Text 3283, 58 rader
Skriven 2005-12-21 15:15:16 av George Pope (1:153/715.1275)
Ärende: Beard
=============
What Do You Do with Your Whiskers?

   "Mister," said the sweet-faced little urchin, addressing the aged gentleman,
"could I ask you a question?"
   "Certainly, my child," said the old man in a benevolent tone, at the same
time stroking the splendid white beard which foamed from his chin and cascaded
down his front almost to his middle.
   "It's about your whiskers," said the inquisitive lad.
   "Well, what about my whiskers?"
   "When you go to bed at night do you tuck your whiskers under the bedclothes
or do you let them spread out on top of the coverlid?"
   The old man gave a start.
   "Why, bless my soul," he said, "I don't believe I know. I've been wearing
this beard for a great many years and until this moment it never occurred to
me to remember just what I did do with my whiskers when I went to bed. To-night
I'll take note, and I'll let you know the very next time I see you. Curious
thing, eh what?" added the venerable one as he walked away shaking his head
in perplexity.
   That evening when he retired he pulled the counterpane quite up to his chin,
hiding all the whiskers except their beginnings.
   "Now, there," he said to himself, "that's undoubtedly the way I've been
doing all these years. See how force of habit operated to cause me to put them
inside the blankets. Ah - now I'm comfortable."
   But in a moment he realized he wasn't comfortable. His whiskers tickled his
bare throat. He felt self-conscious, ill-at-ease.
   So he heaved his whiskers out and spread them, spraying in a broad fan-shape
effect, upon the coverlid.
   "Ah," he said, "that's better. That must have been the way I've been doing
it."
   But he couldn't sleep. His beard, stretching before him in plain view, was
for the first time in his life an incumbrance and an annoyance.
   So he drew them back in again. Then he hauled them out. Then he put them in
again; then he put them out again, groaning mean-while. All night long he
shifted his whiskers and got not a wink of sleep. And the next night it was the
same maddening thing over again - no rest for the poor harassed, half-frantic
old gentleman. And the third night was a hideous repetition of the two
preceding ones.
   So, on the fourth night, in stark despiration he cut his throat and blew out
his brains and hanged himself and jumped into the river.
   And the moral is that curious little boys should never ask nice old gentleme
what they do with their whiskers at night.

 From Many Laughs for Many Days by Irvin S. Cobb, 1925.


Your Moderator and all-round friend/servant,
<+]::-{(} ("Cyberpope")
Internet: gapope@vcn.bc.ca
1)If you don't like a joke, post 2-3 examples of what you DO like!
B)If you DO like a joke, say thank-you with 2-3 jokes of your own! :)
My Preferred Netmail address is: 1:153/715.1275
ICQ UIN: 32617950

(I am the Bishop of ROM!)


--- PPoint 1.76
 * Origin: Cyberpope pointing via Bandmaster BBS! (1:153/715.1275)