Cut the Cheese, oh my, poor Golden Retriever Sammy


Cut the Cheese and Blame the Other Guy – The Stench of Washington Politics
By Phil Harris,

Pompous political windbags have a distinct odor, speaking of which, reminds me of a story that you have likely heard from Uncle Dan or Grandpa Gus. There are families that avoid bathroom humor at all costs; however, if you sprouted from one of those, it is unlikely that you are reading a column that has “cut the cheese” in its title. If you have never heard, “cut the cheese” used to describe something that does not compliment the bouquet of a fine wine; then brace yourself. You are about to be utterly violated.

A minister was on his way home from the church picnic. He had gorged himself on Martha Bergstrom’s pork-n-bean casserole. For some reason, he could not get enough of it, and old Martha Bergstrom could not have been more delighted.

While turning the corner at Laramie Avenue, his car began to sputter, and he realized instantly that he had forgotten to stop at the filling station. He pulled over in front of a little white house. Spring flowers were growing everywhere, and a perfectly manicured lawn set the entire scene ablaze with color.

He rang the doorbell, and asked the woman who answered if he could use her telephone. She recognized the minister and graciously invited him in. He called his son, and arranged for him to bring a can of gas. The woman invited him to sit in the living room while he waited.

As he took a seat, she reappeared, rolling an old man in a wheelchair. She parked him across the room and excused herself as the old man fixed a suspicious gaze on the intruder. A beautiful golden retriever trotted into the room, sniffed him a bit, and then sat down next to the minister’s chair.

He was about to compliment the old man on his wonderful landscape, when suddenly he felt an urgent rumbling. Obviously, Martha Bergstrom’s pork-n-been casserole was at work, and it came on with such a ferocity that a bit of gas slipped out before he could gain control.

There was no sound, but a foul odor was soon evident. The old man in the wheelchair looked at the dog and sternly said, “Sammy.”

There’s more with a GReat punchline . . . . 


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