Title page
You’ve Got To Be Joking
by
Emery L. Campbell
Dedication page
For Hettie with Love
Contents
Indian Instinct 1
The Devil’s Dictionary 2
Snake Charming Cajun Style 3
A Bottle To the Rescue 4
Curses! Foiled Again 5
Chicken Farming 101 6
A Family Matter 7
La Fin de la Faim du Fin Gourmet 8
Circulation Information 9
Class Action in Jackson 10
It Stands to Reason 11
The Large Richard Contest 12
A Lawyer More Compassionate Than Most 13
Mars Bars Non-Martians from Mars Bars 14
Not Only the Wrong Aisle… 15
No Wonder 16
One Less Problem to Worry About 17
Wafflers Aren’t Winners 18
Remembrance (?) of Things Past 19
Oops! 20
Indian Instinct
One autumn members of an Indian tribe
approached their newly-chosen chief to know
if he'd consult the gods and then describe
how cold the coming winter winds would blow.
The product of our modern age, the chief
had never learned the ancient secrets, so
he feared that he would only come to grief
by trying on his own to be a pro.
To play it safe, he said they could expect
the coming season would be very cold,
so they had better hasten to collect
a lot of wood. They did as they were told.
The leader, being blessed from birth with smarts,
conceived a plan so he would know for sure.
He phoned the weather service. "Check your charts.
In view of all your data, what is your
prediction of how cold it's going to be
next winter." They replied, "You'll find it raw."
The leader then put out a new decree
commanding able-bodied men to saw
and store an even greater hoard of wood.
Two weeks went by. The chieftain called again
to ask the weather service if they could
confirm they still foresaw bleak weather when
the winter's force had firmly settled in.
They echoed what they'd told him once before:
"We have no doubt the freeze will soon begin.
We're certain months-long, numbing cold's in store."
The chief insists: "I'd like to know how you
can pledge the coming winter will be bad?"
"The facts are clear," they said. "We're sure it's true,
'cause Indian men are stocking wood like mad."
The Devil’s Dictionary
There was a cool Ambrose named Bierce,
whose cynical barbs airs did pierce.
He and Satan conspired
with words honed and hell-fired
to spear sacred cows something fierce.
Snake Charming Cajun Style
A Cajun name of Boudreaux like to fish.
He spend all day wid hook an’ line down by
de bayou. Now he outta bait. He wish
he got more worms. He cast an eye
aroun’ an’ spy a snake dat’s caught a frog
an’ hol’ it in his mouf. He know dem bass
dey fond of frogs dey catches in de bog,
so he got plans. He reach down in de grass,
but careful coz dat snake’s a water moc.
Real fast he grab de snake behin’ his head
an’ hol’ him tight. De snake he twist an’ lock
hisself roun’ Boudreaux’s arm. He seein’ red,
coz Boudreaux got him wid a real close grip.
B. pry his mouf an’ steal de frog an’ stick
it in his can. Dat snake he squirm an’ whip
aroun’ ‘til Boudreaux wonder how he quick
can lose de snake widout get bit. He chew
it over, den he ‘member dat he got
a pint a moonshine likker in his blue
jean pocket, so he pour a little shot
in snakie’s mouf. De snake go limp ‘n’ roll
his eyes, so Boudreaux free him wid a throw
an’ keep on fish’n. As he ten’ his pole
he feel a tappin’ on his barefoot toe.
Surprised, he take a look an’ what he see?
Dat snake he back an’ draped along two logs.
When Boudreaux squint to see him clear, what be
dat in his mouf but two more wiggly frogs!
A Bottle to the Rescue.
It was a dark and foggy night as Jake
was walking home alone. Behind him bumped
a bump, and then another. This would break
a braver man than Jake whose jitters jumped.
The bumps continued thump by thump. Jake quick-
ened pace. A glance toward the rear revealed
an upright casket coming on. Made sick
with fear, his funk-fueled panic far from healed,
he broke into a trot, increasing speed.
The casket’s weird galumping matched his pace.
Jake neared his home but could not stretch his lead.
He reached his house, threw wide the door, his face
a tortured mask. Inside, he closed and locked
the door but all to no avail; the cas-
ket, not deterred a bit, crashed through and stalked
its prey. He dashed along the hallway pass-
age to the bathroom. Heartbeats’ rate accru-
ing, Jake slammed shut the door and turned the key.
The clumping casket once again burst through
and rocked toward him. Terror stricken, he
sought any means to make a goal-line stand
with which to thwart this force that bumped and clopped.
He grabbed and hurled an anti-cough med brand,
and to his vast relief the coffin stopped.
