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Nice Ara, the typos in that were just as good as the joke!

 

A few old jokes

An old couple were beginning to suffer from memory loss and decided that something really needed to be done about it. However, all the doctor suggested was that they wrote things down to help them remember. Later that night they were sitting watching the TV when the husband walked out to the kitchen
"Do you want anything while I'm out there?"
"I'd like some Icecream."
"Okay I'll go get it."
"Do you want to write that down?"
"No, I'll remember - Ice cream."
"Oh, and strawberries, you better write that down."
"No! I'll remember!"
"Oh and chocolate sauce. Sure you'll remember?"
"Ice cream, Strawberries, chocolate sauce, I'll remember!"

Twenty minutes later he came back with a tray and set it before his wife, on the tray was a plate of sausages and egg, his wife looked up at him and said:

"Where's my toast?"


And another...

Three men were walking through the village, they had been friends since they were in school and were now all well into their seventies. One of them said to his companions:

"Windy today isn't it?"

One of his friends frowned slightly and said

"Nah, it's Thursday."

The last friend smiled and nodded at his friends.

"Me too, let's go to the pub."

 

Nice 8!

A married couple are getting on in years, and the husband is starting to worry that his wife is losing her hearing.

One day, he's sitting in his chair reading the evening paper while she makes supper, and an idea comes to him. He gets up, stands in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her facing away from him while she cooks. He softly but audibly asks: "Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

He steps into the room a couple of feet and asks again a little louder: "Can you hear me?"

Still nothing.

Again he steps closer, now only a few feet from his wife, and asks in a normal pitch: "Can you hear me?"

At this, she turns and retorts "For the third time, YES, I can hear you!"

 

How many paladins does it take to change a lightbulb?

Two - one to unscrew the bulb, the other to uphold the light.

 

I like that Arifirh. Also 8people's and apathetic empath's.

 

What do you call an Irish window fitter?

Paddy O'Doors

[ September 07, 2005, 12:08: Message edited by: Cúchulainn ]

 

Dear Friends,

My wife Toni is fond of saying that my last words on this earth will be something akin to! "Well, I have outdone myself once again." No doubt you will see this true story chronicled in a Lifetime movie in the near future. Here goes...

Last weekend I spied something at Larry's Pistol and Pawn that tickled my fancy. (Note: Keep in mind that my "fancy" is easily tickled.) I bought something really cool for Toni. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my sweet girl. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse- sized Tazer gun with a clip. For those of you who are not familiar with this product, it is a less-than-lethal stun gun with two metal prongs designed to incapacitate an assailant with a shock of high-voltage, low-amperage electricity while you flee to safety.

The effects are supposed to be short-lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, but allowing you adequate time to retreat to safety. You simply jab the prongs into your 250-lb, tattooed assailant, push the button, and it will render him a slobbering, goggle-eyed, muscle-twitching, whimpering, pencil-neck geek. If you've never seen one of these things in action, then you're truly missing out--way too cool!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was so disappointed. Upon reading the directions (we don't need no stinkin' directions), I found much to my chagrin that this particular model would not create an arch between the prongs. How disappointing!

I do love fire for effect. I learned that if I pushed the button, however, and pressed it against a metal surface that I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs that I was so looking forward to. I did so. Awesome!!! Sparks, a blue arch of electricity, and a loud pop!!! Yipeeeeee . . I'm easily amused, just for your information, but I have yet to explain to Toni what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, etc., etc.

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul), reading the directions (that would be me, not Gracie) and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh-and-blood target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie for a fraction of a second and thought better of it. She is such a sweet kitty, after all. But, if I was going to give this thing to Toni to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? Was I wrong to think that? Seemed reasonable to me at the time.

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, Tazer in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. All the while I'm looking at this little device (measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference, pretty cute really, and loaded with two itsy bitsy AAA batteries), thinking to myself, "no friggin' way!"

Friggin' way -- trust me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'lldo my best. Those of you who know me well have got a pretty good idea of what followed. I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it buddy," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny lil' ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad (sound, rational thinking under the circumstances, wouldn't you agree?). I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the hell of it. (Note: You know, a bad decision is like hindsight--always twenty-twenty. It is so obvious that it was a bad decision after the fact, even though it seemed so right at the time. Don't ya hate that?)

