Required: Sense of humor

[gibsons]

Does anyone know how to cancel a bid on eBay?

I put in a bid for a “Mickey Mouse Outfit”, and now it seems I'm only six minutes away from owning the Toronto Maple Leafs.

 

[UltraLiteTriple]

"Give it to me" she yelled,
"I'm so f@cking wet, give it to me now!"
She could scream all she wanted,
I was keeping the umbrella.

 

[somethingnuw]

A woman walks into an accountant's office and tells him that she needs to file her taxes...

The accountant says," Before we begin, I'll need to ask you a few questions. "He gets her name, address, tax file number, etc. And then asks," What's your Occupation?"

"I'm a prostitute," she says.

The accountant is somewhat taken aback and says, "Let's try to rephrase that."

The woman says, "OK, I'm a high-end call girl."

"No, that still won't work. Try again."

They both think for a minute; then the woman says, "I'm an elite chicken farmer."

The accountant asks, "What does chicken farming have to do with being a prostitute?"

"Well, I raised 650 cocks last year."

"Chicken Farmer it is."

 

[john s]

A burglar broke into a house one night. He shined his flashlight around, looking for valuables when a voice in the dark said, 'Jesus knows you're here.'

He nearly jumped out of his skin, clicked his flashlight off, and froze. When he heard nothing more, he shook his head and continued.

Just as he pulled the stereo out so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he heard 'Jesus is watchingyou.'

Startled, he shined his light around frantically, looking for the source of the voice. Finally, in the corner of the room, his flashlight beam came to rest on a parrot.

'Did you say that?' he hissed at the parrot.

'Yes', the parrot confessed, then squawked, 'I'm just trying to warn you that he's watching you.'

The burglar relaxed. 'Warn me, huh? Who in the world are you?'

'Moses,' replied the bird.

'Moses?' the burglar laughed. 'What kind of people would name a bird Moses?'

'The kind of people who would name a Rottweiler Jesus.'

​

 

[eclipse1966]

The Dot lFINALLY, SOMEONE HAS CLEARED THIS UP.
For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion, but the Indian embassy in Ottawa has recently revealed the true story.When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether he has won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab, or a motel in Canada or United States . If nothing is there, he must remain in India to answer telephones and provide us with internet technical advice.

 

[gibsons]

This a-hole looked at my beer belly last night and sarcastically said, "Is that Corona or Bud?"

I said, "There's a tap underneath; taste it and find out."

"

 

[gibsons]

I was talking to a girl in the bar last night.
She said, "If you lost a few pounds , had a shave and got your hair cut, you'd look all right."

I said, "If I did that, I'd be talking to your friends over there instead of you."

 

[gibsons]

***********

I got caught taking a pee in the local swimming pool today.

The lifeguard shouted at me so loud, I nearly fell in.

 

[gibsons]

I went to the pub last night and saw a fat chick dancing on a table.
I said, "Nice legs."

The girl giggled and said with a smile, "Do you really think so."

I said "Definitely! Most tables would have collapsed by now. "

 

[green-horn]

I've accidentally swallowed some Scrabble tiles. My next crap could spell disaster.

 

[green-horn]

Went out last night and got really wasted. I woke up in the middle of the night next to some chick who was snoring and farting, so I knew I made it home OK!

 

[green-horn]

I spent a couple of hours defrosting the fridge last night, or "foreplay" as she likes to call it.

 

[gibsons]

A burglar broke into a house one night. He shined his flashlight around, looking for valuables when a voice in the dark said, 'Jesus knows you're here.'

He nearly jumped out of his skin, clicked his flashlight off, and froze. When he heard nothing more, he shook his head and continued.

Just as he pulled the stereo out so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he heard 'Jesus is watching you.'

Startled, he shined his light around frantically, looking for the source of the voice. Finally, in the corner of the room, his flashlight beam came to rest on a parrot.

'Did you say that?' he hissed at the parrot.

'Yes', the parrot confessed, then squawked, 'I'm just trying to warn you that he's watching you.'

The burglar relaxed. 'Warn me, huh? Who in the world are you?'

'Moses,' replied the bird.

'Moses?' the burglar laughed. 'What kind of people would name a bird Moses?'

'The kind of people who would name a Rottweiler Jesus.'








​

 

[JaySimon]

Okay. So I didn't write this, but read it. It's good.


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 jumpstart 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 Christmas 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 Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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 a** 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

(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.

 

[JaySimon]

One more for good measure, again, not mine.

Ryans steakhouse incident:

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. Uncle Johnny would love it.

