You've Got To Be Joking - Emery L. Campbell (read any book .TXT) 📗

copper frowns, consults his files. “How can

you know? It’s true, though, says so in the file.”
“He’s squinting, so I know he can’t see well,”
she says. “I mean about the contacts.” “I’ll
explain. It’s easy, anyone can tell.”

She’s coy. “He can’t wear glasses, that’s for sure.”
“Why not?” he asks. “He’s only got one ear,”
she says, completely confident, demure.
He sighs. “The pic’s a profile view, my dear.”


The Large Richard Contest

The three are boys, the grade is third, and here’s
their story, absolutely true, of course.
We’ll give them each a name, the questing dears:
the first is Patrick, Irish stock perforce,

the second, Bruno, he of Roman blood ,
and bringing up the rear is Cooter, born
a redneck, future bloom though now but bud.
The three agree a game in school one morn.

It’s Patrick who explains what it’s about.
“Let’s see whose weenie’s biggest,” says the boy.
No sooner said than done, he whips his out.
“That’s nothing,” snickers Bruno, “but a toy.”

“Just have a look at this.” He shows his pride
and joy, exceeding Patrick’s by an inch.
At last it’s Cooter’s turn, all eager-eyed.
“You guys are hopeless. Lookit; mine’s a cinch.”

He snakes it out. It’s clearly longer than
the others. They can see it’s fatter, too.
That night when Coot comes home, his mother, Nan,
asks, “How was school today? What did you do?’

“We did some science,” Cooter says, “and read
out loud. At recess there’s a game we played
comparing weenies. I came out ahead
‘coz mine was ‘bout the biggest ever made.

“But, Ma, the kids all laughed at me and said
it was ‘coz I’m a redneck that I won.
I wished they didn’t say it. Is that so?”
“No, honey. It’s because you’re twenty-one.”


A Lawyer More Compassionate Than Most

A lawyer in his chauffeur-driven car
espies two ragged men beside the road,
both eating grass. He finds the scene bizarre
and bids his driver stop. “What is this mode

of nourishment?” he asks the nearest man.
“We’re destitute; we do this out of need,”
the latter says. “Well then, you surely can
improve your lot by joining me. I’ll feed

you very well.” “But sir,” the poor man adds,
“My wife and two small boys are over there.”
He points. “Your wife may come and bring the lads.”
He turns toward the other of the pair.

“And you may come along.” “Kind sir, I’ve got
a wife and three young children who depend
on me.” The lawyer smiles. “It matters not,
all four may come along with me, my friend.”

His car, though large, is crowded, but they all
get in. One father murmurs, “Sir, you are
too kind. We never dreamed such grace would fall
our way. You are indeed our lucky star.”

The lawyer says, “I’m more than glad to do
it. You will love my place. I’ll tell you why.
You’ll all be happy, wives and children, too.
The grass in back is almost one foot high!”


Mars Bars Non-Martians from Mars Bars

Our trip began with thunderous, flaming heat.
Some seven months of pap in plastic tubes
was all they let us bring along to eat;
no salted nuts, no Cokes with frozen cubes.

As touchdown neared the retros loosed their thrust;
the cabin jerked and shook, all huff and puff.
The rocket’s blast stirred up a swirl of dust;
we’d heard the place was powdered with the stuff.

At last debarked, we thought, ‘Let’s have some drinks.
With local carbonation. On the rocks.’
But no, the spiteful little three-eyed finks
had sealed the taverns’ doors with fool-proof locks.

The signs above the entries made it clear:
“No geeks from space will ever quaff our beer


Not Only the Wrong Aisle…

“I’d like to buy some Polish sausage. Could
you tell me where the product is displayed?”
The clerk surveys the buyer. “If you would,
please tell me if the judgment I have made

is right that you’re of Polish origin.”
“Well, yes I am, but what has that to do
with it. Supposing my request had been
about spaghetti. Would that make it true

that I’m Italian? Or if I had asked
for bratwurst, would I be of German stock?
For kosher hot dogs would I be unmasked
as Jewish? Or for tacos, of the flock

from Mexico?” The guy is clearly steamed.
“In such a case I’d likely not say that.”
“So, why then did you venture that it seemed
I’m Polish?” “Look, this is a Lowe’s you’re at.”


