I’ve been wanting chairs for a long time now. You see, in all the myriads of upheavals, uprootings, relocations, and comings and goings in my so-called life, I haven’t really found time or enough space to accumulate that much furniture. Chairs in particular. No proper seating to speak of, just these banged-up, mismatched plastic eyesores that serve their utilitarian purpose but are certainly not much to look at. Now that I’ve moved into an apartment with a bit of room to maneuver in, seating is my next project on the acquisitions list for the hive. Gotta get me some proper park-your-butt-in-comfort chairs!
And since I’m hung up on chairs lately, I’ve dug up a joke that features a novel use for a chair. Preferably those metal ones that stack up so nicely.
The CIA had an opening for an assassin. After all of the background checks, interviews, and testing were done, there were three finalists—two men and a woman.For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.
“We must know that you will follow your instructions, no matter what the circumstances. Inside of this room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill her.”
The man said, “You can’t be serious! I could never shoot my wife.”
The agent said, “Then you’re not the right man for this job.”
The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes.
Then the man came out with tears in his eyes. “I tried, but I can’t kill my wife.”
The agent said, “You don’t have what it takes. Take your wife and go home.”
Finally, it was the woman’s turn. She was given the same instructions—to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard—one shot after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman.
She wiped the sweat from her brow, and said, “This gun is loaded with blanks. I had to beat him to death with the chair.”