A fifteen-year-old Amish boy and his father were in the new mall. They were amazed by almost everything they saw, but especially by two shiny, silver walls that could move apart and then slide back together again. The boy asked, “What is this, Father?” The father (never having seen an elevator) responded, “Son, I have never seen anything like this in my life, I don’t know what it is.” While the boy and his father were watching with amazement, a fat old lady in a wheelchair moved up to the moving walls and pressed a button.

The walls opened, and the lady rolled between them into a small room. The walls closed and the boy and his father watched the small numbers above the walls light up sequentially. They continued to watch until it reached the last number and then the numbers began to light in the reverse order. Finally, the walls opened up again and a gorgeous 24-year-old woman stepped out. The father, not taking his eyes off the young woman, said quietly to his son, “Go get your mother.”

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“Sixty is the worst age to be,” said the 60-year-old man. “You always feel like you have to pee and most of the time you stand there and nothing comes out.”

“Ah, that’s nothin,” said the 70-year-old. “When you’re seventy, you don’t have a bowel movement any more. You take laxatives, eat bran, sit on the toilet all day and nothin’ comes out!”

“Actually,” said the 80-year -old, “Eighty is the worst age of all.”

“Do you have trouble peeing, too?” asked the 60-year old.

“No, I pee every morning at 6:00. I pee like a racehorse on a flat rock: no problem at all.”

“So, do you have a problem with your bowel movement?”

“No, I have one every morning at 6:30.”

Exasperated, the 60-year-old said, “You pee every morning at 6:00 and crap every morning at 6:30. So what’s so bad about being 80?”

“I don’t wake up until 7:00.”

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Two nuns, Sister Dulce and Sister Andrea, are on their way back from the market one evening. It’s already very late, and they have quite a distance left before reaching their convent. Suddenly, Sister Dulce grabs hold of Sister Andrea’s arm. “Is it just me,” she asks, “or is that man following us?!” Sister Andrea glances over her shoulder, then whispers back. “I think he might be, yes!” “What do you think he wants?!” “Isn’t it obvious?” asks Sister Andrea. “He’s going to rape us! What should we do?!” “I know,” replies Sister Dulce. “We’ll split up. I’ll take the left road to the convent, and you take the one on the right.” The nuns part ways, and a few minutes later, Sister Dulce arrives at the convent. She starts pacing in front of the door, worried that some terrible fate has befallen the other nun.

Then, just as Sister Dulce is about to give up hope, she sees Sister Andrea running up the path. “What happened?!” asks Sister Dulce. “Well,” replies Sister Andrea, “I started running, and the man started chasing me.” “Oh, no! Then what?!” “He caught up to me.” Sister Dulce gasps. “What did you do?!” “The only thing I could do,” Sister Andrea answers. “I lifted up my dress.” “What did the man do?!” “He dropped his pants.” Sister Dulce clutches her rosary, terrified of what she’s about to hear next. “Then… then what happened?” “Isn’t it obvious?” asks Sister Andrea. “A nun with her dress up runs faster than a man with his pants down”

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During one of his campaign trips to be the Republican nominee, Donald Trump visits an elementary school and enters one of the classrooms. They are in the middle of a discussion related to words and their meanings.

The teacher asks Mr. Trump if he would like to lead the discussion of the word “Tragedy.” So he asks the class for an example of a tragedy.

One little boy stands up and offers: “If my best friend who lives on a farm, is playing in the field and a runaway tractor comes along and knocks him dead, that would be a tragedy.”

“No,” says Mr. Trump, “that would be an accident.”

A little girl raises her hand: “If a school bus carrying 50 children drove over a cliff, killing everyone inside, that would be a tragedy.”

“I’m afraid not,” explains the exalted the Republican frontrunner. “That’s what we would call a great loss.”

The room goes silent. No other children volunteer. Mr. Trump searches the room.

“Isn’t there someone here who can give me an example of a tragedy?”

Finally at the back of the room, a boy raises his hand. In a quiet voice he says: “If a private jet carrying you was struck by a missile and blown to smithereens, that would be a tragedy.”

“Fantastic!” exclaims Mr. Trump, “That’s absolutely right. And can you tell me why that would be a tragedy?”

“Well,” says the boy, “because it wouldn’t be a great loss and it probably wouldn’t be an accident either.”

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