My normally petite wife grew extremely large during her pregnancy with our second child. By her ninth month, she had become accustomed to a lot of attention and good-natured teasing.
One day, just before the baby was due, she went to the post office. Watching her waddle up to his window, the postal clerk quipped, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can help you here.”
Without missing a beat, my wife responded, “But I thought you delivered!”
Approaching eighty-five years of age, Mrs. Harris finally decided it was time to give up her apartment in New York and move to Miami. She was given the name of a Florida realtor, who enthusiastically drove her all over Miami, extolling the virtues of every apartment they looked at.
“And this one, what a steal,” he rhapsodized, “the investment of a lifetime. Why, in ten years it’s gonna be worth three times. . .”
“Sonny,” interrupted Mrs. Harris, “at my age I don’t even buy green bananas.”