The teacher gave her fifth grade class an assignment: Get their parents to tell them a story with a moral at the end of it.
The next day, the kids came back and, one by one, began to tell their stories.
There were all the regular types of stuff: Spilled milk and pennies saved. But then the teacher realized, much to her dismay, that only Janie was left.
“Janie, do you have a story to share?”
‘Yes, ma’am. My daddy told me a story about my Mommy.
She was a Marine pilot in Desert Storm, and her plane got hit. She had to bail out over enemy territory, and all she had was a flask of whiskey, a pistol, and a survival knife. She drank the whiskey on the way down so the bottle wouldn’t break, and then her parachute landed her right in the middle of 20 Iraqi troops.
She shot 15 of them with the pistol, until she ran out of bullets, killed four more with the knife, till the blade broke, and then she killed the last Iraqi with her bare hands.”
”Good Heavens,” said the horrified teacher. “What did your Daddy tell you was the moral to this horrible story?”
“Don’t mess with Mommy when she’s been drinking.”
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