In case you need a chuckle on this fine morning, here are a couple baseball jokes I came across to get you going! The second one strikes me as an actual, real-life story, which makes it all the more amusing.
A man is trapped in a house without windows, doors, or any other way of exiting. The house is on fire and has started to collapse, and the man has only a baseball and a bat. How does he get out? He swings at the air three times because in baseball it is one, two, three strikes and you’re out at the ol’ ball game!
On a spring break trip to Italy, my friends and I were standing just inside St. Peter’s Basilica, the second largest church in the world.
The tour guide explained, “This church is so large that no man on earth could hit a baseball from one end to the other, not Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, or even Mark McGwire.”
My group stared in silence at the beautiful marble sculptures, intricate paintings, and glorious mosaics all around the enormous building.
Then one girl interrupted the silence with an astonished question: “You mean, they actually let them hit baseballs in here?”
Of course, this year’s Red Sox don’t quite work with this joke. Perhaps I should have replaced them with the Royals.
A couple recently got a divorce and they decided to move away from each other and go their separate ways. So, the father sat down and talked with his son and he said “Son, I think that it is best that you go and live with your mother.”
The kid said, “No, I won’t, because she beats me.”
Then, the mother came in and talked to the son, “I think it is best that you go and live with your father.”
“NO. NO,” he replied, “He beats me.”
So then, both the parents sat down and said to their son, “Well, if we both beat you, then who do you want to live with?”
The son said, “The Red Sox. They can’t beat anyone.”
I am overdue for posting more jokes on here. You can’t really blame me, though, most baseball jokes are honestly truly awful. The ones below are not exempted from that description, but sometimes cheesy can be a welcome change of tone.
A baseball scout found a remarkable prospect–a horse who was a pretty good fielder and who hit the ball every time he was up at bat. The scout got him a try-out with a big league team. Up at bat, the horse slammed the ball into far left field and stood at the plate, watching it go. “Run!” the manager screamed, “Run!” “Are you kidding?” answered the horse. “If I could run, I’d be in the Kentucky Derby.”
Did you hear the one about the fast pitch?
Never mind. You just missed it.
Did you hear the joke about the pop fly?
Forget it. It’s way over your head.
The Yankees really are a popular target. I’m no Red Sox fan, either, but somehow, I still struggle to feel bad for the Yankees.
‘I am a Yankees fan,’ a first-grade teacher explains to her class. ‘Who likes the Yankees?’
Everyone raises a hand except one little girl. ‘Janie,’ the teacher says, surprised. ‘Why didn’t you raise your hand?’
‘I’m not a Yankees fan.’
‘Well, if you are not a Yankees fan, then what team do you like?’
‘The Red Sox,’ Janie answers.
‘Why in the world are you a Red Sox fan?’
‘Because my mom and dad are Red Sox fans.’
‘That’s no reason to be a Red Sox fan,’ the teacher replies, annoyed. ‘You don’t always have to be just like your parents. What if your mom and dad were morons? What would you be then?’
‘A Yankees fan.’
The Red Sox get into the Series thanks to the fact that the Yankees – who were leading the American League championships three games to none, and have all-stars at every position, not to mention a payroll larger than the gross national product of Sweden – chose that particular time to execute the most spectacular choke in all of sports history, an unbelievable Gag-o-Rama, a noxious nosedive, a pathetic gut-check failure of such epic dimensions that every thinking human outside of the New York metropolitan area experiences a near-orgasmic level of happiness. But there is no need to rub it in.
~ Dave Barry (2004 year in review)
Continuing with the bass theme…. it’s just too easy.
My mom and I recently returned from a week-long trip to Saskatchwan (hence the sporadic posting lately). Honestly, I’m still exhausted and recovering from our little jaunt, but promise to get back on the ball with my posts pretty quickly.
For now, here is a little joke to help tie us over. Poor Yankees — though I imagine, in a lot of ways, they and their fans might get a kick out of being hated so much.
Two boys are playing hockey on an inlet on a pond in suburban Chicago when one is attacker by a rabid Rottweiler. Thinking quickly, the other boy takes his stick and wedges it down the dog’s collar and twists, breaking the dog’s neck. A reporter who is strolling by sees the incident and rushes over to the boy. “Young White Sox Fan Saves Friend from Vicious Animal,” he starts writing in his notebook.
