Saturday (I don't want to blog about politics) night

I can't think of much to write this evening. I'm pooped and my brain has turned to a funny mush, so here's a joke instead:

Three men turn up at the Pearly Gates. The first goes up to St Peter and asks to be let into Heaven. St Peter asks him how he died.

Well, says the chap. I got the impression that my wife was having an affair so I went home early from work to catch her in the act. I live on the eleventh floor of a block of flats and the lift wasn't working. By the time I had climbed up all those stairs I was knackered but still determined.

I burst into the flat and found my wife naked but there was no sign of anyone else. I searched the entire flat but found nobody. By this time I was even more knackered and my chest was giving me some pain so I went on to the balcony for some air.

I spotted two sets of fingers holding onto the balcony. I new I had found the man who was sleeping with my Mrs so I stamped on his fingers. He wouldn't let go so I went and got my hammer and hammered his fingers. He let go this time but he fell into a bush and was unharmed.

I dragged my fridge though the flat and threw it over the balcony. That got the bugger! WIth all the excitement I had a heart attack on my balcony and died.

St Pete lets him in and the second chap comes up to the gates and asks for admittance. St Peter also asks him how he died.

Well, says the chap. I live on the twelfth floor of a block of flats and I fell off my balcony. Fortunately I managed to grab the balcony below, but then some psycho started stamping on my hands and hammering my fingers.

I fell off but fortunately I landed in a bush and was unharmed. Then a fridge came flying over the balcony and killed me.

St Peter lets him in and the third chap approaches.

St Peter asks him how he died.

Well, says the chap. I was hiding naked in a fridge....

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