JOKES OF THE DAY

Two Soviet Ships Collide, One Dies

Killer Sentenced to Die for Second Time in 10 Years

Never Withhold Herpes Infection from Loved One

Drunken Drivers Paid \$1000 in `84

Safety Experts Say School Bus Passengers Should Be Belted

Miners Refuse to Work after Death

If Strike isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures

Ban On Soliciting Dead in Trotwood

TOILET-SQUATTING EXERCISE CLASS

My mother was a fanatic about public toilets.

As a little girl, she'd bring me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat."

And she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have wet down my leg. And we'd go home.

That was a long time ago. Even now in my more mature years, The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is especially full. When I have to "go" in a public toilet, I find a line of women that makes me think there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's underwear in there. So, I wait and smile politely at all the other ladies, also crossing their legs and smiling politely. And I finally get closer. I check for feet under the stall doors. Every one is occupied.

Finally, a stall door opens and I dash, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. I get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter. I hang my purse on the door hook, yank down my pants and assume "The Stance." Relief. More relief.

Then my thighs begin to shake. I'd love to sit down but I certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so I hold The Stance as my thighs experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale.

To take my mind off it, I reach for the toilet paper. The toilet paper dispenser is empty. My thighs shake more. I remember the tiny tissue that I blew my nose on that's in my purse. It would have to do. I crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than my thumbnail.

Someone pushes open my cubicle door because the latch doesn't work and my purse wacks me in the head. "Occupied!" I scream as I reach out for the door, dropping my tissue in a puddle and falling backward, directly onto the toilet seat.

And by this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a fountain and then it suddenly sucks everything down with such force that I grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged to China. At that point, I give up. I'm soaked by the splashing water. I'm exhausted. I try to wipe with a lolly wrapper I found in my pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

I can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors, so I wipe my hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this point. One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that I'm trailing a piece of toilet paper on my shoe as long as the Murray River!

I yank the paper from my shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and say warmly, "Here. You might need this."

At this time, I see my spouse, who has entered, used and exited his toilet and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for me.

"What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed.

This is when I kick him sharply in the shin and go home.

This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with a public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so long.

He starts out raw as grapes, and it's a woman's job to stomp on him and keep him in the dark until he matures into something she'd like to have dinner with.

Farmer Brown buys twelve pigs at an auction, only to discover that they are all female. He immediately calls Farmer Jones to ask if he can bring them over to mate with his male pigs. "Sure", says Farmer Jones.

Farmer Brown loads his twelve pigs into the truck. When they get to the Jones farm, the pigs jump out and spend the day mating with the males. Before he leaves, Farmer Brown says, "By the way, I've never had pigs before. How will I know if they're pregnant?"

"Well," says Farmer Jones, "look for signs of unusual behavior. That's usually how you know."

The next morning, Farmer Brown looks out his window and sees nothing unusual. So he loads the pigs up and brings them to the Jones' farm again. The following morning, the pigs are still behaving normally, so, once again, he takes them to the Jones' farm. The next morning, he feels too discouraged to look out the window. "Honey," he says to his wife, "would you mind telling me if our pigs are doing anything unusual?"

Well, she says, "eleven of them are in the back of the truck and the twelfth one's blowing the horn."

The manager says,
“That’s his mother.  She wants him to be a doctor.”