don't open your doors for anybody."

To be continued...

SAFELY OUT OF THE FRYING PAN AND INTO THE FIRE

Just follow the directions. Get on the New Jersey Turnpike to the 'GWB'..." my dispatcher said.

Suddenly I received one of those 'Will Robinson/Lost In Space' kind of a warnings: DANGER! DANGER! TURNPIKE AHEAD!"

"Turnpike?"

"Yeah," she said. "The Jersey Turnpike."

Turnpikes mean tolls and tolls mean cash. I had about fifty bucks with me, that was all. I never thought about needing cash. "I only have about $50.00 with me," I said.

"That's all?"

"Uh-huh."

Long silence. "Oh, you'll probably be all right. You have plenty for the Jersey Turnpike, probably enough for the GWB."

"The bridge? That's a toll road, too? Does it take IPASS? (the automatic toll payment gizmo on the windshield where you don't have to pay cash, you just drive thru).

"No," she said. "but you should have enough money," and added, "I think." Then she said, "I gotta go. Good luck out there and be safe!" Abandonment never sounded so cheery!

Be safe, fat chance! I thought of the woman at the fuel desk, the one who asked me if I needed cash. I went back inside. "Can I get that cash after all?" I asked.

"Not for two hours," she said. "It's for your own protection." I didn't have two hours to spare waiting around for more cash. This whole 'for-my-protection' thing was shaping up to be my undoing!

A subtext was chattering in my brain as I drove north: 'how bad could it be?-what if I don't have enough money for the bridge, what are they going to do, throw me off?- Call 911, borrow another fifty bucks from a cop-RIGHT!-don't open the doors-watch out for the low bridges, why am I here?-I'm not a trucker!"

I hung on to the steering wheel like it was a life preserver and navigated the last few miles of the Jersey Turnpike still working on my plan of attack; pathos, I thought. I had a full set of directions (personally hand written) pinched between my forefinger and thumb. With every new maneuver I read the direction aloud so that my brain was certain my body had heard and understood.

Then I saw my salvation, albeit momentary: IPASS! I crossed the bridge like I had a "Get Out of Jail Free" card and was now safely out of the frying pan and descending rapidly into the fire!

Crossing the George Washington Bridge was surreal. With New York's lights as the backdrop and the lights of the bridge lofting into the darkness I couldn't tell if I was entering the Emerald City or Dante's Inferno. I maneuvered through traffic and negotiated turns not designed for a huge truck and trailer. I dropped off highway into the underworld of The Bronx. Beneath me was pavement pitted and scarred so badly my truck bucked like a rank horse, above me a low ceiling of cement highway roofed in my nearly fourteen-foot tall trailer. It felt like a fun house ride gone bad. "Turn here - stay left at the 'Y' - stay right - stay left!'

The roof got lower and lower, the traffic around me more intense, more aggressive. People darted across busy streets, a man washed windshields unasked and there was a constant clamor coming from all sides. Then a sign leaped out of the darkness "CLEARANCE 10' 6". My stomach knotted as my eyes raced over the directions, "bear right at low clearance sign." I swerved and was into a new area where the ceiling lifted enough for me to get through.

It appeared before me, my 'left turn,' the one that would take me out from under the highway. But the directions failed to say, "an impossibly tight left turn around a cement pilaster in the right of way waiting to rip the aluminum skin off the side of your trailer like it is living flesh."

I got the green arrow and pulled my truck into the intersection. The green light went instantly yellow. I couldn't stop now! I had to keep going! The light went red and there was a symphony of car horns! A black BMW pulled in front of my bumper menacingly. My trailer drifted closer and closer to the pillar. I'd never get through the intersection, not unless I drove like - a New Yorker!

I pulled the nose of my truck toward the black sedan. I needed that space if I was going to get around the corner. Besides, I was driving a truck, a big truck that I didn't even own. What was he going to do? The car honked and honked the closer I got. The guy was yelling and waving at me, but I kept creeping forward. I needed that space! Desperately the guy swerved around the grill of my truck to avoid being hit and was gone. I pulled into his space and my trailer cleared the post by less than an inch. By now the light was in my favor again and I pulled through the intersection and into a street that opened to the sky above.

