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10 Worst Yoga Jokes

Yoga is the practice of paying money to find out which parts of your body you’ve been ignoring since 2009.

My yoga instructor says I need to be more flexible. I told her I already rescheduled twice this month.

Yoga: because punching people is frowned upon.

Yoga teaches patience. Like waiting for the person in front of you to stop wobbling.

Yoga taught me that balance is just falling very slowly with confidence.

Every yoga class has that one person who looks like a Renaissance painting while I look like furniture being assembled incorrectly.

Why did the yogi get a new dog? He wanted a downward-facing friend.

The hardest part of yoga is not laughing at the person next to you who’s struggling just as much.

Yoga is the only workout where you’re both deeply calm and deeply confused at the same time.

The hardest pose is pretending you’re not checking to see if everyone else is struggling too.

I love how yoga encourages self-acceptance, right after showing me what I will never physically achieve.

I tried hot yoga and learned that heat removes all illusions of dignity.

I tried yoga to reduce stress, but now I’m stressed about whether I’m doing yoga wrong.

My balance improves dramatically when no one is watching.

The real flexibility yoga teaches is learning to laugh at yourself while falling over.

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10 Worst Exercise Jokes

I tried yoga, but it was a stretch.

My workout plan is simple: stretch, overdo it, pull something, google symptoms, recover.

Why don’t all couples go to the gym? Because some relationships don’t work out.

Running outside is great because you get fresh air and the feeling that everyone driving by is judging you.

Personal trainers hate this one simple trick: not hiring a personal trainer.

I did a plank once. Long enough to reflect on my life choices.

Exercise is the only activity where you pay money to be uncomfortable while strangers silently compete with you.

The hardest part of working out is pretending it was “fun” when someone asks how it went.

Every workout has that one move where you think, “This is how people get injured in commercials.”

I love long walks… especially when they’re taken by people who annoy me.

Exercise? I thought you said “extra fries.”

I burned 2000 calories today. I fell down the stairs chasing my cat, but it counts.

People say “No pain, no gain.” I say “No pain… good! Let’s keep it that way.”

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10 Worst Jokes About Figure Skating

Figure skating costumes cost more than my car. They’re covered in crystals, completely bedazzled, and have exactly zero practical pockets. You can’t even carry your phone.

The scoring system in figure skating involves technical components, artistic impression, and apparently mystical forces that only judges understand. I’ve watched explanations for hours and I’m still convinced they’re just making up numbers based on vibes.

Pair skaters have to trust their partners to throw them in the air and catch them. I don’t trust my partner to catch a set of keys.

Figure skaters fall on ice going 20 miles per hour and just get up like nothing happened. I slipped on a wet floor once and lay there for 10 minutes reconsidering my life choices. These people are built different.

Ice dancers perform intricate choreography while maintaining eye contact and smiling. I can’t maintain eye contact during normal conversations without it getting weird.

Figure skaters train for four years for a four-minute program. That’s roughly 35,000 hours of practice for 240 seconds of performance.

Figure skating requires strength, flexibility, artistry, and the ability to smile while internally screaming. It’s basically a physical manifestation of “this is fine” meme while everything is on fire and also you’re spinning.

I went to a public skating session thinking I’d practice some figure skating moves. The session was full of speed skaters going Mach 5 and hockey players treating the rink like a combat zone. I hugged the wall and prayed. No figure skating occurred.

Figure skaters wear tights that somehow stay perfectly smooth even during jumps and spins. I wear tights to the office and they’re bunched around my ankles by 10 AM.

Every figure skating costume has a “modesty panel” sewn in. This is because the skaters are doing splits and spins at high speeds in front of thousands of people. The engineering required to keep everything family-friendly is probably more complex than the actual skating.

I tried watching figure skating with my dad and he kept asking why they don’t just play hockey instead. “All that ice and no one’s checking anyone into the boards? What’s the point?” I couldn’t explain it in a way that satisfied him.

Figure skaters retire at like 25 and I’m just getting started at that age. They’ve already had entire careers, won medals, and destroyed their joints by the time I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

The kiss and cry area where skaters wait for their scores is the most emotionally volatile 60 square feet in sports. You go from hopeful to devastated in seconds, all while sitting on a bench, holding stuffed animals thrown by strangers. It’s a psychological experiment disguised as a waiting room.

Figure skaters travel with an entire suitcase just for skate equipment. Skates, guards, different blades, tools for adjustments. I travel with flip flops and hope for the best. We are not the same.

The toe pick on figure skates is used for jumps and spins but is mostly known for causing catastrophic falls when you forget it exists. It’s like having a built-in trip hazard attached to your feet. Whose idea was this?

Figure skating competitions start at like 7 AM and go until midnight. Someone performing at 11 PM has been at the rink since dawn, waiting, warming up, staying loose, managing anxiety. It’s not a sport, it’s an endurance test of patience and caffeine management.

Every figure skating documentary has the same plot: child shows promise, family sacrifices everything, skater trains obsessively, injury happens, triumphant comeback or devastating defeat. It’s a formula, but it works every time. I cry regardless.

The difference between a double and triple jump is one rotation, which happens in a fraction of a second. Yet that fraction determines whether you’re a club skater or an Olympian. The margin for error is so thin it’s basically a theoretical concept.

Figure skating boots cost $800, blades cost another $600, and they last maybe 6 months with serious training. That’s $2,800 a year just for the shoes. I complain when running shoes cost $120. I have no right to complain about anything ever again.

Synchronized skating exists and it’s 16-20 people doing intricate formations on ice while maintaining exact spacing and timing. I can’t even walk in a straight line with one other person without bumping into them. This seems impossible. It probably is impossible. They’re faking it somehow.

Coaches say “try again” so often, skaters think it’s their middle name.