Curses! Foiled Again
The Prince of Darkness and the son of God
each thinks himself more gifted in the use
of his computer. Jesus says, “You clod,
you’re clumsy as a rearing, roaring moose.
“I’m much the best at plying my machine.”
“Oh no you’re not,” says Satan. “I’m the best.”
But God is not amused. “I’ve never seen
such irksome quibbling. I can get no rest.”
“We’ll have a two-hour test, then I’ll decide
the winner. I can’t stand it any more.”
So Jesus and the Evil One abide
by God’s command to wage computer war.
They use the mouse, they fax and e-mail, too.
They download, send attachments, write reports
containing charts and graphs. They also do
hard spreadsheets, labels, letters, and all sorts
of projects, deal with problems that they pose,
face all the hi-tech issues that exist.
Lord Jesus is a whirlwind, heaven knows,
and Satan’s fast as hell, no detail missed.
The testing time is almost at an end
when sudden thunder rolls and lightning streaks
the sky. As these conditions often tend
to do, the power’s cut as lightning peaks.
The Evil One is stunned, then screams and swears
because his screen goes blank. He’s livid, raves,
“My work is gone! I’ve lost it all!”. He glares.
His rival’s calm. God shrugs, says “Jesus Saves.”
Chicken Farming 101
A slicker from the city bought some land,
convinced that he’d outshine the local hicks.
Researching every leading poultry brand,
he bought one hundred cheeping baby chicks.
Two weeks had hardly passed when he returned.
“I need another hundred chicks to go.”
The dealer thought his buyer looked concerned,
but off the latter went, his chicks in tow.
Within a few more weeks the man was back.
He pondered, then he bought one hundred more.
The dealer said, “I see you’ve got the knack
of raising birds. For some it’s quite a chore.”
“In fact, I’ve got no crop at all to reap,”
the buyer said. “Instead I’m losing heart.
Could I be setting out the chicks too deep
or am I planting them too far apart?”
A Family Matter
I’m out one night and meet an older gal
of sixty. She is very well-preserved.
In fact she really isn’t bad at all,
with shapely legs and body nicely curved.
I’ll bet she’s got a daughter, young and hot,
I think. We have some drinks and she says, “Hon,
you turn me on.” She snuggles up. “I thought,”
she adds, “you’d like to try a two-on-one.”
“What’s that?” I ask. “A mother-daughter thing,”
she says. ”You’d love it. One more drink and then
we’ll go . I’ve got a king-size inner-spring.
My place is not so far away, and when
we get there you will have a ball. You’ll see.”
The taxi ride is short. It doesn’t take
much time. We’re at her door. She turns the key.
We’re in. She shouts, “Hey Mom, you still awake?”
La Fin de la Faim du Fin Gourmet I *
He’s savored each delicious bite, each bit
of tender, nicely-seasoned rack of lamb,
but now this most outrageous slight, to wit,
a sad soufflé not worth a tinker’s damn,
is proffered as dessert. How less than grand!
Mere gourmandise alone does not accord
the right to deal gauche host a reprimand;
yet, such injustice cannot be ignored.
Our epicure surveys the scene anew.
His glass of wine’s there on the field of play.
With studied stealth he plays it mean. Oops! Ooh!
The goblet’s spilled to everyone’s dismay.
Good grief! Dessert afloat in muscatel!
And not a single serving left? What hell…
* The keen gourmet loses his appetite
Circulation Information
In science class one’s blood flow is the text
the teacher makes an effort to explain.
“If I were standing upside-down, the next
thing you would notice is my blood would drain
“into my head and make my face turn red.
Now, if I’m standing in the normal way,
why does the blood not fill my feet instead?”
“Your feet aren’t empty,” several pupils say.
Class Action in Jackson
Dim Bubba calls his lawyer on the telephone.
“Ah heared thet smokers sued tobacco coz they got
the cancer. Is thet so?” “Why yes, it’s widely known,”
the lawyer says. “An’ some ol’ local boys thet bought
them double burgers and them fries is suin’, too,”
asks Bubba, “coz they gettin’ fat an’ artries clogged,
is thet the case?” His lawyer says, “Indeed, that’s true.”
“An’ then thet whiny woman gets McDonalds bogged
way down fer coffee burned her lap thet she was gave?”
“That’s right.” And Bub goes on, “On top uh thet there was
thet Ol’ Miss football player played the game real brave
an’ gradgiated good but sued the place because
“they still ain’t learned his arse tuh read a word?” “You’re quite
correct,” the lawyer says. “But why? What’s in your head?”
