Lebanon, New Hampshire, is, of course, just across the Connecticut river from Vermont, so I hear a lot of Vermont stories when I travel to that side of the state. The tourist asks, "What's the difference between New Hampshire maple syrup and Vermont maple syrup?" The codger replies: "About ten miles."
Or -- true story, happened to me -- the man sits in the back row while the hilarious storyteller (me) regales the crowd with her hilarious tales. He sits there, arms folded, never cracking a smile the whole hour. So the storyteller (me) goes up to him after. "Hope you enjoyed the show." He says, "I did." I say: "Noticed you sitting in the back there, never cracking a smile." He says: "I'm a fifth generation Vermonter. We don't."
Which brings us to the apocryphal tale (extra big lie) sometimes attributed to Mark Twain, sometimes to Will Rogers. We'll call it Twain. Seems Mark Twain was performing at a town hall in the Northeast Kingdom. Had a good crowd. Told some funny stories. Nobody laughed. Tried some funnier stories. Nobody laughed. They just sat there looking at him, stone-faced. Tried his funniest stories ever. No response. At the end of the show, after polite applause, he slunk out the back door. Curious, he sneaked around the side of the building to hear what people were saying about the debacle.
"What did you think of the show, Vern?"
"Some funny, Martha. It was all I could do to hold back laughing."
Which brings us to the administrator at Alice Peck Day Health Systems, who moved to Vermont from away for the job. He explained to the realtor that he was looking for a house in a certain price range. The realtor asked: "Paved or unpaved." The administrator says: "I thought she was talking about the driveway."
Here's Vern and Martha being thoroughly entertained.
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