Just Joan - Joan Huguenard

Attempting to tickle your funnybone as we head toward summer

St. Peter encounters one Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump has, as all of us must, died, gone to heaven and standing at the Pearly Gates. But!! – the gates are closed! So Forrest says to himself. “Well, shucks, I reckon I’d best go lookin’ for the gatekeeper.”

He finds St. Peter who says, “Hello, Forrest Gump. We’ve heard quite a lot about you. I must tell you though, this place is filling up really fast, so we’ve started testing people when they get here. The test is short, Forrest, but you have to pass before you can get into Heaven.”

Forrest looks St. Peter square in the eyes and says, “Well, St. Peter, sir, my momma never told me anything at all about any test like that. So Ah’m kinda scared about that there test.”

“Oh, don’t get yourself all nervous. I’m just going to ask you three questions. You’ll see they really aren’t very hard.”

“Well my momma will be all glad about that, St. Peter, sir.”

“All right, Forrest, I think you’re ready,” St. Peter continued. “Here are the three questions:

First: What two days of the week begin with the letter T?

Second: How many seconds are there in a year?

Third: What is God’s first name?”

Forrest steps to the side, finds a park bench and sits down to think.

After some time he goes to the end of the line of folks waiting to talk to the gatekeeper, but St. Peter waves him to the front, saying, “How about it, Forrest? What are your answers?”

“Well,” Forrest begins with confidence, “my momma told me to always tell the truth so I hafta tell ya that first one was really easy. Which two days in the week begin with the letter T? That would be Today and Tomorrow.”

This was a new approach to which the saintly questioner exclaimed, “Forrest, although that’s not what I was thinking, you do have a point. Hm-m-m. I guess I’ll give the credit. How about the next one?”

“How many seconds in a year?” Forrest drawls. “Now that one is harder, St. Peter, sir. But I thunk and I thunk about it an’ I guess the only right answer would hafta be twelve.”

St. Peter knows some things about this Forrest Gump, but he still can hardly believe his ears. “Twelve?” he asks. “Twelve? Forrest, how in Heaven’s name could you come up with twelve seconds in a year?”

Forrest’s answer rolls off his tongue like sweet maple syrup: “Shucks, there’s just gotta be twelve: January 2nd, February 2nd, March 2nd…”

“Hold it,” interrupts St. Peter, speaking through tightened lips. “I see where you’re going with this, and I even see your point. Once again your answer is not quite what I had in mind, but I guess I’ll have to give you credit for that one, too. Let’s go on to the third and final question. Can you tell me God’s first name?”

“Sure,” Forrest proclaims easily, “it’s Andy.”

“Andy?” St Peter expresses exasperation. “Now, Forrest, I can understand how you came up with your unique answers to the first two questions, but now you’re being ridiculous. Andy as the first name of God? Please, Forrest, have a little respect.”

“Shucks, St. Peter, sir, that last question was the easiest one of all. Din’t you never sing that famous song? Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me, Andy tells me I am his own?”

St. Peter opened the Pearly Gates and shouted, “Run, Forrest, run.”

Devastation in a dark dungeon

A young priest arrives at the monastery with an assignment to help other priests copy by hand the old canons and laws of the church. He soon notices everyone is copying from copies, not from the original manuscripts.

The new priest quickly makes an appointment with the Bishop to question this practice, pointing out that if someone made even a small error in the first copy, it would never be picked up! In fact, that error would be continued in all subsequent copies.

The Bishop says, “I believe folks in our scriptorium have been copying from copies for generations, but you certainly make a good point, my son. I’ll look into this at once”

Down into the dark caves beneath the monastery trudges the Bishop carrying a large lantern. It takes some time for his gnarled fingers to release the lock (unopened for hundreds of years) to access the archives of original manuscripts.

After several hours, the young priest finds himself worrying and goes in search of the elderly Bishop. In the deepest cavern he finds the old man banging his head against the wall and wailing again and again, “We missed the R ! We missed the R !”

His forehead bloody and bruised, the Bishop is sobbing uncontrollably. Tenderly, the young priest inquires into whatever could be the matter.

His raspy voice cracking, the old Bishop wails, “All these years we’ve left out the R. The word was celebrate!!!”

And finally, because I’m thoroughly Polish…

Tale of a “Dumb Polack”

A Polish fellow walked into a New York City bank and told a loan officer he was not a depositor of the bank, but wanted to borrow $5,000 for a two-week business trip to Poland. For loan security, the gentleman gave the loan officer the title and keys to a new Ferrari parked in front of the bank.

The loan officer agreed to the deal and apologized for having to charge 12 percent interest, barely able to restrain himself from laughing out loud. When the Ferrari had been secured in the bank’s underground garage, the president and assorted bank officers shared guffaws over the idiocy of using a $250,000 Ferrari as collateral for a $5,000 loan.

Two weeks later, the car’s owner returned from his homeland and plunked down $5023.07 on the loan officer’s desk.

“Sir,” the bank official snidely retorted, “We’re happy to have your business, of course, but frankly, we’re mystified. We’ve learned you’re a multimillionaire, so why in the world would you bother to borrow $5,000?”

The “Dumb Polack’s” reply: Where else in New York City can I park my car for two weeks and expect it to be there when I return at the cost of a mere $23.07?”

Ah, the Polish…really smart cookies.

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