A construction worker, 12 stories up, opened his lunch box. Guys weren’t supposed to yell at women anymore. So the sandwich was his afternoon delight.
He lovingly unwrapped it, sniffed it, poked it. A guy can’t be too careful.
Then he roared. “Ugh! Peanut butter! I hate peanut butter!”
He hurled the innocent sandwich down the shaft, all 12 stories. Maybe it cried. Maybe, eventually, a lucky rat would give it love.
That was on Monday.
On Tuesday: “Ugh! Peanut butter!” and the offending sandwich flew down the shaft.
On Wednesday: “Ugh! Peanut butter!”
On Thursday, the new young guy on the crew got bold. “Why don’t you have your wife make you something else for lunch?”
Our hero growled: “My wife doesn’t make my lunch. I make it myself.”
My father would tell that story and laugh till he cried. His big, booming Irish laugh.
I always laughed with him, but I still don’t know why the joke is funny.
But now when Covid makes me blue, I know what to do.
I make myself a peanut butter sandwich.
Home run!