Joke thread
- Thread starter Purple-Days
- Start date
momofthegoons
vapor accessory addict
His_Highness
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
Renault and Ford are working on a new small car for women.
Its a combo car --
Theyre starting with the Renault "Clio".
Then adding luxury features from the Ford "Taurus".
The result will be sold as the "Clitaurus".
The main benefit of the new hybrid: the average car thief being a male wont be able to find it, even if someone tells him exactly where it is.
Its a combo car --
Theyre starting with the Renault "Clio".
Then adding luxury features from the Ford "Taurus".
The result will be sold as the "Clitaurus".
The main benefit of the new hybrid: the average car thief being a male wont be able to find it, even if someone tells him exactly where it is.
Buzzbomb Almighty
Well-Known Member
A stoner says, "Grandma, have you seen my pills, they're in a blue bottle labeled LSD?" She answers "Fuck your pills! Have you seen the dragon in the kitchen?"
hd_rider
Well-Known Member
There was this little kid desperately wanted $100. His dad told him to pray to God for it. So the kid prayed and prayed for weeks, but nothing came up. Then he decided to write a letter to God requesting the $100.
When the postal workers received the letter addressed to “God,” they opened it and decided to send it to the President. The President was so impressed, touched and amused that he instructed his secretary to send the kid $5. He thought this would appear to be a lot of money to a little boy.
The boy was so delighted when he received the $5 that he sat down and wrote a thank you letter to God:
Dear God. Thank you very much for the money. I noticed that you had to send it through Washington, DC. As usual, those bastards deducted $95.
When the postal workers received the letter addressed to “God,” they opened it and decided to send it to the President. The President was so impressed, touched and amused that he instructed his secretary to send the kid $5. He thought this would appear to be a lot of money to a little boy.
The boy was so delighted when he received the $5 that he sat down and wrote a thank you letter to God:
Dear God. Thank you very much for the money. I noticed that you had to send it through Washington, DC. As usual, those bastards deducted $95.
grokit
well-worn member
An old lady dies and goes to heaven. She's chatting it up with St.Peter at the Pearly Gates when all of a sudden she hears the most awful bloodcurdling screams.
"Don't worry about that," says St. Peter, "it's only someone having the holes put into her shoulder blades for wings."
The old lady looks a little uncomfortable but carries on with the conversation.
Ten minutes later, there are more blood curdling screams "Oh my God," says the old lady, "now what is happening?"
"Not to worry," says St. Peter, "She's just having her head drilled to fit the halo."
"I can't do this," says the old lady, "I'm going to hell."
"You can't go there," says St. Peter. "You'll be raped and sodomized."
"Maybe so," says the old lady, "but I've already got the holes for that."
"Don't worry about that," says St. Peter, "it's only someone having the holes put into her shoulder blades for wings."
The old lady looks a little uncomfortable but carries on with the conversation.
Ten minutes later, there are more blood curdling screams "Oh my God," says the old lady, "now what is happening?"
"Not to worry," says St. Peter, "She's just having her head drilled to fit the halo."
"I can't do this," says the old lady, "I'm going to hell."
"You can't go there," says St. Peter. "You'll be raped and sodomized."
"Maybe so," says the old lady, "but I've already got the holes for that."
BD9
Well-Known Member
Marsha, Jan, and Cindy are sitting in the waiting room at their OBGYN.
Marsha says, "John was on top, so I'm having a boy."
Jan says, "I was on top, so I'm having a girl."
Cindy starts bawling. Crying hysterically. Marsha and Jan ask Cindy what's wrong,
In between sobs Cindy says,
"I'm having puppies!"
Marsha says, "John was on top, so I'm having a boy."
Jan says, "I was on top, so I'm having a girl."
Cindy starts bawling. Crying hysterically. Marsha and Jan ask Cindy what's wrong,
In between sobs Cindy says,
"I'm having puppies!"
"I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for you medaling kids!"
momofthegoons
vapor accessory addict
Silat
When the Facts Change, I Change My Mind.
Very very old story....
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid’s night at Ryan’s, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you—in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing.
At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It’s amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... Entering the bathroom, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions. I began “The Move.”