I was hardly home free, but after my trials getting there, encountering New York 'friendliness' didn't phase me a bit. I scraped up enough money to pay the lumpers, got my paperwork signed and back into its envelope, gulped a bowl of cereal aboard my truck while the lumpers unloaded my trailer and then I GOT OUT OF THERE!

My departure from The Bronx was easier since I was continuing on to Boston. 'Boston,' I thought. 'How bad could that be?' But that's another story for another day.

And if there were such a fantasy place of werewolves and woodsmen, kings and queens, dwarves and witches, there would also be a Medal of Honor, the highest honor in the land. Truck air horns crossed over a cobalt blue field of tire tracks rampant with oilcan clusters and five lug nuts in gold and silver - and I would be wearing it, a memento from my adventures in The Bronx.

Have you seen the commercial for the kid's allergy medication? Two women are sitting in a park on a play date when one child runs up, sneezes, and both women, like gun slingers, pull out their emergency mommy medication. One mother has an oozing bag of mangled medications. The other mother pulls out her handy dandy pre-filled dose of medication and administers it to Junior and never misses a beat. Messy bag woman cowers in shame. Quick-dose mom flashes a condescending smile of victory. Freeze the frame right here because I have a problem with this whole scenario. First of all, find me a park where children are frolicking and skipping to the tune of laughing mothers. Last park I went to, one kid pee'd on the slide, another bit his sister in the face, somebody found a hypodermic needle in the sand box, and my car got spray painted with gang graffiti before I even turned off the engine. And it's not just moms anymore. I saw two dads, a grandparent, a babysitter, a kid who was thrown out the door of a station wagon as the parents 'roll through', another who I'm pretty sure lives there, and one man in slippers shuffling through the parking lot talking to himself. And who even has time for play dates anymore? I'm busy. My kid gets play dates in line at the DMV.

The TV moms are immaculately dressed. No wrinkles, no stains. Right now I'm wearing a t-shirt with crusted peanut butter and matching sweats that I've been wearing since Tuesday. I once went a whole day with a sucker stuck to the side of my head before anybody told me. The TV moms are chatting happily. Wrong. Sara's telling Sue about how lazy her husband is; while Bertha (who just slipped vodka into her water bottle) is complaining about how far her butt has dropped to Erma who can't hear her because she's too busy spanking her kid in the parking lot. The commercial mothers are always deep in conversation while their kids are playing out on the horizon. Hello! Do you watch Law and Order? My child once disappeared behind a bush for a second and I started screaming, clawing at my sweater, and profiling the other moms. And what's up with the kid who comes up to his mother to sneeze? Please. My son can be bleeding out his eyes and he won't stop digging to come get help. Commercial mom whips out her bag of medications. We went on vacation and I forgot Junior's inhaler. She reaches into her purse and locates the bag of medicine immediately. I once went into my purse for a band aid dug up four half-eaten candy bars, a pair of underwear, and a dead gerbil. No band aid.

Commercial kid takes his medication with a smile. I have to wrestle my kid to the ground, hold his nose, and threaten to take away Christmas if he doesn't take it. Commercial kid smiles and gives a cute toothless thank-you while my kid seeks vengeance with a magic marker on the living room wall. Then Patty Perfect gives Susie Slack a condescending smile of victory. Well, I must admit, that one is pretty much on target. I've met Patty Perfect before. She's the one who frowns when I bring chocolate when it's my turn for preschool snack. When I put diet coke in his sippy cup. When I breastfeed at the salad bar.

Yeah - all that from a commercial. I'll probably still buy it anyway. It does look cool. I'm sure it will cost three times as much, I'll leave it at home, and my kid still won't take it. So maybe the commercial wins after all. But I won't let them tell me what normal mothers look like. Or what beautiful looks like either. Or success. Or happiness. What do they know?

Here I am again, ready to take the plunge.

Now that I'm back though, what do I have to say? Has there been months of pent up creativity, just waiting to burst out of my idea filled brain? or will it turn out (as i fully expect) that only the tiniest germ, has been lying, undisturbed and probably unperturbed, by the notion of being put into print.

