The Joke Doctor

Joke stolen from: The Joke Doctor

The Chaplain had been assigned to the ship and he noticed how much grief the cooks (Mess Specialists) caught from the crew and how they gave back as much as they got. He talked to the Food Service Officer and decided to talk to the cooks and get them to be more cheerful when they served the meals to the sailors coming down the line. A smile and a cheerful comment, a willingness to serve them will reap great benefits he told them.

After his pep talk the Food Service Officer and the Chaplain stood back and watched the food being served.

A new sailor aboard walked down the line but he didn't like anything he saw so he just carried his tray down the line till he got to the desert section. He picked up a saucer containing a large piece of chocolate cake.

The Mess Specialist looked at him, "Is that all you're gonna

eat," he asked.

The sailor said, "yea, the rest of it don't look too appetizing."

"The Mess Specialist smiled and said, "well in that case would you like two pieces of cake."

The Chaplain smiled and hit the Food Service Officer in the ribs, "I told you my talk did them some good."

The kid said, "yea man, I'd appreciate it."

The cook leaned over and cut the piece of cake on his tray in half, "I hope you enjoy them," he said as he walked back into the galley laughing.

Joke stolen from: The Joke Doctor

Our neighbor used the word hypochondriac to describe the phase her teen-age daughter was going though. One day the girl was convinced that the pain on her left side was appendicitis. Her mother explained that the appendix is on the right. "So that's why it hurts to much," her daughter said. "My appendix is on the wrong side."

Joke stolen from: The Joke Doctor

A small social club was trying to organize a baseball team. They could only muster eight players, but finally found a ninth to play.

In desperation, they called on a new member, an Englishman, to join their team. During their first game, the Englishman came to bat. On the first pitch, he knocked the ball out of the park.

"Run!" his team-mates cried. "For Pete's sake, run!"

The Brit turned and stared at them icily. "I jolly well shan't run," he replied. "Why should I? I'm perfectly willing to buy you chaps another ball."

Joke stolen from: The Joke Doctor

This story involves a pastor of a store front church. The pastor's church is called The Almighty God Tabernacle.

On a Saturday night several weeks ago, this pastor was working late, and decided to call his wife before he left for home. It was about 10:00 PM, but his wife didn't answer the phone. The pastor let it ring many times. He thought it was odd that she didn't answer, but decided to wrap up a few things and try again in a few minutes.

When he tried again she answered right away. He asked her why she hadn't answered before, and she said that it hadn't rung at their house. They brushed it off as a fluke and went on their merry ways.

The following Monday, the pastor received a call at the church office, which was the phone that he'd used that Saturday night. The man that he spoke with wanted to know why he'd called on Saturday night.

The pastor couldn't figure out what the guy was talking about. Then The guy said, "It rang and rang, but I didn't answer.

"The pastor remembered the mishap an apologized for disturbing him, explaining that he'd intended to call his wife.

The man said, "That's OK. Let me tell you my story. You see, I was planning to commit suicide on Saturday night, but before I did, I prayed, 'God if you're there, and you don't want me to do this, give me a sign now. 'At that point my phone started to ring. I looked at the caller ID, and it said, 'Almighty God.' I was afraid to answer!"

Joke stolen from: The Joke Doctor

Believing that maybe it would help my relationship with my 12-year-old son if we had a common hobby, I bought him a beer-making kit. My wife seemed to think that the situation called for female incredulity."You got your son a BEER-making kit?" she demands. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Hey, you were the one who said we needed to do more things together," I point out. "So you picked drinking beer," she scoffs.

"Of course not. He'll only make it. I'LL be the one drinking it," I respond. I hold my hands up in a representation of harmonious balance in the universe.

She fixes me with a scorching look that I recognize from early in our marriage, when I tried to train her to bring me snacks during football games, but I will not be deterred. "It's very scientific," I declare. "Fermentation. Carbonation."

"Intoxication?"

My son is even less enthusiastic. "It smells bad; you DRINK this stuff?" he sniffs, stirring the batch of malt and hops.

"Yes, but not until there is alcohol in it," I explain with fatherly wisdom.

"Alcohol is a by-product of fermentation," he quotes, looking through the little handbook. He squints at me. "You'll be drinking yeast pee."

"Real men don't read directions," I advise.

When we're finished, my home brew sits tightly sealed in a plastic keg. "This is the pressure valve," I lecture my son. "The yeast builds up carbon dioxide, which escapes out the valve; otherwise there would be an explosion that would level houses in a four-block area."

I'm hoping this will excite him, but he's been reading the manual again. "Carbon dioxide is another waste by-product," he intones.

"Yes."

"In other words, yeast farts."

For three days, the mixture sits implacably inside the plastic vessel, as exciting as a bucket of paint. Concerned, I sneak in a little more sugar to get the yeast motivated. "You're not supposed to do that, Dad," my son warns.

The next day, the yeast have suddenly sprung to life, bubbling and hissing as they busily produce waste products. Impatient, I pull on the little tap, pouring an ounce of muddy liquid into a glass and taking a sip.

"Does it taste like beer?" my son asks anxiously.

"Maybe beer that's already been through somebody," I respond ruefully.

That night my son prods me awake. "Dad, the beer is calling you."

My wife gives me a frown, as this is exactly the excuse I give her whenever I meet my buddies at the sports bar. "What do you mean?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "You sort of need to come hear it. It's making noises."

My wife puts her hand on my arm. "Could it be dangerous?" she inquires anxiously.

I laugh. "Of course not. How could beer be dangerous? Beer Is Our Friend." I follow my son out into the kitchen and, at his urging, put my ear to the plastic keg. He's right: There is some sort of creaking noise emitting from the seams around the edge of the thing. Through the thick, dark plastic, I can see that the yeast has rioted, filling the vessel with foam.

"Maybe you put in too much sugar," he worries. "Should I start calling people in a four-block area?"

"Nonsense. More sugar just means a higher alcohol content. How could that be bad?" But his question has drawn my attention to the filter, which should be allowing yeast farts to escape. Instead, it looks locked in place, a little button that should be bobbing up and down. I reach out a finger.

"Dad " my son starts to say.

The moment I pry at the valve it fires straight up like a bullet, the little button gone in an instant. The entire contents of the keg follow half a second later, a thick spray of foam coating everything in the kitchen. I don't even have time to blink and it is over, except that a steady rain of gooey sludge comes down on my head from the ceiling.

Tilting my jaw, I'm able to catch a few drops in my mouth. My wife bursts into the kitchen and stares at me, shocked.

"Not bad," I tell her, licking my lips.