After only a year in Canada, a Polish man got married to a nice Canadian girl. They got along quite well until the day he rushed into his lawyer’s office and begged him to arrange a quick divorce. The lawyer said, “What are the circumstances? Have you any grounds?” And the Polish immigrant replied, “Ja, ja, ve’ve got an acre and a half with a nice little house.” “No, I mean, what is the foundation of your case?” “It’s made of concrete.” “Does either of you have a grudge?” “No, but we have a big carport.” “I mean, what are your relations like?” “All my relations are in Poland.” “Is there any infidelity in your marriage?” “Yes, we have high fidelity stereo and a CD player.” “No, I mean, does your wife beat you up? “No, I get up before her.” “Is your wife a nagger?” “What? No, she’s white.” “Why do you want this divorce anyway?” “She’s gonna kill me. She’s going to poison me.” “Really? What makes you think so?” “I’ve got proof.” “What kind of proof?” “She brought home a bottle from the drug store that says, ‘Polish Remover!'”
A guy goes into a store and asks the clerk, “I want some Polish sausage. The clerk takes a long look at him. “Are you Polish???? The guy says, “Well, yes, I am. But if I had asked for Italian sausage would you ask me if I was Italian? If I had asked for German sausage, would you ask me if I was German???? The clerk says, “No.??? “Well, then, why did you ask me if I’m Polish just because I asked for Polish sausage???? The clerk says, “Because this is a hardware store!???
An elderly Polish man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite pierogi with fried onions wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
Downstairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen, where if not for death’s agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for
there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite pierogi.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
He threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the pierogi was already in his mouth. With a trembling hand he reached up to the edge of the table, when suddenly he was smacked with a wooden spoon by his wife.
“Back off!” she said. “Those are for your funeral. “