At a local high school, a group of stu­dents decided to play a prank by let­ting three goats loose inside the school. But before turn­ing them loose, they painted the num­bers 1, 2, and 4 on the sides of the goats.

School admin­is­tra­tors spent the rest of the day look­ing for a goat with a 3 on its side.

I had this joke emailed to me and though it would be a cute lit­tle space filler:

Sev­eral days ago as I left work, I des­per­ately gave myself a per­sonal TSA pat down. I was look­ing for my keys. They were not in my pock­ets. A quick search of my cubi­cal revealed nothing.

Sud­denly I real­ized, I must have left them in the car. Fran­ti­cally, I headed for the park­ing lot. My wife has scolded me many times for leav­ing the keys in the igni­tion, but my the­ory is the igni­tion is the best place not to lose them. Her the­ory is that the car will be stolen. As I burst through the doors of the church, I came to a ter­ri­fy­ing con­clu­sion. Her the­ory was right. The park­ing lot was empty.

I imme­di­ately call the police. I gave them my loca­tion, con­fessed that I had left my keys in the car, and that it had been stolen. Then I made the most dif­fi­cult call of all, “Honey,” I stam­mered, I always call her “honey” in times like these, “I left my keys in the car, and it has been stolen.”

There was a period of silence. I thought the call had been dropped, but then I heard my wife’s voice. “Honey,” she replied, she always calls me “honey” in times like these. “I dropped you off!” Now it was my time to be silent. Embar­rassed, I said, “Well, come and get me.”

Her reply, “I will, as soon as I con­vince this police­man I have not stolen your car!”

A woman in a gro­cery store hap­pens upon a grand­fa­ther and his poorly behaved 3-year-old grand­son. It’s obvi­ous to her that Gramps has his hands full with the child scream­ing for candy in the candy aisle, cook­ies in the cookie aisle; same for fruit, cereal and soda in their respec­tive aisles.

Mean­while, Gramps is work­ing his way around, say­ing in a con­trolled voice, “Easy, Albert, we won’t be long — easy, boy.” Another out­burst, and she hears Gramps calmly say, “It’s okay, Albert, just a cou­ple more min­utes and we’ll be out of here. Hang in there, boy.”

At the check­out, the lit­tle ter­ror is throw­ing items out of the cart, and Gramps again in a con­trolled voice is says, “Albert, Albert, relax buddy, don’t get upset. We’ll be home in five min­utes; stay cool, Albert.”

Very impressed, the woman goes out­side where Gramps is load­ing his gro­ceries and the boy into the car. “You know, sir, it’s none of my busi­ness, but you were amaz­ing in there. I don’t know how you did it. That whole time, you kept your com­po­sure, and no mat­ter how loud and dis­rup­tive he got, you just calmly kept say­ing things would be okay. Albert is very lucky to have you as his grandpa.”

“Thanks, lady,” said Gramps, “But, I’m Albert — the lit­tle bastard’s name is Steve.”

Two hunters char­tered a plane to fly them to Canada, to hunt moose, and they man­aged to bag six.

As they were load­ing the plane to return, the pilot said the plane could take only four moose.

The two hunters objected strongly. “Last year we shot six. The pilot let us take them all, and he had the same plane as yours.”

Reluc­tantly, the pilot gave in and all six were loaded.

How­ever, even on full power, the lit­tle plane couldn’t han­dle the load and went down.

Some­how, sur­rounded by all the moose bod­ies, both hunters sur­vived the crash.

After climb­ing out of the wreck­age, one asked the other, “Any idea where we are?”

He replied, “I think we’re pretty close to where we crashed last year.”