A group of women were at a seminar on how to live in a loving relationship with their husbands.  The women were asked, “How many of you love your husband?” All the women raised their hands.

 Then they were asked, “When was the last time you told your husband you loved him?” 

Some women answered today, a few yesterday, and some couldn’t remember. 

The women were then told to take out their cell phones and text their husband:   “I love you, sweetheart.”

Next the women were instructed to exchange phones with one another and read aloud the text message they received in response to their message.  Below are 11 hilarious replies. If you have been married for quite a while, you understand that these replies are a sign of true love. Who else would reply in such a succinct and honest way? 

1. Who the hell is this?

2. Eh, mother of my children, are you sick or what?

3. Yeah, and I love you too. What’s wrong?

4. What now? Did you wreck the car again?

5. I don’t understand what you mean.

6. What the hell did you do now?

7. Don’t beat about the bush, just tell me how much you need.

8. Am I dreaming?

9. If you don’t tell me who this message is actually for, someone will die.

10. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t drink during the day.

11. Your mother is coming to stay with us, isn’t she?

The United Way realized that it had never received a donation from the city’s most successful lawyer.  So a United Way volunteer paid the lawyer a visit in his lavish office.  The volunteer opened the meeting by saying, “Our research shows that even though your annual income is over two million dollars, you don’t give a penny to charity.  Wouldn’t you like to give something back to your community through the United Way?” 

The lawyer thinks for a minute and says, “First, did your research also show you that my mother is dying after a long, painful illness and she has huge medical bills that are far beyond her ability to pay?” 

Embarrassed, the United Way rep mumbles, “Uh . . . no, I didn’t know that.” 

“Secondly,” says the lawyer, “did it show that my brother, a disabled veteran, is blind and confined to a wheelchair and is unable to support his wife and six children?”

The stricken United Way rep begins to stammer an apology, but is cut off again. 

“Thirdly, did your research also show you that my sister’s husband died in dreadful car accident, leaving her penniless with a mortgage and three children, one of whom is disabled and another who has learning disabilities requiring an array of private tutors?” 

The humiliated United Way rep, completely beaten, says, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” 

And the lawyer says, “So, if I didn’t give any money to them, what the hell makes you think I’d give any to you?”

Shown below, is a letter sent to a bank by an 86 year old woman.

The bank manager thought it amusing enough to have it published in the New York Times.

Dear Sir:

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month.

By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it.

I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire pension, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally answer your telephone calls and letters, — when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person.

My mortgage and loan repayments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate.

Be aware that it is an OFFENSE under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact which I require your chosen employee to complete.

I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, at MY convenience, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me.

I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Let me level the playing field even further.  When you call me, press buttons as follows: 

IMMEDIATELY AFTER DIALING, PRESS THE STAR (*) BUTTON FOR ENGLISH
 


#1. To make an appointment to see me 
#2. To query a missing payment. 
#3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there. 
#4 To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping. 
#5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature. 
#6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home. 
#7. To leave a message on my computer, a password to access my computer is required. Password will be communicated to you at a later date to that Authorized Contact mentioned earlier.
#8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 10
#9. To make a general complaint or inquiry.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.

#10. This is a second reminder to press* for English.

While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous New Year?

Your Humble Client 

And remember: Don’t make old people mad. We don’t like being old in the first place, so it doesn’t take much to piss us off.

The letter quoted above was one man’s method of blowing off steam at having to deal with some of these exasperating aspects of modern banking. It was penned by Peter Wear, a columnist for the Courier Mail in Brisbane, Australia, for that publication’s “Perspectives” column. The letter was not actually sent to a bank; it was a humor piece from start to finish, albeit one inspired by the author’s actually having had one of his checks bounce. Though the item did appear in an actual newspaper, it was not, however (as claimed in the Internet-circulated version’s prologue), published in the New York Times. This Part is from Snopes.