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain. “The Move.” Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into “The Move” when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake... you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of “30,000 Killed In wake of Typhoon Fifi” or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you’re going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants... on the inside... with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
PART 2 FOLLOWS
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid’s night at Ryan’s, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you—in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however. I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing.
At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It’s amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... Entering the bathroom, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions. I began “The Move.”
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain. “The Move.” Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into “The Move” when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake... you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of “30,000 Killed In wake of Typhoon Fifi” or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you’re going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon. Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants... on the inside... with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.
PART 2 FOLLOWS
Silat
When the Facts Change, I Change My Mind.
PART 2
Very very old story....
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All the while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I’m sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan’s making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way. When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom.
I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House.
They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
Very very old story....
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All the while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat. And there was no fucking toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I’m sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan’s making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way. When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom.
I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door. The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House.
They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
His_Highness
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
Silat
When the Facts Change, I Change My Mind.
There was a blackout in my neighborhood last night.
The police told us to stay inside until they shot him.
I am laughing and feeling dirty at the same time..
His_Highness
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
I am laughing and feeling dirty at the same time..
It's almost like getting caught masturbating .... but worse. I gotta move this thread on.....
A family is at the dinner table. The son asks the father, “Dad, how many kinds of boobs are there?” The father, surprised, answers, “Well, son, a woman goes through three phases. In her 20s, a woman’s breasts are like melons, round and firm. In her 30s and 40s, they are like pears, still nice, hanging a bit. After 50, they are like onions.” “Onions?” the son asks. “Yes. You see them and they make you cry.” This infuriated his wife and daughter. The daughter asks, “Mom, how many different kinds of willies are there?” The mother smiles and says, “Well, dear, a man goes through three phases also. In his 20s, his willy is like an oak tree, mighty and hard. In his 30s and 40s, it’s like a birch, flexible but reliable. After his 50s, it’s like a Christmas tree.” “A Christmas tree?” the daughter asks. “Yes, dead from the root up and the balls are just for decoration.”
Silat
When the Facts Change, I Change My Mind.
A ventriloquist Cowboy meets an Indian herding sheep in the Black Hills.
He decides to play a joke on him.
Cowboy: "Hey, cool dog you got there. Mind if I speak to him?"
Indian: "Dog no talk."
Cowboy: "Hey dog, how's it going?"
Dog: "Doin' all right."
Indian: (Look of shock!)
Cowboy: "Is this Indian your owner?" (pointing at the Indian)
Dog: "Yep."
Cowboy: "How does he treat you?"
Dog: "Real good. He lets me keep his sheep in line, feeds me great
food and takes me to the lake once a week to play."
Indian: (Look of total disbelief)
Cowboy: "Mind if I talk to your horse?"
Indian: "Horse no talk."
Cowboy: "Hey horse, how's it going?"
Horse: "Cool."
Indian: (Extreme look of shock!)
Cowboy: "Is this your owner?" (pointing to the Indian)
Horse: "Yep."
Cowboy: "How's he treat you?"
Horse: "Pretty good, thanks for asking, he rides me, brushes me down often, and keeps me in a lean-to to protect me from the rain and cold."
Indian: (Look of total amazement)
Cowboy: "Mind if I talk to your sheep?"
Indian: "Sheep tell lies"
He decides to play a joke on him.
Cowboy: "Hey, cool dog you got there. Mind if I speak to him?"
Indian: "Dog no talk."
Cowboy: "Hey dog, how's it going?"
Dog: "Doin' all right."
Indian: (Look of shock!)
Cowboy: "Is this Indian your owner?" (pointing at the Indian)
Dog: "Yep."
Cowboy: "How does he treat you?"
Dog: "Real good. He lets me keep his sheep in line, feeds me great
food and takes me to the lake once a week to play."
Indian: (Look of total disbelief)
Cowboy: "Mind if I talk to your horse?"
Indian: "Horse no talk."
Cowboy: "Hey horse, how's it going?"
Horse: "Cool."
Indian: (Extreme look of shock!)
Cowboy: "Is this your owner?" (pointing to the Indian)
Horse: "Yep."
Cowboy: "How's he treat you?"
Horse: "Pretty good, thanks for asking, he rides me, brushes me down often, and keeps me in a lean-to to protect me from the rain and cold."
Indian: (Look of total amazement)
Cowboy: "Mind if I talk to your sheep?"
