Calling Harold Grubbs

On an off day, this one chap put on one of his better suits
and a tie, cranked up some march music on the stereo,
then stood before a full length mirror, above which he had
placed a sign reading, “In Tribute To Me; Mister Humanity!”
and he began to recite:
“I can do and I can think,
I may sweat and I may stink. 
I may stand and I may fall,
I don’t do bad-LY at all.”
 
(He was then overcome by fits of laughter as
he suddenly realized what a kidder he was.)

 

As he daily confronted the unfolding episodes of his life,
this one man would confidently say, “This is a job
for Harold Grubbs!”  (Need I tell you what his name is not?)

 

Although spark plugs have a life of their own,
they do not, beyond an engine having one of its own. 
(A more manifold reality dictates that even with a
“Discount Coupon” worth “A 100% Off,”  which is
fully honored, you still always owe something.)

 

At a recent gathering of the Part-Time Philosopher’s Society,
when it was his turn, one fellow stood and delivered thusly,
“A man who can’t control his dog, cannot control his tongue.” 
And after sitting back down, a chap beside him whispered,
“I say, I’m not at all sure I understand,”, to which the guy replied,
“Do you have a dog?”  “As a matter of fact, I do not.” 
“Well, do you have a tongue?”  “Coincidentally, yes.” 
The first speaker then said, “Well, bring it with you and try to
slip over the fence into my backyard late some night.”

 

(Only the submissive feel repentant.)

J.

 

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