When Terry the Tuna died, it was a sad day.
He was about the best solo singer in the whole Bay, bringing fish from as far as New Zealand to hear his truly magnificent voice as he belted out some great jazz songs from the surface folk.
But, as luck would have it, Sam the Clam had just built an extension to his disco and had Terry the Tuna listed as the opening night act when he went and got caught, dragged up on the deck of a ship, gutted and flash frozen on the spot!
Whew!
Sam the Clam was saddened greatly. Not just because he had such a huge stake in his new dance hall, but, because Terry the tuna had new songs he was going to debut. So, Sam did what every red blooded critter in the sea does when trouble strikes so devastatingly hard.
He prayed.
And boy, it must have been a wowser!
Saint Pete called Terry the tuna into the office and told him about the new gig…and then surprised him with an offer of unbelievable magnitude.
“How would you like to go back for opening night, Terry?” St. Pete asked.
Eyes as wide as sand dollars, Terry answered, “YEAH! We can DO that?”
“Well, yes we can. But only for one night! And….there are RULES!”
“Sure! Whatever rules there are, I’ll dance with it!” then after a moment, Terry asked…”…what are the rules?”
“You have to be back by three AM. You also have to take your harp with you and you can’t show your wings to ANYONE!”
“OK,” and he took off….
The night was PHENOMENAL!
Fish came from hundreds of miles, Jellyfish were flashing their beautiful colors, Whales were humming along, it was a GREAT night!
But around 2:45, Sam the Clam told Terry what time it was, and he bolted back on up to Heaven.
Arriving at Saint Pete’s Gate panting, he looked up at the clock and it was one minute to three.
“Whew!” he said….”here I am! Let me in!”
Saint Pete looked at him, and asked, “Where’s your harp?”
He just noticed…”Oh No!”
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(now folks…this is the participation part, so sing along….)
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“I left my harp in Sam Clam’s Disco!”

(probably figures that I play chess, right?)

the 9mm line doesn’t make a lot of sense, but, that’s because I don’t know what a “fobbit” is.

Then again,My Old Man and my second ex-wife’s Dad were way two different guys.
Dave (ex’s Dad) hated Japanese, anything made in Japan (heckuva thing in the sixties and seventies, eh?) even to where no rice was ever served in their house.
My Old Man learned some of the language, made friends with them (after the war) and even invited two to a Summer rent-a-cabin in Michigan, once.

When I was in, gooks were bad no matter their origin or politics even though we had translators and hooch maids.
When I got out and was doing some college time, there was a VietNamese guitar player that could spin stories with his music. Could knock out technical pieces like Chopin, Brahms, even Stravinsky. I always felt too embarrassed to say anything to him because of what I had been taught to think, and trust me on this….
I will talk to ANYONE anytime about danged near anything.
But, my shame (or is it some built in hatred?) won’t let me even be comfortable around Viet folks.

But, I do take a small bit of pride in not knowing them as gooks.
Rather, they are human.

So I guess I’m hoping a fobbit isn’t a gook.

Keep your head down, boy.
Jean advertised ya, and I don’t want to hear her crying later ….
And, even more important, DON’T PICK UP ANY SOUVENIRS!

One soldier found a lamp one day and he thought it looked like a magic lamp so he rubbed it. A genie appeared and granted him three wishes! His first wish was for $100. Done! His second was for a new jeep. Done! But he wanted time to think of what he wanted for the third wish. As he was driving along in his new jeep, a commercial came on the radio and he couldn’t help himself but sing along, “Oh I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner…”

d=))

; )