A hound dog lays in the yard and an old man in overalls sits on the porch.
“Excuse me, sir, but does your dog bite?” a jogger asks.
The old man looks over his newspaper and replies, “Nope.”
As soon as the jogger enters the yard, the dog begins snarling and growling, and then attacks the jogger’s legs.
As the jogger flails around in the yard, he yells, “I thought you said your dog didn’t bite!”
The old man mutters, “Ain’t my dog.”
A woman renewing her driver’s license at the DMV was asked by the clerk to state her occupation.
She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself. “What I mean is,” explained the clerk, “do you have a job, or are you just a …?”
“Of course I have a job,” snapped the woman. “I’m a mother.”
“We don’t list ‘Mother’ as an occupation … ‘Housewife’ covers it,” said the clerk emphatically.
I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, years later, at our local police station.
The clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessing a high-sounding title like, “official interrogator” or “town registrar.”
