The Priests’ Vacation

Two parish priests were going to Hawaii on vacation. They were determined to make this a real vacation by not wearing anything that would identify them as clergy.

As soon as the plane landed, they headed for a store and bought some really outrageous shorts, shirts, sandals, sunglasses, etc.

The next morning they went to the beach, dressed in their ‘tourist’ garb.

They were sitting in beach chairs, enjoying a drink, the sunshine and the scenery when a drop-dead-gorgeous topless blonde came walking straight towards them. They couldn’t help but stare.

As the blonde passed them, she smiled and greeted them, “Good Morning, Father, Good Morning, Father,” nodding, addressing each of them individually. Then she passed on by.

The men were both stunned. How in the world did she know they were priests?

So the next day, they went back to the store and bought even more outrageous outfits.

Once again, in their new attire, they settled down in their chairs to enjoy the sunshine.

After a little while, the same gorgeous topless blonde came walking toward them.

Again she nodded at each of them and greeted, “Good morning, Father, Good morning, Father.” She then started to walk away.

One of the priests couldn’t stand it any longer and asked, “Just a minute, young lady.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Yes, we ARE priests and proud of it, but I have to know, how in the world did you know we are priests, dressed as we are?”

She replied, “Father, it’s me, Sister Kathleen.”

The Sexual Adviser

While sitting at the bar, Barry asked Bob if he’d found a job.

“I am my wife’s sexual adviser,” said Bob proudly.

Somewhat shocked, Barry said “I beg your pardon, but what do you mean by that?”

“It’s very simple,” replied Bob. “My wife told me that when she wants my fucking advice, she’ll ask me for it.”

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Thoughts on the Side

Ever hear the sound of your own voice? It’s rather annoying, isn’t it? That’s how I feel whenever I go back and read some of my rants and comics. While I’m actually quite proud of much of the work I’ve done on my comic and various ramblings, there are certain desultory prose that I regard as cringe-worthy. I imagine today’s scribbling on my digital palimpsest will evoke that same sense of mortified embarrassment in a week or so.

Just so you know, the jokes on the left are taken from various friends, coworkers, emails, and occasionally other websites. While I do rewrite many of them to correct grammar, or ensure that the actual punchline lands at the end of the joke, or that the joke is consistently told in the past tense, or that silly ethic pronunciations are re-written in plain English because I refuse to do the voices… OK, you get the idea… The point is, the jokes aren’t mine. I do my best to edit them as appropriate, but I also try to keep out of it as much as possible.

As for the stuff that shows up on the right, well that is mine, and that’s where the cringe factor comes in. Many times I go back and read things I’ve written only to realize I’m reading the accidental diary of a morose clown. Oh my god! Do I really sound like that? It’s like realizing your fly was down during a semi-formal event.

Thankfully, no one I know IRL is reading any of this. Even though it’s not a secret to my coworkers, friends, and family that I run this JOTD and comic, none of them would ever bother to visit this site. Except for the times I’ve used my phone to show off a comic I made, none of them have actually seen it, and they usually dismiss it as something I made using an app or copied from something else. Seriously?! At first glance, do you actually think my comic was created on an iPad using an app developed by someone else? What’s worse, I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not!

I suppose that’s the underlying reason why I write stuff like this. It’s the reason I renamed the comic to “Pathos in the Plumbing”. Among all my family, friends, and coworkers, none of them actually care about my hobbies and interests, and when you look at it like that. it’s kind of comically sad. I live inside a monkey sphere that insulates me from people I might actually have things in common with. Writing about it is basically a kind of therapy to deal with that fact.