My grandma used to tell a joke with a giggle in her voice about the little old lady who called the fire department to report her house was on fire. “How do we get there?” the fireman asked.
“Don’t you still have that little red truck?” she answered.
My grandkids tell that joke frequently.
Well, yesterday I went on a little red truck in Long Beach. Actually a red bus. With a group of usually, down-to-business, work friends for a young attorney’s bachelorette party. At my age, you hope for a male stripper, but know if it really happened, you’d be too embarrassed to look (without a few drinks, and that’s not going to happen since I don’t drink). So the topless bus suited me fine. The attendants on board wore kilts, and a few gusty winds did not disappoint.
Things weren’t as usual, if you get my drift. From the lofty perch, we drove by city streets and canals, while the younger bunch hollered, shimmied, and waved to envious passersby.
Our first stop offered a magnificent view of the Queen Mary, the big white boat docked in the Port of Long Beach. Every time my dad received a call from my mom, it was the same story. No matter where Mom drove, she ended up at the Queen Mary. But my favorite was the wedding story.
There we were, aboard the big landmark. Mom needed to use the restroom, so my sister accompanied her. She’d never have found her way back alone. She stood and tilted with a port list. “Why are you leaning?” Holly had asked impatiently.
“The boat’s swaying,” Mom answered naively.
“Mom,” Holly said, with that look (all moms know the look when parents don’t have a clue), “the ship’s set in concrete.”
“It feels like it’s rocking to me,” she’d said.
Well, the big red bus was definitely rocking. But what happens on big red topless buses, stays on big red topless buses.
P.S. Amber shared with me that her soon-to-be husband is anxious about her changing her name to “Smith.” She’s not so excited. She’s thinking of hyphenating, but that would leave her with A.S.S. initials. Pretty bad, I commiserated. I’d married a Jewish man and changed my name, and to his misfortune, my initials became PLO.
Best of luck, Amber.
Related posts:
Print This Post
I lucked out in the initial department. P. J. and P. S.
Great jokes! My initials are SKA, which happens to be a cool kind of music.
Pingback: Twenty ways you know you are getting old… | So Humor Me