Indian: "Sheep tell lies"
A woman is standing nude looking in the bedroom mirror.
She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband,
'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly...
I really need you to pay me a compliment.'
The husband replies,
'Your eyesight's damn near perfect
She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband,
'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly...
I really need you to pay me a compliment.'
The husband replies,
'Your eyesight's damn near perfect
Silat
When the Facts Change, I Change My Mind.
A True Story by W. Bruce Cameron
Overview: I had to take my son's hamster to the vet.
Here's what happened:
Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there was "something wrong" with one of the two hamsters he holds prisoner in his room.
"He's just lying there looking sick," he told me.
"Oldest trick in the book, son," I informed him. "You go in to see what's wrong with the sick one and the other one sneaks up behind you and bonks you on the head. Then they change into your clothes and escape."
"I'm serious, Dad. Can you help?"
I put my best hamster-healer expression on my face and followed him into his bedroom.
One of the little rodents was indeed lying on his back, looking distressed. I immediately knew what to do. Call the professional.
"Honey," I called, "come look at the hamster!"
"Oh, my gosh," my wife diagnosed after a minute. "She's having babies."
"What?" my son demanded. "But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!"
I was equally outraged. "Hey, how can that be?
I thought we said we didn't want them to reproduce," I accused my wife.
"Well, what did you want me to do, post a sign in their cage,?" she inquired.
(I actually think she said this sarcastically!)
"No, but you were supposed to get two boys!" I reminded her, in my most
loving, calm, sweet voice.
"Yeah, Bert and Ernie!" my son agreed.
"Well, it's just a little hard to tell on some guys," she informed me.
(Again with the sarcasm you think?)
By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on.
I shrugged, deciding to make the best of it. "Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience," I announced. "We're about to witness the miracle of birth."
"OH, Gross,!" they shrieked.
"Well, isn't THAT just Great!; what are we going to do with a litter of tiny
little hamster babies?" my wife wanted to know.
(I really do think she was being snotty here, too. Don't you?)
"Well, when my parents' dogs had puppies, I took them up to the grocery store in a cardboard box and gave them away," I recalled.
"So what are you going to do, go up with a pair of tweezers so people can pick out their hamster?" she asked.
(Gotta love her!)
We peered at the patient.
After much struggling, what looked like a tiny foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.
"We don't appear to be making much progress," I noted.
"A breech birth," my wife whispered, horrified.
"Do something, Dad!" my son urged.
"Okay, okay." Squeamishly, I reached in and grabbed the foot when it next appeared, giving it a gingerly tug. It disappeared. I tried again, with the same results.
"Should I dial 911,?" my daughter wanted to know. "Maybe they could talk us through the trauma."
(You see a pattern here with my females?)
"Let's get Ernie to the vet," I said grimly.
We drove to the vet with my son holding the cage in his lap.
"Breathe, Ernie, breathe," he urged.
"I don't think hamsters do Lamaze," his mother noted to him.
(Women can be so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing, but this boy is "of her womb.")
The vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little animal through a magnifying glass.
"What do you think, Doc, an epidermal?" I suggested scientifically.
"Oh, very interesting," he murmured. "Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"
I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside.
"Is Ernie going to be okay?" my wife asked.
"Oh, perfectly," the vet assured us. "This hamster is not in labor. In fact, that isn't EVER going to happen ... Ernie is a boy."
"What!?"
"You see, Ernie is a young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, male hamsters will, master,er,er, ah..."
He blushed, glancing at my wife. "Well, you know what I'm saying, Mr. Cameron."
We were silent, absorbing this.
"So Ernie's just ...just ...excited?" my wife offered.
"Exactly," the vet replied, relieved that we understood.
More silence.
Then my vicious, cruel woman started to giggle. And giggle. And then even laugh loudly.
"What's so funny?" I demanded, knowing, but not believing that the woman I married would commit the upcoming affront to my flawless manliness.
Tears were now running down her face. "Just ... that... I'm picturing you pulling on its ... its ... teeny little ... " she gasped for more air to bellow in laughter once more.
"That's enough," I warned.
We thanked the veterinarian and hurriedly bundled the hamsters and our son back into the car.
He was glad everything was going to be okay.