I wonder if R L Stevenson or Conan Doyle suffered in the same way, Had they owned olde worlde blogs, would they have been stricken with the 'curse of the empty brain cell' ? Holmes would surely have found an answer to it, and Dr Jekyll would have found able assistance in his friend Mr Hyde, the answer would have come, but it may have been messy.

It has never ceased to amaze me how some people can write a tome the size of War and Peace at the drop of a hat, and with probably nothing more than a tray of dirty cat litter for inspiration. It would help if the hat in question, fell into the litter i suppose.............but nevertheless, something good would have come out of the unfortunate incident.

I could drop someone else's hat, including it's wearer, onto the deck of the Titanic, send him off on an ill fated journey, have him survive, and return to me with a daily diary, photographs and sworn witness statements, and I'd still struggle to make a sentence worth reading out of it.

I suppose it's just down to talent.

I have a talent, unfortunately it won't bring me fame and fortune in the literary world, I will never make the lead role in the film that is made using the evidence handed to me by the already mentioned, survivor of the Titanic, and I doubt you'll ever see me on TV, singing, dancing, or partnering some gorgeous minor celebrity as we glide, blissfully, around a mini ice rink in front of an audience of millions.

My talent, though not exactly gold standard, is still a talent

I have developed it over many years, keeping it close, nurturing it, secretly, I'll admit to being shocked when i first discovered my unusual ability, I tried to broach the subject with my family in the early years, but no one seemed the slightest bit interested, maybe my talent hadn't developed sufficiently for even a friendly audience at that time.

Now at last i can reveal it to the world. I don't expect to see myself interviewed in the daily papers, nor do i think I'll be on the Johnathon Ross Show, performing it live, but a talent like this can't be kept hidden for ever. What is it? i hear you ask, OK, I'll tell you seeing as you've been so patient.

I have the ability to turn my head into a cat magnet!!

I can even do this in my sleep. In fact when I'm asleep, my talent is at it's most powerful. Many a night i have gone to sleep catless, only to wake wearing the furriest, purriest hat imaginable, or Misha, as she is known to the rest of my family.

No other family member has obtained the power of the cat magnet, It's not that i guard the secret jealously anymore, in fact I'd happily share the talent, but strangely, no one else seems to want to learn how to attract living, breathing nocturnal headware.

My talent astounds me at times, i even close the bedroom door, before retiring, in a bid to ensure a chapeau free night, but the power of my magnet is too strong for mere timber, and long before dawn, my purring headgear is in place, body neatly draped over my greying locks, the long, stripey tail tucked behind my ear. I sometimes dream i am being cooked alive under a furry microwave

I think i can live without my talent, unlike premiership footballers and rock stars, i don't need it to survive.

I am tired of filling the ice cube trays.

Every tray I examine has just two ice cubes remaining. It is as if the perpetrator of this outrage, and she knows who she is, decides that as long there are two cubes left, it would be wasteful to fill the tray. One cube, apparently, can be sacrificed.

Consequently, every time I wish to put ice in my beverage I am limited to two cubes, unless I want to fill two ice cube trays. I must then walk all the way across the kitchen and refill the tray or trays slopping water along the way that I will step in later in my stocking feet.

I blame my wife, Kathie, for this because I know I have to fill at least one tray each and every time I have a drink. She of course blames me. I know I am right because I cannot recall ever having personally witnessed her filling a tray. In fairness, I may be doing her an injustice. Maybe it's like one of those math puzzles where you add, subtract and divide a series of numbers and always end up with your birthday. Maybe no matter how many ice cubes you take or make, there will always be two cubes remaining.

I used to blame out daughter but she moved to Boston several years ago. However, I still pin the rap on her when she comes home for a visit, and am still told that I need to get a life.

Now I am sure none of you can relate to this, because Kathie tells me we are the only people left in the world who do not have a fridge that makes ice. I, however, recall seeing a special on National Geographic about a tribe in the deepest jungles of Brazil that has to fill their ice cube trays from the Amazon River. It was noted as an example of the simple but difficult lives they lead.

I envy people who have icemakers, who can just push their glass against a lever and fill it to the brim with refreshing frozen water; or who can open the door to the freezer and SCOOP an endless supply of frosty nuggets.

My sister-in-law and brother-in-law have a machine that just makes ice..that's all it does!
They have a scoop that's as big as a boat bailer and can cool down a drink or a swimming pool in a flash.

They say it's great for entertaining. When we entertain we have to go to the supermarket and buy a bag of ice cubes which, when put in the freezer, promptly turns into a solid frozen mass that we have to loosen by dropping on the kitchen floor. It's very entertaining for our guests. I guess I could get an ice pick. I don't know if they still make these but suppose they do since I saw one on the Sopranos. They didn't use it for ice though.

Why don't we get a new fridge? Well, I am told that the machine, plus the cost of getting water pipes to where it resides, would cost more than a new BMW.

Kiss for you....
* * ( ' ""() Bye
* ("( 'o', ) bye
* (")(")(,,) * *
Sweet Dreams !

(. .) 18 YEARS
).(
( * )

( o o ) 25Y
) . (
( * )

( O O ) 35 Y
) o (
( * )

CHANGE WOMAN BEFORE LAT

///////
( o o)
--ooO-( )-Ooo--

("")....("")
( " o " )
("")--("")
(""""")-(""""")

o,,,,o
( "o" )
> """ <
( "" )( "" )

__ ,. ,-,(c ';')_))
'//(__=3((---I>
' L L ))
__ ,.

()""() ()''''()
( ."o o", )
i just wanna give a HUG...
()""()"()
( ö)ö ) .....to a "Special Person" i don't get to see as much, but often miss.....

, -. .- .
'. I .'
" . "

, -. .- , -. .- .
'. I '. Miss.'
" . " " . "

, -. .- , -. .- .-. .-.
'. I '.Miss.'You.'
" . " " . " " .

Thanksgiving Jokes
Turkeys Allowed!


Turkey warning ... Turkey jokes ahead in the annual Thanksgiving jokes of the Just Jokes and Humor blog. We love Thanksgiving ... good food, turkey, stuffing and now a little spice to liven up the feast. If you have anymore Thanksgiving jokes or turkey jokes to add, send them to us or add to the comments.

Why did the turkey cross the road?
It was the chicken's day off.

The Thanksgiving joke turkey went to the psychiatrist, and said, Doc I need help, I can't stop acting like a turkey...
"I see," said the shrink. "How long have you had this problem?"
"Uh since my mommy laid an egg in 2007!"

Thanksgiving Jokes Turkey


What do you get when you cross a turkey with an octopus?
Eight drumsticks for the Thanksgiving meal.

Some Knock Knock Thanksgiving jokes:

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Sid.
Sid who?
Sid down. It's time to eat!

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Anita.
Anita who?
Anita nother drumstick.


Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Phillup.
Phillup who?
Phillup a plate and dig in!

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Olive.
Olive who?
Olive the stuffing too!

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Tamara.
Tamara who?
Tamara we'll have Thanksgiving left-overs!

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Norma-Lee.
Norma-Lee who?
Norma-Lee I don't eat this much!

Why did they let the turkey join the band?
He came with the drumsticks...

Turkey Jokes - Dancing Thanksgiving Turkey


Why did the police arrest the turkey?
They suspected it of fowl play.

A guy was picking through the frozen turkeys at the supermarket, but couldn't find one as big as his girlfriend wanted... so he found the manager and asked, "Do these turkeys get any bigger?".
The manager answered, "Sorry, they're all dead."

Why should you keep your eye off the turkey dressing?
Because it makes her blush ...

What do you call sad cranberries?
Blueberries ...

What is an annoying turkey joke on Thanksgiving?
A turkey jerky.

What is a Thanksgiving Turkey who thinks he knows everything?
A smirky turkey.

What did the mother turkey say when her daughter died her feathers pink?
If your father could see you now, he'd turn over in his gravy..

What smells the best at a Thanksgiving dinner?
Your nose.

What kind of music did the Pilgrims play for the Indians on Thanksgiving?
Plymouth Rock...

