Friday Funnies July 6 07

"This week they had the annual congressional baseball game. The House Republicans beat the House Democrats 5-2. Typical of both parties -- the Republicans kept stealing, and then after the game, the Democrats demanded a recount." --Jay Leno

"British Prime Minister Tony Blair left office after 10 years today. President Bush was pretty upset. Although they told President Bush that Blair just went to live on a farm." --Jay Leno

"Earlier this morning in London, police defused a potentially massive car bomb parked in front of famed Piccadilly Circus. President Bush got a little confused. He called the new prime minister and made sure all the animals and clowns were safe." --Jay Leno

"President Bush is hosting Russian President Vladimir Putin at the Bush family compound in Maine this week. They're going fishing and boating. The press is calling it the 'Lobster Summit.' Now, don't confuse that with Paris Hilton's upcoming weekend in Maui. That's called 'Crabfest.'" --Jay Leno

"Experts say the price of milk could rise to as much as $4 a gallon. $4 a gallon for milk? I didn't know Dick Cheney was involved with the dairy industry." President Bush said today if the price of milk continues to rise, we may have to invade Wisconsin." --Jay Leno

"The Senate voted down the immigration bill. When he heard about it, a disappointed President Bush said, 'No way, Jose!'" --Jay Leno

"How many folks saw Paris Hilton last night on the 'Larry King Live' program? ... The interview went pretty well. Larry only flatlined once. ... I think Larry's getting old. He kept calling her Charo. ... Paris said she hated prison. There's some insight. She said she had to eat mystery meat. I think I've actually seen video of her doing that" --David Letterman

A recent study found that the average Canadian walks about 900 miles a year. Another study found that Canadians drink an average of 22 gallons of beer a year. That means, on average, Canadians get about 41 miles per gallon. Who knew?

A man is stumbling through the woods totally drunk when he comes upon a preacher baptizing people in the river. He proceeds to walk into the water and subsequently bumps into the preacher. The preacher turns around and is almost overcome by the smell of alcohol, whereupon he asks the drunk, "Are you ready to find Jesus?" The drunk answers, "Yes, I am." So the preacher grabs him and dunks him in the water.
He pulls him up and asks the drunk, "Brother, have you found Jesus?" The drunk replies "No, I haven't found Jesus." The preacher shocked at the answer, dunks him into the water again for a little longer this time. He again pulls him out of the water and asks again, "Have you found Jesus, my brother?" The drunk again answers, "No, I haven't found Jesus." By this time the preacher is at his wits end and dunks the drunk in the water again -- but this time holds him down for about 30 seconds and when he begins kicking his arms and legs he pulls him up. The preacher again asks the drunk, "For the love of God, have you found Jesus?" The drunk wipes his eyes and catches his breath and says to the preacher, "Are you sure this is where he fell in?"

On the heels of the tremendous success of Toronto’s Gay Pride Week, it must be time for guys to take their annual "AM I GAY?" SELF EXAMINATION:

1. If you are over forty, and you have a washboard stomach, you are gay. It means you haven't sucked back enough beer with the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.

2. If you have a cat, you are a Flaaaaaming homo. A cat is like a dog, but gay -- it grooms itself constantly but never scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails, and whines to be fed.And just think about how you call a dog... "Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here, Killer!" Now think about how you call a cat..."Bun-bun, come to daddy, snookums!" Jeeezus, you're fit to be framed, you're so gay.

3. If you suck on lollipops, Ring-Pops, baby pacifiers, or any such nonsense, rest assured, you are a Gaylord. A straight man only sucks on bar-B-que ribs, crab claws, raw oysters, crawfish guts, pickled pigs feet, or tits. Anything else and you are in training to suck El Dicko and undeniably a fag.

4. If you refuse to take a dump in a public bathroom or piss in a parking lot, you crave a deep homosexual relationship. A man's world is his bathroom; he defecates and urinates where he pleases.

5. If you drink decaf coffee, you like a high hard one in the poop chute. A straight man will never be heard ordering a "Decaf Soy Latte". If you've put a Decaf Soy Latte to your lips, you've had a man there, too.

6. If you know more than six names of colors or four different types of dessert, you might as well be handing out free passes to your ass. A real man doesn't have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the Major Leagues, NFL, NHL, college ball, PGA and NASCAR (or important facts about Star Wars.) If you can pick out chartreuse or you know what a 'fressier' is, you're gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious.

7. If you drive with both hands on the wheel, forget it, you're dying to tune a meat whistle. A man only puts both hands on the wheel to honk at a slow-ass driver or to cut the punk off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat a hamburger, hold his beer, scratch his balls, or play with his broad in the passenger seat.

A few jokes from the late Bernard Manning:

I don’t believe Scots are as tight as people say, but I did hear that when two taxis collided in Glasgow recently 48 people were injured.

I also like the one about the boatload of Viagra that went down in Loch Ness — and the monster came up.

I went to see that Pavarotti last week and he was a right miserable git. He doesn’t like it when you join in.