I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button,and HOLY **************! DAaaaauuuuuuMN!!!; I'm pretty sure that Jessie Ventura ran in through the front door, picked me up out of that recliner, then body slammed me on the carpet over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, soaking wet, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position. Gracie was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"

Note: If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a Tazer, one note of caution. There is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You're not going to let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. Then, if you're lucky, you won't dislodge one of the prongs 1/4" deep in your thigh like yours truly. SON-OF-A-***** that hurt! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at this point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both titties were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, as my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. give or take an ounce or two, I'm pretty sure.

By the way, has anyone seen my testicles? I think they ran away. I'm offering a reward. They're round, rather large, kinda hairy, and handsome if I must say so myself. I miss 'em . . . sure would like to get 'em back.

 

I so have to try that!!

Here's a little play on words for y'all:

"When a plumber bumps his head it results in both brain damage and drain bamage."

[ September 10, 2005, 19:01: Message edited by: Felinoid ]

 

@Pac Man - roflpmplmao. Thank you for your cautionary tale! In the spirit of "dang I wish I'd gotten here sooner" - my association with paramedics would have told you shocking yourself would just overload your nervous system and prevent you from RELEASING the button...If you'd asked, I would said "NO - let Toni shock you; also demonstrate to her its practicality" but, well...heh.

@fel - nice one

And since I'm such an original thinker, I'm gonna retell a George Carlin 'shaggy dog' outta his When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?:

 

Speaking of borrowing humor, from Real Genius:

Socretes' last words - I drank what?

 

Great, kuemper!

 

A gem from my morning paper:

 

This was too funny to pass up. I dislike talking to strangers over the phone. I thought, 'Hey, maybe this is a real phobia and has a name!' So, I googled for phobias and didn't find anything. I tried telephone phobia and came up with this gem - pay attention to paragraph two.

A Cure for Telephone Phobia

After snooping for other links, this was still the main way to contact them.

 

One of my favorite Sports Illustrated articles:

On a Wing and a Prayer
Rick Riley September 20, 1999

Now this message for America's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the backseat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have -- John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity....

Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death. Whatever you do, do not go. I know. The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast!

I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach. Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast.

Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting...." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff."

Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

"Bananas," he said.

"For the potassium?" I asked.

"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot -- but, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, that was it.

A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious.

Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.

It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, sap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

And I egressed the bananas. I egressed the pizza from the night before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that did not even want to be egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two. Biff said I passed out. Twice.

I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down.

I used to know cool. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know cool. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.

What is it? I asked.

"Two Bags."

Don't you dare tell Nicole.

Edit: Sorry for taking up so much space Tal....

 

Funny, really funny.

 

In the tradition of the telephone phobia posted earlier.

Hippopotomostrosesquippedaliophobia - fear of long words.

 

Here's one I got sent with a flash file; it loses a little but is otherwise fine just as text...

Oh, and keep the kids away from this one.

You have been warned.

---------------------------

The Perfect Couple:

One day, a perfect woman and a perfect man met, and after a brief but perfect courtship, got married. The wedding was, of course, perfect, as was their married life. Late on Christmas Eve, as the perfect couple drove home through a snowstorm, they spotted a stranger on the side of the road begging for help. Being the perfect couple, they stopped to help.

It turned out that the stranger was Santa Claus, and the perfect couple decided to assist him by helping to deliver presents. Unfortunately, as the weather worsened, the perfect couple and Santa Claus were involved a car accident.

Only one survived. Who was it?

The answer is that it was the perfect woman, as the other two do not exist.

Ladies, you can stop reading now. Gents, please continue.

...

...

...

Of course, since the perfect man does not exist, that means the perfect woman must have been driving. That explains why there was a car accident.

...

...

...

Also, if you're a woman, and you're still reading this, it also proves that women NEVER listen!

 

Good one Nonsequitur! Very good!

 

Corny Joke Warning!

How much peace and love does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Peace and love are infinite. The question is moot.