September 30th, 2011
WARNING FOR ALL BOOMER WOMEN!
This is a heads up to those friends who haven’t experienced it yet, and an explanation to those friends and family who have. Most of you have read the scare-mail about the person whose kidneys were stolen while he was passed out. Well, read on. While the kidney story was an urban legend, this one is not. It’s happening every day.
My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else’s thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been mine for years? Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine? I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My butt was next. I know it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear end (although badly attached at least three inches lower than my original) to the thighs they stuck me with earlier. Now, my rear end complimented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.
It was two years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning I was fixing my hair and I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced one section at a time. How clever and fiendish.
Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age is supposed to creep up, unnoticed, something like maturity. NO, I was being attacked repeatedly and without warning. In despair I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?
My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now resembled. That’s why I decided to tell my story. I can’t take on the medical profession by myself.
Women of the world, wake up and smell the coffee. That really isn’t plastic that those surgeons are using. You KNOW where they are getting those replacement part, don’t you? The next time you suspect someone has had a face “lifted”, look again. Was it lifted from you? I think I finally found my thighs…and I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!
This is not a hoax. This is happening to women in every town every night. WARN YOUR FRIENDS.
P.S. I must say that last year I thought someone had stolen my breasts. I was lying in bed and they were gone! As I jumped out of bed I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept. Now I keep them hidden in my waistband.
September 29th, 2011
September 28th, 2011
First, you believe in Santa Claus.
Then you dress up like Santa Claus.
And then one day you actually look like Santa Claus.
That’s the one you don’t see coming…
September 27th, 2011
September 27th, 2011
September 26th, 2011
These chairs are no longer funny to Baby Boomers:
the vibrating recliner
the hook-over-the-edge-of-the-bathtub chair
the slowly-glide-up-the-stairs motorized chair
September 25th, 2011
Little midgets making mayhem. Funny stuff…
September 23rd, 2011
Harry’s at the bar. It’s midnight and he’s been drinking hard since 5:00 that afternoon. He starts sweating, burping and as soon as the other patrons slide away, he throws up all over the bar and down the front of his shirt. He then proceeds to start blubbering and crying. As an old regular, the bartender patiently comes over, cleans off the bar and tenderly asks him why he’s crying.
Harry: “My wife told me she’d leave me if I didn’t stop coming home drunk. Now look at me…”
Bartender: “Harry, I’ve seen this a thousand times before. Just before you get home, take a twenty-dollar bill, stuff it in your shirt pocket and tell the wife that some drunk guy threw up on you and gave you twenty bucks to buy yourself a new shirt!”
Harry perks up thinking this is a brilliant plan and though he can barely stand he’s so drunk, he orders another shot to “wash the taste of his mouth”. The bartender, out of pure pity, complies and Harry slams his shot then stumbles out the door.
After, three tries and three wrong houses, he finally finds himself on his own front porch. He’s so damn drunk that he can’t get his key in the door and he’s making a hell of a ruckus in the attempt. Sure enough, the wife wakes up and comes down to see what’s making all the commotion. She opens the door, looks at him covered in puke and tears right into him yelling at the top of her lungs…
Harry: “Wait, wait, wait… Ya don’t understand. This…(belch)… drunk guy down at da bar…threw up on me. Felt so bad he…(burp)… gave me this here twenty-dollar bill to buy me a new…(belch)… shirt!”
He taps on his shirt pocket and the wife reaches in to investigate.
Wife: “Harry, there’s forty-dollars in here?”
Harry: “Oh yeah…well…(burp)… he… s___ in my pants too.”
September 23rd, 2011
September 22nd, 2011
Many thanks to my friend Mark Young at Baby Boomer Talk Online for these great memories of Cosby’s classic comedy on how his parents spoiled his children.
Very funny stuff…