Things I Do In Stores

All of these Stories are True

Once when we were in the drug store, Julie was buying some makeup. When she came to the counter, I said to her in front of the man who was waiting on us: “You look good in makeup ever since the sex-change operation.” The man looked at Julie and said: “It must be fun.” Julie said: “It never ends.”

Once Brendan and I were in a men's clothing store and I asked the clerk if they had any shirts that were "extra medium." The clerk looked perplexed, and said "No, just medium." Brendan pretended he was not with me.

On another occasion, I was in a deli and I asked the girl at the counter if she could guarantee that the red-skin potato salad was made by authentic redskins. She was indignant and said "No, it’s made here."

On one occasion, we were in a shoe store and they said that if you bought a pair of shoes, you could buy a second pair of shoes for 1/2 off. I asked the clerk if I could buy only the second pair of shoes. She said "No, you have to buy the first pair first."
Nobody laughed.

What Critics Have To Say About Jack's Humor Blog

“It Stinks.”
Casey Anthony

"It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah Palin

“It made me sick to my stomach.”
Zachary Taylor

“Touching and heartwarming.”
Charles Manson

“He’s full of shit”.
Pope Benedict XVI

“We are not amused.”
Queen Victoria


“It gave me Nausea.”
Jean Paul Sartre


“Ecrasez l’infame.”
Voltaire

“It sucks.”
Bill Clinton


“Mean Spirited.”
Leona Helmsley


“Unpalatable.”
Julia Child

“His teaching makes for rebellion, division, war, murder, robbery, arson, and the collapse of Christendom. He lives the life of a beast. He has burned the decretals. He despises alike the ban and the sword. He does more harm to the civil than to the ecclesiastical power.”
Edict of Worms


“Heartwarming and touching.”
Saddam Hussein


“I hate it.”
Mother Theresa


“It put me to sleep.”
Rush Limbaugh

“It made me cry.”
Glenn Beck

”I hope this gets better.”
Benny Hinn


“If I can get through this, I can get through anything.”
Gen. George Custer

“I love it, God help me, I love it.”
Gen. George Patton


“Its nothing but junk.”
Michael Milken


“He deserves to be shot.”
Jean Harris

“It is not fitting.”
O.J. Simpson

"It's too short."
Anthony Weiner

The Office - A Lawyer’s Life

In New York, small law firms represent people, medium sized law firms represent small businesses, and large law firms represent corporations. My first job was with a firm so small it didn’t have any clients. The firm specialized in the rules of solitaire and cemetery matters.

I finally landed a job with the biggest firm in New York. This firm represented conglomerates, nations, continents, and planets. I worked on a dispute between Europe and America as to who owned the Atlantic Ocean. I shall never forget the day I triumphantly announced to the Senior Partner that I had worked out a favorable settlement of the case. America was to get all the water in the ocean and Europe would get all the fish. To this day, I am mystified as to how I survived the 20 story fall from his office window.

I then moved to suburban, rustic, bucolic, beautiful, Connecticut. The contrasts between the practice of law in New York and Connecticut are worthy of note. The complexities of the rules of procedure in New York enabled the court clerks to reject every paper I ever attempted to file. As I entered the Clerk’s office there would be audible snickering followed by the question of whether I was there on a social visit or wasting my time trying to file a pleading. I would invariably trip over the imperceptible fishing line strung across the doorway, jamming my hand in the staple machine and strewing my papers about the floor. There would be hissing and catcalls as I gathered my files and beat a retreat from the court.

On my first visit to the clerk’s office in Connecticut, he invited me in for coffee and Danish pastry. As we reviewed my pleadings, he politely indicated where I had failed to comply with Connecticut procedure. He then retyped all my papers in conformity with the rules, filed them, and plied me with more pastry.

In New York, the lawyers would eye each other suspiciously as they entered the dark and dismal courtroom in their three-piece suits - the third piece being a bulletproof vest. If they ate lunch together, they would always be accompanied by food tasters. The Bar Association decided not to use Robert’s Rules of Order for its meetings feeling that it would be better to adopt the regulations for Demolition Derby.