“The thing Ah want tuh know is have Ah got the raht
tuh sue Coors beer? Uh ugly woman’s in mah bed.”
It Stands to Reason
The town’s police department has just one
detective job to fill. They advertise.
No sooner has their ad begun to run
than this attractive blonde with big blue eyes
comes in the station door to seek the post.
The officer assigned to head the quest
invites her to sit down. She is a most
intriguing prospect, tall and neatly dressed.
He tells her if she wants to be a cop
she has to be observant and have skill
in spotting suspects by their scars or crop
of hair or other features. “If you will,
please, scan this photograph and tell me: Do
you notice special things about this man?”
“His sight is poor. He’s wearing contacts, too.”
The copper frowns, consults his files. “How can
you know? It’s true, though, says so in the file.”
“He’s squinting, so I know he can’t see well,”
she says. “I mean about the contacts.” “I’ll
explain. It’s easy, anyone can tell.”
She’s coy. “He can’t wear glasses, that’s for sure.”
“Why not?” he asks. “He’s only got one ear,”
she says, completely confident, demure.
He sighs. “The pic’s a profile view, my dear.”
The Large Richard Contest
The three are boys, the grade is third, and here’s
their story, absolutely true, of course.
We’ll give them each a name, the questing dears:
the first is Patrick, Irish stock perforce,
the second, Bruno, he of Roman blood ,
and bringing up the rear is Cooter, born
a redneck, future bloom though now but bud.
The three agree a game in school one morn.
It’s Patrick who explains what it’s about.
“Let’s see whose weenie’s biggest,” says the boy.
No sooner said than done, he whips his out.
“That’s nothing,” snickers Bruno, “but a toy.”
“Just have a look at this.” He shows his pride
and joy, exceeding Patrick’s by an inch.
At last it’s Cooter’s turn, all eager-eyed.
“You guys are hopeless. Lookit; mine’s a cinch.”
He snakes it out. It’s clearly longer than
the others. They can see it’s fatter, too.
That night when Coot comes home, his mother, Nan,
asks, “How was school today? What did you do?’
“We did some science,” Cooter says, “and read
out loud. At recess there’s a game we played
comparing weenies. I came out ahead
‘coz mine was ‘bout the biggest ever made.
“But, Ma, the kids all laughed at me and said
it was ‘coz I’m a redneck that I won.
I wished they didn’t say it. Is that so?”
“No, honey. It’s because you’re twenty-one.”
A Lawyer More Compassionate Than Most
A lawyer in his chauffeur-driven car
espies two ragged men beside the road,
both eating grass. He finds the scene bizarre
and bids his driver stop. “What is this mode
of nourishment?” he asks the nearest man.
“We’re destitute; we do this out of need,”
the latter says. “Well then, you surely can
improve your lot by joining me. I’ll feed
you very well.” “But sir,” the poor man adds,
“My wife and two small boys are over there.”
He points. “Your wife may come and bring the lads.”
He turns toward the other of the pair.
“And you may come along.” “Kind sir, I’ve got
a wife and three young children who depend
on me.” The lawyer smiles. “It matters not,
all four may come along with me, my friend.”
His car, though large, is crowded, but they all
get in. One father murmurs, “Sir, you are
too kind. We never dreamed such grace would fall
our way. You are indeed our lucky star.”
The lawyer says, “I’m more than glad to do
it. You will love my place. I’ll tell you why.
You’ll all be happy, wives and children, too.
The grass in back is almost one foot high!”
Mars Bars Non-Martians from Mars Bars
Our trip began with thunderous, flaming heat.
Some seven months of pap in plastic tubes
was all they let us bring along to eat;
no salted nuts, no Cokes with frozen cubes.
As touchdown neared the retros loosed their thrust;
the cabin jerked and shook, all huff and puff.
The rocket’s blast stirred up a swirl of dust;
we’d heard the place was powdered with the stuff.
At last debarked, we thought, ‘Let’s have some drinks.
With local carbonation. On the rocks.’
But no, the spiteful little three-eyed finks
had sealed the taverns’ doors with fool-proof locks.
The signs above the entries made it clear:
“No geeks from space will ever quaff our beer
Not Only the Wrong Aisle…
“I’d like to buy some Polish sausage. Could
you tell me where the product is displayed?”
The clerk surveys the buyer. “If you would,
please tell me if the judgment I have made
is right that you’re of Polish origin.”
“Well, yes I am, but what has that to do
with it. Supposing my request had been
about spaghetti. Would that make it true
that I’m Italian? Or if I had asked
for bratwurst, would I be of German stock?
