"The Jokes Are On Me"

By Jerry Zezima

I used to think, because I’m a kid at heart, and even more so at head, that I have the maturity level of a 9-year-old.

But I don’t think so anymore because a 9-year-old, who happens to be one of my grandchildren, thinks my jokes are stupid.

This was made abundantly clear when the sweet, smart and sassy girl, who is wise beyond her years, told me she’s Gen Alpha.

“Who’s Jen Alpha?” I asked with a goofy grin. “I’ve never heard of her.”

My granddaughter sighed, spun her eyes like pinwheels and said with a hint of exasperation, “Poppie, your jokes aren’t funny.”

You know you’re getting old — and pathetically outdated — when the jokes that used to make your kids cringe are now having the same effect on your grandchildren.

For my last birthday, one of my kids, who is the 9-year-old’s mother, gifted me with a trifecta of silliness: a large tin containing 400 Dad Jokes (“100% hilarious, so bad they’re good”) and two smaller boxes, one containing 60 All-American Dad Jokes (“the very best, or worst”), the other filled with Cheesy Jokes (“100 single cheesy jokes”).

That’s a grand total of 560 — my granddaughter, who got an A in math, helped me add them up — excruciatingly bad jokes. I love them!

My daughter has also given me two appropriate coffee mugs, one that says, “Dad Jokes: Served Fresh Daily,” and the other saying, “Ask Me About My Dad Jokes.”

All of this should dispel any notion that I am not, to use accepted psychological terminology, a complete idiot.

I achieved this dubious standing in the family hierarchy when my two daughters were as young as my five grandchildren, who range in age from 12 to 6.

It is during the difficult years between birth and whenever your kids move out of the house when you discover that they not only don’t want to be seen with you, but they don’t want other people to know you even exist.

This nerve-rattling humiliation is exacerbated if you, in your important role as Dad, open your mouth to say absolutely ridiculous things to: (a) your kids’ friends, (b) your kids’ friends’ parents, (c) your kids’ teachers or (d) all of them at the very same time.

It only gets worse if you make dumb jokes, in your children’s presence, to complete strangers.

Fast forward two decades, during which your spouse, your grown children and your grown children’s spouses have finally accepted your alleged witticisms with reactions ranging from mere shrugs to the unnerving sight of eyeballs rotating in their sockets.

Then, mercifully, come reinforcements: grandchildren!

Yes, indeed, you can always count on the grandkids to laugh at whatever you say, supremely stupid though it may be.

Not only that, but they are happy to be seen with you.

It’s especially gratifying if their parents (your grown children) are present when one of your grandchildren introduces you to their friends, their friends’ parents or their teachers.

On occasions such as this, I have grinned sappily, extended my hand and chirped, “Hi! I’m Poppie!”

My daughters have practically suffered whiplash while looking the other way. I’m sure that haunting flashbacks ensued.

When my 9-year-old granddaughter and her 12-year-old sister were younger, I bought them a book of knock-knock jokes. We would sit around reading them.

Grandchild: “Knock, knock.”

Me: “Who’s there?”

Grandchild: “Boo.”

Me: “Boo who?”

Grandchild: “Don’t cry, it’s only a joke!”

We would all collapse in paroxysms of laughter.

Not anymore. Sure, we still have fun, and I can occasionally get chuckles with some lame comment, but when it comes to sophistication and maturity, I am being passed up by my kids’ kids.

Maybe it’s time for me to come out with a great birthday gift of my own: Granddad Jokes (“100% hilarious, so bad they’re good”).

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"A Chore Thing"

By Jerry Zezima

When it comes to household chores, I work for free. And I’m worth every penny.

But since I’m on a fixed income, I am thinking of charging for my services.

“You don’t do anything,” said my wife, Sue, who is the family banker.

“That’s not true,” I replied defensively.

“What do you do, take out the garbage?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “And I clean the bathroom. And do the dishes. And get the mail.”

“How long does it take to get the mail, a minute?” Sue said.

“Time is money,” I responded, using an old business axiom, which is derived from the Latin word “axioma,” meaning “feeble excuse.”

I got the idea to charge for chores after seeing a lawn sign by some enterprising individual who wanted to get paid for putting up other people’s Christmas lights.

“Maybe I should get paid for putting up our lights,” I suggested.

“You mean throwing a few strands on the bushes out front?” Sue said incredulously.

“Yes,” I said. “And for plugging them in.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she stated.

“That’s my job,” I countered.

My job used to include outside chores like cutting the grass, but Sue fired me because I didn’t trim the edges of the yard to her satisfaction, so she hired a landscaping company.

“How could I get fired from a job I did for free?” I asked.

“The landscapers are worth the money,” Sue assured me.

I didn’t put up much of a fight because I didn’t like cutting the grass anyway. Or raking leaves. Or shoveling snow.

“If I got paid for lying in a hammock, I’d be a millionaire,” I noted.

“Take out the garbage,” Sue said.

“I’m not supposed to do that anymore,” I replied.

“Says who?” she wanted to know.

“A nurse in the cardiologist’s office,” I told her.

I was referring to Annemarie, who called to give me the results of a recent CAT scan, which was taken to find out the status of my aortic aneurysm.