In Connecticut, the lawyers entered the courtroom arm-in-arm, embracing, laughing, smiling, happy to be together. Many came up to me and offered their hands, their help, pencils, pads, and erasers. Several offered to let me represent their clients, and one asked me to witness a change in his will in which he named me as his executor.

The Judges in New York always assumed the bench amid an air of profound gloom. Their faces reflected inflamed hemorrhoids. Their rulings, though scholarly, had the odor of undigested chili.

In Connecticut, the Judges demonstrated collective adherence to the school of Leo Busgalia. Before donning their robes they would enter the court, shake hands all around, and offer advice, words of encouragement and inspiration, and small cash advances.

When my case was called for argument the Judge advised me that my opponent was his son-in-law. He asked if I wished to disqualify him. I bravely agreed to allow his honor to hear the case and began my plea. As my argument progressed, I could see the futility and hopelessness of my case. I used every rhetorical device at my command, neither of which worked, and I finally sat down in a state of abject misery. My opponent then arose and conceded that he had no rejoinder to the brilliant and compelling points I had made. The Judge heartily agreed, and ruled in my favor, offering to have his ruling suitably engraved and framed free of charge.

Well, tonight the Connecticut Bar Association is throwing a large dinner in my honor. I have advised my food taster that his services will no longer be required

Ethnic Street Fair

Shortly after we moved to Greenwich, Connecticut, the Town celebrated its annual ethnic street fair in honor of Saint Muffy. Saint Muffy, you will recall, is the fourth century martyr who immolated herself rather than wear a toga designed by the heretic, J.C. Penny. She is honored today as the patron saint of basic black.
The main street in Greenwich, Greenwich Avenue, was lined with colorful booths boasting delectable local WASP ethnic dishes such as roast beef sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise, watercress soup, cucumber sandwiches, and asparagus spears in hollandaise sauce.

The Junior League booth was especially notable, manned by Greenwich post debs attired in colorful ethnic costumes designed by Talbot’s. The booth was decorated with a large picture of Calvin Coolidge.

The Garden Club booth featured mostly shrinking violets, while the Bridge Club displayed sections of the New England Turnpike, which collapsed in 1983.

The DAR booth was manned by its chapter president, Betsy (Babs) Jefferson Adams Wentworth, and featured Dolly Madison ice cream, Boston cream pie, and Philadelphia cream cheese.

There was a rumor floating about, on a gaily-decorated float, that the street fair was controlled by a ruthless mob of Wasp gangsters called “the Muffia.” There was no white-collar crime to which these hoodlums wouldn’t stoop, including making a Tender Offer you couldn’t refuse.

A statue of St. Muffy was erected in the center of the Avenue. She looked chic in an exclusive floral silk jacquard dress from Julliard with organza shawl collar, flower at waist, side hook, shoulder pads and full sweeping skirt. Passers-by reverently stopped at the table in front of the statue and donated recipes for asparagus soup and beef wellington.

Adopting a Lawn

When I lived in Manhattan, I did not have a lawn of my own. True, there was a strip of grass between my apartment building and the pavement, but I soon learned that that was not my lawn. I remember the first time I went down on an August evening to open my folding chairs and set up a barbecue grill on the strip. The superintendent came running out shouting and tripped over my rubber tub causing water and plastic ducks to splash on the sidewalk.

After Grunhilda and I moved to the suburbs and bought a house, we decided it was time to have a lawn of our own. The house was on a barren plot of land overgrown with trees. There was no grass. We had no lawn. Everybody else had a lawn, a beautiful lawn. We felt lonely. We planted seeds, taking care to be sure our timing was right. Nothing happened. Months went by and there was no change. We tried loosening up as we planted the seeds. We planted seeds in the morning, in the afternoon, on the spur of the moment, but no luck.

We went to the Lawn Doctor and had tests made, but he assured us that there was no basic problem. We were capable of having a lawn. He suggested we relax and not worry about it. It would come. We relaxed but nothing came. In desperation, we tried an artificial sod transplant. It didn’t take. Finally, we decided to adopt a lawn.

