Rumor has it that when Joe Biden was elected president, on his first night at the White House, he was visited by the ghost of George Washington.

Joe asked him, "George, what can I do to best serve the United States?"

The ghost of George Washington responded, "Never tell a lie."

Joe said, "Oh, I don't think I can do that."

The next night, he was visited by the ghost of Thomas Jefferson.

Joe asked him, "Thomas, what can I do to best serve the United States?"

The ghost of Thomas Jefferson responded, "Listen to the people."

Joe said, "Oh, I don't think I can do that."

On the third night, he was visited by the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.

Joe asked him, "Abraham, what can I do to best serve the United States?"

The ghost of Abraham Lincoln responded, "Go see a play."

An 87-year-old man was visiting his doctor for his yearly check-up.

“So Mr Johnson, how are you doing?” the doctor enquired.

“Doctor, I’ve never felt better,” Mr. Johnson responded. “I’ve even married my 20-year-old girlfriend recently, and she’s now pregnant with my child. So, how about that then?”

The doctor considered this momentarily, and then said, “Let me tell you a story, Mr. Johnson.

A friend of mine was an avid hunter. One day he went out in a bit of a hurry and accidentally picked up his walking stick instead of his rifle.”

“Really?” said Mr. Johnson.

“Yes,” said the doctor. “Anyway, he was in the woods when suddenly a very large grizzly bear appeared in front of him. He raised his stick, pointed it at the bear and squeezed the handle. And do you know what happened?”

Dumbfounded, the old man said, “No Doc, what?”

“The bear dropped dead in front of him,” the doctor replied.

“No Doc, that can’t be right.” said the old man. “That’s impossible! Someone else must have shot the bear.”

The doctor smiled, and said, “Exactly!"

Thieves had broken into my house and stolen everything except my soap, shower gel, towels and deodorant.

Dirty Bastards.

CHAPTER I. In Chancery

London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill.
Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun.
Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers.
Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.
Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights.
Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.
Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little apprentice boy on deck.