They say that change is hard.

I guess that’s true. After all, have you ever tried to bend a coin?

The past, present and future walk into a bar. It was tense.

Editor’s Note: I’m expanding our format slightly. Instead of our six jokes with up to two bonus items in each issue, we will now just feature eight items each time, regardless of what they are, plus the video. (And we will expand to nine items whenever I feel the need to include an editorial comment like this.)

The “Bonus” label will no longer be applied to inspirational thoughts, funny “Quotables” or true fact pieces, they will just be worked in among the regular spots whenever I decide to include one or more of them.

After a church service on Sunday morning, a young boy suddenly announced to his mother, “Mom, I’ve decided to become a preacher when I grow up.”

“That would be okay with your father and me,” the mother replied, “but what made you decide that?”

“Well,” confessed the little boy, “since I have to go to church on Sunday anyway, I figure it will be more fun to stand up and yell than to sit down and listen.”

[This is the 7th of eight installments of this series that appeared during the original run of TIDBITS. This one appeared in the issue sent out on January 11th, 2002.]


“I heard you.”
    Really means….
“I haven’t the foggiest clue what you just said, and am
hoping desperately that I can fake it well enough so
that you don’t spend the next three days yelling at me.”

“You know how bad my memory is.”
    Really means….
“I remember the theme song to ‘F Troop’, the address of
the first girl I ever kissed and the Vehicle Identification
Numbers of every car I’ve ever owned, but I forgot your

“You look terrific.”
    Really means….
“Oh, God, please don’t try on one more outfit.
I’m starving.”

“You know I could never love anyone else.”
    Really means….
“I am used to the way you yell at me, and realize it could
be worse.”

“I brought you a present.”
    Really means….
“It was free ice scraper night at the ball game.”


A nursery school teacher was delivering a station wagon full of kids home one day when a fire truck zoomed past. Sitting in the front seat of the fire truck was a Dalmatian dog. The children began discussing the dog’s duties.

“They use him to keep crowds back,” offered one youngster.

“No,” countered another. “He’s just for good luck.”

A third child brought the argument to a close with her comment. “They use the dogs,” she stated firmly, “to find the fire hydrants.”

The meaning of opaque is unclear.

It’s a little ironic how we raise our children.

We spend the first two years of their lives teaching them to walk and talk.

Then we spend the next 16 telling them to sit down and be quiet.

John, who suffered from chest cancer, was in the hospital when his pastor decided to visit. Suddenly John looked panicked and gestured to the pastor, but was unable to say anything. The pastor pulled a notepad and pen out of his pocket and handed them to John, who scribbled down a few words before losing consciousness. The pastor ran into the hall to summon a nurse, but it was too late — John had passed away.

Later that week at at the funeral, the pastor addressed the congregation. “John was a good and upright man who was taken from us far too soon. I happened to be with him at the moment he passed.”

The pastor paused thoughtfully for a moment, then continued, “I just recalled that John managed to jot down his final thoughts right before the end. In the confusion of the hospital staff trying to resuscitate him, I put the notepad away in my pocket and haven’t even had a chance to read it.”

Pulling the notepad out of his pocket and opening it, the pastor said, “Allow me to share John’s last words on earth. He wrote, ‘You’re standing on my oxygen tube.”


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