You think it’s easy to adopt a lawn? Think twice Buster. We went to every nursery in the area, but they all told us the same thing -- you have to wait three to five years. We told them that it didn’t have to be Kentucky Bluegrass, we’d take a mixture, even a little crabgrass; no luck.

We sought out the sleazy mouthpiece, R. Noll Palmer - black-market dealer in lawns. Palmer said, “You want to adopt a lawn? For a price I can get you one in three weeks.” “Will it be young and healthy?” we asked. “Brand new” he assured us. What else could we do? We paid.

Three weeks later Palmer called. “I’ve got your lawn,” he said. “Meet me at the Stamford Motel at 3:00 AM.” We drove over, our hearts pounding. There was Palmer. He got into his sleazy sports car and told us to follow him. We drove for hours into back country. We stopped by a low, rundown ranch house. There was the lawn, small and beautiful. “Whose lawn is it?” we asked. “Don’t ask,” he said, “The couple was young, they never married.”

We got out of the car, took off our shoes, hugged the grass with our toes. Suddenly I realized I had stepped in something. Palmer looked at me. “It won’t all be honey and hot waffles,” he said. “It’s not easy to raise a lawn. It has to be cleaned. You have to feed it and give it water.”

The awesome responsibility of raising a lawn hit me. The lawn wouldn’t be small and cute for long. It would grow. Then what would we do? We decided to go ahead. If it got too big for its britches, we could always cut it down to size.

Julie and Sports

These are true stories, I swear.


The Umpire

I like to watch baseball. Julie doesn’t. But Julie lets me watch it almost every night on the wide-screen TV because she doesn’t want me to have to watch it on a regular TV. Some nights, however, she comes in and watches the baseball game with me. I always say, “You can turn on anything you want. I don’t have to watch this game.” She insists, however, that I watch my game. She has been watching baseball games with me for years, but last night she surprised me. This is true. She asked, “Who is the man in the black shirt?” I said, “Do you mean the man standing behind the catcher?” She said, “Yes, him, what does he do?” I said in astonishment, “He’s the umpire! He calls the balls and strikes!” She said, “Oh, I thought that the catcher did that.” I said, “How could the catcher do that? He would want every pitch to be a strike.” I asked, “What did you think the umpire was there for?” She said, “I thought he was there to give balls to the catcher.”

Stealing Bases
One time when we were watching baseball, the runner on first stole second base. Julie said, “I don’t like that. It’s not fair.” I said, “Stealing bases is a basic part of baseball. How can you not like it?” She said, “I think it’s sneaky.”

Blocking Shots
Once while we were watching basketball, which she likes, a player blocked another player’s shot. Julie asked, “Can he do that?” I said, “Yes, that is what he is supposed to do. That is an important part of the game.” She said, “Well, I think it’s unfair.”

Sacking the Quarterback
Julie’s most famous remark came while we were watching football. The quarterback went back to throw the ball and the defense swarmed all over him. There was a pile-up. Julie asked, with concern in her voice, “What are they doing?” I said, “They are sacking the quarterback.” Julie said, “Well, can’t they do it nicely?” (When I told D.L. Stewart about this he remarked, "Only the Cleveland Browns do it nicely.")
On another occasion the quarterback went back to pass and the opposing team sacked him. Julie asked: “Are they allowed to do that? He didn’t even get a chance to throw the pass?” I said: “Of course they can do that. They are supposed to do it.” Julie said: “Well, that’s not fair. They should at least give him a chance to pass the ball.”

The End Zone
The Michigan State football team was down near the end zone and was trying to score a touchdown. The quarterback threw a pass into the end zone and the Michigan State receiver and the Ohio State defender both went up for it. The Ohio State defender came down with the ball, and Julie and I both cheered. The referee then took the ball out to the 20th yeard line for Ohio State to take over. Julie asked: "what are they doing?" I said, "Ohio State intercepted the ball, so they get to take over at the 20th yard line." She said, "But didn't Ohio State just score a touchdown?" I said, "No, they intercepted the ball, so now they have to go down to the opposite end zone to score a touchdown." Julie looked bewildered. She said: "I thought you scored a touchdown if you caught it in the end zone no matter which end zone you caught it in."

