Jokes of my Childhood

Do kids still tell clean jokes anymore?

The other evening, my husband and I were just laying in bed looking up at the ceiling and for some reason, we got on a joke telling marathon. I haven’t learned any new jokes recently, so all the jokes I told him harken back about thirty years to the days when I learned jokes for the sole purpose of reciting them to my little friends.

And I got to wondering, do kids still tell jokes anymore? Do they store them away in their memories to pull them out later when their friends are around? I sure hope so.

You must let me know in the comments!

Anyway, me and Jonathon had such a grand old time and a whole bunch of laughs reciting jokes back and forth to each other, that I thought, “I really should write these down for the edification of my readers.”

Now, I hasten to add that none of these jokes are original to me. I learned them from other kids, my parents or other adults. So, though I would gladly credit the original authors, I have no idea who the original authors are. I am, of course, retelling them in creative fashion as befits a fiction writer such as myself.

That aside, prepare yourself for laughs.

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The Dastardly Deacon

This is a joke my dad told me when I was a kid.

On a little old country road, there was a little old country church. The good old-fashioned kind with white clapboard and a steeple with a bell. The congregation had decided the place needed a fresh coat of paint and voted on the money spent for project. And like all good old-fashioned churches, the work of painting fell to…the pastor. Who quickly delegated the task to the head deacon.

With some grumbling and grousing, the deacon went down to the hardware store, bought the paint, and lugged it back. There were a few fair days promised before rain, so he set straight to work painting the old clapboard.

While he labored, a wicked thought crossed his mind.

“There’s so much paint here,” he thought to himself, “and my fence needs a fresh coat. If I just thin this paint out just the littlest bit, I’ll have enough for the church AND my fence. No one will ever know!”

Oh, he did wrestle with this temptation, but the devil won and he thinned the paint. At the end of the day, he loaded up his truck and drove the two miles back home. He ate his supper and went to bed, exhausted.

In the middle of the night, he was awakened by a crash of thunder and a flash of lightening! He sat straight up in bed as a hail of raindrops thumped on his window.

“Oh, no!” he cried. “It wasn’t supposed to rain this early!”

He jumped out of bed, got in his truck and drove back down to the church. He stepped out of the truck and groaned in dismay. The paint was running down the sides of the old church and puddling in milky white pools on the ground.

With another flash of lightning, a voice out of heaven thundered down and said:

“REPAINT! AND THIN NO MORE!”

The Profane Parrot

I also learned this one from my dad.

A widowed pastor went to a pet shop one day, seeking a companion to ease his loneliness. He stopped in front of a fine looking, brilliantly colored macaw parrot. The salesman sidled up to him, and launched into his best sales’ pitch, looking slightly jumpy and nervous at the same time.

“Oh, I can tell she likes you,” said the salesman.

“It’s a girl?” the pastor inquired.

“Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. This here is Bridget. Sweet tempered thing. She’s never tried to bite anyone.”

The pastor brightened up at the prospect of a sweet bird who didn’t bite.

“Does she say anything?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” the nervous salesman replied. “Got quite the vocabulary that one. She’s a little shy right now, but she’ll warm right up once she gets to know you.”

The pastor’s face clouded as he looked at her price tag.

“That’s an awful lot of money,” he mused.

Darting quick glances at the parrot, the salesman piped up, “It’s just your lucky day! For today only, you can take her and the cage home for seventy-five percent off! All sales are final today only.”

The deal was too good to refuse, so the pastor got out his thin wallet and shelled out the cash. Before he knew it, he was driving home with shy Bridget in the back seat.

Things went quite well for a week. All that time Bridget remained shy and didn’t utter a single word. The pastor didn’t mind. It was nice to have another creature in the house and she surely did enjoy all the crackers and other nibbles he showered upon her.

Sunday rolled around and after the morning service, he had a marriage counseling session with a newly engaged couple over at the parsonage. He welcomed the young people in and got them comfortable and began the session. About five minutes in, Bridget, who had not uttered a word all week, loudly yelled one word, which I will not repeat here.

The young couple stiffened in their seats. The bride-to-be blushed.