Skaters don’t sweat — they sparkle attractively under fluorescent rink lights.

The Zamboni driver is basically the superhero of practice: one lap and the ice is reborn.

Every skater’s nightmare: finishing a routine perfectly… then realizing the music was for someone else.

Skaters bow at the end not just for applause, but to check if their laces survived.

Parents of skaters don’t clap at performances; they calculate how much money each jump cost in lessons.

Skaters don’t dream of vacations — they dream of ice time that isn’t at 5 a.m.

Skating friends don’t hug; they crash into each other and call it choreography.

Coaches don’t yell “focus!” — they yell “stop inventing new ways to fall.”

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10 Worst Bicycle Jokes

Why did the bicycle fall over? Because it was two tired!

My bike mechanic told me I needed new brakes. I told him, “No breaks! I’m on a tight schedule!”

Why did the bike go to therapy? It had too much chain anxiety.

A cyclist is pulled over by a police officer. The officer says, “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?” The cyclist replies, “No, officer, I don’t. Was I going too fast?” The officer sighs, “No, you were riding with no hands, no helmet, and you were juggling flaming torches. And you had a parrot on your shoulder yelling obscenities.” The cyclist shrugs, “Well, I was just trying to have some fun!”

I joined a cycling club. The welcome packet included a waiver, a map, and a tube of chamois cream.
I’m still not sure if I joined a sports club or a cult with suspiciously smooth thighs.

I went on a blind date with a cyclist.
Everything was going great until she said, “I only date people who can hold 22 mph on a climb.”
I said, “I only date people who believe in gravity.”

Why did the bicycle break up with the treadmill?
Because it couldn’t handle a relationship that went nowhere.

I asked my date if she wanted to go tandem biking.
She said she preferred relationships where one person wasn’t doing all the work.

My bike has more gear than I do.
Seriously, it’s got 21 speeds, disc brakes, and electronic shifting.
Meanwhile, I’m riding in gym shorts and praying I remembered deodorant.

My bike got stolen last week.
The thief left a note: “Sorry, but this ride deserved better than you.”

Cyclists are like cats.
They’re sleek, independent, occasionally hissy, and when they fall, they pretend it was on purpose.

My friend bought a $5,000 bike and now rides 3 miles every other Sunday.
At that rate, he’ll break even sometime in the 28th century.

I got pulled over on my bike for speeding.
I asked the cop if I was really going that fast. He said, “No, but your outfit is a crime.”

I tried group riding, but the only thing I learned was how to apologize while gasping,
“Sorry… can’t keep up…”

My bike is like my therapist.
It listens without judgment, supports me when I’m down, and lets me scream into the wind without anyone calling the police.

I asked a cyclist how long it takes to get used to the saddle.
He said, “About six months. Then the numbness becomes part of your personality.”

You know you’re a cyclist when your tan lines look like you fell asleep in a cage.

My kid asked why I ride my bike so much.
I said, “Because it’s the only time I can hear my own thoughts.”
He said, “That’s sad, Dad.”
I said, “I know. Now go fetch my helmet.”

What do you call a cyclist who doesn’t wear a helmet? An organ donor.

What do you call a bicycle built by a chemist? Bike-carbonate of soda.

Why did the cyclist bring a map to the velodrome? He kept going in circles.

What’s the difference between a cyclist and a fish? One has scales, the other has wheels.

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Worst Pickleball Jokes

The picture above is your editor playing pickleball.
For more on pickleball enjoy OddPickleball.com

A sociologist, a psychologist, and a pickleball player walk into a bar. The sociologist observes the social dynamics of the other patrons. The psychologist analyzes their motivations. The pickleball player immediately starts critiquing the bartender’s form, explaining how a lower center of gravity would lead to a much more efficient pour.

My therapist told me I have a pickleball addiction. I told her that’s ridiculous. Then I asked if she wanted to see my new paddle. She said no. I can’t be friends with someone who has such a negative outlook on life.

How many pickleball players does it take to change a lightbulb? Four. One to screw it in, and three to stand around and argue about whether their feet were in the kitchen when they did it.

I’ve started to realize that my pickleball strategy has a lot in common with my approach to life’s problems: just keep dinking it back and hope the other person messes up first.

A guy is explaining pickleball to his friend. “So, you hit a plastic ball with a paddle over a net.” The friend asks, “Like tennis?” “No, not at all,” the player scoffs. “The net is lower, and there’s a kitchen.” The friend, now thoroughly confused, asks, “Do you cook in it?” The player sighs, “No, of course not. That would be a foot fault.”

My doctor told me to take up a new sport for my health. I chose pickleball. Now I have the heart of a 30-year-old, the knees of a 70-year-old, and a burning desire to talk about the kitchen with anyone who will listen.

I went to a fancy restaurant the other day, and the waiter asked if I wanted to start with a soup or a salad. I told him I’d rather just dink for a while to see what he’s got. He didn’t appreciate my strategy.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they react to getting hit with a pickleball. Some apologize, some laugh, and some… well, some start practicing their overhead slams with a little too much intensity.

A man is on a first date. It’s going well, and he’s trying to impress the woman. She asks him what he’s passionate about. He leans in conspiratorially and says, “I’m a nationally-ranked pickleball player.” The woman’s eyes light up. “Wow, that’s amazing! What’s your secret?” He looks around, then whispers, “I tell everyone I’m a nationally-ranked pickleball player.”

A pickleball player passes away and finds himself at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter greets him and says, “Welcome! Before you enter, we have a special pickleball court for our new arrivals. You can play a match against anyone from history.” The player is thrilled and asks, “Can I play against Moses?” St. Peter nods, and soon the player is on a beautiful court with Moses. The game begins, and every time the player hits a shot, Moses parts the net and the ball rolls right through. Frustrated, the player says, “This isn’t fair!” Moses replies, “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to play with the guy who wrote the rules.”

