John went to visit his 90-year-old grandfather in a very secluded, rural area of Saskatchewan.
After spending a great evening chatting the night away, the next morning John's grandfather prepared a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast.
However, John noticed a film-like substance on his plate, and questioned his grandfather asking,
'Are these plates clean?'
His grandfather replied: 'They're as clean as cold water can get ‘em. Just you go ahead and finish your meal, Sonny!'
For lunch, the old man made hamburgers.
Again, John was concerned about the plates, as his appeared to have tiny specks around the edge that looked like dried egg and asked: 'Are you sure these plates are clean?'
Without looking up the old man said: 'I told you before, Sonny, those dishes are as clean as cold water can get them. Now don't you fret, I don't want to hear another word about it!'
Later that afternoon, John was on his way to a nearby town and as he was leaving, his grandfather's dog started to growl, and wouldn't let him pass.
John yelled: 'Grandfather, your dog won't let me get to my car'.
Without diverting his attention from the football game he was watching on TV, the old man shouted:
'Coldwater, go lay down now, ya hear me!?!'
I took some friends out to dinner last week, and I noticed a spoon in the shirt pocket of our waiter as he handed us the menus. It seemed a little odd, but I dismissed it as a random thing. Until our busboy came with water & tableware. He too, sported a spoon in his breast pocket. I looked around the room, and all the waiters, waitresses, busboys, etc. had spoons in their pockets. When our waiter returned to take our order, I just had to ask, "Why the spoons?"
"Well," he explained, "our parent company recently hired some consulting efficiency experts to review all our procedures,and after months of statistical analyses, they concluded that our patrons drop spoons on the floor 73% more often than any other utensil; at a frequency of 3 spoons per hour per workstation. By preparing all our workers for this contingency in advance, we can cut our trips to the kitchen down and save time . . . nearly 1.5 extra man-hours per shift."
Just as he concluded, a "ch-ching" came from the table behind him, and he quickly replaced a fallen spoon with the one from his pocket. "I'll grab another spoon the next time I'm in the kitchen instead of making a special trip." he proudly explained.
I was impressed. "Thanks. I had to ask."
"No problem," he answered, then he continued to take our orders.
As the members of my dinner party took their turns, my eyes darted back and forth from each person ordering and my
menu. That's when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a thin, black thread protruding from our waiter's fly. Again, I dismissed it; yet I had to scan the room and, sure enough, there were other waiters and busboys with strings hanging out of their trousers. My curiosity overrode discretion at this point, so before he could leave I had to ask. "Excuse me, but . . . uh . . . why, or what . . . about that string?"
"Oh, yeah" he began in a quieter tone. "Not many people are that observant. That same efficiency group found we could save time in the men's room, too."
"You see, by tying a string to the end of our, eh, selves, we can pull it out at the urinals literally hands-free and thereby eliminate the need to wash our hands, cutting time spent in the restroom by over 93%!"
"Oh, that makes sense," I said, but then thinking through the process, I asked, "Hey, wait a minute. If the string helps you pull it out, how do you get it back in?"
"Well," he whispered, "I don't know about the other guys, but I use my spoon."
Why should you never mention the number 288? Because it’s two gross.
The Worst Way to Win
Three older gentlemen sat down at the park for a conversation.
"There's no worse age than 70," says the youngest, "You always feel like you have to pee, and most of the time you try and try and nothing comes out!"
"That's nothing," said the 80-year-old, "80 is a much worse age. You can't even do your business anymore. You take laxatives then sit on the toilet for hours waiting for something to come out!"
"Actually," said the oldest one, "90 is the worst age of all!"
"Do you have trouble peeing too?" asked the 70-year-old.
"Not really. I pee every morning like clockwork at 6:00am."
"Do you have trouble crapping?" asked the 80-year-old.
"Not at all, I do my business every day promptly at 6:30am."
The 70-year-old looked at him funny. "Let me get this straight, you pee at 6am and you crap at 6:30am? So what's the problem?"
"I don't get up until 7:00!!"