“Pastor!” the groom remonstrated.

“It wasn’t me!” Pastor stammered.

All eyes turned to Bridget who was giving them all the side eye.

“Is that the sort of language you use around that bird?” the bride asked, astonished.

“Goodness, no! I just got this bird last week, and she hasn’t said a thing until today. Let’s, uh, let’s just ignore her and continue.”

They all nodded and went on.

But Bridget was not shy any more. She opened her beak and a stream of the most foul, disgusting stuff erupted. Every innuendo known to man or parrot! Every combination of profanity and obscenity! Every crude and tasteless joke! All of it came out of that parrot’s mouth with the alacrity of a toastmaster’s champion.

The couple and the pastor went silent with dismay, and that ended the counseling session.

The next day, the pastor dialed up the salesman at the pet shop.

“Why didn’t you tell me that parrot’s last owner was a degenerate, foul-mouthed profligate?!” he thundered.

"All sales final!” the salesman squeaked back and hung up.

The situation was intolerable. Once her beak was loosened, Bridget could not seem to shut up. She swore all day and twice on Sundays. Pastor couldn’t have anyone to the house anymore. Mothers had to cover their children’s ears on the way to Sunday School if the windows at the parsonage were ever left open.

A church meeting was called, and a consensus was reached. Either Bridget stopped swearing or she had to go. Pastor agreed, though it pained him. What decent family, after all, would take this profane bird off his hands without subterfuge? As a last resort, he determined to call up a friend of his who also had a parrot named St. John, who never said anything but pious phrases and Scripture.

His favorite phrases were, “Praise be to God,” “Let us pray,” and “Let all things be done decently and in order.”

“Perhaps if St. John and Bridget spend some time together,” Pastor explained to the congregation, “St. John’s vocabulary will rub off on Bridget.”

It was decided.

The next day, Pastor’s friend brought St. John over to the house. The two men took a deep breath, gave each other a significant look, then opened the front door and brought the parrot in.

Bridget caught sight of St. John, and let it rip, “Hey there, you big hunk of man! Why don’t you come over here and redacted redacted redacted!”

Pastor turned crimson in shame, but neither fellow was prepared for what came next.

St. John perked right up and fired back, “Praise the Lord! My prayers have been answered!”

The Dumb Blonde and the Deadly Trim

I can’t remember where I first heard this one.

A barber was leaning against his chair trying to pass the time on a slow day, when a young blonde gal walked in wearing headphones.

“Morning!” he greeted her. “What can I do for you today.”

“Well,” she said, whipping out her phone and showing him a photo, “can you do this style?”

“You betcha,” he said. “Have a seat in my chair and we’ll get started. Here, I’ll set your headphones over there on the counter.”

“Oh, no!” she said, shrinking back from his hand. “No, no. These stay on.”

“But your cut won’t be even if I have to work around them,” he protested.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Just cut around them like you said. But whatever you do, don’t ever, ever, EVER take these off!”

“Okay,” the barber replied, a little bewildered.

He cut her hair as well as possible given the circumstances while she stared delightedly at his work in the mirror, paid him, and left.

Over the next six months, she came back to his shop a few more times for a trim. Each time she got the same cut and repeated the same urgent instructions.

“Whatever happens, DO NOT take these headphones off! Don’t even touch them!”

The barber always agreed to her demands, but every time she came through his door, his curiosity grew.

One fateful day, the blonde came in for her trim and sat down in the chair. After repeating her usual frantic instructions concerning the headphones, she quieted and paged through a magazine while the barber snipped here and snipped there with his scissors. About ten minutes later, her head began to nod and she fell asleep.

“What on earth could she be listening to all this time?” he wondered to himself. “She’s fast asleep now. If I take them off for just a second, I can hear what she’s listening to and put them back before she wakes up…”

He put his scissors down carefully and ever so gently and gingerly removed the headphones. But before he could get them to his ears, she slumped over and fell to the floor. Alarmed, the barber rushed to her side and tried to shake her awake. She didn’t stir. He put two fingers to her neck and there was no pulse.

