Diesel Fitter


Fred opens a pantyhose factory, and he puts a help wanted sign in the window.
A man comes in, and Fred says, “What do you do?”
The man says, “I sew the waistbands in pantyhose.”
“Fine,” Fred says, “go on back there and get to work.”
A second man comes in and Fred says, “What do you do?”
The man says, “I sew the crotches into pantyhose.”
“Fine,” Fred says, “get back there and get to work.”
A third man comes in–he appears to be drunk.
Fred says, “what do you do?”
“I am a Diesel Fitter,” the man replies.
“A Diesel Fitter, huh?” Fred says, “OK, get back there and get to work.”

Fred goes back to check on his workers.
The first man sews the waistband in the pantyhose, then hands it to the second man, who sews the crotch in the pantyhose, then hands it to the third man,
who pulls the pantyhose over his head and yells, “DEES’LL FITT ‘ER!”


Corporal Punishment


Mrs. Moore was an old woman, yet built like a sumo wrestler. She was my fifth grade teacher at St. Johns. I remember her immense ankles, and the white socks and black shoes that she wore every day.
She caught me passing a folded piece of paper to Cathy Smith. I had drawn a stick figure with a big penis.
I could see the anger in Mrs. Moore’s face when she looked at it. She picked me up and started shaking me, my head and legs flopping like a rag doll. Then she let go, and I fell to the floor.
I tried to walk away from her. I walked such a crooked line my classmates laughed–they thought I was joking.
I was always joking. She literally shook the shit out of me–I had checked my underwear afterward.

I told my mother who said, “You have gotten so fat, how could anybody pick you up?”
I guess I was a rascal and got what I deserved,
but I do think my life since the fifth grade has been a little shaky.

This Is How I Blog


I started blogging because of my niece. When she was visiting a few summers ago, I mentioned that I wanted to publish a book of jokes. “How about a blog?” she countered.
“I don’t know anything about computers,” I said.
She said, “Just send me all your funny stuff. You’ll be famous in five years.”

So, she set me up with a free WordPress account and a password that I could remember easily.
I email her my posts and she edits them. Sporadically, I pay her $1 per post, but it must be error free and well-titled, tagged, and categorized, or no dough.

Two and a half years in, I now type at least ten words per minute, and
I’ve gotten over 6000 views with hundreds of likes.
I’m not in it for the fame, just to make people laugh once in a while.

Welcome to the Caribbean


One day, my mother announced, “Stephen, I told my friend Ginny Johnson that you’ll accompany her family to the island of Tobago.”
“You what?” I asked, incredulous. “I don’t want to go anywhere with strangers, Mom. What are you talking about? I’m not going.”
“They need a playmate for their son, Jimmy, and I agreed that you would go, so you are going.”

“I don’t even like to drive to Baltimore. I’m not going,” I said.

One week later I was on my way to Tobago, wearing a pair of bright green slacks Mom had bought me. First, we flew into Port of Spain, Trinidad. At the bottom of the airport escalator, there was a very black man beating on a steel drum. He sang, “Here comes a big boy in green. We welcome him to the Caribbean.”
I gave him a quarter.

The Johnson’s had a little house with a coconut tree in the front yard and little lizards running about. The first night, we grilled some barracuda that we’d caught in the lagoon, served with beans and rice, and fresh baked bread. We went to bed early.

Jimmy woke me up at one o’clock in the morning–he had his father’s rental car keys. He wanted to drive to the other side of the island and go diving for lobsters with flashlights and a spear gun. He also showed me a fifth of rum. I followed him silently to the car.

I felt like I was on a drunken adventure with James Bond, Jr. Everything went as planned.
We were on the way back–a lobster was on the backseat–when Jimmy ran the car off the road and tore off the muffler. The car sounded like a machine gun, and we woke up villages of Tobagans on the way home. The Johnsons were waiting outside when we got back. They told me to go to bed and screamed at Jimmy for half an hour. We snuck out again the next night, but we were on foot.

What Did You Eat Yesterday?


“Hey Mom, I’m not going to school today,” I announced.

“Oh… you’re not?  What is the matter?” she asked.

“Last night I threw up all over the toilet. I got some on my shirt.”

I showed her the stain on my shirt, which was really chocolate milk.

“Well what did you eat yesterday?” she asked.

I ate two big bowls of Lucky Charms.  I ate my school lunch and Tommy Smith’s lunch because he wasn’t hungry.  A couple people in the cafeteria gave me their cake.  After school I had Pop Tarts at Grandma’s with ice cream.  Then we had dinner–ham, green beans, potatoes, bread.  For a bedtime snack, I had a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

My mom said she was going to put me on a diet.  She said I should get upstairs, wipe off the toilet, and get ready for school.

The Pain and Agony


Oh, the pain and the agony. Back at the dentist after a fifteen year absence. He is prying at my teeth with a sharp metal hook. Every time he hits a nerve my feet want to shoot up in the air. Next he is at me with some sort of ultra-sonic drill. Now I remember why I stopped going.
There was a cute receptionist, who informed me as I was leaving that I would need six more appointments at a total cost of over 4000 bucks. I am thinking that maybe I really don’t need teeth. I don’t chew often, and when I smile I will shut my lips.

Third Degree Chafing


Many years ago, they built a major highway just a half of a mile from my neighborhood. My brother, Dave, our neighbor Chip, and I decided to check it out one weekend, after about a week of rain.

We put our boots on. Mine were missing, so I grabbed my mother’s. Chip took the lead. He was tall and lean, with long legs. Dave was next and I was last. I was as wide as I was tall. Following them through the mud was fun, until I began to sink into the puddle they had just trudged through.
“Dave! Help–I’m sinking! It’s quicksand mud!”

They came back and carefully grabbed my hands without stepping too close, but I was going in deeper. Then the inevitable happened: because of the fear and straining, I pooped my pants.
The smell was suffocating. Chip and Dave must have caught a whiff, because they let my hands go, turned and started walking.
Hadn’t they watched old Tarzan movies were somebody dies in the quicksand?!?

I realized this was a life or death situation. With all my effort, I jumped, I jumped right out of my mother’s boots. I landed on my side, rolled to my back and did a backstroke with a hard kick, moving maybe three feet to safety. That was the longest walk home ever: uphill in only socks and soiled pants. I made it through, even though I did suffer some third degree chafing. Thank God for petroleum jelly.
I was tough. I didn’t cry until after I told Mom I lost her boots.