For kosher hot dogs would I be unmasked
as Jewish? Or for tacos, of the flock
from Mexico?” The guy is clearly steamed.
“In such a case I’d likely not say that.”
“So, why then did you venture that it seemed
I’m Polish?” “Look, this is a Lowe’s you’re at.”
No Wonder
It’s late in Dublin on St. Patrick’s day
and Paddy’s having way too much to drink
until at last the barman has to say,
“You’ve had enough tonight. I think
you’d better go on home and get some sleep.”
“OK,” says Paddy, “I’ll be goin’ then.”
He quits his stool and slumps down in a heap.
“What’s this?” He wants to stand but flops again.
He grabs the stool to lift himself and tries
to leave the room but tumbles on his face.
“If only I can get outside,” he sighs,
“my head will clear and I can ditch this place.”
He gains the exit, pulls up to his feet,
and steps outside but tumbles down once more.
His home is near, just ten steps up the street,
so Paddy crawls until he’s at his door.
He hauls himself erect and drags inside.
He clambers up the stairs and flops in bed.
With morning nearly past, his wife’s beside
the bed with coffee. Paddy lifts his head.
“It looks as though you must have drunk a lot
last night.” “I did. I barely got this far.
But how’d you know?” “Mick called. He said he’s got
your wheelchair that you left inside the bar.”
One Less Problem To Worry About
A Canuck farmer, O. bin Laden, and
a Texan find themselves engaged one day
in working on a building site, all tanned
and healthy, earning handsome union pay
when one of them by chance looks down and sees
a lantern out of which a genie comes
in view. The genie tells the farmer he’s
entitled to a wish. The latter hums
and haws a bit until he says he’d like
his farm at home to be forever rich
and fertile, so the genie leans to strike
the farmer gently with his scepter which
fulfills the man’s request. The genie then
directs his gaze upon Osama whom
he asks in turn to make a wish, and when
bin Laden sees this welcome prospect bloom
he says “I want a rampart built around
Iran, Iraq, and all of Palestine.
Within them let no infidels be found;
instead let only Islam’s blessings shine.”
A gesture by the genie and the wall
exists. The Texan’s next, asks, “What’s its height?”
“It’s huge. It’s fifteen hundred meters tall.
No one gets in or out. I’ve built it right.”
The Texan takes a seat, leans back, and cracks
a beer. He downs a mouthful, smiles, says “Yup,
you’ve done your job first rate. Thanks for the facts.
Now make some sand and fill the sucker up.”
Wafflers Aren’t Winners
The guy was stumped; he just could not decide.
You see, he loved two girls he wished to wed.
The first was Kathryn, blond and dewy eyed,
with whom he would have gladly shared his bed.
The problem, though, was Edith, pert brunette,
attractive to the Nth degree. He pined
for lovely Edith night and day, and yet
he hemmed and hawed, for both were on his mind.
He lacked the will to give up either one
and kept them on the string unduly long.
Instead of two, the guy at last had none;
they left him flat ‘cause he had done them wrong.
This story has a moral clearly true:
you cannot have your Kate and Edith, too.
Remembrance (?) of Things Past
A very senior citizen, let’s say
mid-nineties, hair well groomed, perfumed, a star
long born, bow tie, quite dapper all the way,
surveys the room, an upscale cocktail bar.
A lady, eighty-something, well preserved,
walks in and takes a seat. The duffer, Ben,
approaches, sits beside her. Drinks are served.
He says, “So, do I come here often, then?”
Oops!
Two men out hunting find the deepest hole
they’ve ever seen. They strain their eyes but still
can’t tell how far it goes. They find a pole
and stick it in, but it’s too short and will
not reach the bottom. “Tell you what,” says one.
“Let’s throw an object down and see the time
it takes before it hits.” There is a ton
of rubbish strewn around. “I see what I’m
quite sure will do the job. Look, here’s an old
contraption. Give a hand; we’ll chuck it in.
I think that ought to help us get a hold
on just how deep this is.” The two young men
are taxed a bit to lift the thing, but down
it goes. They wait and look, until they hear
a rustling sound behind them. They turn round
and see a frantic goat come rushing near,
and then it plunges in the hole pell-mell.
The two stand wondering what is going on.
Just then a rube appears and gives a yell:
“Hey, did you fellers see my goat? He’s gone.”
“In fact, we did,” they say. “He came as quick
as lightning, passed us by , and jumped full tilt
in this here hole.” “Can’t be,” retorts the hick
“I tied him to an engine I rebuilt.”
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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.12.2009
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