“Rockford is the Humor Capital of the World”
Don’t miss it!
Since Rockford is the Humor Capital of the World, we celebrate with an annual humor banquet. The banquet is always held on the Saturday closest to April 1, in front of the Corner Bar on Main Street. This coming Saturday is the big day. Everyone is welcome. We meet at noon, buy our own hot dogs, and tell jokes out on the sidewalk. Be there, rain, shine or snow!
Who can resist them?
Limericks, I mean.
An old fellow dining at Crewe
Found a very large bug in his stew.
Said the waiter, “Don’t shout
And wave it about,
Or the rest will be wanting one too!”
A businessman on his deathbed called his best friend. “Bill, I want you to promise me that when I die you will have my remains cremated.”
“And what,” Bill asked, “do you want me to do with your ashes?”
The businessman said, “Just put them in an envelope and mail them to the Internal Revenue Service. Write on the envelope, “Now you have everything.”
Roger and Fred
If you’ve already heard about this, stop me. Or not. It’s your choice.
It was on this date, a great many years ago, that the saddest event in my life occurred. I was born one of identical twins. This was before the days of footprints and plastic wristbands. Nobody could tell us apart. The hospital nurses came in and remarked how cute we were, two identical little boys. When my mother took us home, the neighbors came over and said, “Aren’t they just darling? Like two peas in a pod!” The relatives came down from Minnesota and commented that we were exactly alike. Later on, my mother admitted that even she couldn’t tell us apart.
All was fine for about six months. Then, one night, my mother put us both in the bathtub. I don’t know if we had a phone to answer (it was the Great Depression), but for some reason she left the room for a minute. One of us drowned. And we never knew which one.
There’s a little tombstone in New Jersey with the inscription, “Here lies Fred or Roger. Sorely missed.”
A teenage girl brought her new boyfriend home to meet her parents. They were appalled at his appearance: scruffy leather jacket, motorcycle boots, tattoos and a pierced nose.
Later, the parents pulled their daughter aside and confessed their concern. “Dear,” said the mother diplomatically, “he doesn’t look like a nice boy.”
“Oh please, Mom,” replied the daughter. “If he wasn’t nice, why would he be doing 500 hours of community service?”
I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me.