“Once in Virginia,” said a speaker who had received an introduction that promised more than he felt he could deliver, “I passed a small church displaying a large sign.
It read ‘Annual Strawberry Festival’ and, below in small letters, ‘On account of the Depression, prunes will be served.'”
The best advice I ever received came to me from my ensign when I was a Wave at boot camp. She told me, “To stay out of trouble, say ‘Yes, sir’ all day and ‘No, sir’ all night.”
A friend and I were hitchhiking, but no one would stop. “Maybe it’s our long hair,” I joked. With that, my friend scrawled on a piece of cardboard: “Going to the barber’s.” Within seconds we had our ride.
A male friend of mine, an engineer at an aircraft company, works for a woman supervisor. An active member of women’s lib groups, she often shows up at work wearing buttons featuring feminist slogans. One day, her latest button, “Adam was a rough draft,” proved too much for my friend. The next day, he showed up at work sporting his own button: “Eve was no prime rib.”
While I was shopping in a pharmacy, a couple of teenagers came in. They were dressed in leather, chains, and safety pins. The boy had blue and purple spiked hair and the girl’s hair was bright yellow. Suddenly the boy picked up a pair of sunglasses and tried them on. “What do you think?” he asked his girlfriend.
“Take them off!” she howled. “They make you look ridiculous.”
My brother Jim was hired by a government agency and assigned to a small office cubicle in a large area. At the end of his first day, he realized he had no idea how to get out. He wandered around, lost in the maze of cubicles and corridors. Just as panic began to set in, he came upon another employee in a cubicle. “How do you get out of here?” Jim asked.
The fellow smiled and said, “No cheese for you.”
I am five feet three inches tall and pleasingly plump. After I had a minor accident, my mother accompanied me to the emergency room. The triage nurse asked for my height and weight, and I blurted out, “Five-foot-eight and 125 pounds.”
“Sweetheart,” my mother gently chided, “this is not the Internet.”