Jokes 3 off topic:
You might think that Yankees are a fairytale mothers made up to scare their children into silence, but the other night I was walking in the woods enjoying the heat and the bugs, and there was something on the ground.  I leaned over to look at it.  I was thinking it must be a foot puppet when a net dropped over me.  With savage yells they were on me and in an instant they tied my wrists and ankles and hung me from a pole they carried on their shoulders.  I soon realized they were Yankees.  When they talk Yankees don’t say, “What, where, when, why” they say watt, ware, wen, y.”  It’s nothing to do with being gay.  It’s an austerity thing. 

Then I heard one say, “It’s a stand up comic.  We’re going to have some fun tonight.”  That sounds odd, I know.  How can you not have fun at night?  If you have a gun to clean or a dog to pull ticks off or a cousin to kiss your evening is made.  You’re going to have a good time. 

But these are forbidden to Yankees.  It’s nothing to do with being gay.  It’s an austerity thing.  So they sing.  Particularly in New England.  They call them the Singing Colleges of New England. 

O ivied walls,
O storied halls,
O shrine of long, long ago.
The altar fires our fathers lit …

Sniff.  It’s true.  Fathers get lit.  My father … your fathers.  Of course we generally don’t scream it from the rooftops, but for Yankees it’s a good thing.  You see among our boreal brethren a man won’t have sex unless he’s stinking drunk.  It’s nothing to do with being gay.  It’s an austerity thing.  So if Dad is getting drunk enough so he doesn’t vomit at the sight of it but not so drunk he vomits from the alcohol, it means there might, just might, be a little obnoxious Yankee on the way.  It works to a certain extent.  It doesn’t work as well enough for them to survive.  They’re dying our… again.  You don’t get many colonial types up there, second stand timber, and now these ones are taking the long walk, too.  They never learn. 

They carried me back to their camp.  Now my hosts weren’t Ivy League, so instead of a lengthy passage from Virgil set to Toccata and Fugue in B minor I got:

Three miniscule murines bereft of their ophthalmic capability.
Three runted rodents deprived of opitical capacity.
Attend their manner of accelerated locomotion.
Apprehend their strategy of rapid translocation.
They unanimously pursued an agriculturalists spouse.
With a culinary utensil she amputated the caudal appendage of each mouse.
Have you ever ascertained such an enormity in your house
As three musculus bereft of being able to receive electromagnetic radiation in the 200 angstrom band and process it into useful information.

That’s about the end of the story.  When they finished singing they buried me up to my neck in the sand and turned a wildcat on me.

Now no animal, not even a wildcat, wants to meet your gaze.  So as he charged I let him have it with both peepers. 

As he looked away I feinted left.

I dodged right.

As he stumbled by I noticed between his thighs his tomwildcathood, sheathed but accessible.  Desperation gave me strength.  I managed to get it between my teeth.

The Yankees shouted, “Fight fair, comedian.  Fight fair.” 

The wildcat and I became very good friends.  He chased the Yankees away, dug me out of the sand, got me back to the highway and hailed a cab.  He kissed me goodbye.

I wonder about that cat.  Was he into austerity or something?

Oh yes.  He taught me one other thing.

(Holds up foot with face painted on sole.)

Call me Matt.  I get stepped on a lot. 

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