SHE WAS DEAD!

Dumfounded, he finally put the headphones to his ears, and a calm, soothing voice spoke the words:

“Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in….”

The Ghost of the One Black Eye

This one was told me by one of my girlhood friends, Hannah Blondke. Embellishments are my own. Little kids get a real kick out of this one.

On the lonesome moors of Scotland, stood a grim and solitary inn where weary travelers rested in the good old days of coachmen and horses. One dark and stormy night, a gentleman rode into the courtyard, handed his horse off to the stable boy, and stumbled into the inn.

“I need a room for the night.”

“Oh, I’m sorry sir,” the innkeeper replied, shaking his head. “We’re full up for the night.”

"Oh, there must be some little cranny you could stow me,” the man begged, his tired face falling.

“Well, we do have one room,” the innkeeper said, raising an eyebrow. “But you’ll not be wanting that one.”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s haunted.”

“Oh, poo,” scoffed the traveler.

“Well, I warned you,” the innkeeper sighed and showed him up.

The traveler fell exhausted into bed, clothes and all. The wind whistled and rattled the window pane as he slept. But at the stroke of midnight, he woke and sat up in bed, the hair on his arm raised, though he didn’t know why.

Suddenly, a booming voice spoke and echoed all around the room, “I am the Ghost of the One Black Eye!”

The traveler bolted out of his bed, grabbed his satchel and ran out of the room, down the stairs, past the innkeeper at his desk and straight out into the howling wind, never to be seen from again.

“I warned him,” the innkeeper said with a shake of his head.

Not an hour later, another traveler rushed through the inn’s doors with a gust of wind. This fellow was cross and surly.

“I need a room,” he demanded.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you we’ve only got one left and you won’t want it.”

“I assure you I will. Now show me up this instant.”

“That room is empty because it’s haunted,” the innkeeper explained.

“What rubbish!”

“Indeed, sir,” the innkeeper stammered, “the last guest who slept there ran screaming from the room not an hour ago.”

“Stop blathering and show me the way,” the traveler ordered.

The innkeeper was so frightened, he snatched his keys and showed the man to his room without further delay.

Once again, the traveler fell into bed, clothes and all, and was sawing logs before the innkeeper could shut the door. The wind roared and howled and the rain beat against the roof, but the traveler didn’t stir.

At three in the morning, an icy chill descended upon the room and the traveler sat up in bed, disgruntled and annoyed. A voice boomed and echoed throughout the room…

“I am the Ghost of the One Black Eye.”

The traveler shouted straight back so loudly, the whole place could hear, “And if you don’t shut your gob, I’ll blacken the other one!”

The traveler glared around the room, laid back on the pillow with a “harrumph!” and fell back to sleep. And the ghost didn’t make another peep the rest of the night.

The Desert Disaster

I’m pretty sure one of my childhood friends told me this one, but I can’t remember who.

Three college chums rented a car and road tripped across the Badlands. Things were going fine, the music was playing, and the wind whipped through their hair as they sang along to the radio. Suddenly, the car made some thumping noises, coughed, spluttered and rolled to a stop. They tried restarting it, but no dice.

Realizing the pickle they were in, they got out, grabbed what each could carry and started off across the desert on foot. The first fellow grabbed some water bottles and the second fellow grabbed a loaf of bread. But the third fellow, a big burly guy on the football team, grabbed one of the car doors and tore it clean off the car.

The other two stared at him.

He stared straight back and asked the first guy, “Why you got all those water bottles?”

“Well, duh! So if we get thirsty, we’ll have water to drink.”

The football player looked at the second guy and asked, “Why you got that loaf of bread?”

“Well, duh! So if we get hungry, we got something to eat.”

“Oh.”

The first two guys looked at the football player and asked in unison, “Why did you rip off that car door?”

“Well, duh!” he laughed. “So if we get hot, we can roll down the window!”

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I hope you enjoyed that! Let me know if your kids enjoyed them, too.

Next week, I’ll be back to more serious, thoughtful fare befitting someone of my age and intellect. (Wink, wink.)

That’s all for now. Until next time, folks…

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