After leaving the racetrack Roy bumped into his old friend Marty on the bus.
“You want to hear one of the most amazing things that ever happened?” asked Roy. “Tell me- what’s today’s date?”
“July seventh,” Marty replied.
“Right. The seventh day, of the seventh month,” Roy began to explain. “I went to the track at seven minutes past seven. My son is seven years old today, and we live at number seven, Seventh Avenue.”
“Let me guess,” Marty interrupted. “You put everything you had on the seventh horse in the seventh race.”
“And he won?” asked Marty with anticipation.
“No,” replied Roy. “He came in seventh.”
A woman heard her husband cussing up a storm from behind the bathroom door. She knocked and asked, “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Her husband emerged from the bathroom and explained, “The doctor prescribed these suppositories, and no matter what I do, I just can’t get the little sucker to go up my ass. Even the doctor had to shove the first one in to show me how it was done, and I tell you, it took forever for him to get it up there and it hurt!”
“You were probably nervous and tense, and he probably wasn’t very gentle with you,” soothed the wife. “Here, let me give you the suppository. I don’t mind, and I’ll promise to be gentle.”
Still grumbling, the husband bent over. His wife put her left hand on his left shoulder to brace him, and with her right hand she quickly and easily slipped the pill up her husband’s rear end.
The husband suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“My God!” said his wife. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”
“No!” cried the man. “But I just realized that when the doctor did it, he had both hands on my shoulders!”
Brian looked down in the dumps, and his friend Larry asked him what was the matter.
“My wife is pregnant again,” signed Brian. “This is the eighth one. I have no idea how I’m going to afford another mouth to feed!”
Larry realized Brian’s predicament and suggested, “Perhaps you should consider getting a vasectomy.”
“I already did,” replied Brian. “All it did was change the color of the babies.”
A man went into a restaurant in Paris with his girlfriend and ordered the 1928 Mouton.
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine, and poured a small amount in the glass for tasting.
The customer picked up the glass, smelled the wine, and put it down on the table with a thud. “This is not the 1928 Mouton.”
The waiter assured him it was, and soon there are another twenty people surrounding the table, including the chef and the manager trying to convince the man that the wine is the 1928 Mouton. Finally someone asked him how he knew that it is not the 1928 Mouton.
“My name is Phillipe de Rothschild, and I make the wine.”
Finally, the original waiter stepped forward and admitted that he poured the Clerc Milon 1928. “I could not bear to part with our last bottle of 1928 Mouton. You know Clerc Milon, it is in the same village as Mouton, you pick the grapes at the same time, the same cépage, you crush in the same way, you put them into similar barrels. You bottle at the same time, you even use eggs from the same chickens to fine them. The wines are the same, except for a small matter of geographic location.”
Rothschild beckons the waiter forward, and whispers to him, “When you return home tonight, ask your wife to remove her underwear. Put one finger in each opening, then smell both the fingers. Perhaps then you will understand what difference a small distance in geographic location makes.”