The fight over building a new U.S./Canada bridge is kind of funny. The owner of the current bridge has become mega-rich from tolls. He’s now spending millions to convince us that another bridge would cost us a fortune in tax money. He claims the tolls would not cover the cost.
Well, Canada thinks there’s money to be made and it wants to foot the entire bill for the bridge and highway access.
So the current bridge owner has offered to pay for another bridge himself. If it’s such a bad moneymaking deal, why would he want to build another?
Verrry suspicious. Maybe that first bridge has been so lucrative he’d do anything to keep his monopoly.
My advice: keep an eye on any Michigan legislators who vote against a second bridge.
A worried senior citizen phoned her doctor’s office. “Is it true,” she wanted to know, “that the medication you prescribed for me has to be taken for the rest of my life?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the doctor told her.
There was a moment of silence. Then the lady replied, “I’m confused about how serious my condition is, because this prescription is marked ‘NO REFILLS.’”
Truck driver thinking
Brian was driving his truck down the highway when he approached a bridge with a sign saying, “12 foot max. headroom.” He slowed down, wondering if he could drive under it or not.
“Oh, let’s give it a try,” he thought, only to discover that his truck got stuck underneath.
Brian looked things over, then got back in his seat, poured out a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. A cop arrived a short time later and knocked on the cab door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded the cop.
“I’m having a break from work,” Brian said.
The cop looked skeptical. “What kind of work is that?” he asked.
“I deliver bridges,” replied Brian.
Sam went to a psychiatrist. “Doc,” he said, “I’ve got trouble. Every time I get into bed I think there’s somebody under it. So I get under the bed and I think there’s somebody on top. I’m worried sick. You gotta help me.”
“I can handle that,” said the doctor. “Come to me three times a week and I’ll cure your fears.”
“How much do you charge?” Sam asked.
“A hundred dollars per visit.”
“I’ll sleep on it,” said Sam.
Six months passed and the doctor met Sam on the street. “Why didn’t you ever come to see me again?” asked the doctor.
“For a hundred dollars a visit?” Sam said. “A bartender cured me for ten bucks.”
“Is that so! How?”
“He told me to cut the legs off the bed.”