A couple is playing a heated game of mixed doubles. The husband keeps poaching his wife’s shots. After the third time, she slams her paddle down on the court and yells, “What are you doing? Those were my shots!” The husband replies, “I’m sorry, dear. I just have more confidence in my ability to hit the ball into the net than you do.”

A pickleball player is bragging to his friends about his new paddle. “It’s made of a special carbon fiber that was developed by NASA,” he says. “It gives me incredible power and control.” One of his friends asks, “So, you’re winning more games?” The player shakes his head. “No, but now I can blame my losses on a much more expensive piece of equipment.”

A group of pickleball players are sitting around after a long day of play. One of them says, “You know, I think pickleball is the perfect metaphor for life. It’s all about finding the right partner, communicating effectively, and trying to stay out of the kitchen as much as possible.”

My partner and I have an amazing on-court dynamic. I set them up for the perfect shot, and they hit it directly at the other team’s strongest player. It’s a strategy we call “indirect intimidation.”

I don’t always play pickleball, but when I do, I make sure to spend the first ten minutes complaining about the wind, the sun, and the questionable lineage of the ball.

The hardest part about pickleball isn’t the third shot drop; it’s convincing your tennis-playing friends that it’s a real sport.

I’ve spent so much money on pickleball paddles that I’m considering declaring them as dependents on my taxes.

My family has started to get concerned about my pickleball obsession. They say I need to find a better work-life-pickleball balance.

I asked a pro for their best pickleball tip. They said, “The most important thing is to have fun.” Then they hit a serve that nearly took my head off. I guess fun is relative.

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Worst Pickleball Quotes

Unfortunately, there are no attributions for these quotes. If you know who first said any of these, please let everyone know in the comment section below.

“Pickleball: Where dignity goes to die, but fun is resurrected.”

“I play pickleball for the cardio… just kidding, I play for the snacks after.”

“If pickleball isn’t the answer, you’re asking the wrong question.”

“Pickleball: The only sport where a kitchen violation has nothing to do with cooking.”

“Some people retire and play pickleball. Others play pickleball so they can retire.”

“I like my opponents the way I like my pickles – dill-lightfully crushed!”

“Pickleball: The only time it’s acceptable to yell ‘Nice dink!’ in public.”

“My pickleball strategy? Hit it and hope.”

“Who needs therapy when you have pickleball?”

“Pickleball is like chess, but with way more sweating and trash talk.”

“The only thing quicker than my reflexes is my excuse for missing that shot.”

“Pickleball: Because who needs knee cartilage anyway?”

“In pickleball, age is just a number… a really important number when you’re playing against a 20-year-old.”

“I don’t always play pickleball… oh wait, yes I do.”

“Pickleball: Where ‘getting served’ is a good thing.”

“I’m not out of shape. I’m in pickleball shape!”

“The secret to my pickleball success? Avoiding any shot that requires running.”

“My pickleball game is like a fine wine – better with age, but still spills everywhere.”

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of pickleball.”

“If pickleball were easy, it would be called tennis!”

“Dink responsibly, my friends.”

“Pickleball is just ping pong for people who like to run.”

“Never underestimate an old person with a pickleball paddle.”

“Pickleball: The only time ‘poaching’ is totally acceptable.”

“I came. I saw. I dinked.”

“Forget love – I’d rather fall into the kitchen in pickleball.”

“Don’t blame the paddle, blame the player.”

“I’ve got 99 problems, but a pickleball game fixes most of them.”

“The best kind of therapy? Pickleball and a cold drink after.”

“Pickleball: The fastest-growing sport… and the fastest way to make new friends (or enemies).”

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Worst Tennis Player

Monsour Bahrami is who I want to be when I grow up, except for in the sport of pickleball.



Monsour Bahrami was 67 years old when this was filmed. As a child growing up in Iran, he was intrigued with tennis at an early age. However, he was not allowed to have a real tennis racket until he was 13 years old. Until then, he made do with frying pans and other household items.

Due to extremist views that regarded tennis as a capitalist pursuit in Iran, Monsour had to move to France where he went broke trying to be a serious tennis competitor.

At one point while trying desperately to make ends meet, he bet his entire winnings from a recent tournament in a casino and lost everything.

For a while, Mr. Bahrami was homeless in the streets of Paris until his reputation as a tennis trick shot expert and entertainer started to catch on.

He is also a champion backgammon player.



Your author has been working on some pickleball tricks. So far, I have put together a few serves:


For more about pickleball check out OddPickleball.com

.

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Worst Trucker Fiction

by Jeff Napier

Wham! My truck was just sitting at a red light, waiting to turn left. A drunken fool careened around the corner at a high rate of speed. Watching in horror, there was nothing I could do. He hit the bumper of my truck, spun around, and hit a parked car. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but that wrecked my lifelong plan.

Coming from the wrong side of the tracks and raised by a single mother, poverty was no stranger. Not only that, but my grandparents never had any money. I was going to break the cycle. In my last years of high school, I looked around for a job. What could a black girl without the means of a college education do? Because of details in my mother’s past and her remarkably low credit score, a student loan was not possible.

I could become a hairdresser but that really wasn’t my thing. How about a massage practitioner? Maybe get a job at a hotel? No, not for me. One day it occurred to me that driving a truck might be nice.

That was it! That was something I could do and it would get me out of the projects. For those who don’t know, that’s the ghetto, the worst of the ghetto. I’d wanted to get way out. Like, what if I could get one of those jobs where I’m driving all over the country? How cool is that?

But there was a roadblock. Truck driving school. There was no money. Practically in tears for days, it hadn’t occurred to me that one didn’t have to start out with a big truck. What about driving for Uber? No, that wouldn’t work because I didn’t have a car. Maybe driving a delivery van for Amazon? Maybe after doing some sort of delivery work for a while, I would have the money to go to trucking school.