An elderly couple was celebrating their sixtieth anniversary. The couple had married as childhood sweethearts and had moved back to their old neighborhood after they retired. Holding hands, they walked back to their old school. It was not locked, so they entered, and found the old desk they’d shared, where Jerry had carved I love you, Sally.

On their way back home, a bag of money fell out of an armored car, practically landing at their feet. Sally quickly picked it up and, not sure what to do with it, they took it home. There, she counted the money – fifty thousand dollars!

Jerry said, We’ve got to give it back.

Sally said, Finders keepers. She put the money back in the bag and hid it in their attic.

The next day, two police officers were canvassing the neighborhood looking for the money, and knocked on their door. Pardon me, did either of you find a bag that fell out of an armored car yesterday?

Sally said, No.

Jerry said She’s lying. She hid it up in the attic.

Sally said, don’t believe him, he’s getting senile.

The agents turned to Jerry and began to question him. One said: Tell us the story from the beginning.

Jerry said, well, when Sally and I were walking home from school yesterday….

The first police officer turned to his partner and said, we’re outta here!

The location of your mailbox shows you how far away from your house you can be in a robe before you start looking like a mental patient.

 My therapist said that my narcissism causes me to misread social situations. I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me.

My 60 year kindergarten reunion is coming up soon and I’m worried about the 175 pounds I’ve gained since then.

I always wondered what the job application is like at Hooters. Do they just give you a bra and say, “Here, fill this out?”

Denny’s has a slogan, “If it’s your birthday, the meal is on us.” If you’re in Denny’s and it’s your birthday, your life sucks!

If I make you breakfast in bed, a simple “Thank you” is all I need … not all this, “How did you get into my house?” business!

The pharmacist asked me my birth date again today. I’m pretty sure she’s going to get me something.

On average, an American man will have sex two to three times a week. Whereas, a Japanese man will have sex only one or two times a year. This is very upsetting news to me. I had no idea I was Japanese.

I can’t understand why women are okay that JC Penny has an older women’s clothing line named, “Sag Harbor.”

I think it’s pretty cool how Chinese people made a language entirely out of tattoos.

What is it about a car that makes people think we can’t see them pick their noses?

Money can’t buy happiness, but it keeps the kids in touch!

The reason Mayberry was so peaceful and quiet was because nobody was married. Andy, Aunt Bea, Barney, Floyd, Howard, Goober, Gomer, Sam, Earnest T Bass, Helen, Thelma Lou, Clara and, of course, Opie were all single. The only married person was Otis, and he stayed drunk.

I almost retired in Phoenix, Arizona where…

1. Folks are willing to park three blocks away from any destination because they found some shade.
2. People experience condensation on their rear-ends from the hot water in the toilet bowl.
3. Folks can drive for four hours in one direction and never leave the Phoenix Metro Area.
4. Everyone has over 100 recipes for Mexican food.
5. Folks know that “dry heat” is comparable to what hits them in the face if they open an oven door at 500 degrees.
6. The four seasons are: tolerable, hot, damn hot, and ARE YOU KIDDING ME??

-OR-

I thought about retiring in California where…

1. Folks make over $450,000 and you still can’t afford to buy a house.
2. The fastest part of people’s commute is going down your driveway
3. Everybody knows how to eat an artichoke.
4. When someone asks how far something is, you tell them how long it will take to get there rather than how many miles away it is.
5. The four seasons are: Fire, Flood, Mud, and Drought.
6. Folks can live on the beach for free (especially in the LA area).  All they need is a shopping cart, a blanket, a bottle of cheap wine, a stray dog, and an old tarp salvaged from a dumpster (in case it rains).

-OR-

I considered retiring in New York City where…

1. Folks say “the city” and expect everyone to know they mean Manhattan.
2. Folks can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Columbus Circle to Battery Park but can’t find Wisconsin on a map.
3. Folks think Central Park is “nature.”
4. Folks believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes them multilingual.
5. Most folks have worn out their car horns…  IF they have a car and a driver’s license!
6. Folks think eye contact is an act of aggression.
7. But, of course, nobody really plans to retire in NYC, they plan on moving to Florida, but die first.

