Animals

Talking Dog.

Talking Dog.

Talking -Dog

A young Southern boy goes off to college, but about 1/3 way through the first semester, he has foolishly squandered what money his parents had given him for school.

Then he gets an idea.

He calls his Redneck father.

“Dad,” he says, “you won’t believe the wonders that modern education are coming up with! Why, they actually have a program here that will teach Fido how to talk!”

“That’s absolutely amazing!” his father says. “How do I get him in that program?”

“Just send him down here with $1000,” the boy says, “I’ll get him into the course.”

So, his father sends the dog and the $1000.

About 2/3 way through the semester, the money runs out.

The boy calls his father again.

“So how’s Fido doing, son?” his father asks.
“Awesome, dad, he’s talking up a storm,” he says, “but you just won’t believe this, they’ve had such good results with this program, that they’ve implemented a new one to teach the animals how to READ!”

“READ!?” says his father, “No kidding! What do I have to do to get him in that program?”

“Just send $2,500, I’ll get him in the class.

His father sends the money.

The boy has a problem. At the end of the year, his father will find out that the dog can neither talk nor read. So he shoots the dog.

When he gets home, his father is all excited… “Where’s Fido? I just can’t wait to see him talk and read something!”

“Dad,” the boy says, “I have some grim news. This morning, when I got out of the shower, Fido was in the living room kicking back in the recliner, reading the morning paper, like he usually does. Then he turned to me and asked: “Is your daddy still cheating on your mama and messing’ around with that cute little redhead next door?”

The father says, “I hope you SHOT that damn dog”.

“I sure did, Dad!” “I sure did!”

“That’s my Boy!”

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Flea-quent Flier.

Flea-quent Flier.

Flea-quent-Flier

A flea had oiled up his little flea legs and his little flea arms, had spread out his blanket, and was proceeding to soak up the Miami sun when who should stumble by on the beach but an old flea friend of his.

“Oscar, what happened to you?”, asked the flea, because Oscar looked terrible, wrapped up in a blanket, his nose running, his eyes red, and his teeth chattering.

“I got a ride down here in some guy’s mustache and he came down here by motorcycle. I nearly froze to death,” wheezed Oscar.

“Let me give you a tip, old pal,” said the first flea, spreading some more suntan oil on his shoulders. “You go to the stewardess lounge at the airport, see, and you get up on the toilet seat, and when an Air Florida stewardess comes in, you hop on for a nice warm ride. Got it?”

So you can imagine the flea’s surprise when, a month or so later, while stretched out all warm and comfortable on the beach, who should he see but Oscar – looking more chilled and miserable than before.

“Listen,” said Oscar, “I did everything you said. I made it to the stewardess lounge and waited till a really cute one came in, and made a perfect landing and got so warm and cozy that I dozed right off.”

“And so?” asked the first flea.

“And so the next thing I know, I’m on this guy’s mustache again!”

 

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