Billy

When I was in 3rd grade at Adlai E. Stevenson elementary school in Chicago, I had a friend named Billy Weeks. Billy was older. He was in 5th grade and he was a patrol boy. Every day as we walked to school, there would be Billy in his bright orange belt standing on his corner. I don't know where he got them all from (he must have had a friend in 6th grade), but each morning he would have a new joke for us. I don't remember most of them because most of them were not memorable. But just a few have stuck with me over the years. So as not to be lost in the mist of time, I want to tell you one of Billy's jokes.

WARNING: The following paragraph contains ethnic stereotypes and scatological humor age appropriate for a ten year old boy in 1967.

A Polack was walking down the sidewalk when he comes up to a big pile of dog shit. He picks it up and weighs it first in one hand and then the other. "Feels like dog shit," he says. Then he sticks it right up in his face and takes a big whiff. "Smells like dog shit, " he says. Then he takes a big bite of it. "Tastes like dog shit," he says. He drops it back on the ground and says, "I'm sure glad I didn't step in it."

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(in the interest of good taste)