bingbongboo fun

It is important for men to remember that, as women grow older, it becomes harder for them to maintain the same quality of housekeeping as when they were younger. When you notice this, try not to yell at them. Some are
oversensitive, and there’s nothing worse than an oversensitive woman.

My name is Jeff. Let me relate how I handled the situation with my wife, Susie.
Since I retired several years ago, it has become necessary for Susie to
get a full-time job along with her part-time job, both for extra income
and for the health benefits that we needed.

Shortly after she started working, I noticed she was beginning to show her age. I usually get home from the golf club about the same time she gets home from work. Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always says she has to rest for half an hour or so before she starts dinner.

I don’t yell at her. Instead, I tell her to take her time and just wake me when she gets dinner on the table. I generally have lunch in the Men’s Grill at the club so eating out is not reasonable. I’m ready for some home-cooked grub when I hit that door.

She used to do the dishes as soon as we finished eating. But now it’s not unusual for them to sit on the table for several hours after dinner. I do what I can by diplomatically reminding her several times each evening that they won’t clean themselves. I know she really appreciates this, as it does seem to motivate her to get them done before she goes to bed.

Another symptom of aging is complaining, I think. For example she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay the monthly bills during her lunch hour. But, boys, we take ‘em for better or worse, so I just smile and offer encouragement. I tell her to stretch it out over two or even three days. That way she won’t have to rush so much.

I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then wouldn’t hurt her any (if you know what I mean). I like to think tact is one of my strong points.

When doing simple jobs, she seems to think she needs more rest periods. She had to take a break when she was only half finished mowing the yard. I try not to make a scene. I’m a fair man. I tell her to fix herself a nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just sit for a while. And, as long as she is making one for herself, she may as well make one for me too.

I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Susie. I’m not saying that showing this much consideration is easy. Many men will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible! Nobody knows better than I do how frustrating women get as they get older.

However, guys, even if you just use a little more tact and less criticism of your aging wife because of this article, I will consider that writing it was well worthwhile. After all, we are put on this earth to help each other.

Sincerely, Jeff

EDITOR’S NOTE:
Jeff died suddenly on March 1 of a perforated rectum. The police report
says he was found with a Callaway extra long 50-inch Big Bertha Driver II golf club jammed up his rear end, with barely 5 inches of grip showing and a sledge hammer laying nearby.
His wife Susie was arrested and charged with murder. The all-woman jury
took only 15 minutes to find her Not Guilty, accepting her defence that
Jeff somehow, without looking, accidentally sat down on his golf club.

What Makes 100%? What does it mean to give MORE than 100%? Ever wonder about those people who say they are giving more than 100%? We have all been to those meetings where someone wants you to give over 100%. How about achieving 103%? What makes up 100% in life?

Heres a little mathematical formula that might help you answer these questions:

If:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

is represented as:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26.

Then:

H-A-R-D-W-O-R-K
8+1+18+4+23+15+18+11 = 98%

and

K-N-O-W-L-E-D-G-E
11+14+15+23+12+5+4+7+5 = 96%

But ,

A-T-T-I-T-U-D-E
1+20+20+9+20+21+4+5 = 100%

And,

B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T
2+21+12+12+19+8+9+20 = 103%

AND, look how far ass kissing will take you.

A-S-S-K-I-S-S-I-N-G
1+19+19+11+9+19+19+9+14+7 = 118%

So, one can conclude with mathematical certainty that While Hard work and Knowledge will get you close, and Attitude will get you there, its the Bullshit and Ass kissing that will put you over the top.

I went grocery shopping recently while not being altogether sure that
course of action was a wise one. You see, the previous evening I had
prepared and consumed a massive quantity of my patented ‘You’re
definitely going to shit yourself’ chili. Tasty stuff, albeit hot to the
point of being painful, which comes with a written guarantee from me
that if you eat the next day both of your ass cheeks WILL fall off.

Here’s the thing. I had awakened that morning, and even after two cups
of coffee (and all of you know what I mean) nothing happened. No
‘Watson’s Movement 2′.

Despite habanera peppers swimming their way through my intestinal tract,
I appeared to be unable to create the usual morning symphony referred to
by my next door neighbors as thunder and lightning..

Knowing that a time of reckoning had to come, yet not sure of just when,
I bravely set off for the market; a local Wal-Mart grocery store that I
often haunt in search of tasty tidbits.

Upon entering the store at first all seemed normal. I selected a cart
and began pushing it about dropping items in for purchase. It wasn’t
until I was at the opposite end of the store from the restrooms that the
pain hit me. Oh, don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking
about. I’m referring to that ‘Uh oh, gotta go’ pain that always seems to
hit us at the wrong time. The thing is, this pain was different.

The habaneras in the chili from the night before were staging a revolt.
In a mad rush for freedom they bullied their way through the small
intestines, forcing their way into the large intestines, and before I
could take one step in the direction of the restrooms which would bring
sweet relief, it happened. The peppers fired a warning shot.