It turned out that getting a job with Amazon was ridiculously easy. It paid really well too, or at least for a girl like me, allowing me to start saving for driving school. It took me nearly a year, since my brother stole my savings for his drug habit about six months in.

Let me tell you, hopping in and out of a truck fifty times a day with packages is strenuous work. And people with their dogs. Some people just don’t control them! I still have a little scar on my thigh. But it was a job, and it fit a plan. I stuck with it.

Well, eventually I did learn to drive a big truck. My first real trucking job was a ten-wheeler dump truck. Even though it was just back and forth from a quarry to construction sites, it made me happy, and it was making good money.

In time, my dream job came along, commanding an 18-wheeler. I just loved double-clutching and floating the gears with that 13-speed Spicer transmission. Sitting high up over all the other traffic was a delight. And, what a kick, traveling in these United States of ours. The windshield was like a peaceful, never-ending movie. Even the rattly, throaty sounds of a big diesel engine was enjoyable. I was in heaven.

Until that drunk bent my bumper. You’d think that would be a minor thing, but here’s what happened. The company fired me instantly. It seems if you’ve been in an accident that involves two or more other vehicles, that’s their policy. It didn’t matter that the truck was completely stopped, the drunk hit me, then smashed into a parked car.

Worse, a couple of minutes after the crash, a cop showed up on the scene and gave me a ticket. Yes, a ticket for forgetting to turn on my emergency flashers. Can you believe it? OK, so the police officer was white, and I’m black. Well, I don’t want to think about that.

So, guess what? You can’t get hired as a trucker with a recent violation.

Days of unemployment turned into weeks and then into months. All the beautiful money in my savings account was gone. I had been so proud of the used Toyota Camry I recently purchased. but had to sell it. Sure, it was ten years old, but it was MY car!

My addict brother came through for me for once, and gave me some money for groceries. Then, he tried to convince me I could make some money by selling drugs. Yeah, right, like I’d ever do that. I’d rather literally die of poverty.

A food stamps application was in process. The rent was overdue so next was going to be moving back in with Mom. And here I thought I could get out of the projects. Well, the joke was on me and I started crying once again.

Checking the Internet daily for driving jobs, at that point, anything would do. Even if I could get the Amazon job back, that would have been a big relief.

On the worst day of my life, when it seemed every door had closed, I came across a funny little ad on Craigslist. Some guy wanted someone who was familiar with driving big vehicles, but could also cook and do ‘light domestic chores.’ Weird, eh?

In fact it was kind of spooky. What was up with that? Maybe it was about driving a truck full of household or kitchen product samples, and demonstrating them. I didn’t even want to think of other possibilities. If things had been different, I’d never answer such an ad.

The guy wrote back. Once he told me the details, I felt sick to my stomach. This guy was definitely a creep.

He said he had purchased a big diesel motorhome because he was some sort of pickleball player, whatever that was. He said he drove his motorhome once, immediately tore off the air horn under a low-hanging branch and that driving it scared him. He wanted someone to drive it so he could go to pickleball events all over the country. He wanted the driver to make him meals, keep the motorhome clean, wash his clothes, and so on. Sort of a rolling butler.

Yeah, so what else did he want? This was horrible. But at that point, any job was better than no job. So, I took the bus and walked a mile to his place in the hot afternoon sun for an interview.

There was fear about going into his house, but what could I do? I was thinking once I was inside, he could do anything. It was a big house, out in the Brighton neighborhood. He obviously had a dollar or two.

For a white guy, he was pretty good-looking. He did have a nice smile. Sparkly eyes, too. When emailing with him, it seemed like he might be some 50-year-old masher, but no, he was only one year older than me.

Well, we got to talking, and it wasn’t horrible. In fact, we talked over an hour, and I was actually starting to believe this guy could be OK. We walked back behind his house, and there was his motorhome. It was a big, tall, 40-foot long, shiny diesel beauty built on a Freightliner chassis. It was no tractor-trailer but I wouldn’t mind driving that thing, even if it did have an automatic transmission.

He told me a little about this pickleball stuff. He said it was like a cross between ping-pong and tennis. It didn’t sound very interesting to me, but you know how people are. They take an interest in something like tropical fish or rollerblading and they become obsessed.

As evening was approaching we worked out that I’d drive just him once, to a pickleball tournament near Chicago, a three-day trip starting two days from then. After making it clear that there was to be no funny business, I foolishly believed that he would be a gentleman. Maybe it’s because I needed the job so badly. Still, all I was promising was this one drive to Chicago.

I had to catch the last bus home. He got a funny look on his face, like, he understood my situation even though I hadn’t really told him the details. He said, “Why don’t you drive the motorhome to your place then bring it back the day after tomorrow?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. Thinking he was going to give me his business card or something, he handed me four $100 bills. “Here, take the motorhome, get yourself a nice meal, then fill it with organic groceries tomorrow. Oh, and keep the change.”

We were standing in the motorhome at the time. Something went wrong. My eyes filled with tears, my knees felt weak, causing me to slump down onto a sofa, crying my eyes out. He sat next to me, tentatively put one arm around me and patiently waited until I could speak.

“I know, I know,” is all he said.

We did go to Chicago. The drive was pleasant. He sat in the passenger seat most of the time. We talked, but it was all pleasant surface stuff. Nothing deep. I was supposed to be doing his domestic chores, but on that drive, he made me sandwiches and seemed attentive to my every need. He did spend way too much time explaining pickleball to me. I didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to play something that was like tennis, but it wasn’t tennis?

On the way, we stopped at RV campgrounds. I had never done anything like that before, having to learn about hooking up the electricity, water hose, and all that. Oh, you should have seen the mess I made while disconnecting the sewer hose the next morning.

