I would like to get your help
with a little project. If you would,
please reply with your average attendance for 2014 and your attendance on this
past Easter Sunday. I am working on a
little research project and your data input would help.
Easter is my favorite
holiday. Christmas, July 4th,
Thanksgiving, National Submarine Day (Yes, there is such a day- it is April 17th,
the day the Submarine force was established in 1900) and all the others
combined, pale in comparison to Easter, in my opinion. I think Easter becomes more meaningful for me
every year. At every level, Easter is a
thoroughly inspiring, fulfilling, and rewarding holiday. Every Lord’s Day is sort of an Easter, but
the special day is the culmination of so much excitement and hope. I hope that your Easter was the high light of
your year or even your life so far.
On this happy and celebrative
occasion, I need to address something my wife told me some time ago. She told me that my blogs are often either
serious, grave, morose, or glum. I told
her when you are trying out for the role of “prophet of doom” you had to be
serious. She told me if God told me to
become the prophet of doom that would be fine, but until then, I should lighten
up a little from time to time.
This seems like a good time to
lighten up. So, I have decided, having
celebrated the feast of Easter and the joy of a life that anticipates the
resurrection, that today I will dedicate this blog to some of my favorite
jokes. My jokes, like my golf drive, tend
to be long, way off center, and always in a hazard. Some might be useful to use in a sermon or
lesson, others, not so much. If you find
them to be in bad taste, please accept my apology in advance. Oh, and none are originally mine, so, if you
don’t like them, blame the original author (who ever that may be).
Needing a little help (best
told in an Australian accent)
Two Australian sailors arrived in
London, England, after a long voyage.
They decided they would spend their first night in London drinking. They made their way to a Pub, and spent the
evening, night and early morning consuming copious amounts of alcohol. By the time they left around sun up, they
were exquisitely inebriated. They came
out of the pub walking as if they were on board a ship in the midst of a
terrible gale. Steading themselves on a
lamppost, they discovered that a thick fog had rolled into London. They were not able to see much beyond their
hand’s reach.
Completely lost, they looked this
way and that, but couldn’t find a clue as to how to get back to their
ship. Finally, they saw a figure approaching
them through the fog. Not realizing that
this mysterious man was a highly decorated 4 star admiral, the first sailor
called out to him as he came near, “Hey mate, can you tell us where we are?”
The admiral, infuriated by their
slovenly appearance, drunken condition, and brazen familiarity, answered back,
“Do you men have any idea who I am?”
The second Aussie then said to
the first, “Oh, were in trouble now, we don’t know where we are, and he doesn’t
know who he is!”
Strange last Rites (use
a Scottish accent if you have one)
Shamus and O’Malley were life
long drinking buddies. To be honest,
they never really accomplished much with their lives except that they became
highly capable of getting drunk.
As the years wore on, the abuse
of their livers took its toll. Shamus
was taken to a hospital with a very advanced case of cirrhosis of the liver; it was only a matter of time till Shamus would
pass from this life. The day Shamus
checked into the hospital his drinking buddy O’Malley comes to his room. He is red eyed from crying and his hair is
disheveled from running his fingers through it.
The sleeves of his shirt are caked and crusty from having served as a
make shift hanky. As soon as he walks
into the room and lays eyes on his best friend, he begins to wail.
“Awe,
Shamus, what will I do without you? You’re
my best friend, my best mate, and my drinking buddy for life. What will I do when you are gone?” His pitiful lament trailed off into pathos of
sobs as he buried his face in his hands as he faltered over to the bedside.
Shamus,
always the more steady of the two, spoke in a strong solid voice. “O’Malley get
a hold of yourself lad, I got something I need you to do. Will you do a great favor for your oldest
friend?”
“Shamus,
I would do anything for you,” O’Malley said with genuine emotion in his
voice. “You name it lad, I’ll do it what
err it is.”
“Good
lad, O’Malley.” Shamus paused to collect
himself. “I want you to perform a
memorial for me when I’m buried. Will
you do that for me?”
O’Malley
nodded his assent.
“When
they put me in the ground, I want you to come to me grave all alone, and do one
last favor. I want you to pour a bottle
of fine Scotch out on me grave. Will you
do that for me lad?”
O’Malley
looked his friend in the face and said, “I’ll be glad to, but do you mind if I
run it through me kidneys first?”
Not his house
(no accent needed, insert the coach and college of your choice.)
Urban
Myer, head coach at Ohio State Uuniversity, dies and goes to heaven (hey it is
just a joke). St. Peter gives coach Myer
the grand tour taking in all the sights.
The tour ends at Urban’s mansion.
It is a sight to behold; a two-story, Neo-Greek masterpiece. It had great Corinthian columns across the
front porch. On each column there was a
flag with the OSU logo. In the front
yard were massive spreading Buckeye trees casting deep shade on a manicured
lawn, and OSU lawn furniture. Coach Myer
was duly impressed with the attention to detail and all the OSU paraphernalia.
He looked
across the yard and noticed higher up the rolling hills a house that would make
the palace of Versailles look small and inconsequential. It was elegant beyond all others with accents
of Crimson and White. Massive and
majestic elephants roamed the yard, each draped with a crimson blanket across
its back emblazoned with a white scripted “A”.
Flag poles stood in the yard, the top of which were so high they almost
disappeared, and from each waved a crimson flag with the same scripted “A” so
large it could been seen anywhere. In
the middle of the front yard was a fountain that was a perfect reproduction in
miniature of Bryant-Denny Stadium. The
water shot into the air and then would shape into a great moment in Bama
football history before falling back into the pool. The sight of the palace, the fountain, and
the grounds left Urban stunned into silence for a moment.
After a
pause Urban turned to St. Peter and said,
“I don’t want to sound like I am complaining, but why is Nick Saban’s
place so much bigger than mine?”
Peter,
with a patient and understanding smile, said, “Oh that is not Saban’s
house. That ‘s God’s”.
(Promise next week I will return to the more serious side of life.)
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