No Wonder

It’s late in Dublin on St. Patrick’s day
and Paddy’s having way too much to drink
until at last the barman has to say,
“You’ve had enough tonight. I think

you’d better go on home and get some sleep.”
“OK,” says Paddy, “I’ll be goin’ then.”
He quits his stool and slumps down in a heap.
“What’s this?” He wants to stand but flops again.

He grabs the stool to lift himself and tries
to leave the room but tumbles on his face.
“If only I can get outside,” he sighs,
“my head will clear and I can ditch this place.”

He gains the exit, pulls up to his feet,
and steps outside but tumbles down once more.
His home is near, just ten steps up the street,
so Paddy crawls until he’s at his door.

He hauls himself erect and drags inside.
He clambers up the stairs and flops in bed.
With morning nearly past, his wife’s beside
the bed with coffee. Paddy lifts his head.

“It looks as though you must have drunk a lot
last night.” “I did. I barely got this far.
But how’d you know?” “Mick called. He said he’s got
your wheelchair that you left inside the bar.”


One Less Problem To Worry About

A Canuck farmer, O. bin Laden, and
a Texan find themselves engaged one day
in working on a building site, all tanned
and healthy, earning handsome union pay

when one of them by chance looks down and sees
a lantern out of which a genie comes
in view. The genie tells the farmer he’s
entitled to a wish. The latter hums

and haws a bit until he says he’d like
his farm at home to be forever rich
and fertile, so the genie leans to strike
the farmer gently with his scepter which

fulfills the man’s request. The genie then
directs his gaze upon Osama whom
he asks in turn to make a wish, and when
bin Laden sees this welcome prospect bloom

he says “I want a rampart built around
Iran, Iraq, and all of Palestine.
Within them let no infidels be found;
instead let only Islam’s blessings shine.”

A gesture by the genie and the wall
exists. The Texan’s next, asks, “What’s its height?”
“It’s huge. It’s fifteen hundred meters tall.
No one gets in or out. I’ve built it right.”

The Texan takes a seat, leans back, and cracks
a beer. He downs a mouthful, smiles, says “Yup,
you’ve done your job first rate. Thanks for the facts.
Now make some sand and fill the sucker up.”


Wafflers Aren’t Winners

The guy was stumped; he just could not decide.
You see, he loved two girls he wished to wed.
The first was Kathryn, blond and dewy eyed,
with whom he would have gladly shared his bed.

The problem, though, was Edith, pert brunette,
attractive to the Nth degree. He pined
for lovely Edith night and day, and yet
he hemmed and hawed, for both were on his mind.

He lacked the will to give up either one
and kept them on the string unduly long.
Instead of two, the guy at last had none;
they left him flat ‘cause he had done them wrong.

This story has a moral clearly true:
you cannot have your Kate and Edith, too.


Remembrance (?) of Things Past

A very senior citizen, let’s say
mid-nineties, hair well groomed, perfumed, a star
long born, bow tie, quite dapper all the way,
surveys the room, an upscale cocktail bar.

A lady, eighty-something, well preserved,
walks in and takes a seat. The duffer, Ben,
approaches, sits beside her. Drinks are served.
He says, “So, do I come here often, then?”


Oops!

Two men out hunting find the deepest hole
they’ve ever seen. They strain their eyes but still
can’t tell how far it goes. They find a pole
and stick it in, but it’s too short and will

not reach the bottom. “Tell you what,” says one.
“Let’s throw an object down and see the time
it takes before it hits.” There is a ton
of rubbish strewn around. “I see what I’m

quite sure will do the job. Look, here’s an old
contraption. Give a hand; we’ll chuck it in.
I think that ought to help us get a hold
on just how deep this is.” The two young men

are taxed a bit to lift the thing, but down
it goes. They wait and look, until they hear
a rustling sound behind them. They turn round
and see a frantic goat come rushing near,

and then it plunges in the hole pell-mell.
The two stand wondering what is going on.
Just then a rube appears and gives a yell:
“Hey, did you fellers see my goat? He’s gone.”

“In fact, we did,” they say. “He came as quick
as lightning, passed us by , and jumped full tilt
in this here hole.” “Can’t be,” retorts the hick
“I tied him to an engine I rebuilt.”
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Publication Date: 12-04-2009

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