What the old folks get up to . . .

One of the residents at my Grandmother's retirement village puts together a monthly newsletter for the other residents, most of the conent is devised by the residents.  Given the minimum age of the residents is sixty, the newsletter is always very mature and staid.  Here's a sample of the typical content:


This may come as a surprise to those of you not living in Las Vegas, but there are more catholic churches than casinos there.  Not surprisingly, some worshippers at Sunday services will give casino chips rather than cash when the basket is passed.  Since they get chips from many different casinos, the churches have devised a method to collect the offerings.  The churches send all their chips to a nearby Franciscan monastery for sorting and then the chips are taken to the casino of origin and cashed in.  This is done by the Chip Monks.

The Country Dunny

The service station trade was slow

the owner sat around

with sharpened knife and cedar stick

piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they

the log accross the rill

led to a shack marked 'His' and 'Hers'

that sat against the hill.

"Where is the ladies restroom, sir?"

The owner leaning back

said not a word but whittled on

and nodded toward the shack.

With a quickened step she entered there

but only stayed a minute

until she screamed like a snake or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face

she bounded through the door

and headed quickly for the car.

Just like three gals before

she missed the foot log - jumped the stream

The owner gave a shout

as her silk stockings down at her knees

caught on a sassafras sprout.

She tripped and fell - got up

and then in obvius disgust

ran to the car, stepped on the gas

and faded into the dust.

Of course we all desired to know

what made the gals all do

the things they did, and then we found

the whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he'd devised

to make the thing complete

he'd tied a speaker on the wall

beneath the toliet seat.

He'd wait until the gals got set

and then the devilish tike,

would stop whittling long enough

to speak into the mike.

As she sat a voice below

struck terror, fright and fear,

"Will you please use the other hole,

we're painting under here!"

One morning while attending Timbertops School in Australia, Prince Charles attended a service at the local parish church.  As the royal visitor left his church, the rector apologized for the small turnout.  "Being a bank holiday weekend," he explained, "most of the parishoner are away."  "Not another bank holiday!" the Prince exclaimed, "What's this one in aid of?"  "Well," the rector replied rather embarrassed, "over here we call it the Queen's birthday."