What about sleeping arrangements, you ask? True to his word, Jimmy was a real gentleman. He had a bedroom in the back of the rig. It had a full queen-size bed. He showed me how a sofa pulls out in the front, handed me some sheets, blankets and pillows out of a cabinet, then went into his back bedroom and closed the door.

When we arrived at the tournament, he introduced me to a bunch of other pickleball players as his driver. If any of them raised eyebrows, I didn’t see it. I returned to the motorhome and tidied up while he got ready for his first game.

Coming back out to watch, I didn’t really understand the game. It had a weird scoring system with three parts like “four-seven-two.” He and a partner lost badly, that much was clear. It didn’t seem to phase him, he was smiling as much after the game as before. He was likeable, but he was a weirdo.

That job lasted well over a year, until things changed which you’ll find out about in a minute. He found tournaments from east coast to west, although mostly sticking to Southern California that winter. Even though he wasn’t a very good player, he was so affable. Everyone loved Jim.

Details slowly became clear. It seems Jim had gone to college for software engineering. While still a student he built a small, social media website competing in a minor way with the likes of Facebook and Twitter. To everyone’s surprise, including his own, Meta, the company that includes Facebook, bought his little website for many millions of dollars. He retired at age 22. Except he didn’t really retire. He kind of brokers websites by other developers, and somehow continues to make more money.

In time, Jimmy got me out on a pickleball court. I was terrible at it, literally swinging and entirely missing the ball a few times. At one point I fell and scraped a knee. But we and a couple of other players were laughing, and carrying on, and having a good time. Pickleball wasn’t awful. In fact it was kind of fun, and wouldn’t you know, I started playing it regularly?

I became Jimmy’s doubles partner. Truth be told, I’m better at it than he is. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Among our many tournaments around the country, Jimmy also visited with coaches, and he became a better player, but still, he doesn’t have what you might call natural ability. But mostly, we play. We play just recreational games with other people, but also at the tournaments. We seldom win, but we always have fun.

I still love driving. He and I will sit up in the front of the motorhome just discussing anything and everything as the miles roll by. We’ll see mountains and fields, ponds and rivers, people here, and people there. When we get to our destinations, we’ll go to museums and tourist attractions. We’ll visit with pickleball players in their homes. It’s a wonderful life.

Now, I love pickleball as much as Jim does.

And, I love Jim as much as pickleball. More. We innocently kissed a few times during the past couple of months, and last Friday, that kissing really turned into something. For the first time, I slept in the bed in the back of the motorhome, not on the pull-out sofa.

Recent news:

We were married in February. We’ve been discussing the possibility of raising children on the road in our motorhome.

Discover many more articles about pickleball at OddPickleball.com


Jimmy’s motorhome


The author’s motorhome

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Worst Oil Platform Fiction

I was conversing with Anne in the machine shop. Or, more specifically, as usual, I was listening to her lecture me in a high-pitched, frantic voice about some sort of safety violation. In this case, it was a guard left too high on a band saw. It wasn’t even me who had left it like that. Anne is the junior safety officer. She took her job so seriously that everyone hated her.

Her boss, Chris, the senior safety officer, might see a guard left too high, and he’d smile at me, he’d glance at the guard, look back at me, until suddenly I understood, and sheepishly lowered the guard.

The only place Anne was tolerable was in the multi-purpose room. We have a huge room under the helipad that’s used for storage, meetings, and anything where a large space is necessary. It’s usually mostly empty except when a supply ship arrives.

One time one of the crates that arrive was marked ‘Recreational Supplies.’ Oddly, with 180 people on this platform, you’d think some of them would take interest. But it just sat there. So, I finally opened up. As the machinist, I was as qualified as anyone, right? Looking inside, I found the most ridiculous collection of equipment. There were 20 baseball mitts, but not balls or bats. There were 12 basketballs. That was good. Then there were two fishing nets. Like, here in the windy North Sea, anyone might like to drape a net off the platform into the freezing cold water 100 feet below, to recreationally catch some fish. Finally, there was something that particularly interested me: Twelve pickleball paddles and 100 pickleballs. Cool! I had played some pickleball, and rather liked the sport. But there were no nets.

I waited and waited for something to happen. I wasn’t quite sure what. The only things that were being used were the basketballs. Occasionally some guys would make use of the hoops that had been thoughtfully installed in the multi-purpose room when the rig was built.

I decided it was time to take action. I got permission to paint the stripes necessary for two pickleball courts on the floor. I managed to get the paint crew to make the stripes. As to nets, it didn’t take much to weld up some portable frames from our huge, useless stock of 1-inch by 1-inch square steel tubing, and cut up those fishing nets into pickleball nets.

All that was the easy part. I put up platform-wide announcements inviting everyone to play pickleball. In my mind, there’d be at least 20 people, and we’d have to wait our turns to play. In reality, four people signed up, so there were five of us total.

One of those people greatly distressed me: It was Anne. I can’t say I hated her, but it was the next worst thing. She’s tall and skinny, and her long, smooth, shiny hair that stops just above her butt fits over her head like a helmet. But that voice! And the fact that even on the pickleball court, she had to be the boss. She made a terrible partner. She’d spend so much energy telling me what to do that when she and I were paired up, I played badly and we generally lost.

One day we were just starting to play, and the whole platform shook. ‘Earthquake,’ I thought. Someone else thought there was an explosion, maybe in the power unit or on the drilling floor. Anne just said, “Oh no,” and went running.

It turns out a supply ship had bumped into one of the four huge pillars that support the platform. Anne called me on the walkie talkie. I was to grab a magnifluxer from the machine shop, and inspect the pillar for cracks. She was even more frantic than usual. No polite words what-so-ever, and she had a few choice swear words for me when I didn’t react instantly.