Hats
One time we were watching a night baseball game. Julie asked: “Why do baseball players wear hats at night?” I explained that it was necessary to block gamma rays from the moon.

The Extra Point
The team had just scored a touchdown and was lined-up for the extra point. Julie asked: “Why are they (the team kicking the extra point) lined-up like that?” I explained that it was necessary for the kicking team to prevent the other team from coming in and blocking the kick. “You mean that they don’t just let him kick? That’s not fair! They should let him kick.” she said. I said “But the other team wants to block the kick, and they often do.” “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard” she said.

The Kickoff
One of the football teams had just kicked-off and the receiver had elected not to catch the ball. When it came to rest, the kicking team gathered around it. Julie asked: “Why are they standing around the ball like that?” I said: “So that it will not fly off.”

Ohio State
Julie is a fan of the Ohio State football team. Every time they play she expresses the reason that she likes them so much. “Look at their helmets. Aren’t they pretty? They sparkle!” I acknowledged that other teams’ helmets do not sparkle and therefore they are not entitled to be rated among the top teams.

Julie and the No-Hitter

I was talking to Julie about the no-hitter thrown by Homer Bailey of the Cincinnati Reds and she said: “I don’t understand why they call it a no-hitter. Does that mean that they got no home runs? The other team got a lot of hits.” I said: No, it doesn’t mean that they got no home runs. Do you mean that they hit the ball a lot.” She answered: “Yes, they got lots of hits.” I said: “But those weren’t hits as that term is used in baseball. On every one of them the hitter hit the ball, but he was put out. His hit either caused a put-out at first base or it was caught by a fielder.” “Well, that’s just stupid” she said.

The New Kitchen

Wealthy suburbs not only have rich Wasps and their servants, they also have Yuppies. The big question has been how to distinguish the Yuppies from the authentic rich Wasps. After all, they dress the same, with polo shirts, green slacks, and Docksider shoes. They drive BMWs, join the Yacht Club, and exhibit even greater levels of imperiousness than their betters on the big estates. So how can you tell? The answer is, the New Kitchen.

You can take the middle class out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the kitchen. The giveaway clue to social status in suburbia is the eternal middle class quest for a new kitchen. No matter how you polish your English, part your hair, or perfect your preppiness, you cannot get away from the new kitchen syndrome.

Every middle class person aches deep in his or her bones for a new kitchen. God knows why, but this profound drive appears to be some kind of genetic endowment which cannot be eschewed with the advantages of money. Just as Tarzan had to take an occasional swing on a rope or vine after he came back to his noble estate in England, middle class people cannot refrain from planning a new kitchen the minute they move into their house in the suburbs.

Aristocrats have no such impulse. They are brought up to avoid the kitchen, except for occasional late night snacks. It does not occupy any place in their consciousness. They are not aware of the appliances or implements located therein, and feel no compulsion to update these items with gleaming new ones every few years. If the stove breaks, it gets fixed, and food is taken temporarily at some fancy French eatery. When they think of having their own island, they think of something with a dock and small beach off of Grand Cayman. To them, a cabinet is a group of people in Washington.

Middle class people, however, exhibit a fierce compulsion to redo even the most functional kitchen. They walk into a house where every appliance works, and no holes show through the linoleum, and grit their teeth in anguish. They will borrow, beg, and even embezzle to get the cash for a new kitchen. Why?

Dr. Argone Knoltz of Pace University has brilliantly analyzed the situation in his seminal paper for the Journal of International Sociology and House Remodeling. Dr. Knoltz states that the construction of new kitchens is a form of war. It arises out of the commonplace instinct found in all people to degrade, defeat, and utterly destroy their dearest friends and relatives. They do not build a new kitchen because there is anything wrong with the old one. They do it for that glorious moment when they can usher their best friends into the new room and watch as they try to smile approval while their guts turn inside.

