Q: What do you call an Italian with his hands in his pocket?
A: A mute.
Tag: Italians
You Might Be Italian If…
ITALIANS (IF YOU ARE FROM NY. NJ, LONG ISLAND, BOSTON, SOUTH PHILADELPHIA, MILWAUKEE, CHICAGO ETC, IT WILL BE EASIER TO IDENTIFY WITH THIS)
Why do Italians dislike Jehovah’s Witnesses? Because Italians dislike all witnesses.
Do you know why most men from Italy are named Tony? On the boat over to America they put a sticker on them that said – TO NY.
You know you’re Italian when. . . You can bench press 325 pounds, shave twice a day and still cry when your mother yells at you.
You carry your lunch in a produce bag because you can’t fit two cappicola sandwiches, 4 oranges, 2 bananas and pizzelles into a regular lunch bag.
Your mechanic, plumber, electrician, accountant, travel agent and lawyer are all your cousins.
You have at least 5 cousins living in the same town or on the same block. All five of those cousins are named after your grandfather or grandmother.
You are on a first name basis with at least 8 banquet hall owners.
You only get one good shave from a disposable razor.
If someone in your family grows beyond 5′ 9,” it is presumed his Mother had an affair.
There were more than 28 people in your bridal party.
You netted more than $50,000 on your first communion.
Joke Of The Day
An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite Italian anisette sprinkle cookies wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death’s agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favorite anisette sprinkle cookies.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted Italian wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the cookie was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.
The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife…… “Back off!” she said, “They’re for the funeral.”
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