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How do you know when a trumpet player is at your door?

The doorbell shrieks!

Einstein dies and goes to heaven only to be informed that his room is not yet ready. “I hope you will not mind waiting in a dormitory. We are very sorry, but it’s the best we can do and you will have to share the room with others” he is told by the doorman.
Einstein says that this is no problem at all and that there is no need to make such a great fuss. So the doorman leads him to the dorm. They enter and Albert is introduced to all of the present inhabitants. “See, Here is your first room mate. He has an IQ of 180!”
“Why that’s wonderful!” Says Albert. “We can discuss mathematics!”
“And here is your second room mate. His IQ is 150!”
“Why that’s wonderful!” Says Albert. “We can discuss physics!”
“And here is your third room mate. His IQ is 100!”
“That Wonderful! We can discuss the latest plays at the theater!”
Just then another man moves out to capture Albert’s hand and shake it. “I’m your last room mate and I’m sorry, but my IQ is only 80.”
Albert smiles back at him and says, “So, where do you think interest rates are headed?”

Q: What is the difference between a banjo and a South American Macaw?

A: One is loud, obnoxious and noisy; the other is a bird.

The PLO has taken 90 accordion players hostage.
If their demands aren’t met, they’ll release one every hour.

The State of the Union Address that President Clinton should have given:

Members of Congress…people of America…. I banged her. I banged her like a cheap gong. Which is not news, folks, because if you think Monica Lewinsky was the only skin flute player in my orchestra, you haven’t been paying attention. The only babes in D.C. I haven’t tried to do are the First Lady, Reno, Albright, and Shalala, mostly because they’re a little older than I like and they have legs that former Houston Oiler Earl Campbell would envy. Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate Hillary… I do. If not for the ice-water coursing through her veins, I’d be pumping gas into farm equipment in Hope, Arkansas, and she’d be married to the President.

So, let me set the record straight. I dodged the draft, hid FBI files, smoked dope, flipped Whitewater property, set up a new Korean wing in the White House, fired the travel staff, paid hush money to Hubbell, sold the Lincoln bedroom like an upscale Motel 6, and grabbed every butt that entered the Oval Office. Got it? Good.

Six years ago, there’s not a man, woman, or child who didn’t know I was as horny as Woody Allen. But, you elected me anyway, which turned out to be a good move on your part. Your other choice was Bush, an aging baseball player and part-time resident of some place called “Kennebunkport” who thought he could bomb his way into the White House. Before him, it was Reagan, who left the office with the same Alzheimer’s he came in with. There was Carter before him who brought you a 17% prime interest rate, smiling the whole time like his lithium drip had just kicked in. Nixon before that coined, but never really understood, the concept of ‘plausible deniability,’ and almost got a one-way ticket to San Clemente for his crackerjack style of governing. Johnson was an inbred, power-mad war criminal whose major contribution to American society was Agent Orange. And John Kennedy, who was a little naughty himself, didn’t hang around long enough for America to spot that curious atavistic tic for “beaver-wrestling” shared by at least a dozen former residents of the White House.

Which brings me back to my point. Since I have been strumming the banjo here at the White House, government is doing more for less. The budget is balanced for the first time since JFK did a one gun salute to Marilyn, a fact the press didn’t seem to care about, evidently. Unemployment is so low today a blind felon can get a job as a night-watchman. And the stock market is higher than a D-student on a full gram of dumb-dust, and anyone with a degree from a junior college who can spell ‘Internet’ has enough money to ponder the annual maintenance cost of his boat, instead of where his or her next meal is coming from.

Bottom line: I’m running a country here, and I’m doing it with my pecker showing. What I’m asking for is your support, not a date with your daughter… unless, of course, she’s a hotty with thin ankles, and then I’d like to discuss it. In the meantime, think about where you are today and that kind of life you’re living before you get too interested in where I’m parking the Presidential limousine.

God Bless America. Thank you!



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