The detective turned his attention to the third and last blonde and said, “This is probably a waste of time, but…” He flashed the photo in her face for a couple of seconds and withdrew it, saying, “All right, did you notice anything distinguishing or unusual about this man?”
The blonde said, “I sure did. This man wears contact lenses.”
The detective frowned, took another look at the picture and began looking at some of the papers in the folder.
He looked up at the blonde with a puzzled _expression and said, “You’re absolutely right! His bio says he wears contacts! How in the world could you tell that by looking at his picture?”
The blonde rolled her eyes and said, “Well, Helloooo! With only one eye and one ear, he certainly can’t wear glasses.
Out of breath, he asked, “Please, may I hide under your skirt? I’ll explain later.” The nun agreed… A moment later two Military Police ran up and asked, “Sister, have you seen a soldier?”
The nun replied, “He went that way.” After the MPs ran off, the soldier crawled out from under her skirt and said, “I can’t thank you enough, sister. You see, I don’t want to go to S*ria. ” The nun said, “I understand completely.
”The soldier added, “I hope I’m not rude, but you have a great pair of legs!” The nun replied, “If you had looked a little higher, you would have seen a great pair of balls…. I don’t want to go to S*ria either.”
In August 1989, my grandmother’s garden was under siege.
Every night, petty thieves would sneak in, raiding her cucumber patches and greenhouse tomatoes, tramping over her flowerbeds in the process.
It was frustrating. And heartbreaking.
I felt worst for Grandma. The poor soul would turn pale with worry, put on her old winter coat (which was actually quite practical for chilly August nights in our village), and stay up all night on “guard duty.” But the thieves were craftier—they’d wait until dawn, right when she’d finally give up and head inside to rest.
My dad, being an engineer, decided that a grandmother patrolling in a parka in the 20th century was simply unacceptable. He went to his workshop and got to work. By that evening, he had rigged three “traps” and hidden them along the garden paths and near the fence.
The traps were simple: small metal plates buried under a thin layer of dirt and sand. If you stepped on one, a signal traveled through wires—cleverly hidden among the carrot tops and green onions—all the way to a bicycle bell mounted right above my grandfather’s bed.
Grandpa was hard of hearing, but that bell made him jump like he’d been struck by lightning. Next to his bed, Dad had installed a “Master Switch.” This triggered a massive rooftop spotlight and an air-raid siren. The spotlight was a stadium-grade beast—at least two thousand watts. It was so bright it looked like aliens and the NFL had teamed up for an intergalactic championship game right in our backyard.
Dad, being a humanitarian (much to Grandpa’s disappointment), had no intention of hurting anyone. He just wanted to scare the living daylights out of them.
At 2:00 AM, the deafening siren wailed over the silent village, and the entire valley was suddenly flooded with a blinding, white light. The whole neighborhood woke up in a panic—some thought the Cold War had finally turned hot. Grandma, my parents, and I were glued to the windows, watching the chaos unfold in the garden.
The “thieves” turned out to be a group of young adults, maybe in their early twenties. They must have thought they were about to be vaporized by a laser cannon. I remember them crouching in sheer terror, covering their heads, while one guy dropped to the ground near the sweet peas and started low-crawling like a soldier in basic training.
Grandpa, still in his pajamas, leaned out the window and started screaming about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at the top of his lungs.
It was an act of sweet, spectacular justice.
After that night, not a single soul ever dared to set foot in Grandma’s garden again.
My sisters and I used to look at those traps gathering dust in the shed with a bit of sadness, missing the excitement.
I sometimes wonder what happened to those amateur cucumber thieves…
I wonder if they ever managed to stop stuttering. 🙂