About a year ago, I was scheduled to have open-heart surgery because the aneurysm was thought to be large enough to operate on. A subsequent scan showed that I didn’t need surgery after all.

But this latest scan indicated that the aneurysm had grown and should be monitored.

“You have restrictions,” Annemarie told me.

“Like what?” I wondered.

“No heavy lifting,” she said. “Not even a case of water.”

“How about a case of beer?” I inquired.

“Not that, either,” Annemarie said.

“Can I do 12-ounce curls?” I asked.

“If you’re thirsty,” she said. “A full wineglass is all right, too.”

“Red wine is over-the-counter heart medicine,” I pointed out.

Then we got down to household chores.

“How about taking out the garbage?” I inquired.

“Not if it’s too heavy,” Annemarie said. “And no heavy laundry baskets.”

“I don’t do laundry,” I said. “My wife thinks I’ll break the washing machine.”

“My husband doesn’t do laundry, either,” she said.

“Does he do other household chores?” I asked.

“Some,” Annemarie answered.

“Does he want to get paid for them?” I wondered.

“Are you kidding?” she spluttered. “I’d never pay him. Besides, he’s scheduled to have open-heart surgery, so he can’t do much anyway.”

“My wife is a cardiac patient, too,” I said. “She had a heart attack a few years ago, but she’s doing very well.”

“And she does most of the household chores?” Annmarie asked.

“Yes,” I confessed.

“Then you should pay her,” she said.

“I can’t,” I said. “I don’t have any money.”

“Money isn’t everything,” Annmarie said. “And it proves one thing.”

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“You’re a lucky man,” she said. “So do what you can to help your wife. After all, like most wives, she’s priceless.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The 2025 Zezima Family Christmas Letter"

By Jerry Zezima

Since I am in the holiday spirit (and, having just consumed a mug of hot toddy, a glass of eggnog and a nip of cheer, the holiday spirits are in me), I have decided to follow in that great tradition of boring everyone silly by writing a Christmas letter.

That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch, and Sue, the matriarch, as well as two daughtersiarch, two sons-in-lawiarch, five grandchildreniarch and a partridge in a pear tree.

Dear friends:

It sure has been an eventful 2025 for the Zezimas!

The year got off to a “ruff” start with the adoption of a puppy named Opal, a sweet, smart and sassy Chihuahua who has captured the hearts (as well as the fingers and toes, which she likes to nibble on) of everyone in the family, especially Jerry and Sue’s younger daughter, the doggy’s human mommy. Opal’s human sisters and her human daddy love her, too, and they are all proud that Opal graduated from obedience school, which is where everyone wishes Jerry would go.

That’s because he has done some incredibly stupid things this year.

One of the craziest was his attempt to buy a lighthouse. Because the historic structure needed work, and Jerry is the least handy man in America, and it was up for auction with the bidding starting at $100,000, and Sue told Jerry he couldn’t go over $25,000, and the winning bid was $370,000, Jerry lost out on a chance to replace Johnny Depp as the star of the next “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie.

It was proof, if any were needed, that Jerry is lightheaded.

He proved it again when he bought an air horn to rupture the eardrums of scammers who call incessantly and won’t take no for an answer. At least it didn’t cost as much as a lighthouse. Price: $7.99.

Jerry said he’s loud and proud. Sue still thinks he’s full of hot air.

Speaking of loud, Jerry’s constant snoring prompted him — at the urging of Sue — to enroll in a sleep study that found he has apnea at levels high enough to be recorded on the Richter scale. So he got a CPAP machine, which was designed to stop his overnight rumbling and save Sue from fixing the problem by means of asphyxiation. The machine worked for one night, after which Jerry stopped using it. He hasn’t snored since.

Jerry found that being a grandfather can be magical — as long as you don’t end up in jail. That’s the lesson he learned when he and Sue got together with all five grandchildren (and the kids’ parents) for a week in which Jerry assisted in science experiments performed with a magic wand, ran around a playground to the point of collapse, was served a delicious dinner of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, engaged in battles with a kung fu master and was arrested multiple times by the world’s youngest cop.

He pleaded immaturity and was released on his own recognizance because the children, who are more grown up than Jerry, don’t yet know what recognizance is.

Jerry learned that old can be gold when he and Sue attended their 50th reunion at Saint Michael’s College in Vermont, where they were in the notorious (thanks to Jerry and his pal Tim Lovelette) class of 1975. They met the school’s new president, who resisted the urge to revoke Jerry’s diploma after learning that he graduated magna cum lager. A good time was had by all.

Jerry marked the 40th anniversary of his syndicated humor column, which is distributed to hundreds of papers nationwide and abroad. If you have ever wondered why the newspaper industry is in trouble, it would be because of Jerry.

Last but certainly least, Jerry’s eighth book, “The More the Merrier: Laughing at Life When Everyone Thinks You’re Over the Hill,” was published. Like his other books, it’s a crime against literature. It also comes in handy for propping up wobbly table legs. And if you suffer from insomnia, you might even want to read it. Just ask Santa, who will be happy to stuff your stocking with a copy of this alleged masterpiece. Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima