The teacher asked the children in her 3rd year class, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Little Johnny answered first. “I want to start out as an S.A.S. officer, go to the Middle East and kill loads of militant Muslims, return as a national hero, then become a billionaire, go to the most expensive clubs, find me the finest nymphomaniac tart, give her a Ferrari, an apartment in Copacabana, a mansion in Paris, a jet to travel throughout Europe, an Infinite Visa Card, and all the while banging her like a loose screen door in a hurricane.”
The teacher, shocked, and not knowing what to do with this unfortunate response from little Johnny, decided not to acknowledge what he said and simply tried to continue with the lesson.
“And how about you, Sarah?”
I want to be Johnny’s tart!
Maybe it’s true that life begins at fifty. But everything else starts to wear out, fall out, or spread out.
There are three signs of old age. The first is your loss of memory, the other two I forget.
You’re getting old when you don’t care where your spouse goes, just as long as you don’t have to go along.
Middle age is when work is a lot less fun – and fun a lot more work.
Statistics show that at the age of seventy, there are five women to every man. Isn’t that the darndest time for a guy to get those odds?
You know you’re getting on in years when the girls at the office start confiding in you.
Middle age is when it takes longer to rest than to get tired.
By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he’s too old to go anywhere.
Middle age is when you have stopped growing at both ends, and have begun to grow in the middle.
Of course I’m against sin; I’m against anything that I’m too old to enjoy.
The Reverend John Fuzz was pastor of a small congregation in a little Pennsylvania town. One day he was walking down Main Street and he happened to notice a female member of his congregation sitting in the town bar, drinking beer. The reverend thought this was sinful and not something a member of his congregation should do, so he walked through the open door of the bar and sat down next to the woman.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the reverend said sternly. “This is no place for a member of my congregation. Why don’t you let me take you home?”
“Sure,” she said with a slur, obviously very drunk.
When Mrs. Fitzgerald stood up from the bar, she began to weave back and forth. The reverend realized that she had had to much to drink and he grabbed hold of her arms to steady her. When he did, they both lost their balance and tumbled to the floor.
After rolling around for a few seconds, the reverend wound up lying on top of Mrs. Fitzgerald, her skirt hiked up to her waist. The bartender looked over the bar and said, “Here, here, buddy, we won’t have any of that carrying on in this bar!”
The reverend looked up at the bartender and said, “But you don’t understand, I’m Pastor Fuzz.”
The bartender nodded, “Hell then, if you’re that far in, you might as well finish up.”
A B.C. farmer was selling his peaches door to door. He knocked on a door and a shapely 30 something woman dressed in a very sheer negligee answered the door. He raised his basket to show her the peaches and asked, ‘Would you like to buy some peaches?’
She pulled the top of the negligee to one side and asked, ‘Are they as
firm as this?’ He nodded his head and said, ‘Yes ma’am,’ and a little
tear ran from his eye.
Then she pulled the other side of her negligee off asking, ‘Are they
nice and pink like this?’ The farmer said, Yes,’ and another tear came
from the other eye..
She unbuttoned the bottom of her negligee and asked, ‘Are they as fuzzy as this?’ He again said, ‘Yes,’ and broke down crying. She asked, ‘Why on earth are you crying?’
Drying his eyes he replied, ”The drought got my corn, the flood got my soy beans, a tornado leveled my barn, and now I think I’m gonna get screwed out of my peaches.
The train was quite crowded, so a U. S. Army soldier walked the entire length looking for a seat, but the only seat left was taken by a well dressed, middle-aged, French woman’s poodle.
The war-weary soldier asked, “Ma’am, may I have that seat?”
The French woman just sniffed and said to no one in particular, “Americans are so rude. My little Fifi is using that seat.”
The soldier walked the entire train again, but the only seat left was under that dog.
“Please, ma’am. May I sit down? I’m very tired.”
She snorted, “Not only are you Americans rude, you are also arrogant!”
This time the soldier didn’t say a word; he just picked up the little dog, tossed it out the train window, and sat down.
The woman shrieked, “Someone must defend my honour! This American should be put in his place!”
An English gentleman sitting nearby spoke up, “Sir, you Americans often seem to have a penchant for doing the wrong thing. You hold the fork in the wrong hand. You drive your cars on the wrong side of the road. And now, sir, you seem to have thrown the wrong bitch out the window!”