The Nun and the Secretive Truck Driver
A young nun was traveling across the country to visit a new convent. Her bus broke down in the middle of nowhere, and the next bus wasn’t scheduled until the following day. Stranded at a lonely truck stop, she noticed a burly truck driver who was about to hit the road in a massive eighteen-wheeler.
She walked up to him and asked politely, “Excuse me, sir, but are you by any chance heading toward the next city? I am a nun and I desperately need to reach my destination tonight.”
The truck driver, a tough-looking man with a kind heart, nodded. “Sure am, Sister. Hop in, but I have to warn you: I have a bit of a habit of talking to myself when I drive, and sometimes my language isn’t exactly church-appropriate.”
The nun smiled, “Don’t worry, my son. I have a ‘habit’ of my own, and I am a very good listener.”
They drove for about two hours in comfortable silence. Suddenly, a small deer darted out onto the highway directly in front of the truck. The driver slammed on the brakes, swerved hard, and just barely missed the animal.
Shaken up and frustrated, the driver yelled out a string of terrible curse words, venting his anger at the deer. A second later, he remembered his holy passenger. He turned bright red, looked at the nun, and apologized profusely: “Oh, Sister! I am so incredibly sorry! I completely forgot you were here. Please forgive my awful language.”
The nun patted his arm gently and said with a calm, sweet smile, “Oh, don’t worry about it, dear. Actually, I learned a lot of new vocabulary just now. But tell me… what on earth is a ‘deer’?”
After a family meal one night, three generations of the family are sitting around chatting. Jenny, a four-year-old, is sitting on her grandfather’s knee.
Jenny: “Grandpa, can you make a noise like a frog?”
Grandfather: “What?”
Jenny: “Can you make a noise like a frog?”
Grandfather: “Why do you want me to make a noise like a frog?”
Jenny: “Well, last night Daddy said that when you croak, we can all go to Disneyland.”
On their anniversary night,
Theodore and his wife, Sophia, sat down in the den with her favourite magazine, turned on the soft reading lamp, slipped off her shoes, patted and propped her feet and announced that he was preparing dinner all by himself.
“How romantic!” Sophia thought.
Two-and-a-half hours later, Sophia was still waiting for dinner to be served.
She tiptoed to the kitchen and found it a colossal mess. Theodore, removing something indescribable from the smoking oven, saw her in the doorway.
“Almost ready!” he vowed. “Sorry it took me so long, I had to refill the pepper shaker.”
