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In a survey of American women, when asked, “Would you sleep with President Clinton”, 86% replied, “Not again!”

In New York City, an out of work jazz drummer named Ed was thinking of throwing himself off a bridge. But then he ran into a former booking agent who told him about the fantastic opportunities for drummers in Iraq. The agent said “If you can find your way over there, just take my card and look up the bandleader named Faisal–he’s the large guy with the beard wearing gold pajamas and shoes that curl up at the toes.” Ed hit up everyone he knew and borrowed enough to buy transport to Iraq. It took several days to arrange for passport, visas, transportation into Iraq and the shipping of his equipment, but he was finally on his way.

Ed arrived in Baghdad and immediately started searching for Faisal. He found guys in pajamas of every color but gold. Finally, in a small coffeehouse, he saw a huge man with a beard–wearing gold pajamas and shoes that curled up at the toes! Ed approached him and asked if he was Faisal. He was. Ed gave him the agent’s card and Faisal’s face brightened into a huge smile. “You’re just in time–I need you for a gig tonight. Meet me at the market near the mosque at 7:30 with your equipment.” “But,” gasped Ed, “what about a rehearsal?” “No time–don’t worry.” And with that, Faisal disappeared.

Ed arrived in the market at 7:00 to set up his gear. He introduced himself to the other musicians, who were all playing instruments he had never seen in his life. At 7:30 sharp, Faisal appeared and hopped on the bandstand, his gold pajamas glittering in the twilight. Without a word to the musicians, he lifted his arm for the downbeat. “Wait.” shouted Ed. “What are we playing?” Faisal shot him a look of frustration and shouted back, “Fake it! Just give me heavy after beats on 7 and 13.”

One of the matrons of the church was cooking a pot of her famous beans for the church potluck, and her son, Little Johnny, came running through the house, BB gun in one hand, and a handful of BB’s in the other. He tripped and the BB’s, naturally, went right into the pot of beans.
Thinking it over, Little Johnny could think of no reason why he should risk punishment, so he said nothing.
The dinner went well, and, as usual, the beans were one of the favorite dishes. The next day, the church secretary, Mary, called Little Johnny’s mother and said, “Jane, your beans were delicious as usual, but what did you put in them this time?”
Jane replied, “Nothing new, why do you ask?”
“Well,” said Mary, “this morning I bent over to feed the cat and I shot the canary!”

A mid-level executive was so frustrated at being passed over for promotion year after year, that, in frustration, he went to a brain-transplant center in the hope of raising his I.Q. 20 points.

After a battery of physical and psychological tests, he was told by the center’s director that he was an acceptable candidate.

“That’s great!” the executive said. “But I understand that this procedure can be really expensive.”

“Yes, sir, it can,” the director replied. “An ounce of accountant’s brain for example, costs one thousand dollars; an ounce of an economist’s brain costs two thousand; an ounce of a corporate president’s is forty-five thousand. An ounce of a Democrat’s brain is seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars for an ounce of a Democrat’s brain? Why on earth is that?”

“Do you have any idea,” the director asked, “how many Democrats we would have to kill?”

I stopped at a florist shop after work to pick up roses for my wife. As the clerk was putting the finishing touches on the bouquet, a young man burst through the door, breathlessly requesting a dozen red roses.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “This man just ordered our last bunch.”
The desperate customer turned to me and begged, “May I please have those roses?”
“What happened?” I asked. “Did you forget your wedding anniversary?”
“It’s even worse than that,” he confided. “I broke my wife’s hard drive!”



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