There I stood, alone in the spice and baking aisle, suddenly enveloped
in a noxious cloud the likes of which has never before been recorded. I
was afraid to move for fear that more of this vile odor might escape me.
Slowly, oh so slowly, the pressure seemed to leave the lower part of my
body, and I began to move up the aisle and out of it, just as an elderly
woman turned into it. I don’t know what made me do it, but I stopped to
see what her reaction would be to the malodorous effluvium that refused
to dissipate, as she walked into it unsuspecting. Have you ever been
torn in two different directions emotionally?

Here’s what I mean, and I’m sure some of you at least will be able to
relate. I could’ve warned that poor woman but didn’t. I simply watched
as she walked into an invisible, and apparently indestructible, wall of
odor so terrible that all she could do before gathering her senses and
running, was to stand there blinking and waving her arms about her head
as though trying to ward off angry bees.

This, of course, made me feel terrible, but then made me laugh. Mistake!
Here’s the thing. When you laugh, it’s hard to keep things ‘clamped
down’, if you know what I mean. With each new guffaw an explosive issue
burst forth from my nether region. Some were so loud and echoing that I
was later told a few folks in other aisles had ducked, fearing that
someone was robbing the store and firing off a shotgun.

Suddenly things were no longer funny. IT was coming, and I raced off
through the store towards the restrooms, laying down a cloud the whole
way, praying that I’d make it before the grand mal assplosion took
place. Luck was on my side. Just in the nick of time I got to the john,
began the inevitable ‘Oh my God’, floating above the toilet seat because
my ass is burning SO BAD, purging. One poor fellow walked in while I
was in the middle of what is the true meaning of ‘Shock and Awe’. He
made a gagging sound, and disgustedly said, ‘Sonofabitch!’, then quickly
left. Once finished I left the restroom, reacquired my partially filled
cart intending to carry on with my shopping when a store employee
approached me and said, ‘Sir, you might want to step outside for a few
minutes. It appears some prankster set off a stink bomb in the store.
The manager is going to run the vent fans on high for a minute or two
which ought to take care of the problem.’

That of course set me off again, causing residual gases to escape me.
The employee took one sniff, jumped back pulling his shirt up to cover
his nose and, pointing at me in an accusing manner shouted, ‘IT’S YOU!’,
then ran off returning moments later with the manager. I was
unceremoniously escorted from the premises and asked none too kindly not
to return. Home again without having shopped, I realized that there was
nothing to eat but leftover chili, so I consumed two more bowls. The
next day I went to shop at Albertson’s. I can’t say anymore about that
because we are in court over the whole matter. I think they are going
to be suing me as they claim they’re going to have to repaint the
store..

Sister Mary Katherine lived in a nunnery, a block away from Jack’s liquor store.
One day, in walked Sister Mary K. and said, ‘Oh, Jack, give me a pint o’ the brandy.’
‘Sister Mary Katherine,’ exclaimed Jack, ‘I could never do that! I have never sold alcohol to a nun in my life!’
‘Oh Jack’, she responded, ‘it’s only for the Mother Superior.’ Her voice dropped, ‘It helps her constipation, you know.’ So Jack sold her the brandy.
Later that night Jack closed the store and walked home. As he passed the nunnery, who should he see but Sister Mary Katherine! And she was plastered! She was singing and dancing, whirling around and flapping her arms like a bird, right there on the sidewalk.
A crowd was gathering.
Jack pushed through and exclaimed, ‘Sister Mary Katherine! For shame!! And you told me this was for the Mother Superior’s constipation!’
Sister Mary Katherine replied, ‘And so it is… She’s gonna shit when she sees me.’

A man in a hot air balloon realized he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below.

He descended a bit more and shouted, “Excuse me, can you help me?
I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don’t know where I am.”
The woman below replied, “You’re in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground.
You’re between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude.”
“You must be an engineer,” said the balloonist.
“I am,” replied the woman, “How did you know?”
“Well,” answered the balloonist, “everything you told me is, technically correct, but I’ve no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is I’m still lost.
Frankly, you’ve not been much help at all. If anything, you’ve delayed my trip.”
The woman below responded, “You must be in Management.”
“I am,” replied the balloonist, “but how did you know?”
“Well,” said the woman, “you don’t know where you are or where you’re going.
You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise, which you’ve no idea how to keep, and you expect people beneath you to solve your problems. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it’s my fault.”

An Irish priest is driving down to New York and gets stopped for speeding in Connecticut . The state trooper smells alcohol on the priest’s breath and then sees an empty wine bottle on the floor of the car.

He says, “Sir, have you been drinking?”

“Just water,” says the priest.

The trooper says, “Then why do I smell wine?”

The priest looks at the bottle and says, “Good Lord! He’s done it again!”