Jotd #6 & 7
Here goes a couple more...
A big city lawyer went duck hunting in rural Texas. He shot and dropped a bird, but it fell into a farmer's field on the other side of a fence.
As the lawyer climbed over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up on his tractor and asked him what he was doing. The litigator responded, "I shot a duck and it fell in this field, and now I'm going to retrieve it." The old farmer replied, "This is my property, and you are not coming over here."
The indignant lawyer said, "I am one of the best trial attorneys in the United States and, if you don't let me get that duck, I'll sue you and take everything you own. The old farmer smiled and said," Apparently, you don't know how we settle disputes in Texas. We settle small disagreements like this with the "Three Kick Rule."
The lawyer asked, "What is the Three Kick Rule?" The Farmer replied, "Well, because the dispute occurs on my land, first I kick you three times and then you kick me three times and so on back and forth until someone gives up."
The attorney quickly thought about the proposed contest and decided that he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.
The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor and walked up to the attorney. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy steel toed work boot into the lawyer's groin and dropped him to his knees. His second kick to the midriff sent the lawyer's last meal gushing from his mouth.
The lawyer was on all fours when the farmer's third kick to his rear end sent him face-first into a fresh cow pie. The lawyer summoned every bit of his will and managed to get to his feet. Wiping his face with the arm of his jacket, he said, "Okay, Now it's my turn."
The old farmer smiled and said, "Naw, I give up. You can have the duck."
A large woman, wearing a sleeveless sun dress, walked into a bar in Dublin. She raised her right arm, revealing a huge, hairy armpit as she pointed to all the people sitting at the bar and asked, "What man here will buy a lady a drink?"
The bar went silent as the patrons tried to ignore her. But down at the end of the bar, an owl-eyed drunk slammed his hand down on the counter and bellowed "Give the ballerina a drink!"
The bartender poured the drink and the woman chugged it down. She turned to the patrons and again pointed around at all of them, revealing the same hairy armpit, and asked, "What man here will buy a lady a drink?"
Once again, the same little drunk slapped his money down on the bar and said, "Give the ballerina another drink!" The bartender approached the little drunk and said "Tell me, Paddy, it's your business if you want to buy the lady a drink, but why do you keep calling her a ballerina?"
The drunk replied, "Any woman who can lift her leg that high has got to be a ballerina!"
An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite biscuits wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs. With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen.
Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite biscuits. Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted Aussie wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in crumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled towards a biscuit at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a spatula...
"Fuck off" she said, "they're for the funeral."