Mechanical Jack

My family believes that I am maladroit in mechanical matters. This is, technically, not true. It is an illusion created by serious effort and long years of cultivation. I am as capable as the next fellow of electrical wiring, plumbing repairs, and carpentry. I discovered early on, however, that evidence of proficiency in these areas could lead to expectations that I would do them! And I, naturally, have many other things to do, like reading philosophy, listening to Bach, and monitoring the fortunes of local sports teams.

There is a problem, however. Expert repairmen are both costly and elusive. At night and on weekends they are away on trips to Milos and the Costa del Sol. During the week, they exist only on answering machines. One is faced with the choice of taking a hand to the leaking pipe, or enduring a week without water. I would opt for the latter were it not for a frenzied wife and weeping children.

So it happened that after repeated calls to the plumber, with offers of bribes by me and sexual favors by my wife, the little lady handed me a ready-to-install toilet repair kit. As she left for her employment with her cemetery plot sales firm, she admonished me: “This kit is so simple even a college professor could do it. Give it your best shot.”

Fearlessly I tackled the job and expertly removed the offending parts, preparing to install the new equipment. Unfortunately, I had neglected to turn off the main pipe and there was suddenly a cascade of tumbling, drenching water covering the walls, the floor, and me. With the feline instincts of a tiger I snatched the wrench and fastened onto the cylinder, only to turn it the wrong way, removing all further obstacles to the avalanche of water now filling the bathroom.

I headed for the basement in a vain quest for the valve that would shut off the water line and stave-off the imminent destruction of my entire house. There I found a superabundance of knobs with no instructions as to which pipes they controlled. I was lost.

As I was rummaging in the basement, my wife returned and noticed a waterfall coming down on a quagmire that had once been our living room. She inserted a large pot under the deluge and charged into the basement. Her face was a boiling cauldron resembling the fiery red spot on the planet Jupiter. Deftly she turned the correct valve and terminated the flood. She then turned on me. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she struggled to find the appropriate words to condemn my incompetence.

I tried to minimize the situation with the comment: “What’s so important about being able to repair the plumbing? Leave that to the plumber. I am a writer, a poet, a philosopher who understands Schopenhauer. Surely that is more impressive than facility in the art of plumbing.” My long-suffering wife exploded: “That cuts no ice with me Mack, I would be impressed if the plumber understood Schopenhauer. As for you, I’d be satisfied if you could tie your shoelaces without expert help.”

Ah the pleasures of a Sunday afternoon! Here I am sprawled on the couch watching the New York Yankees blow a six run lead while my wife installs a new light fixture in the kitchen. Humiliation does have its bright side!

Jack's Aphorisms and Stuff

Artificial intelligence is to intelligence as artificial flowers are to flowers.

The Virgin Birth—A miss conception.

The reason that there are no atheists in foxholes is that they have deferments from military service.

Husbands abhor a vacuum.

There was a seismologist who was polite to a fault.

Why did they call it the Last Supper? Because after that they called it Dinner.

If it wasn’t for women men would still be carrying clubs—--drivers, irons, and putters.

What are all of these sweeping tax changes? I didn’t even know there was a sweeping tax.

I’m in favor of feminism—with reservations—to Tokyo.

Never eat on an empty stomach.

Keep the field hands at arms length.

Never talk to strangers, even if you know them.

Keep your chins up.

What hath God overwrought?

People’s cross words are a puzzle to me.

LeMoult’s Law: Bills expand to fill the amount of money available to pay them. The corollary, bills placed in a drawer cross-fertilize, reproduce, and propagate.

I am against panda-ing to the Chinese communists.

A man he works from sun to sun
A woman’s work is never done
Because she’s always on the phone

The paths of gravy lead but to the gut.

An idealistic person who likes to tell puns is “quipsodic.”

Hard cabbages make bad slaw.

An alcoholic ambassador is a “Dipsomat.”

There are three kinds of clouds, cirrus, serious, and tsoris.

Money cannot buy happiness, but it can rent it.

I’m going through mensapause—I’m having flashes of brilliance.

Thank God I’m an atheist.

The increase in pornography is the “National Gross Product.”

An unhappy married couple who stay together have “static cling.”

Early question of Catholic Church doctrine: Whether Christ is present in the bread or just the crust.

