Knock, knock

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My old man, he makes everything into a Big Joke. What can I say? The old man loves to get a laugh. Growing up, half the time I didn’t have a clue what his jokes were about, but I laughed anyways. Down at the barbershop, it didn’t matter how many guys my father let take cuts ahead of him in line, he just wanted to sit there all Saturday and crack people up. Make folks bust a gut. Getting his hair cut was definitely a low priority.

He says, “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before...” The way my old man tells it, he walks into the oncologist’s office and he says,

“After the chemotherapy, will I be able to play the violin?”

In response, the oncologist says, “It’s metastasized. You’ve got six months to live” And working his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, tapping the ash from an invisible cigar, my old man says, “Six months?” He says, “I want a second opinion.”

So the oncologist, he says, “Okay, you’ve got cancer and your jokes stink.”

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