Well, I went into the pillar, where I met Anne, and she showed me the area where the ship had hit. I checked for a good hour before she was satisfied that there was no damage.

The next day, we reconvened for more pickleball, and sure enough, I was stuck with Anne again. I swear, she arranged to be my partner more than the required amount. I’d like to be a hundred miles away from her, yet she seemed to stick to me like glue. Even on the job. Like, out of 180 people, why did it have to be me inspecting the pillar with her?

On this day after the little bump by the supply ship, Anne was in top form, literally yelling at me at one point about not running a kitchen rally as long as I could have.

That was it. Suddenly, I had enough. I yelled back, “Anne, I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you in the whole six years we’ve been working together. I’ll never like you.”

I wasn’t satisfied yet, adding, “No one likes you!”

As I was saying these things, she just stood there, quietly saying “Oh,” between each of my statements. Her eyes filled with tears, and she ran out of the multi-purpose room.

I felt terrible immediately. Why had I said all that? And in front of the others. I must have hurt her feelings terribly.

Cell phones don’t work on the platform. I tried reaching her by walkie talkie, but she wasn’t answering.

That evening after my shift, I sat on my bunk, and broke down and cried. I had been terribly cruel to Anne. I crushed her. She wasn’t a bad girl. Just a little crazy.

The next morning, a helicopter came and took away one of our crew. Someone was being med-evaced. I was trying to figure out who. Finally, I found out it was Anne.

‘Oh, no,’ I thought. I had no idea what had happened, but was pretty sure my tirade was part of it.

Over the next days, no one heard anything about Anne. Our two-month rotation ended, and it would be another month before I’d be back on the platform. Anne, and whatever the heck had happened to her was never far from my mind.

Finally, I was back on the platform. I asked around, but no one knew anything about Anne until I ran into her boss, Chris. “Oh, yeah, she’s back.” is all he would say, but he added a wry smile. I wondered what that was about.

A day later she came into the machine shop. I was expecting some sort of typical histrionic performance, maybe about an air hose laying on the floor or something. She smiled at me. She actually smiled. That was very weird indeed. She had a bottle of ketchup. She sprayed a little bit on a frayed electrical cord, and smiled again. She sprayed a little more on a box of sharp lathe bits in a box teetering almost half off the edge of a table, and she laughed!

Evidently, this ketchup business was her new way of pointing out safety issues.

This was becoming very strange. I pulled her aside, and started to apologize for my tirade, something I had been hoping to do for the past two-and-a-half months. She brushed it off instantly.

Over the next weeks, she stayed calm as a cucumber. She was downright pleasant every time I ran into her. I was starting to think of her as attractive. How crazy is that? She never did tell me what had happened until about middle of the third week. She and I found ourselves enjoying a meal together, and she told me the whole story.

She had decided that the ship bumping into the pillar was her fault. She was the safety officer in charge. The rule was that supply ships had to stay 40 feet away from the pillars. She was supposed to be on deck, watching and directing, but she had abandoned her post to play pickleball. After all, the ships never hit pillars, and didn’t need any guidance, right? If the ship had bumped harder, it could have destroyed the whole platform. It would have had to be a way, way harder collision, but I didn’t interrupt her with that info.

So, she felt pretty badly when the little collision that was her job to prevent, happened. She took that very, very seriously. Then, when I yelled at her, the dam broke. She assured me it wasn’t my yelling at her that caused the psychological break. It was only the trigger. The break was on the verge of happening. She did add something cryptic at the time. She said that she had always really liked me. ‘Well, she sure had a strange way of showing it,’ I figured.

They flew her off the platform to the on-shore hospital, where she met with a psychiatrist. He gave her some tranquilizers, and then set up ongoing consultation with a psychologist. She told me the root of everything that was wrong – her breakdown, her horrible frantic attitude, was that she was taking everything too seriously. Too personally. Together with the shrink, they traced it back to when in her adolescence, her mother started getting heavily into prescription drugs, and walked around the house like a zombie. Her father was at work all day. Over and over again, she had to prevent accidents that her mother was setting up. Fires in the kitchen, the mother tripping over furniture, broken bottles, just all sorts of things. I can only imagine the impact of trying to watch over one’s own mother like that must have had on a little girl.

I understood that’s why she had become a safety officer. It had become part of who she was. Being on the oil rig was like watching over her mother all over again, but now there were 180 people to watch over. She had taken it too seriously.

I’ve heard of psychologists having good results for some situations. Well this guy, whoever it was, did a spectacular job. It was the same Anne, but entirely without the squeaky, high, frantic voice, and without the bossy attitude. And it stuck. She never went back to the way she was.

Now there were 8 or 9 people playing pickleball every day that they could get the free time. We had both courts going. I was there pretty much every minute I wasn’t on duty. So was Anne. She and I were becoming really good players. We seeked each other out as teammates.

At the end of our next rotation is when it got weird. For some reason, I drove out and visited her. I met her family. I played pickleball in the park with her friends.

Of course that was three years ago. We’re happily married, and she’s pregnant.

See many more pickleball articles at OddPickleball.com.

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Worst Golf Jokes

A man is on the 18th green, and he has a ten-foot putt for a 79, which would be his best score ever. He lines it up, but just as he’s about to stroke the ball, a funeral procession drives by. He stops, takes off his hat, and waits for it to pass. His playing partner says, “That’s the most respectful thing I’ve ever seen.” The first man replies, “It’s the least I could do. We were married for 25 years.”

A golfer, after a particularly bad round, says to his caddie, “I think I’m going to go drown myself in that lake.” The caddie replies, “I don’t think you could keep your head down that long.”

