One day at a trial, an eminent psychologist was called to testify. A severe, no-nonsense professional, she sat down in the witness chair, unaware that its rear legs were set precariously on the back of the raised platform.
"Will you state your name?" asked the district attorney. Tilting back in her chair she opened her mouth to answer, but instead catapulted head-over-heels backward and landed in a stack of exhibits and recording equipment.
Everyone watched in stunned silence as she extricated herself, rearranged her disheveled dress and hair and was reseated on the witness stand. The glare she directed at onlookers dared anyone to so much as smirk.
"Well, doctor," continued the district attorney without changing expression, "we could start with an easier question."
As I pulled into the gas station, I noticed a woman trying to push her car toward the pump. Having always considered myself a Good Samaritan, I parked and joined her in pushing her car.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm giving you a hand," I said. "What are you doing?"
"I'm stretching before my run."
My face in the mirror isn’t wrinkled or drawn.
My house isn’t dirty. The cobwebs are gone.
My garden looks lovely and so does my lawn.
I think I might never put my glasses back on.
Census Taker: "How many children do you have?"
Woman: "Four."
Census Taker: "May I have their names, please?"
Woman: "Eenee, Meenee, Minee and George."
Census Taker: "Okay, that's fine. But may I ask why you named your fourth child George?"
Woman: "Because we didn't want any Moe!"