I know that Jesus was born in a stable but I doubt he ever expected that so much horseshit would be associated with his name.

If you cannot be a role model be a bagel model.

Do not ask for whom the bell tolls and do not volunteer for anything.

The biting of one’s fingernails might be considered a virtue in a proctologist.

All those people who believe in God are going to be surprised when they die and find out that there is no afterlife.

We need an institution for the criminally inane.

A dessert that looks like whipped cream and tastes like fried plastic—“cruel whip.”

I get up at 5:00 a.m. Is that why people say I remind them of early man?

Recent discoveries in a cave outside Coo Kin China have included a history of the previously unknown Un Sung Dynasty written by Hoo Soo.

When was the Boxer Shorts Rebellion?

If I were to be allowed one sin I would like to be tried, convicted, and sentenced for repeated goal tending in basketball.

Noah and his lovely wife Joan of Ark.

I believe that there are UFO’s flying about in the atmosphere and that they are manned by aliens from another planet who have an unusual interest in dimwitted people from the American South and West.

I am descended from Col. Rudolph Thicke who distinguished himself in the Crimean War by leading the valiant but unheralded charge of the Heavy Brigade.

Ignorance is wasted on the young.

The one unforgivable thing your friends can do—--very well.

Never look a gift husband in the mouth.

There is a machine set up at the entrance of every shoe store that shrinks your feet as you enter the store and restores them to their original size when you leave with your new shoes.

Name for a prostitute—Sue Pine

All men are cremated equal.

Slogan for fat people: Be all that you can be.

I’m tired of oral sex—--talk, talk, talk.

I’m tired of sex in the movies. The last time we did it I almost got arrested.

On what grounds do you claim that your coffee tastes the best?

The 90 year old woman whose husband took Viagra. It was a hard thing for her to grasp.

Why is America called “America” and not Vespucci?

The seven other dwarfs—Icky, Sticky, Picky, Tricky, Sexy, Stupid, and Steve.

I have always wondered why some police departments employ sidekicks to help them find lost people. Would Gabby Hayes, or Pat Butram, or Robin, or Poncho be better at this than others?

A sign in Heaven—“No Smoking.” A sign in Hell—“Smoking.”

“There is a leak in my swimming pool.”
“Build a fence around it.”
“What good would that do?”
“Then, nobody will leak in your swimming pool.”

Hitler before the Nuremburg War Crimes Tribunal: “Guilty with an explanation.”

I went to a rare bird store and asked them if they had any medium-rare birds.

I was drunk once in my life--from 1976 through 1987.

I was so drunk at a party that they had to scrape me off the hostess.

In all of the dispute about women becoming priests, we forget about all of the men who want to become nuns.

Recommended slogan for the Charmin bathroom tissue company: “Fill the world with happy assholes.”

How a married man can dramatically improve his sex life--get a divorce.

The ultimate form of relaxation is death.

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never wear cologne.

Dear President Truman:
      We got your Atomic Bomb. Thanks, but no thanks. What's the big idea?
                                                              Very truly yours,
                                                              Emperor Hierohito
Dear Emperor Hierohito,
      Suck it up.
Harry Truman


There is a temperature stupidity index.

There is a movie about hens that come back from the dead and haunt a family. It is called "Poultrygeist."

What about Murphy's Slaw?

How about a combined marathon and house tour?

You must remember this
a Bris is just a bris
our guy is still a guy

If you were the only mohel
in the world
and I was the only goy

Country and western song; "She lived in a mobile home
and worked in a stationary store."

There is a famous surgeon named Lance Boyle.

I'm dead against the idea of a nuclear freeze. Where would they get the freezers big enough to store all those bombs. Also, it would take hours, even days, to thaw-out the bombs if you needed them. They would be icy BMs.

How about a beer called "To Excess." Everybody who drank it would drink To Excess.

Fee fi fo fuffen
I smell the smell of an English Muffin.

I cry at the drop of a hat. In fact, I was in the store the other day and a man dropped his hat. I started crying.

I couldn't get into MENSA so joined a group for slow-witted people called DENSA.