A priest, a psychologist, and a CEO are playing golf. They get stuck behind a group of golfers who are incredibly slow. They’re taking a long time to find their balls and are generally holding everyone up. The priest says, “Good heavens, I’ve never seen such slow players.” The psychologist says, “It’s a clear case of indecisiveness and a lack of focus.” The CEO, furious, says he’s going to march up there and demand they let them play through. He storms off, but halfway there, he comes running back. “I can’t do it,” he says. “They’re all blind.” The priest is aghast and says, “That’s terrible. I will say a special prayer for them tonight.” The psychologist says, “I feel so much empathy for their struggle.” The CEO says, “Why can’t they play at night?”

A man’s wife was an avid golfer. One day, she had a terrible accident on the course and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor came out to the waiting room and told the husband, “I have some terrible news. Your wife will survive, but she’ll be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of her life.” The husband was overcome with emotion. The doctor continued, “And she’ll have to be fed by hand and will be incontinent. You’ll have to change her diapers.” The husband broke down sobbing. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m just kidding. She’s dead.”

A man and his friend are playing a round of golf. The man shanks his tee shot deep into the woods. He goes in to look for it and finds a beautiful, enchanted golf club. He picks it up, and a genie appears. The genie says, “I will grant you one wish.” The man thinks for a moment and says, “I want a swing so pure it will win me every major tournament.” The genie snaps his fingers, and there’s a puff of smoke. The man excitedly runs back to the tee, and with a perfect swing, he sends the ball soaring 350 yards straight down the fairway. He’s ecstatic. His friend says, “That’s amazing! What did you wish for?” The man replies, “I wished for a perfect swing!” His friend says, “You idiot, you should have wished for a million dollars! You already had that swing!”

A man was playing a new course and was having a terrible day. On the 16th hole, he sliced his ball into a deep ravine. He looked down and saw a man with a scythe. He called down, “Are you the greenskeeper?” The man replied, “No, I’m the Grim Reaper. I’m waiting for the guy who designed this hole.”

A man is playing a round with his wife. On the par-3 7th, his wife hits a hole-in-one. She’s ecstatic, jumping up and down. The husband is less enthusiastic. On the very next hole, he gets a hole-in-one. He turns to his wife and says, “See? Now we’re tied.”

A man is playing a round of golf when he accidentally hits his ball into a field of buttercups. He spends ages looking for it and is getting more and more frustrated. Finally, his playing partner says, “Why don’t you just drop another ball? It’s not a tournament.” The man replies, “You don’t understand. This is my lucky ball.”

A husband and wife are getting ready for bed. The wife says, “You know, I was thinking. You love golf more than you love me.” The husband replies, “Well, maybe. But I love you more than I love tennis.”

A golfer walks into the clubhouse and orders a drink. He says to the bartender, “I’m so bad at golf, I’m thinking of taking it up professionally.”

A man is playing golf with his friend who is a terrible cheater. On the 8th hole, the friend’s ball goes into the rough. After a few minutes of searching, he shouts, “I found it!” The man walks over and sees the ball sitting perfectly on a tuft of grass. He says, “That’s not your ball.” His friend replies, “Yes, it is. It has my name on it.” The man says, “I didn’t know your name was Titleist.”

After a particularly bad shot, a golfer mutters, “I’d give anything to be a scratch golfer.” His playing partner replies, “At your age, you should be happy you can still scratch yourself.”

A man is teaching his wife to play golf. On her first swing, she completely misses the ball. He says, “You lifted your head. Keep your head down.” On her second swing, she misses again. He says, “You swung too hard. Just a nice, easy swing.” On her third swing, she misses again. He says, “Your grip is wrong. Let me show you.” He puts his arms around her from behind to demonstrate the proper grip. A man watching from the clubhouse says to his friend, “That guy is either the best golf instructor in the world or the worst husband.”

A man is playing a round of golf with his boss. On the first tee, the boss shanks his drive deep into the woods. The man, wanting to be helpful, says, “Let me go find that for you, sir.” The boss replies, “Don’t bother. I’ll just use a new ball.” The man says, “But sir, it’s a brand new Pro V1.” The boss says, “I’ve got a whole box of them in my bag.” The man thinks for a moment and says, “Sir, do you have a spare car in your garage?”

A man is playing a solo round and is having a terrible time. He’s lost several balls, duffed numerous shots, and is getting more and more frustrated. On the 12th hole, he finally hits a perfect drive, right down the middle of the fairway. As he’s walking to his ball, a man pops out of the woods and says, “Did you see a ball come this way?” The golfer, ecstatic to have finally hit a good shot, says, “Yes, I did! A beautiful drive, right down the middle!” The man replies, “Great, that’s my ball. Have you seen a terrible slice go into the woods?”

Two friends are playing golf. One of them hits his ball into the woods. After a few minutes of searching, he finds his ball nestled next to a large mushroom. Just as he’s about to hit it, the mushroom says, “If you hit that ball, I’ll turn you into a frog.” The golfer is startled but decides to take the risk. He hits the ball, and sure enough, he’s turned into a frog. His friend comes looking for him and finds the frog. The frog says, “It’s me, your friend! That mushroom turned me into a frog!” The friend is amazed and asks, “What did you do?” The frog replies, “I should have used a 7-iron instead of a wedge.”

A man is playing golf with his wife. On the 10th hole, his wife’s ball lands behind a large barn. She asks him for a ruling. He says, “According to the rules of golf, you can either play it as it lies or take a one-stroke penalty and drop it.” She decides to play it. She takes a mighty swing, the ball ricochets off the barn, hits her in the head, and kills her instantly. A few years later, the man is playing the same course with his new wife. On the same hole, her ball lands in the exact same spot. She asks him for a ruling. He looks at the ball, looks at the barn, and says, “The last time this happened, I took a double bogey.”

A man who has been a terrible golfer his whole life finally decides to take a lesson. The pro watches him swing and says, “You have one of the most unusual grips I’ve ever seen.” The man replies, “I know, it’s my own invention. I call it the ‘interlocking slice.'”

