While stitching a cut on the hand of a 75 year old farmer whose hand was caught in the squeeze gate while working cattle, the doctor struck up a conversation with the old man.
Eventually the topic got around to politicians and their role as our leaders.
The old farmer said, “Well, as I see it, most politicians are ‘Post Tortoises’.”
Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a ‘post tortoise’ was.
The old farmer said, “When you’re driving down a country road and you come across a fence post with a tortoise balanced on top, that’s a post tortoise.”
The old farmer saw the puzzled look on the doctor’s face so he continued to explain. “You know he didn’t get up there by himself, he doesn’t belong up there, he doesn’t know what to do while he’s up there, he’s elevated beyond his ability to function, and you just wonder what kind of dumb ass put him up there to begin with.”
Vladimir Putin is sitting in his office when his telephone rings
“Hallo, Mr. Putin!” a heavily accented voice said. “This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on ya!”
“Well, Paddy,” Putin replied, “This is indeed important news! How big is your army?”
“Right now,” says Paddy, after a moment’s calculation, “there is meself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbor Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!”
Putin paused. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command.”
“Begoora!” says Paddy. “I’ll have to ring ya back.
Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. “Mr. Putin, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!”
“And what equipment would that be Paddy?” Putin asks.
“Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Marphy’s farm tractor.” Putin sighs amused. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke”
“Saints preserve us!” says Paddy. “I’ll have to get back to ya.”
Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. “Mr. Putin, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified Jackie McLaughlin’s ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well.”
Putin was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites. And since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” says Paddy, “I will have to ring ya back.”
Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. “Top o’ the mornin’, Mr. Putin! I am sorry to inform ya that we have had to call off the war.”
“Really? I am sorry to hear that,” says Putin. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Well,” says Paddy, “we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and finally decided there is no fookin’ way we can feed 200,000 Russian prisoners.”
I know it’s difficult to imagine Trump ascending to heaven on his death but bear with me on this . . .
Trump dies and ascends to heaven where he is greeted by St Peter. St Peter offers to give him a quick tour of heaven before he settles in. As they wander through the corridors of heaven, Trump is intrigued by the numerous clocks on the wall – hundreds and thousands of clocks – and he asks St Peter to explain why there are so many clocks.
“Those are Lie Clocks,” St Peter answers.
“What do you mean?” asks Trump.
“Well, everyone has their personal Lie Clock and every time they tell a lie during their lifetime, their clock moves forward one minute.”
“Oh,” says the Donald. “Well, whose clock is that? It doesn’t appear to have moved at all.”
“Ah, that clock belongs to Mother Theresa,” replies St Peter. “It hasn’t moved because Mother Theresa never told a lie.”
“I see,” said Donald. “Well, whose clock is that one? It doesn’t appear to have moved very much.”
“That is Abraham Lincoln’s clock,” replies St Peter. “It’s only moved on two minutes meaning that Honest Abe only told two lies in his life.
“Well, where is my clock?” asks Donald.
“Your clock is in God’s office,” Says St Peter.
“Of course,” Donald thinks to himself. “Naturally God would want my clock in his office.”
St Peter than finishes his sentence: “God is using your clock as a ceiling fan.”