You’ve worked hard all year, you deserve a break. Luckily, another (American) holiday is upon us, and you know what that means. Time to clean out my files and share some more physical comedy cartoons and jokes. And if you like these, then you’ll want to rewind to these earlier holidays goodie bags you may have foolishly missed:
The type on some of these can be hard to read, so click on any image to enlarge, and then you can even view all the visuals as a slide show (though without the jokes).
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A woman is walking down the street with her little boy. A man approaching them slips and falls on a banana peel. She screams with laughter. The little boy says, “Mommy, mommy, what are you laughing about?” She walks up to the man and says, “Excuse me — would you mind doing that again? My little boy didn’t see it.”
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A man buys a talking bird for his wife’s birthday. It speaks seven languages and costs him $5,000.
“Well, did you get the bird I sent you?” he asks her that evening.
“Yes,” says his wife. “I already have it in the oven.”
“What! That bird could speak seven languages!”
“Then why didn’t it say something?”
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Jim Anderson was a writer who was on the edge of disaster. He had written nothing in years that was any good and he had become an alcoholic. His apartment had nothing in it but a typewriter, a table on which it rested, a chair, and, in a second room, a bed.
One night, as he lay on his bed in an alcoholic daze and was thinking he would have to hock his typewriter, he heard a steady tap-tapping from the other room, as though someone were using his typewriter. He was too far gone in his stupor to check — so he fell asleep.
The next morning he found, next to his typewriter, a beautifully typed movie script. He looked over it curiously and was galvanized by its extraordinary quality. It was much better than anything he could ever have written. He brought it to his agent, who, with the greatest reluctance, consented to glance at it. The agent was caught up at once.
“Jim,” he said, “this is great. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m sure I can sell it.”
And sell it he did — for a large sum.
Thereafter, Anderson periodically heard the tap-tapping of the typewriter, periodically found another great script, periodically sold it for increasing sums of money. He grew rich and famous and lived in a wonderful mansion on the coast with everything his heart could possibly desire. In his new quarters, scripts continued to be turned out by his mysterious benefactor.
But by now his curiosity overwhelmed him. Who was writing these scripts for him? One night when he heard the tap-tapping, he sneaked into his study, and there at the typewriter was an elf in the usual pointed hat. Said Anderson, “Have you been writing these scripts?”
“That I have,” said the elf.
“But why?” asked Anderson.
“Because I love to,” said the elf.
Anderson said, “Do you realize what you have done for me? I was on the point of suicide and you have made me rich and famous and happy and I’ll soon be married to the most wonderful woman in the world. Is there nothing I can do for you in exchange?”
“It’s not necessary,” said the elf. “I’m happy, too.”
“But let me give you something: a house, special food, anything your heart desires. Anything.”
“In that case,” said the elf, “there is something. Can you put my name down as co-author on one of these scripts?”
And Anderson said, “Co-author?!? Fuck you!”
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