A man is playing in a Pro-Am tournament and is paired with a famous professional golfer. The pro is giving him some tips throughout the round. On the 18th hole, the man has a long putt to win the match. The pro tells him, “Aim for that blade of grass right there.” The man carefully lines up his putt, aims for the blade of grass, and sinks it. He’s overjoyed and says to the pro, “I can’t believe it! How did you know?” The pro replies, “I didn’t. I just didn’t want you to aim at the hole.”

A man is playing golf with his new girlfriend. She’s a fantastic player, and he’s getting more and more intimidated. On the final hole, she has a long, difficult putt for the win. She turns to him and says, “If I make this, you have to propose to me.” He thinks for a moment and then says, “Okay, but if you miss, you have to do the dishes for a month.”

A man is on the first tee and is about to hit his drive when he sees a beautiful woman watching him. He wants to impress her, so he takes a mighty swing, but completely whiffs. He’s embarrassed, but he tees up another ball. This time, he hits a weak dribbler that goes about 20 yards. He’s mortified. The woman walks over to him and says, “I’m a psychic, and I can tell that you’re a terrible golfer.” He replies, “I could have told you that.” She says, “But I can also tell that you’re a very kind and generous person.” He says, “How can you tell that?” She replies, “Because you’re going to give me a hundred dollars.”

A man is playing golf with his friend when it starts to rain heavily. They decide to take shelter under a large tree. After a few minutes, the man says, “This reminds me of my first date with my wife.” His friend asks, “You took her golfing in the rain?” The man replies, “No, we were both struck by lightning.”

A man is playing golf when he sees a group of ducks fly overhead. He says to his caddie, “Look at those beautiful ducks. I wish I could fly like that.” The caddie replies, “With your swing, you’re halfway there.”

A man is playing a round of golf with his priest. The man is having a terrible day and is cursing after every bad shot. The priest finally says to him, “My son, if you don’t stop that language, God is going to strike you down.” On the very next hole, the man hits his ball into the water. He lets out a string of curses. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning comes down from the sky and strikes the priest. A booming voice from above says, “Darn it, I missed again!”

A man is at the driving range, and he’s hitting balls next to a very attractive woman. He’s trying to impress her with his long drives, but he’s shanking them all over the place. Finally, she turns to him and says, “You know, if you just relax and let the club do the work, you’ll hit it much better.” He tries her advice, and sure enough, he hits a beautiful, long, straight drive. He’s amazed and says, “Wow, you’re really good at this. Are you a golf pro?” She replies, “No, I’m a yoga instructor.”

A man is playing a round of golf by himself. He gets to a par 3 with a water hazard in front of the green. He hits his tee shot, and it lands right on the edge of the water. He’s not sure if it’s in or out. Just then, a frog hops out of the water, grabs the ball in its mouth, and hops onto the green, dropping the ball right next to the hole. The man is astounded. He says to himself, “This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. I’m going to go to the clubhouse and tell everyone.” He walks to the clubhouse, and on the way, he sees another frog. This frog says to him, “You’re not going to believe what just happened. I was sitting in the water, and this golf ball landed right on my head. I thought I was going to drown, but then this other frog came and saved me.”

A man is playing golf with his son. The son is just learning the game and is having a tough time. On the 9th hole, the son says, “Dad, I’m really not very good at this.” The dad replies, “Son, it doesn’t matter if you’re good or not. What matters is that you’re out here with me, enjoying the fresh air and the beautiful scenery.” The son thinks for a moment and then says, “Dad, can we go to the movies?”

A man is playing golf with a new partner. The partner is a very serious player and doesn’t say a word for the first few holes. Finally, the man says, “So, what do you do for a living?” The partner replies, “I’m a hitman.” The man is a bit taken aback but tries to make conversation. He says, “So, what’s your handicap?” The partner replies, “I don’t have one. I’m a professional.”

A man is playing a round of golf with his wife. They get to a par 5, and the wife hits a great drive. She’s in a good position to reach the green in two. She asks her husband, “Should I go for it?” He looks at the long fairway, the sand traps around the green, and the water hazard to the right, and says, “Honey, do you remember that time you tried to parallel park the car and ended up on the sidewalk?” She says, “Yes.” He says, “Go for it.”

—-

Why did the golfer bring two pairs of pants? In case he got a hole in one!

What do you call a golfer who skips every other hole? A cowboy!

If you drink, don’t drive. Use a four iron.

Why do golfers always carry an extra ball? Just in case they need to tee off again!

What do you call a golfer who’s lost his ball? A stroke victim!

What’s a golfer’s favorite type of music? Swing!

What do you call a golfer who’s in a hurry? Tee-time traveler!

How do pro golfers stay cool during a round? They stand next to the fans!

What do you call a golfer who’s always telling jokes? A “tee”heeing comedian!

Why did the golfer always carry a pencil and paper? In case he needed to draw a lie!

Why did the golfer bring a ladder to the course? In case he wanted to reach new heights!

What do you call a golfer who can juggle three balls at once? Impressive!

Why did the golfer bring a bucket of sand to the course? In case he needed to “sand”wich his ball!

What do you call a golfer who can drive the ball 300 yards? A liar!

Why did the golfer bring a pair of binoculars to the course? To spot the “eagle”!

What’s a golfer’s favorite type of exercise? Swinging by the bar after a round!

Why don’t golfers get too upset when they miss a shot? Because they’re always “driving” for perfection!

What’s a golfer’s favorite type of footwear? “Fore”-giving golf shoes!

Why did the golfer bring an extra glove? In case he wanted to “hand” out high-fives!

How do golfers measure success? By the number of “par”-ties they have after a round!

Why don’t golfers ever make good comedians? Because their jokes are always “bogey”!