Last week, a fifth grader headed into class late. I asked him where he'd been, to which he said, "I got eleven-year-old shots."
I said, "Why'd you get such old shots?"
He said, "Huh?"
"Why'd they give you eleven-year-old shots? Why didn't they give you fresh medicine? Don't the drugs expire after eleven years?"
He caught on and had a good laugh, so I asked him if he cried when he got his old shots? He laughed again. Boys don't cry over shots, do they? I wish I could have been as brave when I was a child.
As a youngster–four, five, or maybe sixteen–I don't remember, the doctor told me I was going to get a shot. Naturally, I did what any chicken would do, I took off running out the door in my underwear. I had a string of nurses and various other folks chasing me through the halls. Finally, they caught me. Yes, kiddies, there's no escaping the shot once the doctor orders it.
Also, as a child, I once told the doctor he was nasty. What did he expect? The man asked me to take off my clothes. But that has nothing to do with those shots that were never worth the sucker.
When it comes to shots, there's only one kind I like.
|White Russian: shot vodka, shot kahlua, and milk|