jokes

This might come as a shock to my mother (she thinks she knows everything about me), but I don’t pay attention to how much I pay at the gas pump. Here’s my thought… if I pay attention, I’ll know how much I’m getting raked over the coals. I claim ignorance and, they say, ignorance is bliss. Blissful indeed until I figured it out today.

At Costco in Woodinville today (the sheriff was in line and I selectively chose a lane far away… you know, just in case), the lanes for the driver side pumps were a mile long (it felt like it was, but we all know Costco’s parking lot isn’t THAT big) so I bellied up to a passenger side pump that had a max of three cars waiting (I also say “belly up to the bar” and I don’t even drink alcohol, or serve alcohol, for that matter, but I still say it and I won’t stop, in case you’re wondering), figuring that I can pull the line across the back to the driver side where my tank is.

As a side note to this little story: the picture of the gas pump on your dash does NOT necessarily tell you which side your tank is on, contrary to this little legend (but wouldn’t that make sense and why DON’T the auto manufacturers make it so, sheesh, I’m tired of cranking my head out the window to see which side mine is on — no, I don’t have a good enough memory to just know without looking sometimes).

As ANOTHER side note, this story isn’t about which side of the car my tank is on.

Back to the original point of this post.

I paid $3.53 at Costco and drove by a Chevron a couple miles away that listed the same grade of gas for $3.75… that’s 22 cents a GALLON! At that rate for 20 gallons I saved $4.40 today and spent it on a Kid’s Meal Crisp Chicken Burrito Meal at Taco Time to celebrate (psst, I didn’t have a kid with me)!

As another side note… the new BBQ Chipotle Chicken Burrito at TT is tasty but waaaayy too messy for any normal person to put up with.

{EDIT… yeah, it’s $3.53 and $3.75, respectively, and I’ve made the change; see, I don’t pay attention to gas prices! LOL}

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Maybe you’ve already seen this…

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment and the fine family dining communities.

The Pillsbury Dough Boy died yesterday of a yeast infection and complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Dough boy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Dough boy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Dough boy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Dough boy is survived by his wife Play Dough, two children, John Dough and Jane Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.

The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.

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The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, ”Why didn’t we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?”

I replied, I had a drug problem when I was young:
I was drug to church on Sunday morning.
I was drug to church for weddings and funerals.
I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather.
I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults.
I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report card, didnot speak with respect, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn’t put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me.
I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profane four-letter word.
I was drug out to pull weeds in mom’s garden and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad’s fields.
I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.

Those drugs are still in my veins; and they affect my behavior in everything I do, say, and think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today’s children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place. ~author unknown~

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Abner: I don’t even know what a Republican IS!

Cletus: Well, a Republican sure isn’t a Democrat!

Abner: Oh.

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Just say NO to earrings, guys…

…and the stash too!

Not too many can pull off a proper mustache these days (my dad does, except he doesn’t sport one in this shot, and Sam Elliott).

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My lovely knocked-up friend Georgia had a cute post on baby naming.

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