My wife celebrated the big 90 last week. I asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she said she wanted a night out. Girls only. I was shocked. Why would she want to go out with the girls? I suspect that she is hiding something. She asked me for money too. 100 bucks, all in one dollar bills. She got all dolled up when she went out: White ortho shoes, a flowered mumu, and fish net stockings.
When she came home, she was smiling from ear to ear. And she was not wearing her fish nets. Do you think she is having an affair?
You idiot. Your wife is a shameless hussy and groupie. She follows the Chippendales from club to club. For her birthday, she joined the boys on stage and stripped to her bloomers, throwing her fish nets out in the crowd.
Check out E Bay. The old geezer who caught them has them up for auction.
Bertie did not want to remove her bra. I guess you could call it a bra. It was the largest, most intricate contraption I had ever laid eyes on. It had more straps and hooks and eyes than a small tent. We assured her it would be ok, and she began the task of removing that torture chamber. When Bertie finally unhooked the last protective strap, the bra flew off, revealing a pair of gargantuan breasts. The nurse looked stunned and remarked, “Oh dear, I am so sorry.”
All I could say was, “No wonder you are always late for breakfast. It must take you hours to get into that ..that… thing.” Bertie was whimpering and said she wanted to go back to the home. “Not on your life, girl. You are here now and you are gonna have your mammogram.”
Nurse Ratchet and I leaned Bertie into the machine and began the task of stuffing and squeezing those blazing balloons into the machine. When I would get one ready, the other would pop out. Then the nurse would pound one in and bingo, the other one would jump out with a wild fury. At one point, the nurse was injured by a flying boob. We were clueless on how to proceed.
The nurse left the room to get a doctor. When she came in and saw what we were dealing with, she said, “Look ladies, these boobs are downright ridiculous. We need to get you in for a breast reduction.”
Bertie was furious. She told the doctor that in no uncertain terms would she have her bosom reduced. She was not about to lose her sex appeal for anyone. After all, she was a mere 77 years old and was playing the field.
Bertie tried to walk to the wheel chair, with dignity, with her boobs bouncing around the room, throwing her off balance. Somehow she made it and insisted that we return to the home. I wheeled her off to the taxi, with the nurse following close behind. “Hey, you forgot your bra!”
Bertie said, “Keep it you perverts. I have decided to go braless. I have learned my lesson. You can’t put an elephant into a bird cage and expect him to sing.”
There is one in every crowd. At the home, we have Gordon. The way he tells it, he has been everywhere, done everything and then some.
The other day he really got out of hand. A state trooper was scheduled to speak to our group, about safety. Like when we go out, we should travel together, never alone, you know, stuff like that.
Well, he barely got started and Gordon walked up to the front of the room, and said, “Excuse me Trooper, may I say a few words?” The Trooper said, “Go ahead. Be my guest.”
Here’s what Gordon had to say:
“Years ago, when I started out, I was in the Viet Nam war, and worked my way up to General. I fought with the best of them, and never backed down. I learned a valuable lesson in the war. Never let them see you sweat. And I say that if any of us is confronted by a mugger, a robber, a rapist or a thug, keep your cool. Do not panic. And then, if the perp persists, take out a concealed weapon and let them have it. Boom. Over and done.”
The Trooper said, “Whoa Gordon, a concealed weapon?” and Gordon replied, “Oh yes, I have a license to carry a weapon. I worked as a special agent for the FBI under Hoover, J Edgar himself. Very close friend. Why, he and I used to go shopping at women’s underwear stores together. And when he passed away, I jumped ship and joined the CIA. It was there that they gave me a lifetime permit to carry a rod. And I intend to give every man and woman in this home lessons on gun safety.”
The Trooper looked skeptical, but thanked Gordon for his comments. Gordon didn’t take the hint. He started in again. “When I retired from the CIA, I was still a young man and took a job as an airline pilot for Eastern Airlines. We had many terrifying moments on those flights, and I am now totally convinced that pilots should be allowed to carry guns. Hell, I heard the other day that birds caused a plane to shut down and the pilot had to land in the river. Just think, if he had been allowed to carry a gun, he could have shot those birds, before they got in the engines. Let’s face it, it was really an act of terror. Trained birds. That is the latest game these terrorists are up to. Innocent birds, trained to fly into engines, with promises of 21 virgin birds waiting in bird heaven.”
Our Trooper quietly thanked Gordon for sharing his thoughts, and said, “We really need to get back on track.” Wrong thing to say to Gordon.
“Did you say track? Look, sorry to say, Partner, but trains are very dangerous. I was an engineer on the Orient Express when my train jumped the track. There was a herd of sacred cows that had wandered out on the tracks and put the lives of my passengers at risk. If I had been allowed to carry a weapon, I could have warned the cows by shooting a few rounds in their direction. Instead I had a train wreck and was air lifted to the nearest hospital, in Iran. It was there that I met the Ayatolla and became his spiritual leader.”
Most of us had already heard these stories, or variations of them, and we had dozed off. The Trooper left us some pamphlets and took off. Gordon turned on the TV. His favorite movie was playing: Goldfinger, starring Bond, Gordon Bond.
Mamie showed up in a pair of pink tights and a black leather motorcycle jacket. She said she wanted to be fashionable. Our instructor, Marge, said “No way. The tights, yes, but ditch the jacket.”
Rich wore a thong and a gold chain. Nothing else. He thinks he is hot. He isn’t. Marge tried to be tactful, as she threw a towel over him. “No No No. All wrong.“ She said, “Loose clothing, not skin tight thongs.“
Mary couldn’t find her sneakers, so she wore a pair of flannel pajamas with the feet in them. Marge said, “You will roast in that outfit. No good.”
Marcella wore her hospital gown, with the back open, and said it was the only loose fitting thing she had. At this point, Marge was losing it. “My God woman, your hind end is showing. Absolutely not!”
George and Frank dressed as twins, in identical clown costumes that they had worn last Halloween. Marge told them: “This is an exercise class, not a circus.”
Marge said she would be back this afternoon, to check out our outfits, after we had made modifications to our dress.
We Seniors follow instructions very well. And we took Marge’s comments to heart.
We lined up for inspection:
Mamie wore only her pink tights. She had “ditched” the motorcycle jacket, just as Marge had advised.
Rich wore a loose fitting thong with his gold jewelry. No more skin tight thongs for him.
Mary wore a pair of light weight flannel Pjs with the feet in them.
Marcella turned her hospital gown around, so her hieney was no longer showing.
And the clowns? They didn’t show up. They said Marge was very helpful. They really didn’t want to exercise, so they left earlier today to see the circus.
Marge fainted. When she came to, she ran out the door. We decided we should consider another form of excercise: Bull riding, at the local pub. Yes!
Hey ladies, the wife and I went to a motorcycle show last week, and I entered a raffle and won a free tattoo. I just turned 90 and am not in the best health. Now the wife wants me to have my name tattooed on my hind end, as she has heard that sometimes people get mixed up in funeral homes and she wants to make sure I am in the plot next to hers.
I am not in favor of this, as I would not be able to look at my tatoo, if it is located on my heiney. What do you think?
Dear Mr Butz,
We did some research on your wife. You met her after her first husband died. At her request, he was also tatooed, with his name: Dick Long. Don’t ask where.
Hurry up and get that tatoo, before she changes her mind.