“But I’m not a Sox fan,” the little hero replied.
“Sorry, since we are in Chicago, I just assumed you were,” said the reporter, and he began writing again.
“Cubs Fan Rescues Friends from Horrific Attack,” he continued writing in his notebook.
“I’m not a Cubs fan either,” the boy said.
“I assumed everyone in Chicago was either for the Cubs or the Sox. What team do you root for?” inquired the reporter. “I’m a Yankees fan,” the child responded.
The reporter turned the page in his notebook and wrote “Little Bastard from New York Kills Beloved Family Pet.”
This one is reminiscent of the joke I posted the other day. I wonder how many outs there were in the inning?
This week seems off to a decent start, so here’s one to keep up the good mood.
The Cleveland Symphony Orchestra was rehearsing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. There is an extensive section where the bass players don’t play for twenty minutes of so. One of them decided that, rather than stand around on stage looking bored and stupid, they’d all just file offstage during their tacit-time and hang out backstage, then return when they were about to play. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
On the night of the performance, the bass players filed off as planned. The last one had barely left the stage when the leader suggested, “Hey we’ve got twenty minutes, let’s run across the street to the bar for a few!”
This idea was met with great approval, so off they went, tuxedos and all, to loosen up. Fifteen minutes and a few rounds later, one of the bass players said, “Shouldn’t we be heading back? It’s almost time.”
But the leader announced, “Oh don’t worry, we’ll have some extra time – I played a little joke on the conductor. Before the performance started, I tied string around each page of his score so that he’d have to untie each page to turn it. The piece will drag on a bit. We’ve got time for another round!”
So another round they did, and finally – sloshed and staggering – they made their way back across the street to finish Ludwig’s 9th.
Upon entering the stage, they immediately noticed the conductor’s haggard, drawn and livid expression.
“Gee,” one player queried, “Why do you suppose he looks so tense?”
“You’d be tense, too,” laughed the leader. “It’s the bottom of the ninth, the score is tied and the basses are loaded.”
Plagued by insomnia, I’m seeking ways to entertain myself until I either grow sleepy or the morning sun washes away all hope of sleep altogether. The Kansas City joke below is a bit of a stab in the gut, as a Royals fan, though I can hardly deny how true this was for so many years.
One morning in elementary school, the students were going to a geography class. The teacher wanted to show the students where cities and states are.
The teacher asks the class, “Does anyone know where Pittsburgh is?” Billy raises up his hand and says, “Yeah, Pennsylvania!”. The teacher replies, “Very good, Billy!, now can anyone tell me were Detroit is?”
Suzy raises her hand and says, “That’s in Michigan!” The teacher again says, “Very good.”
Trying to confuse the children, she now asks, “Where’s Kansas City?” Tommy raises his hand and says, “Oh Oh Pick me!!!, I know?” The teacher says, “OK, Tommy where is Kansas City?”
The phone would ring in the middle of the night and you knew it was either Mr. Steinbrenner or a death in the family. After a while you started to root for a death in the family.
– Harvey Greene, the former Yankees PR director
As a cat owner, I’m glad to know this isn’t based on a true story (I hope). Behold the strange power of bronze, and the potential tragic comedy that could come of it in the wrong hands.
A man from Atlanta moved to New York. As he wandered the streets he stopped at an antique shop and decided to go in. On looking around he noticed a very strange looking bronze cat which had a tag on it saying, “Bronze Cat $30.00, Story $150.00.” The man was very curious and asked the salesman to explain. “Well” said the man, “its just like it says, $30 for the cat and $150 for its story”. “I’ll just take the cat,” said the man.
“Very well, but you will be back,” said the salesman. The man left the shop with the cat in his pocket. As he walked down the street he heard a strange mewing sound. On turning around he noticed there were a couple of cats following him.
The further he walked the more cats seemed to follow him. As he got to the Brooklyn Bridge he turned to see thousands of cats behind him. “Screw this!” he said to himself and threw the bronze cat into the river. All the cats jumped into the river too and were drowned. The man returned to the shop where he bought the cat. “I knew you would be back. $150.00 for the story,” said the salesman. “Forget the story,” said the man. “Have you got a bronze Mets fan?”