Sunday Funnies

Cowboy Poetry

Jake, the rancher, went one day
To fix a distant fence.
The wind was cold and gusty
And the clouds rolled gray and dense.

As he pounded the last staples in
And gathered tools to go,
The temperature had fallen,
The wind and snow began to blow.

When he finally reached his pickup,
He felt a heavy heart.
From the sound of that ignition
He knew it wouldn't start.

So Jake did what most of us
Would do if we had been there.
He humbly bowed his balding head
And sent aloft a prayer.

As he turned the key for the last time,
He softly cursed his luck
They found him three days later,
Frozen stiff in that old truck.

Now Jake had been around in life
And done his share of roaming.
But when he saw Heaven, he was shocked --
It looked just like Wyoming !

Of all the saints in Heaven,
His favorite was St. Peter ...

So they sat and talked a minute or two,
Or maybe it was three.
Nobody was keeping' score --
In Heaven, time is free.

'I've always heard,' Jake said to Pete ,
'that God will answer prayer,
But one time I asked for help,
Well, He just plain wasn't there.'

'Does God answer prayers of some,
And ignore the prayers of others?
That don't seem exactly square --
I know all men are brothers.''

Or does He randomly reply,
Without good rhyme or reason?
Maybe, it's the time of day,
The weather or the season.

''Now I ain't trying to act smart,
It's just the way I feel.
And I was wondering', could you tell me --
What the heck's the deal?!'

Peter listened very patiently
And when Jake was done,
There were smiles of recognition,
And he said, 'So, you're the one!!'

That day your truck, it wouldn't start,
And you sent your prayer a flying,
You gave us all a real bad time,
With hundreds of us trying.''

A thousand angels rushed,
To check the status of your file,
But you know, Jake , we hadn't heard
From you in quite a long while.''

And though all prayers are answered,
And God ain't got no quota,
He didn't recognize your voice,
And started a truck in Minnesota'

BETTER KEEP IN TOUCH

Sunday Funnies

A bus on a busy street struck a Catholic man. He was lying near death on the sidewalk as a crowd gathered.

"A priest. Somebody get me a priest!" the man gasped. Long seconds dragged on but no one stepped out of the crowd. A policeman checked the crowd and finally yelled, "A PRIEST, PLEASE! Isn't there a priest in this crowd to give this man his last rites?"

Finally, out of the crowd stepped a little old Jewish man in his 80s. "Mr. Policeman," said the man, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Christian, but for 50 years now, I'm living behind the Catholic Church on Second Avenue, and every night I'm overhearing their services. I can recall a lot of it, and maybe I can be of some comfort to this poor man."

The policeman agreed, and cleared the crowd so the man could get through to where the injured man lay. The old Jewish man knelt down, leaned over the man and said in a solemn voice: B-5.... I-19 ... N-38 ... G-54.... O-72

(Thanks to Cliff)