-OR-

I might have retired in New Jersey where…

Nobody retires in ‘Jersey,’ except people from New York City.

-OR-

I could have retired in Duluth, Minnesota where…

1. Folks only have three spices: salt, pepper, and ketchup.
2. Halloween costumes have to fit over parkas.
3. Everybody has seventeen recipes for casserole.
4. Sexy lingerie is anything flannel with less than eight buttons.
5. The four seasons are: almost winter, winter, still winter, and 7 weeks of road repairs.

-OR-

 I thought of retiring in The Deep South where…

1. Folks can rent a movie and buy bait in the same store.
2. “Y’all” is singular and “all y’all” is plural.
3. “He needed killin” is a valid defense in court.
4. Everyone has two first names:  Billy Bob, Jimmy Bob, Joe Bob, Betty Jean, Mary Beth, etc.
5. Everything is either: “in yonder”  or “over yonder”  or “out yonder.”
6. You can say anything about anyone, as long as you say “Bless his heart” at the end!

-OR-

I might have moved to Colorado where…

1. Folks carry their $3,000 mountain bikes atop ancient (heavily rusted) $900 Jeep Cherokees.
2. Women tell their husbands to pick up Granola on the way home, so hubby stops at the daycare center.
3. A pass does not involve a football or dating.
4. The top of many male heads are bald, but they still have ponytails.

-OR-

I could have retired in Nebraska where… 

1. Folks never meet any celebrities, but the mayor knows everybody’s name.
2. A traffic jam is three cars waiting to pass a tractor.
3. You often have to switch from “heat” to “A/C” on the same day.
4. Folks end every sentence with a preposition (e.g., “Where’s my coat at?”)

-OR-

FINALLY, I could have retired in Florida where…

1. Retirees eat dinner at 3:15 in the afternoon for $2.
2. All purchases include a coupon of some kind – even houses and cars.
3. Everyone can recommend an excellent cardiologist, dermatologist, proctologist, podiatrist, or orthopedist.
4. It’s just as hot as Arizona, only they have humidity.
5. Cars in front of you often appear to be driven by headless people.
6. If you’re 65 they consider you a youngster.
7. When you vote for a president you generally are not around for the second term.
8. Where you thought you would get away from all the assholes in NY and NJ.

By Mick Kemper

I attended the 2002 US Senior Open at Caves Valley Golf Course in Maryland. While standing in a large crowd behind the 11^th green, I saw Arnold Palmer and his army round the corner of the fairway. He proceeded to hit his second shot onto the green about 30 feet from the hole.  As he reached the green and surveyed his putt, a spectator yelled, “it’s good, Arnie, pick it up.” 

Short putts are the Bermuda Triangle of golf. Just ask Scott Hoch who missed a 2 foot putt to lose the 1989 Masters. Missing a short putt is like fumbling at the goal line, dropping a pop up for the final out, or driving across the country to discover Wally World is closed. It is devastating.

Fortunately, amateur golfers have a vaccine for these blown putts, a get out of jail free card, it’s called a “gimmie”. It works like this. You are standing over a three foot putt to save par. Sweat is running down your back into your Tommy Johns and dread is creeping into your fragile psyche. You are agonizing over the proverbial question, “Do I ease it in or ram it home?” Then suddenly you hear those magic words, “That’s good, pick it up.” 

Accepting a gimmie is easy. Before your conscience sets in, quickly pick up your ball and slink off the green like a shoplifter exiting a convenience store. 

On the other hand, conceding a putt is more complicated than judging figure skating. Is the golfer worthy? Is the ball within the so called circle of friendship or just a distant cousin? What is a reasonable distance? An arms-length? A size 12 golf shoe? The height of your average circus midget?  There is no definitive rule. It is an art.

