The Joke Thread....

A: I have the perfect son.
B: Does he smoke?
A: No, he doesn’t.
B: Does he drink whiskey?
A: No, he doesn’t.
B: Does he ever come home late?
A: No, he doesn’t.
B: I guess you really do have the perfect son. How old is he?
A: He will be six months old next Wednesday.
 
It was my first night caring for an elderly patient. When he grew sleepy, I wheeled his chair as close to the bed as possible and, using the techniques I’d learned in school, grasped him in a bear hug to lift him onto the bed. But I couldn’t clear the top of the mattress. So I grabbed him again, summoned all my might, and hoisted him onto the bed. When the night shift nurse arrived, I recounted what had happened. “Funny,” she said, looking puzzled. “Usually I just ask him to get in bed, and he does.”
 
My 85-year-old grandfather was rushed to the hospital with a possible concussion. The doctor asked him a series of questions: “Do you know where you are?” “I’m at Rex Hospital.” “What city are you in?” “Raleigh.” “Do you know who I am?” “Dr. Hamilton.” My grandfather then turned to the nurse and said, “I hope he doesn’t ask me any more questions.” “Why?” she asked. “Because all of those answers were on his badge.”
 
As a brain wave technologist, I often ask postoperative patients to smile to make sure their facial nerves are intact. It always struck me as odd to be asking this question right after brain surgery, so a colleague suggested I ask patients to show me their teeth. Armed with this new phrase, I said to my next patient, “Mr. Smith, show me your teeth.” He shook his head. “The nurse has them.”
 
Before heading off to Mexico on vacation, my daughter asked her doctor for medicine to ward off any potential stomach troubles. Instead, the doctor prescribed bottled water and electrolytes, “which have simple sugars and salt.” My daughter liked that. “Oh,” she said, “like a margarita?”
 
Feeling ill, my supervisor went to a nearby doctor, who ordered an EKG. Upon reading the results, the doctor declared that my boss was suffering a cardiac arrest and called an ambulance to whisk him off to the hospital. There, doctors performed their own tests. But those came back negative. After some quick sleuthing, the problem was solved: The first doctor had read the EKG upside down.
 
After my wife accidentally swallowed my prostate medication, our daughter called a pharmacist to ask whether there was any cause for alarm. He replied, “Only if she starts hanging out at hardware stores and buys a lot of power tools.”
 
I was in the emergency room when a young male nurse came in to ask routine medical questions. Nurse: Have you ever had a hysterectomy? Me: Yes. Nurse: When? Me: 2011. Nurse: Do you think you could be pregnant? Me: Do you think this is the right career for you?
 
Our doctor’s office called to let my husband know that the results from his blood tests came back and he was just fine. That didn’t suit my husband.

“What’s my cholesterol level?” he asked.

“Mr. Crocker, you are just fine,” insisted the nurse.

“Still, I’d like you to mail me the results.”

A few days later, he received a postcard from the doctor’s office. It read, “Mr. Crocker, you are just fine!”
 
My paramedic team was called to an emergency. Before we took the patient to the hospital, I had a question for his wife. “Does your husband have any cardiac problems?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said with a note of concern. “His cardiologist just died.”
 
I’d never had surgery, and I was nervous. “This is a very simple, noninvasive procedure,” the anesthesiologist reassured me. I felt better, until … “Heck,” he continued, “you have 
a better chance of dying from the 
anesthesia than the surgery itself.”
 
My wife, a phlebotomist at the Denver VA hospital, entered a patient’s room to draw blood. Noticing an apple on his nightstand, she 
remarked, “An apple a day keeps 
the doctor away, right?” “That’s true,” he agreed. “I haven’t seen a doctor in three days.”
 
A therapist has a theory that couples who make love once a day are the happiest. So he tests it at a seminar by asking those assembled, “How many people here make love once a day?” Half the people raise their hands, each of them grinning widely. “Once a week?” A third of 
the audience members raise their hands, their grins a bit less vibrant. “Once a month?” A few hands tepidly go up. Then he asks, “OK, how about once a year?” One man in the back jumps up and down, jubilantly waving his hands. The therapist is shocked—this disproves his theory. “If you make love only once a year,” he asks, “why are you so happy?” The man yells, “Today’s the day!”
 
My mother was rushed to the 
hospital following a serious tumble. There the staff placed a band around her wrist with large letters warning: Fall Risk. Unimpressed, Mom said to me, “I’ll have them know I’m a winter, spring, and summer risk too.”
 
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