Fun: Grammar Nazi style

On my sixtieth birthday, I received an unusual gift from my wife. It was a coupon good for a visit to a shaman at a nearby reservation; rumor has it that he possesses a wonderful cure for erectile dysfunction.

Cajoled (and then pushed out the door), I drove to the reservation, handed my gift certificate to the shaman, and wondered what I was in for. The old man slowly ground up strange and noxious smelling herbs, methodically boiled and distilled some unnamed potion; and, while handing it to me, gripped my shoulder, warned, "This powerful medicine! Must be respected! You take only one teaspoonful and say '1-2- 3!' Then, you more potent than ever in your life. Can perform long as you want!"

Bemused, I nonetheless thanked the old man. As he shambled away, I asked, "Wait! How do I stop the medicine from working?"

"Your partner must say '1-2-3-4," the shaman responded. "But when she does, the medicine will not work again until the next full moon."

Eager to see if it is the real thing, I rushed home, showered, shaved, swallowed a spoonful of the medicine, and then called my wife from the bedroom. As she walked in, I stripped and said, "1-2-3!"

Immediately, I became the manliest of men.

As my excited wife too, threw off her clothes, she asked, "What was the 1-2-3 for?"





That, boys and girls, is why we should never end our sentences with a preposition.