I feel sorry for people that don't drink, because when they wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’re going to feel all day.

I once got sacked for laughing. I was driving a hearse.

Tony Adams, on his first day in prison, was complaining because he wanted the walls back 12 yards.

A Scouser (Liverpudlian) went to a prostitute. She said, ‘Do you want a blow job?’ He said, ‘Will it affect me dole money?’

Quasimodo was running down the street chased by a group of kids. He said, ‘For the last time, I haven’t got your football.’

FIVE RULES FOR MEN TO FOLLOW TO ACHIEVE A HAPPY LIFE:
1. It's important to have a woman who helps at home, who cooks from time to time, cleans and has a job.
2. It's important to have a woman who can make you laugh.
3. It's important to have a woman whom you can trust and who doesn't lie to you.
4. It's important to have a woman who is good in bed and who likes to be with you.
5. It's very, very important that these four women do not know each other.


Two buddies were sharing drinks while discussing their wives. "Do you and your wife ever do it doggie style?" "Well... not exactly." his friend replied, "She's more into the trick dog aspect of it." "Oh, I see, kinky, huh?" "Well... not exactly....I sit up and beg and she rolls over and plays dead."

At a national sales meeting, one particularly cocky salesman was approached by an unhappy man. "Are you Bob Jones?" "That's me," replied Bob, confidently. "Bob's my name, selling's my game!" "Were you in Atlanta about two months ago?" Bob scrolled through his PDA. "Two months ago. Why, yeah, I was." "And did you stay at the Lacey Motel?" "Now, let's see. Yep, Lacey Motel." "In room 3121?" "Hang on," he murmured, as he scanned his device, "Yes, I did." "Next to one Mrs.. Porter?" "Mrs.. Porter? Hmm... Why, yes, she was in 3123." "And did you sleep with her?" "Just a second," the salesman replied. "Yes. You're right. We did play a bit of the ol' in-and-out." The stranger blushed. "Well, I'm Bill Porter, her husband, and Mr. Jones, I don't like it one bit!" Bob clicked his PDA again. "Mrs.. Porter, Lacey Motel, #3123, No, sir. Neither did I!"

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jump start the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden Lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on.
Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier. Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch Stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul Miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my Poop-mate.
This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence. "Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... Horrible... Throw up... In my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet. There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know. I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

An elderly Jewish gentleman marries a much younger woman. No matter what the husband does sexually the woman never achieves orgasm. Since a Jewish wife is entitled to sexual pleasure they decide to talk to their rabbi. The rabbi listens to their story, strokes his beard and makes the following suggestion: "Hire a strapping young man. Whilst the two of you are making love, have the young man wave a towel over you. That will help your wife fantasize and should bring on the desired event." They go home and follow the rabbi's advice. They hire a handsome young man and he waves a towel over them as they make love. It doesn't help and she remains unsatisfied. Perplexed, they go back to the rabbi. "Ok," he says to the husband. "Let's try it reversed. Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over them." Again they go home and follow the rabbi's advice. The young man gets into bed with the wife and the husband waves the towel. The young man gets working with great enthusiasm and the wife soon has an enormous, room shaking, ear splitting, screaming orgasm. The husband smiles, looks at the young man and says to him triumphantly................
"You see that, you schmuck? THAT’S how you wave a towel!"

Mrs. Goldstein turns 85...and her friends at Baycrest decide to make a collection and buy her round trip tickets to anywhere in the world she wants to go... So Mrs. Goldstein is flattered by the generous gift and suggests that she has always wanted to see the great Maharashi in Nepal...and her friends at Baycrest are aghast by her choice...as they state clearly that the trip could kill her. She'd have to fly half way around the world to India, take trains, hot buses, donkey rides, climb mountains...so they encouraged her not to go....But Mrs. Goldstein was adamant and stated quite confidently that at 85...this was her wish... So two weeks later, sure enough, Mrs. Goldstein flies off to India, she lands there 14 hours later, gets on a train to the countryside, then a bus to the mountain ranges and then a donkey ride to the base of the mountain itself and then meets her Sherpa guides that take her up the mountain to meet the "Great" Maharashi... She finally gets into the line to meet the "Great" Maharashi...and she notices her line is moving very slowly...but the other line is very fast...so she turns to her Sherpa Guides and says, "So...nu...vots vith the line over dere...it's moving very fast"? Her Sherpa guides explain that her line is special, because people in her line get to spend 5 minutes with the Great Maharashi and the fast line...well they get to say only 5 words to the Great one... So Mrs. Goldstein decides quickly that she wants the fast line...and in amazement her Sherpa guides ask, "Are you sure ma'am...you've come all this way, risking life and limb to meet the Great Maharashi are you sure you only want 5 words with him after all that"? Mrs. Goldstein says quite adamantly again, "Ves I am sure...I only need 5 words...vot more do I need to say"? Before too long...Mrs. Goldstein is moving through the fast line and is about to meet the Great Maharashi...She sits before him and pleads with the Great Maharashi...and says
..."Nu Sheldon? Come home already"...