Three men were standing in line to get into heaven one day. Apparently it
had been a pretty busy day, though, so Peter had to tell the first one,
“Heaven’s getting pretty close to full today, and I’ve been asked to admit
only people who have had particularly horrible deaths. So what’s your
story?”
So the first man replies: “Well, for a while I’ve suspected my wife has
been cheating on me, so today I came home early to try to catch her
red-handed. As I came into my 25th floor apartment, I could tell something
was wrong, but all my searching around didn’t reveal where this other guy
could have been hiding. Finally, I went out to the balcony, and sure
enough, there was this man hanging off the railing, 25 floors above ground!
By now I was really mad, so I started beating on him and kicking him, but
wouldn’t you know it, he wouldn’t fall off. So finally I went back into my
apartment and got a hammer and started hammering on his fingers. Of
course, he couldn’t stand that for long, so he let go and fell – but even
after 25 stories, he fell into the bushes, stunned but okay. I couldn’t
stand it anymore, so I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the fridge and threw
it over the edge where it landed on him, killing him instantly. But all the
stress and anger got to me, and I had a heart attack and died there on
the balcony.”
“That sounds like a pretty bad day to me,” said Peter, and let the man in.
The second man comes up and Peter explains to him about heaven being
full, and again asks for his story.
“It’s been a very strange day. You see, I live on the 26th floor of my
apartment building, and every morning I do my exercises out on my
balcony.
Well, this morning I must have slipped or something, because I fell over
the edge. But I got lucky, and caught the railing of the balcony on the
floor below me. I knew I couldn’t hang on for very long, when suddenly
this man burst out onto the balcony. I thought for sure I was saved, when
he started beating on me and kicking me. I held on the best I could until
he ran into the apartment and grabbed a hammer and started pounding on my
hands. Finally I just let go, but again I got lucky and fell into the
bushes below, stunned but all right. Just when I was thinking I was going
to be okay, this refrigerator comes falling out of the sky and crushes me
instantly, and now I’m here.”
Once again, Peter had to concede that that sounded like a pretty horrible
death.
The third man came to the front of the line, and again the whole process
was repeated. Peter explained that heaven was full and asked for his
story.
“Picture this,” says the third man, “I’m hiding naked inside a
refrigerator…”
Well, it’s not a joke. It’s a true story.
There’s a church here in Saint Paul named Saint Agnes. Saint Agnes is a stately old church with minurettes and steep stone stairs. It’s one of the oldest churches in Saint Paul, and it’s and impressive sight.
When my father was a wee lad, back in the late forties or early fifties, he had to attend a funeral at Saint Agnes of an old neighbor man. It was a chilly winter day as he stood outside as the pall bearers emerged from the church, crested the steps, then watched in horror as the bottom fell out of the caskett, end the dead guy slid down the steep tall steps and became lodged partly under the hearse.
I dunno. Maybe I’m a sicko. But every time I drive by that church, I giggle at the thought.
A Frenchman, an Italian an a Jew were talking about their weekend, comparing notes.
“This weekend,” said the Frenchman, “I massaged my wife with perfume and then made love to her so tenderly that she cried for 15 minutes afterwards.”
“Well I,” said the Italian, “massaged my wife with olive oil, made love to her and made her cry for half an hour afterwards.”
“Nu?” said the Jew, “I massaged my wife with schmaltz (chicken fat), made love to her and made her cry for six hours already!”
“Six hours!” said the other two, “how did you do that?”
“I wiped my hands on the drapes.”
(Okay, the chicken was dead, so technically this joke qualifies.)
A woman arrives at church, quite agitated, and seeks the Priest. Once she has found him, she blurts out, “My husband is dead!”
The Priest asks her if he had any last words. “Yes, he did.” He cried out, “Marjorie, for the love of God, put down that gun!”
Three men are lost in the jungle, an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a New Yorker. As often happens in these stories, they are captured by the local cannibal tribe, and taken before the Chief. “You have violated our sacred lands”, says the Chief, “and for that your lives are forfeit. Your flesh will be eaten, and your skins will be tanned and made into hides for our canoes. However, as you are clearly brave men to have ventured so far into our lands, I will grant you one boon. You may choose the manner of your deaths.”
“Right-ho”, says the Englishman. “A pistol, if you would be so kind.” And with that, he takes the pistol and with a murmured, “God save the Queen.”, he blows his brains out. The natives sigh approvingly at this show of fortitude.
Determined not to be outdone, the Frenchman asks, “Donnez-moi une knife, s’il vous plait.” And with a cry of, “Vive La France!”, he cuts his own throat. Murmurs of approval all round.
Finally the New Yorker steps up. “Gimme a fork”, he snaps. Consternation instantly reigns among the natives. What can he possibly have in mind? Finally, however, after much searching, a fork is procured. “Gimme that”, he says, and proceeds to stab himself frenziedly with it. Oh, God, it’s horrible - blood is pouring from everywhere, and he keeps stabbing away.
“In God’s name, man!”, cries the Chief, appalled. “What manner of death is this?”
“So much for your fuckin’ canoe!”, snarls the New Yorker.