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 was consumed that evening, I tell you – in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia was 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 too 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…

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, 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 ch!t, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my date 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 ch!t. 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.”

I know you (and definitely Uncle Johnny) understand this (though women would not), but I’ll take a moment to explain “The Move” anyway. 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 ch!t at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the dick 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 skilled 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 ch!t 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 ch!t 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 ch!t 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 ch!t 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 ch!t 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 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. 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 ch!t 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 liquid ch!t. All while thick ch!t was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no 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 date 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 date 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 being 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 or 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 date 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 date. 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 date 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.

 

[whitegold]

Dear Mr. Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and
still cannot believe this.

How is it that Radio Shack has my address and
telephone number and knows that I bought a t.v.
cable from them back in 1997, and yet, the Federal
Government is still asking me where I was born and
on what date.

For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand?

My birth date you have on my social insurance card,
and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for
the past 30 years. It is on my health insurance
card, my driver's license, on the last eight goddamn
passports I've had, on all those stupid customs
declaration forms I've had to fill out before being
allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and
all those insufferable census forms that are done at
election times.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all,
that my mother's name is Maryanne, my father's name
is Robert and I'd be absolutely astounded if that
ever changed between now and when I die!!!!!!

ch!t!

I apologize, Mr. Minister. I'm really pissed off
this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of
this bullch!t! You send the application to my house,
then you ask me for my f..kin' address. What is
going on? You have a gang of Neanderthals azzholes
workin' there!

Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I
don't want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for ch!t sakes.
I just want to go and park my ass on a sandy beach.

And would someone please tell me, why would you give
a ch!t whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next
15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something
weird to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, I'd sure
as hell not want to tell anyone!

Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the
other end of the city and get another f..kin' copy
of my birth certificate, to the tune of $60 !!!

Would it be so complicated to have all the services
in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new
passport the same day??

Nooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe make
sense. You'd rather have us running all over the
f..kin' place like chickens with our heads cut off,
then find some a-hole to confirm that it's really
me on the goddamn picture - you know, the one where
we're not allowed to smile?!

(f..kin' morons)

Hey, you know why we can't smile? We're totally
pissed off!

Signed - An Irate f..king Canadian Citizen.

P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture
and getting someone to confirm that it's me? Well,
my family has been in this country since 1776 when
one of my forefathers took up arms against the
Americans. I have served in the military for
something over 30 years and have had security
clearances up the yingyang.

I was aide de camp to the lieutenant governor of our
province for ten years and I have been doing
volunteer work for the RCMP for about five years.

However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify
who I am - you know, someone like my doctor WHO WAS
BORN AND RAISED IN COMMUNIST f..king CHINA!!!

 

[green-horn]

A guy walks into a bar with a monkey.
The monkey grab some olives off the bar and ate them.
Then he grabbed some sliced limes and ate them.
He then jumped onto the pool table and grabbed one of the balls.
To everyone's amazement, he stuck it in his mouth and somehow
swallowed it whole.

The bartender looked at the guy and said, "Did you see what your
Monkey just did?"
"No, what?"
"He just ate the cue ball off my pool table...whole!"

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me," replied the guy, "he eats everything
in sight, don't worry, I'll pay for the cue ball."
The guy finished his drink, paid his bill, paid for the stuff the
Monkey ate and left.

Two weeks later the guy came back, and had his monkey with him.
He ordered a drink and the monkey started running around the bar.
The Monkey found a maraschino cherry on the bar.
He grabbed it, stuck it up his butt, pulled it out, and then ate it.

Then the monkey found a peanut, and again stuck it up his butt,
pulled it out, and ate it. The bartender asked,
"Did you see what your monkey just did?"
"No, what?" replied the man.
"Well, he stuck both a maraschino cherry and a peanut up his butt,
pulled them out, and ate them!"

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me," replied the guy.
"He will eat anything, but ever since he had to ch!t out that cue
ball, he measures everything first."

 

[Mike270412]

JaySimon I just laughed so hard I chit myself

 

[~Rowdy~]

Banned Skittles Commercial...lmao.

 

[tripster]

Building Permit:

I recently applied for a building permit for a new house.

It was going to be 100 ft tall and 400 ft wide with 9 turrets at various

heights and some small windows all over the place

and have a rather loud outside entertainment sound system.

It would have parking for about 200 cars

and I was going to paint it bright purple with pink trim.

Basically the City Council told me in no uncertain terms to phuk off.

So not to be beaten, I sent in the application again,

but this time I called it a Mosque.




Work starts on Monday!! With a Government grant !!!!!