The family wheeled Grandma out on the lawn in her wheel chair where the activity's for her 100th birthday were taking place. Grandma couldn't talk very well but she could write notes fairly good when she needed to communicate.
After a short time out on the lawn, Grandma started leaning off to the right and some family members grabbed her and straightened her up and stuffed pillows on her right side.
A short time later she started leaning off to her left and again the family grabbed her and stuffed pillows on her left side.
Soon she started leaning forward and the family members again grabbed her and tied a pillow case around her waist to hold her up.
A nephew who arrived late came running up to Grandma and said, "Hi Grandma, you're looking good, how are they treating you?"
Grandma took out her little notepad and slowly wrote a note to the nephew, "They won't let me fart."
Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley, on his way home from work at City Hall, came to a dead halt in traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway and thought to himself, "Wow, this traffic seems worse than usual. Nothing's moving at all."
He noticed a State Trooper walking back and forth between the lines of cars, so he rolled down his window and asked,"Officer, I'm Mayor Richard M. Daley, what's the problem, what's holding everything up."
The trooper replied, "It's the Reverend Jackson. He's so depressed about the thought of everyone knowing about his extra-martial affair and his illegitimate child, that he stopped his car in the middle of the Dan Ryan Expressway and is threatening to douse himself with gasoline and set himself on fire. He says the country and his congregation are blaming him for his infidelity and doesn't know if he can live with the shame and embarrassment. The people in the halted cars along the expressway are taking up a collection for him."
"Oh really," replied Mayor Daley. "How much have they collected for the Reverend Jackson so far?"
"About 300 gallons," said the trooper, "but they are still siphoning"
A burglar alarm sent out its piercing wail in the dark of a December night in Brooklyn, and the police arrived just in time to collar the burglar, Morris, as he was leaving the premises with a big bag full of loot. Soon, he was in court, facing a grim-looking judge.
"Did you have an accomplice?" asked the judge.
"What's an accomplice?" replied Morris.
"A partner. In other words, did you commit this crime by yourself?"
"What else?" demanded the culprit. "Who can get honest and
reliable help these days?"