February 03, 2019
Greetings Laff Lovers,
My reflexes got the better of me today. And it cost me a big, fat, paycheck, too.
When I was out at lunch today I made a couple of personal stops. After the last one I was in my car getting ready to back out of my parking spot, and like I always do I threw my hand over the backrest, turned to look out the back window and backed out into the lane.
Just as I stopped and was about to grab the gear shift to throw the vehicle into Drive, I saw the reverse lights on a delivery truck in a spot just opposite me flash on.
And it was a delivery truck that belonged to one of the big companies. One of the really big companies.
In the space of about one-and-a-half seconds his brake lights went off, the truck accelerated 3 or 4 feet straight toward my driver's side door, and without thinking my hand paused half-way between the wheel and the shifter and slammed on the horn.
His truck jerked to a stop just six inches from my door, and a half a second later my brain kicked in and I thought to myself, "Damn! I should have let him hit me."
How often have I fantasized about a driver for some big, heavily insured company running me off the road?
And there I was, in the ideal situation. I would have leapt out of my car, clutching my neck in agony, and begin rolling around the parking lot screaming for a lawyer.
What do you think something like that would be worth? $25k?
But no, my finely-tuned, lightning-like reflexes over-rode the higher, insurance fraud functions of my brain and saved me from what might very well have been a bruised elbow and a five-figure check.
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I gave my girlfriend a new perfume called Chloroform. She doesn't like it. She says she gets real sleepy and that it makes her ass sore!
Someone asked me, "Now that you're retired, do you still have a job?"
I replied, "Yes I am my wife's sexual adviser."
Somewhat confused, they said, "What do you mean by that?"
"Very simple," I said, "The wife told me that when she wants my fucking advice, she'll ask me for it."
We were both suffering from depression for a while, so me and the wife were going to commit suicide yesterday. But strangely enough, once she killed herself, I started to feel a lot better.
Sometime during the life of nearly every man there will come a time when the discussion comes around guts and balls. We've all heard at one time or another that some guy has "balls" or "guts". While some may view those terms as one-in-the-same, there is a very clear medical distinction between "Guts" and "Balls". But do you really know the difference between them?
In an effort to keep you informed should the subject surface in the future, here are the definitions:
GUTS is arriving home late after a night out with the guys, being met by your wife with a broom, and having the GUTS to ask, "Are you still cleaning or are you flying somewhere?"
BALLS is coming home late after a night out with the guys, smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife on the butt and having the BALLS to say, "You're next, Chubby!"
I hope this clears up any confusion regarding the definitions. Medically, speaking there is no difference in the outcome.