The kids filed back into class on Monday morning. They were very excited. Their weekend assignment was to sell something, then give a talk on productive salesmanship.
Little Sally led off: “I sold girl scout cookies and I made $30,” she said proudly. “My sales approach was to appeal to the customer’s civil spirit, and I credit that approach for my obvious success.”
“Very good,” said the teacher.
Little Jenny was next: “I sold magazines,” she said. “I made $45 and explained to everyone that magazines would keep them up on current events.”
“Very good, Jenny,” said the teacher.
Eventually, it was Little Johnny’s turn. The teacher held her breath …
A teacher gave her fifth grade class an assignment: Get their parents to tell them a story with a moral at the end of it. The next day, the kids came back and, one by one, began to tell their stories.
There were all the regular types of stories: spilled milk, pennies saved. But then the teacher realized that only Janie was left. “Janie, do you have a story to share?” the teacher asked.
“Yes ma’am. My daddy told me a story about my mommy. She was a Marine pilot in Desert Storm, and her plane got hit. She had to bail out over enemy territory, and all she had was a flask of whiskey, a pistol, and a survival knife.
She drank the whiskey on the way down so the bottle wouldn’t break, and then her parachute landed her right in the middle of 20 Iraqi troops. My mommy shot 15 of them with her pistol until she ran out of bullets, killed four more with the knife till the blade broke, and then she killed the last Iraqi with her bare hands.
“Good Heavens,” said the horrified teacher. “What did your daddy tell you was the moral to this horrible story?”
Last night, my kids and I were sitting in the living room watching a medical show on TV. I turned to them and said, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”
So they got up, unplugged my computer and threw out my wine.
