Q. What do you call a virgin on a waterbed?
A: A cherry float.
Q: What's the fluid capacity of Monica Lewinsky's mouth?
A: 1 US leader
Q: What did the sign on the door of the whorehouse say?
A: Beat it -- we're closed.
Q: Why do walruses go to Tupperware parties?
A: To find a tight seal.
Q: What's the difference between sin and shame?
A: It is a sin to put it in, but it's a shame to pull it out ..
Q: What's the speed limit of sex?
A: 68; at 69 you have to turn around.
Q: Why did Raggedy Ann get thrown out of the toy box?
A: She kept sitting on Pinocchio's face, and moaning, "Lie to me!"
Q: Why is air a lot like sex?
A: Because it's no big deal unless you're not getting any.
Q: What's another name for pickled bread?
A: Dill-dough.
Q: Why are Monica Lewinsky's cheeks so puffy?
A: She's withholding evidence.
Q: What's the difference between light and hard?
A: You can sleep with a light on.
Q: Why is sex like a bridge game?
A: You don't need a partner if you have a good hand.
Q: What's the definition of macho?
A: Jogging home from your own vasectomy.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Santa Claus
OK, so this one's not a joke: it's kinda one of those sappy stories. But it's not religious, and it's really sweet and it, well, read it, you'll see....
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so.
It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" She snorted....
"Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars.
That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!
I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked ki ndly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."
The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in
a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.
Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.
Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.
That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so.
It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" She snorted....
"Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars.
That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!
I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked ki ndly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."
The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in
a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.
Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.
Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.
That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Sunday, January 01, 2006
A Christmas Story
December 13
Dear Love,
How sweet of you to send the partridge! What a darling you are. I love you, my precious one. And the pear tree-how thoughtful!
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 14
Dear Tommy,
Those two turtle doves are absolutely the sweetest little birds I have ever seen! Cooing in their golden cage, they're a perfect complement to the partridge. You're a darling, sweet man.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 15
Dearest Tom,
You really were sweet to send me still another gift, and you are such a kidder. Three more birds! Who else would have thought to send someone three French hens to go with her two turtle doves and a partridge. They will be a bit of trouble to clean up after, but since they're from you, I guess they're worth it.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 16
Dear Tom,
What a sense of humor, ha, ha! Four calling birds, giving me a total of ten birds in a studio apartment here I wasn't supposed to have pets at all.
The racket really is too much. They don't call them “calling birds” for nothing, you know. They set off the French hens, and now the turtle doves are cooing round the clock. The partridge looks sick. Thanks again, I guess.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 17
Dearest Tommy,
Now I see what all this has been leading up to: five golden rings! I had no idea you cared so much and I am overwhelmed by your lovely gift. I hardly care about the feathers and the seeds on my carpet or the mess the French hens are making. Naturally you won't want to send me any more gifts. But I shall always treasure your thoughtfulness and your love in giving me the rings.
All my love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 18
Dear Tom,
Not funny, Tom. Your six geese a-laying have nearly ruined my bathroom, and don't even eat the eggs. Now that you've had your little joke, I hope you'll come and take them off my hands before the neighbors complain.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 19
Tom,
Come and get these seven swans out of my bathtub or we're finished. It was bad enough to have 16 birds in the apartment, but the swans are splashing water all over the bathroom and it's turning the goose dung into a stinking lake. The carpet is badly stained. I can't call Animal Control because I'm embarrassed about the mess. Get over here and help me out of this immediately.
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 20
Thomas,
I can hardly write this because of the uproar from your eight maids milking and their damn cows. All your lovely birds are covered with cow crap. The maids are quarreling among themselves and I barely have enough money to buy hay. I don't know where you got these women, but if they aren't gone by tomorrow, I'm calling the police. I'd be evicted if my landlord weren't out of town.
What are you trying to prove anyway?
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 21
Tom, you bastard, Nine ladies dancing would be bad enough, but these so-called ladies are STRANGE. When they're not dancing and breaking things, they're fighting with the milkmaids, putting on airs, and eating everything in the place. You can call it dancing if you want, but they'd get arrested in most nightclubs. It's disgusting. Three of them have been hurt slipping in the cow dung and one of them is chasing the French hens with a hatchet. I can't stand it another day; the chaos is driving me crazy.
