In the Spring of 1982, I was hired by a Contractor to shake things up in a group of Laborers who were not servicing a Brick crew effectively. I ended up firing the lot and rebuilding with fewer, better trained men.
But I was not impressed with the new guys my boss sent me. One, in particular, John, seemed to be an underachiever, and I assumed, not very intelligent. I decided to go ahead and show him how to whip-up a batch of mortar in the mixer, and fill 5-gallon buckets so we can send them up the scaffold on a rope and well-wheel. “Just fill them half-way so the bucket doesn’t break,” I explained. "I will go up top. Bring the mud when you’re done here."
I left him there and hurried over to the scaffold. I climbed up to where the Mason stood. He was banging on his empty mortar pan with his trowel to express his impatience. I raised some bricks from the scaffold section just below his while I waited for John. But after 10 minutes, still no John and no mud. I began to get anxious, and the Mason banging on the steel mortar pan wasn’t helping matters. Finally, John came around the corner with a half-bucket of mud. He stopped at the well-wheel rope and set the bucket down. I yelled down to him, “John! Only one bucket? Why do you suppose God gave you two hands?”
He looked up, and rubbing is hands over his upper torso, proclaimed, “I thought it was to wash myself”.
I laughed very hard. More at myself, I think.
True story.