If the Pilgrims were alive today, what would they be most famous for?
Their old age...

Why didn't the turkey eat dessert?
He got stuffed!

Can a turkey jump higher than the Sears Tower?
Yes - an office building can't jump ...

What key has legs and can't open doors?
A Tur-KEY

Knock Knock
Who's there?
Waddle
Waddle who?
Waddle you do if I don't answer the door?

Sheesh just when we thought we got rid of her, she's baaaaaaaaaack. We're all so surprised ... not. Well now after getting her sour PR stunts shoved back by Trump, now Rosie went looking for a softer target - Paula Abdul and American Idol. Now we're not great AI fans, but hey, Rosie gave us fodder for more bad Rosie jokes. More Rosie jokes in our earlier post.

Hey Paula Abdul, what do you think of Rosie's comments?
What did you say?

What did you think of Rosie's blast on you?
I was trying to be polite, she's irrelevant.

But Rosie doesn't like your American Idol show.
Nobody cares, her's is going down fast.


What did Donald Trump think?
She's looking for a softer target.

Is any one surprised Rosie is muck raking again?
Not really. She is promoting ABC to knock down their competition The Apprentice and American Idol.


Updated Now Rosie has a new target: Oprah. Yippeee.

So, Rosie reportedly has made degrading jokes on Paula Abdul, Donald Trump, Oprah, Chinese, American Idol. Who else does Rosie hate? .... YOU. Lol. Yippeeee.

Who does Rosie like? Dunno, maybe Barbara Walters, as long as she reads from the cue cards.

Snow is falling (rain in California!), children are playing, bells are ringing ... and I'm collecting entertaining Christmas and Hanukah jokes from stupid to great, so if you have one to add send it to me, or put it in the comments and I'll add it to the list!




Q-How long should a reindeer's legs be?
A-Just long enough to reach the ground.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Santa it's cold.
Santa it's cold who?
Santa said it's cold, can we take the sleigh out tomorrow instead?

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Santa it's freezing.
Santa it's freezing who?
Santa, Rudolph wanated to tes tthe flagpole and it's freezing.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Mary.
Mary who?
Mary Christmas!

What happens if you eat x-mas decorations?
You get tinsel-itis!

Did you hear about Hanibal Lechter's Christmas party?
It's a scream!

Keep that reindeer out of the house, it's full of fleas...
He Rudolph?
What?
You better stay out of the house .......... it's full of fleas.

College Jokes 1

We have been wondering what the most searched for college jokes topics are.

So after not terribly intensive scientific research, we have come up with the following as the top most popular college joke topics.

Notice the "1" on the title: If your favorite joke topic isn't listed, we'll be doing other posts to fill out the lists.

Q: Why are basketball players messy eaters?
A: They're always dribbling.

Q: What's the difference between a basketball player and a dog?
A: One drools, the other dribbles.

Q: What did Bobby Knight say about coaching the 1980 U.S. Olympics basketball team against the team from China?
A: "It was a lot of fun playing the Chinese, but an hour later, we wanted to play them again."

Q: Why was Cinderella thrown off the team?
A: She ran away from the ball.

Q: What do you do when you see an elephant with a basketball?
A: You get out of the way fast.

Q: Why did the coach let the elephant play basketball?
A: He already broke the bench.

Q. Why did Ron Artest leave the game early?
A. He wanted to beat the crowd.

Q: How did the basketball court get wet?
A: The players dribbled all over it.

We're shooting 100 percent - 60 percent from the field and 40 percent from the free-throw line.

Q: If an athlete gets athlete's foot, what does an astronaut get?
A: Missile toe!

Q: Why can't you play sports in the jungle?
A: Because of the cheetahs.

There was a Knicks fan with nosebleed seat in Madison Square Garden. Looking around, he spotted an empty seat court side. So, he made his way down to the empty seat.

When he arrived at the seat, he asked the man sitting next to it,

"Is this seat taken?" The man replied, "This was my wife's seat. She passed away. She was a big basketball fan."

"I'm so sorry to hear of your loss. May I ask why you didn't give the ticket to a friend or a relative?"

"They're all at the funeral."