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 22
You son of a bitch,
You've gone too far. Ten lords a-leaping are now jumping all over the milkmaids. Two of the milkmaids have locked themselves in the bathroom in spite of the geese and swans and the racket and their slimy droppings. Have you ever seen lords a-leaping? They're gross! If you have any heart at all, you'll get the perverted bastards out of here. The partridge, I might add, is dead. I've lost the damned rings in the muck. I called the police but they laughed at me. I don't know where to turn.
You know who!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 23
Mr. Thomas Furley:
I suppose you'll be happy to know that eleven pipers piped their way into my apartment today and all hell broke loose. The noise stampeded the cows. They ran into the parking lot, injuring several neighbors who had come out to see what the noise was all about. Bird crap and bath water finally broke through the floor of the apartment and flooded the apartment downstairs. An Animal Control officer went after the cows but accidentally shot a leaping lord with his tranquilizer gun. One of the dancing ladies thinks she is pregnant. The milkmaids have taken over. One of them runs naked through the apartment complex. The geese and swans are in the swimming pool and the boys are throwing rocks at them. I was attacked by a leaping lord. The calling birds have pulled out most of my hair for nests, which they are building in the chandelier. I am so upset that I strangled the turtle doves. They were sweet, but I just couldn't take any more! The stench is unbearable. The air is filled with feathers. The pipers won't stop piping. All is lost, LOST, LOST!
Your avowed enemy, Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 24
Mr. Furley:
I am writing this on behalf of my client, Miss Karen Gudge, who is now under psychiatric care at Sunny Hills Hospital. Apparently your gift of twelve drummers drumming proved to be more than she could bear. A suit has been filed charging you with $400,000 in damages to an apartment complex and 37 persons, including an Animal Control officer who alleges that six vicious geese have deprived him of his virility.
Joseph Monk, Attorney at Law
P.S. Have a Merry Christmas!
Dear Love,
How sweet of you to send the partridge! What a darling you are. I love you, my precious one. And the pear tree-how thoughtful!
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 14
Dear Tommy,
Those two turtle doves are absolutely the sweetest little birds I have ever seen! Cooing in their golden cage, they're a perfect complement to the partridge. You're a darling, sweet man.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 15
Dearest Tom,
You really were sweet to send me still another gift, and you are such a kidder. Three more birds! Who else would have thought to send someone three French hens to go with her two turtle doves and a partridge. They will be a bit of trouble to clean up after, but since they're from you, I guess they're worth it.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 16
Dear Tom,
What a sense of humor, ha, ha! Four calling birds, giving me a total of ten birds in a studio apartment here I wasn't supposed to have pets at all.
The racket really is too much. They don't call them “calling birds” for nothing, you know. They set off the French hens, and now the turtle doves are cooing round the clock. The partridge looks sick. Thanks again, I guess.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 17
Dearest Tommy,
Now I see what all this has been leading up to: five golden rings! I had no idea you cared so much and I am overwhelmed by your lovely gift. I hardly care about the feathers and the seeds on my carpet or the mess the French hens are making. Naturally you won't want to send me any more gifts. But I shall always treasure your thoughtfulness and your love in giving me the rings.
All my love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 18
Dear Tom,
Not funny, Tom. Your six geese a-laying have nearly ruined my bathroom, and don't even eat the eggs. Now that you've had your little joke, I hope you'll come and take them off my hands before the neighbors complain.
Love,
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 19
Tom,
Come and get these seven swans out of my bathtub or we're finished. It was bad enough to have 16 birds in the apartment, but the swans are splashing water all over the bathroom and it's turning the goose dung into a stinking lake. The carpet is badly stained. I can't call Animal Control because I'm embarrassed about the mess. Get over here and help me out of this immediately.
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 20
Thomas,
I can hardly write this because of the uproar from your eight maids milking and their damn cows. All your lovely birds are covered with cow crap. The maids are quarreling among themselves and I barely have enough money to buy hay. I don't know where you got these women, but if they aren't gone by tomorrow, I'm calling the police. I'd be evicted if my landlord weren't out of town.
What are you trying to prove anyway?
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 21
Tom, you bastard, Nine ladies dancing would be bad enough, but these so-called ladies are STRANGE. When they're not dancing and breaking things, they're fighting with the milkmaids, putting on airs, and eating everything in the place. You can call it dancing if you want, but they'd get arrested in most nightclubs. It's disgusting. Three of them have been hurt slipping in the cow dung and one of them is chasing the French hens with a hatchet. I can't stand it another day; the chaos is driving me crazy.
Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 22
You son of a bitch,
You've gone too far. Ten lords a-leaping are now jumping all over the milkmaids. Two of the milkmaids have locked themselves in the bathroom in spite of the geese and swans and the racket and their slimy droppings. Have you ever seen lords a-leaping? They're gross! If you have any heart at all, you'll get the perverted bastards out of here. The partridge, I might add, is dead. I've lost the damned rings in the muck. I called the police but they laughed at me. I don't know where to turn.
You know who!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 23
Mr. Thomas Furley:
I suppose you'll be happy to know that eleven pipers piped their way into my apartment today and all hell broke loose. The noise stampeded the cows. They ran into the parking lot, injuring several neighbors who had come out to see what the noise was all about. Bird crap and bath water finally broke through the floor of the apartment and flooded the apartment downstairs. An Animal Control officer went after the cows but accidentally shot a leaping lord with his tranquilizer gun. One of the dancing ladies thinks she is pregnant. The milkmaids have taken over. One of them runs naked through the apartment complex. The geese and swans are in the swimming pool and the boys are throwing rocks at them. I was attacked by a leaping lord. The calling birds have pulled out most of my hair for nests, which they are building in the chandelier. I am so upset that I strangled the turtle doves. They were sweet, but I just couldn't take any more! The stench is unbearable. The air is filled with feathers. The pipers won't stop piping. All is lost, LOST, LOST!
Your avowed enemy, Karen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 24
Mr. Furley:
I am writing this on behalf of my client, Miss Karen Gudge, who is now under psychiatric care at Sunny Hills Hospital. Apparently your gift of twelve drummers drumming proved to be more than she could bear. A suit has been filed charging you with $400,000 in damages to an apartment complex and 37 persons, including an Animal Control officer who alleges that six vicious geese have deprived him of his virility.
Joseph Monk, Attorney at Law
P.S. Have a Merry Christmas!
No Fighter Pilots
The world's best navigator died and went to heaven and St. Peter said: "Welcome to heaven my son, you have been the best navigator in the world and have done wonderful things for your friends, family, and country your whole life". For that reason I am authorized to let you choose which part of heaven you would like to go to.
"Well", the navigator said, "I'd really like to go somewhere where I will never see another fighter pilot again - those guys were loud and obnoxious, and generally just a pain in the ass. I never want to have to see them, talk to them, or deal with them again ever".
St. Peter replied "It's actually not much of a problem up here, we don't ever get many of them around, but just to be sure, I have the perfect place - it is a deserted tropical island where you will never be bothered again by any fighter pilots".
The navigator went off to the island very happy. About a week later he was back at the gates demanding to see St. Peter.
"What's wrong?" St. Peter asked.
"Well", said the navigator, "I thought you said I will never have to deal with a fighter pilot again. I was walking along the beach yesterday and I looked up, and there, coming towards me, was this guy swaggering along in a flight suit and g-suit, wearing a really big wrist watch, with a girl under each arm, telling war stories that all started with "There I was...."
St. Peter looked puzzled and said; "Let me check something". He then went into his computer to check the whereabouts of both of the fighter pilots in heaven. He was still looking puzzled and then it dawned on him. "That wasn't a fighter pilot you saw yesterday". That was actually God. He sometimes likes to dress up and pretend he is a fighter pilot.
"Well", the navigator said, "I'd really like to go somewhere where I will never see another fighter pilot again - those guys were loud and obnoxious, and generally just a pain in the ass. I never want to have to see them, talk to them, or deal with them again ever".
St. Peter replied "It's actually not much of a problem up here, we don't ever get many of them around, but just to be sure, I have the perfect place - it is a deserted tropical island where you will never be bothered again by any fighter pilots".
The navigator went off to the island very happy. About a week later he was back at the gates demanding to see St. Peter.
"What's wrong?" St. Peter asked.
"Well", said the navigator, "I thought you said I will never have to deal with a fighter pilot again. I was walking along the beach yesterday and I looked up, and there, coming towards me, was this guy swaggering along in a flight suit and g-suit, wearing a really big wrist watch, with a girl under each arm, telling war stories that all started with "There I was...."
St. Peter looked puzzled and said; "Let me check something". He then went into his computer to check the whereabouts of both of the fighter pilots in heaven. He was still looking puzzled and then it dawned on him. "That wasn't a fighter pilot you saw yesterday". That was actually God. He sometimes likes to dress up and pretend he is a fighter pilot.
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