Better save that. We'll need it for the autopsy.

Bo! Bo! Come back with that! Bad Dog!

There go the lights again...

Ya know, there's big money in kidneys - and this guy's got two of'em.

That's cool! Now can you make his leg twitch?!

This patient has already had some kids, am I correct?

Uh Oh! Page 47 is missing!

TO MY WIFE: My overdraft at the bank. Maybe she can explain it.

TO MY BANKER: My soul. He has the mortgage on it anyway.

TO MY NEIGHBOR: My clown suit. He'll need it if he continues to farm as he has in the past.

TO THE ASCS: My grain bin. I was planning to let them take it next year anyway.

TO THE FARM ADVISER: 50 bushels of corn to see if he can hit the market. I never did.

TO THE JUNK MAN: All my machinery. He's had his eye on it for years.

TO MY UNDERTAKER: A special request. I want six implement and fertilizer dealers for my pallbearers. They're used to carrying me.

TO THE WEATHERMAN: Rain, sleet and snow for the funeral please. No sense having good weather now.

TO THE GRAVEDIGGER: Don't bother. The hole I'm in should be big enough.

TO THE MONUMENT MAKER: For the epitaph: "Here lies a farmer who has now properly assumed all of his obligations."

A boy with a pea shooter, ran out of ammunition, and discovering a box of laxative pills, tried one in his blow gun. To his great joy, it fit.

There was a boarding house near by, and every Wednesday noon a big pan of custard was placed upon the window sill to cool. From his vantage point in the window of another house, the boy shot all the pills into the custard.

The boy soon found out that he was an expert marksman and the custom of custard on Wednesday quickly passed into history at the boarding house.