You've Got Mail

(Anyone who has ever dressed a child will love this)

 

 Did you hear

about the Texas teacher who was helping one of her kindergarten

students put on his cowboy boots?

 

He asked for help and she could see why. Even with her pulling and

him pushing, the little boots still didn't want to go on. By the time

they got the second boot on, she had worked up a sweat.

 

She almost cried when the little boy said, "Teacher, they're on the

wrong feet." She looked, and sure enough, they were. It wasn't any

easier pulling the boots off than it was putting them on. She managed

to keep her cool as, together, they worked to get the boots back on,

this time on the right feet.

 

He then announced, "These aren't my boots." She bit her tongue,

rather than get right in his face and scream, "Why didn't you say

so?", like she wanted to.

 

Once again she struggled to help him pull the ill-fitting boots off

his little feet.

 

No sooner had they gotten the boots off when he said, "They're my

brother's boots. My Mom made me wear 'em." Now she didn't know if she

should laugh or cry. But she mustered up what grace and courage she

had left to wrestle the boots on his feet again.

 

Helping him into his coat, she asked, "Now, where are your mittens?"

 

He said, "I stuffed 'em in the toes of my boots." She will be

eligible for parole in three years.

Dear Connie ,

I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.

Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.

She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial.

What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.

I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.

Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."

Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.

And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.

Love, Dan

 

 

 

Thanks E! for finding the text format of this one

The latest poll taken by the office of the Governor of Texas asked

whether people who live in Texas think illegal immigration is a serious problem:

35% of respondents answered: "Yes, it is a serious problem."

65% of respondents answered: "No es una problema serio."

 

Lawyers should never ask a Mississippi grandma
a question if they aren't prepared for the answer: In
a trial, a Southern small-town prosecuting attorney
called his first witness, a grandmotherly, elderly
woman to the stand. He approached her and
asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know me?"

She responded, "Why, yes, I do know you, Mr. Williams.
I've known you since you were a young boy, and frankly,
you've been a big disappointment to me. You lie, you
cheat on your wife, and you manipulate people and
talk about them behind their backs. You think you're
a big shot when you haven't the brains to realize you
never will amount to anything more than a two-bit
paper pusher. Yes, I know you."

The lawyer was stunned! Not knowing what else to
do, he pointed across the room and asked, "Mrs.
Jones, do you know the defense attorney?"

She again replied, "Why, yes, I do. I've known Mr. Bradley
since he was a youngster, too. He's lazy, bigoted, and
he has a drinking problem. He can't build a normal
relationship with anyone and his law practice is one
of the worst in the entire state. Not to mention he
cheated on his wife with three different women.
One of them was your wife. Yes, I know him."

The defense attorney almost died.

The judge asked both counselors to approach the
bench and, in a very quiet voice, said, "If either of
you idiots asks her if she knows me, I'll send you
both to the electric chair."