Does being good at being naughty count for anything at Christmas? Asking for a friend.

“No spitting!’ Mom says, adding, “If it’s in your mouth, you swallow,” after the little boy spat his food out onto his plate.

Dad’s shoots her a look, eyebrows raised.

She warns him with a growl, “Shut up…”

“Oh, those news broadcasts,”
Cried the Raven from my TV satellite,
“’Never more’ I said!”

I love breasts — chicken, turkey and women’s.

Q: What did the Marine Corps Sniper says to his Spotter as he looked through his rifle’s scope?

A: “I see dead people.”

While I can mark myself safe from the Christmas song, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” I can’t mark myself safe from the snow or the shovel.

“Dear Santa, Please define ‘naughty.’”

The sign next to the lamp read: “DO NOT TOUCH.” That made it all the more tempting to Simon, as he tried lifting the lid, but found it wouldn’t budge.

Instead, he blew away the excess dust before wiping it off with his hand. Suddenly, a stream of smoke roiled from the spout and from that, the form of a man took shape.

“What year is this?” he asked.

Simon answered.

“Amazing! Nearly 100-years. Thanks for releasing me.”

“So, do I get my three wishes?” Simon asked.

“Don’t be silly, man,” the fellow answered, “You get to take my place.”

Because of political correctness Dick Van Dyke could be forced to change his name to ‘Penis Truck Lesbian.’

No, the Cold War didn’t end because of Global Warming.