Some guys are generous and hand out gimmies like after dinner mints, sometimes even before the lag putt has stopped rolling. I love these guys. They are the Mother Theresa’s of golf.   

The other mothers of golf are the players who would rather donate a kidney than concede a putt. These are the guys who keep score in ink, who use a pocket calculator to split the lunch tab, and who believe a gimmie is an assault on the integrity of the game. Keep in mind, this is a game typically played by hackers in baggy shorts who have already taken two mulligans and several foot wedges just to survive the front nine. What integrity? 

So, if you struggle with administering a gimmie, here are some helpful guidelines:

Daylight Savings Time

The foursome waiting in the fairway has been watching your group blast from one greenside bunker to another, chunk chips, plumb bob, and debate who putts next. This is more frustrating than waiting for a senior citizen to back out of a parking space at Walmart or watching Joe Biden trying to complete a sentence. Just grab your balls and get off the green. All putts are good.

Code Blue

Your playing partner is on life support. He has landed in every bunker, splashed in every pond, and bounced off more trees than a squirrel on crack. You cannot bear to see him take another stroke. It is your civic duty to stop the bleeding and administer the Kevorkian gimmie. No range limitations in this case. If his ball is closer to the hole than to Akron Ohio, it’s good. Knock it away before he tries to hit it again.

Nothing at Stake

Pros putt out because they are playing for big money, coveted trophies, and trophy wives. For the average golfer, missing or making a short putt is more meaningless than a cup of decaf coffee or a political campaign promise. Give him the putt. There is no good reason not to.

Reward

The guy has stroked a winding 125 foot putt from just off the green to within three feet of the hole. Reward him. Let him pick it up. He earned it. It is better than watching him lip out, melt down, and try to disembowel himself with his putter. 

Human Kindness

Your buddy helps you tune up your car, mows your lawn when you are on vacation, and laughs at all your dumbass jokes. You owe him that testy three footer as a gesture of friendship. It is golf’s version of sending a fruit basket. 

No Mercy

If you are embroiled in a highly competitive match and your opponent has been talking smack, there is no such thing as a gimmie. Make him putt every putt. It’s Cobra Kai time, it’s time to sweep the knee.

Retribution

If the player is an obnoxious blowhard, an arrogant know-it-all, a despicable cheat, or a relative of Governor Cuomo, there are no gimmies. The circle of friendship only extends to the rim of the cup. 

Gimmies have been prevalent throughout history and occur every day of our lives. The Ruler of Greece once told famed sculptor, Calamitous, that his Venus di Milo statue was so beautiful there was no need to finish the arms. True. A gimmie is when a traffic cop pulls you over and only gives you a warning or when the grocery store clerk honors your expired coupon without price checking your Adult Depends over the store microphone. 

However, let the record show that not all gimmies are desirable. Last night, in the middle of a rare but passionate love making session, just as I was about to enter the launch cycle, just as I was pondering the proverbial question, just as I was about to ecstatically self-proclaim “you da man”, my wife stopped me and said, “That’s good, dear, pick it up.”

So, remember, if someone does not graciously accept a gimmie, do not be offended. Understand that sometimes in the game of golf and in life, to derive a full sense of satisfaction, a man needs to hear the rattle of the ball at the bottom of the cup. Sometimes, you just need to putt out.

Two older women were outside their nursing home, having a smoke, when it started to rain.

One of the ladies pulled out a condom, cut off the end, put it over her cigarette, and continued smoking.

First Lady: What’s that?

Second Lady: A condom. This way my cigarette doesn’t get wet.

First Lady: Where did you get it?

Second Lady: You can get them at any drugstore.

The next day, Lady 1 hobbles herself into the local drugstore and announces to the pharmacist that she wants a box of condoms.

The guy, obviously embarrassed, looks at her strangely (she is, after all, over 80 years old), but very delicately asks what brand she prefers.

Doesn’t matter son, as long as it fits a Camel.