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* Pair of edible Depends found on bedroom floor.

* Lately, at night, they put their teeth in the same glass.

* Grandpa grabs his crotch and complains loudly of “denture-burn.”

* Granny found handcuffed to her walker.

* Not only do you hear the bed squeaking, but also joints.

* Grandma regularly looks at Grandpa’s crotch and claps twice.

* Your “Grandma” is Anna Nicole Smith.

* You’ve just seen their photos in the “Beaver Hunt” section of the May issue of Hustler.

* Grandmother starts baking Viagra-chip cookies.

* Kraft-matic adjustable bed set for “doggy style.”

There’s nothing the matter with me,
I’m just as healthy as can be,
I have arthritis in both knees,

And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze.
My pulse is weak, my blood is thin,
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

All my teeth have had to come out,
And my diet I hate to think about.

I’m overweight and I can’t get thin,
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

And arch supports I need for my feet.
Or I wouldn’t be able to go out in the street.
Sleep is denied me night after night,

But every morning I find I’m all right.
My memory’s failing, my head’s in a spin.
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

Old age is golden – I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder, as I go to bed.
With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,

And my glasses on a shelf, until I get up.
And when sleep dims my eyes, I say to myself,
Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?

The reason I know my youth has been spent,
Is my get-up-and-go has got-up-and-went!

But really I don’t mind, when I think with a grin,
Of all the places my get-up has been.

I get up each morning and dust off my wits,
Pick up the paper and read the obits.

If my name is missing, I’m therefore not dead,
So I eat a good breakfast and jump back into bed.

The moral of this tale unfolds,
Telling you and me, who are growing old.

It is better to say “I’m fine” with a grin,
Than to let people know the shape we are in.

A little girl was sitting on her grandfather’s lap as he read her a bedtime story. From time to time, she would take her eyes off the book and reach up to touch his wrinkled cheek.

She was alternately stroking her own cheek, then his again. Finally she spoke up, “Grandpa, did God make you?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” he answered, “God made me a long time ago.”
“Oh,” she paused, “Grandpa, did God make me too?”
“Yes, indeed, honey,” he said, “God made you a little while ago.”

Feeling their respective faces again, she observed, “God’s getting better at it, isn’t he?”

There was a nice old lady that was a little old fashioned. She was planning a weeks vacation in Florida at a particular campground, but she wanted to make sure of the accommodations first. Uppermost in her mind were toilet facilities. However, she could not bring herself to write ‘toilet’ in a letter.

After considerable deliberation, she settled on “Bathroom Commode”, but when she wrote that down it still sounded too forward so she rewrote the letter to the campground and referred to the bathroom commode as the ‘BC’.

Upon reading the letter, the campground owner was baffled by the inquiry for a BC. He showed the letter to several campers but they couldn’t decipher it either. Finally, the campground owner figured she must be referring to the local Baptist Church. And so, he sat down and wrote the following:

“Dear Madam:

I regret very much the delay in answering your letter, but I now take the pleasure to inform you that a BC is located just nineteen miles north of the campground and is capable of seating 250 people at a time.

I admit, it is quite a distance away if you’re in the habit of going regularly, but no doubt you will be pleased to know that a great number of people take their lunches along and make a day of it. They usually arrive early and stay late.

The last time my wife and I went was six years ago and it was so crowded we had to stand up the whole time we were there. It may interest you to know that right now there is a supper being planned to raise money to buy more seats. They’re going to hold it in the basement of the BC.

I would say it pains me very much not to be able to go more regularly. There is surely no lack of desire on my part. As we grow older, it seems more of an effort particularly in cold weather.

If you decide to come down to our campground, perhaps I could go with you the first time, sit with you, and introduce you to all the other folks. Remember, this is a friendly community.”

There’s quite an art to falling apart as the years go by,
And life doesn’t begin at 40. That’s a big fat lie.
My hair’s getting thinner, my body is not;
The few teeth I have are beginning to rot.

I smell of Vick’s-Vapo-Rub, not Chanel # 5;
My new pacemaker’s all that keeps me alive.
When asked of my past, every detail I’ll know,
But what was I doing 10 minutes ago?

Well, you get the idea, what more can I say?
I’m off to read the obituary, like I do every day;
If my names not there, I’ll once again start -
Perfecting the art of falling apart.

© 2015