"I know Ernie's really thankful for what you've done, Dad," he told me.
"Oh, you have NO idea," my wife agreed, collapsing into laughter as I gave her a dirty look.
(And women have the gall to go though the marriage ceremony with a
completely straight face. It's scary.)
Overview: I had to take my son's hamster to the vet.
Here's what happened:
Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there was "something wrong" with one of the two hamsters he holds prisoner in his room.
"He's just lying there looking sick," he told me.
"Oldest trick in the book, son," I informed him. "You go in to see what's wrong with the sick one and the other one sneaks up behind you and bonks you on the head. Then they change into your clothes and escape."
"I'm serious, Dad. Can you help?"
I put my best hamster-healer expression on my face and followed him into his bedroom.
One of the little rodents was indeed lying on his back, looking distressed. I immediately knew what to do. Call the professional.
"Honey," I called, "come look at the hamster!"
"Oh, my gosh," my wife diagnosed after a minute. "She's having babies."
"What?" my son demanded. "But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!"
I was equally outraged. "Hey, how can that be?
I thought we said we didn't want them to reproduce," I accused my wife.
"Well, what did you want me to do, post a sign in their cage,?" she inquired.
(I actually think she said this sarcastically!)
"No, but you were supposed to get two boys!" I reminded her, in my most
loving, calm, sweet voice.
"Yeah, Bert and Ernie!" my son agreed.
"Well, it's just a little hard to tell on some guys," she informed me.
(Again with the sarcasm you think?)
By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on.
I shrugged, deciding to make the best of it. "Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience," I announced. "We're about to witness the miracle of birth."
"OH, Gross,!" they shrieked.
"Well, isn't THAT just Great!; what are we going to do with a litter of tiny
little hamster babies?" my wife wanted to know.
(I really do think she was being snotty here, too. Don't you?)
"Well, when my parents' dogs had puppies, I took them up to the grocery store in a cardboard box and gave them away," I recalled.
"So what are you going to do, go up with a pair of tweezers so people can pick out their hamster?" she asked.
(Gotta love her!)
We peered at the patient.
After much struggling, what looked like a tiny foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.
"We don't appear to be making much progress," I noted.
"A breech birth," my wife whispered, horrified.
"Do something, Dad!" my son urged.
"Okay, okay." Squeamishly, I reached in and grabbed the foot when it next appeared, giving it a gingerly tug. It disappeared. I tried again, with the same results.
"Should I dial 911,?" my daughter wanted to know. "Maybe they could talk us through the trauma."
(You see a pattern here with my females?)
"Let's get Ernie to the vet," I said grimly.
We drove to the vet with my son holding the cage in his lap.
"Breathe, Ernie, breathe," he urged.
"I don't think hamsters do Lamaze," his mother noted to him.
(Women can be so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing, but this boy is "of her womb.")
The vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little animal through a magnifying glass.
"What do you think, Doc, an epidermal?" I suggested scientifically.
"Oh, very interesting," he murmured. "Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"
I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside.
"Is Ernie going to be okay?" my wife asked.
"Oh, perfectly," the vet assured us. "This hamster is not in labor. In fact, that isn't EVER going to happen ... Ernie is a boy."
"What!?"
"You see, Ernie is a young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, male hamsters will, master,er,er, ah..."
He blushed, glancing at my wife. "Well, you know what I'm saying, Mr. Cameron."
We were silent, absorbing this.
"So Ernie's just ...just ...excited?" my wife offered.
"Exactly," the vet replied, relieved that we understood.
More silence.
Then my vicious, cruel woman started to giggle. And giggle. And then even laugh loudly.
"What's so funny?" I demanded, knowing, but not believing that the woman I married would commit the upcoming affront to my flawless manliness.
Tears were now running down her face. "Just ... that... I'm picturing you pulling on its ... its ... teeny little ... " she gasped for more air to bellow in laughter once more.
"That's enough," I warned.
We thanked the veterinarian and hurriedly bundled the hamsters and our son back into the car.
He was glad everything was going to be okay.
"I know Ernie's really thankful for what you've done, Dad," he told me.
"Oh, you have NO idea," my wife agreed, collapsing into laughter as I gave her a dirty look.
(And women have the gall to go though the marriage ceremony with a
completely straight face. It's scary.)
