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While strolling past his church one afternoon, the minister overheard a prayer so unexpected it nearly loosened his clerical collar.
Nearby, his five-year-old son and a group of friends had discovered a dead robin. Convinced it deserved a proper send-off, they found a small box, lined it with cotton, dug a neat little grave, and prepared for a solemn burial.
The minister’s son was appointed to deliver the prayer. Standing tall and speaking with impressive seriousness, he recited what he believed was his father’s familiar blessing:
“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son… and into the hole he goes.”

While working for an organisation that delivered lunches to elderly people, I often took my four-year-old daughter along on my afternoon rounds.
She was endlessly fascinated by the tools of old age—canes, walkers, wheelchairs, and anything else that looked mysterious or important. Every stop came with
questions, observations, and very serious nods of approval.
One afternoon, I noticed she had gone unusually quiet. I found her standing perfectly still, staring at a set of dentures soaking in a glass by the sink. I braced myself for a
long interrogation about teeth, age, and why anyone would take their smile off at night.
Instead, she leaned in closer, lowered her voice like she was sharing a secret, and whispered,
“The tooth fairy is never going to believe this.”

Deep in the backwoods of Tennessee, a hillbilly’s wife went into labour late one night. With no electricity for miles, the doctor was called out and handed the nervous father a lantern.
“Hold this up high,” the doctor said, “so I can see what I’m doing.”
Before long, a baby boy was delivered.
“Whoa now,” said the doctor. “Don’t put that lantern down just yet — looks like there’s another one coming.”
Sure enough, minutes later, a baby girl arrived.
“Keep that lantern up!” the doctor barked. “There’s another one!”
Moments later, a third baby was born.
“Don’t you dare lower that light,” the doctor shouted. “I think there’s another one on the way!”
The hillbilly scratched his head, stared at the lantern, and said,
“Doc… you reckon it might be the light that’s attractin’ ’em?”

An elderly man had been struggling with intimacy due to impotence. He’d tried everything imaginable—pills, oils, remedies—nothing worked. He searched online, consulted experts, but still had no luck.
Frustrated, he confided in a close friend. The friend said, “I know a witch doctor who might help. Go see her.”
The old man visited the witch doctor and explained his problem.
“I have just the cure,” she said, handing him a potion. “Drink this. When the moment comes, say ‘one, two, three,’ and you’ll be cured. When you’re finished, your partner must say ‘one, two, three, four,’ and everything will return to normal. You may only use this potion once every full moon.”
Thrilled, the man rushed home.
That night, as things began to heat up, he confidently said, “one, two, three.” Instantly, he was as firm as he’d been at eighteen. He turned to his wife, ready for action.
His wife stared at him in amazement and said, “Wow, that looks impressive… but why did you say ‘one, two, three’?”

An elderly woman walked into a Bank of America branch carrying an enormous bag of cash.
She told the receptionist she wished to see the bank president, as she intended to deposit a very large sum of money. The receptionist tried to refuse, but the woman refused to leave. With no other option, the receptionist went to speak to the president.
Moments later, she returned and said, “You’re in luck this morning. He’ll see you.”
Inside the office, the bank president asked, “How may I help you, madam?”
“I’d like to open a new account and deposit this money,” the woman replied.
“And how much would that be?” he asked.
“$180,000,” she said, emptying the cash onto his desk.
The president was taken aback. “That’s a substantial amount of cash. How did you obtain it? We are not a money-laundering facility.”
“Oh, nothing illegal,” she said calmly. “I make bets.”
“Bets?” he asked. “What kind of bets?”
“For example,” she said, “I bet you that your right hand tastes like eggs—only your right hand, not your left. Let’s meet tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. If I’m right, you owe me $25,000. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you $10,000.”
The president was stunned. The bet sounded impossible. But the banker in him saw easy money and agreed almost immediately.
“Excellent,” she said. “I’ll be here at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow with my lawyer. No backing out.”
Though confident, the president grew uneasy. He barely slept that night, repeatedly smelling and even licking his hands, certain there was nothing unusual about them.
The next morning at exactly 9:00 a.m., the old lady arrived with her lawyer.
“May I check your hands now, sir?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
She took his right hand, sniffed it carefully, then briefly licked it.
At that moment, her lawyer began banging his head against the wall.
Delighted at winning $10,000 and embarrassed about how much he had worried, the president asked why the lawyer was behaving so strangely.
The lawyer sighed and said, “I had a bet with her for $100,000. She told me she would be licking the president of the Bank of America’s hand at 9:00 a.m. today.”
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