This Is Not in the Atkins Book.
It has been known for many years that sex was good exercise, but until now nobody had made a scientific study of the caloric content of different sexual activities. Now after "original and proprietary" research they are proud to present the results.
With her consent: 12 Calories
Without her consent: 2187 Calories
With both hands: 8 Calories
With one hand: 12 Calories
With your teeth: 485 Calories
With an erection: 6 Calories
Without an erection: 3315 Calories
Missionary: 12 Calories
69 lying down: 78 Calories
69 standing up: 812 Calories
Wheelbarrow: 216 Calories
Doggy Style: 326 Calories
Italian chandelier: 2912 Calories
Real: 112 Calories
Fake: 1315 Calories
Lying in bed hugging: 18 Calories
Getting up immediately: 36 Calories
Explaining why you got out of bed immediately: 816 Calories
20-29 years: 36 Calories
30-39 years: 80 Calories
40-49 years: 124 Calories
50-59 years: 1972 Calories
60-69 years: 7916 Calories
70 and over: Results are still pending
Calmly: 32 Calories
In a hurry: 98 Calories
With her father knocking at the door: 5218 Calories
With your wife knocking at the door: 13,521 Calories
Results may vary.
Axiom (n): A self-evident or universally recognized truth; a maxim.
For all of you who occasionally have a really bad day when you just need to take it out on someone!!! Don't take that bad day out on someone you know, take it out on someone you DON'T know!!!
Now get this. I was sitting at my desk, when I remembered a phone call I had to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered nicely saying,"Hello?" I politely said, "This is Patrick Hanifin and could I please speak to Robin Carter?" Suddenly the phone was slammed down on me! I couldn't believe that anyone could be that rude. I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. She had transposed the last two digits incorrectly. After I hung up with Robin, I spotted the wrong number still lying there on my desk. I decided to call it again. When the same person once more answered, I yelled "You're an asshole!" and hung up.
Next to his phone number I wrote the word "asshole," and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills, or had a really bad day, I'd call him up. He'd answer, and I'd yell, "You're an asshole!" It would always cheer me up. Later in the year the Phone Company introduced caller ID. This was a real disappointment for me, I would have to stop calling the asshole.
Then one day I had an idea. I dialed his number, then heard his voice, "Hello." I made up a name. "Hi. This is the sales office of the telephone company and I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with our caller ID program?" He went, "No!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!"
The reason I took the time to tell you this story, is to show you how if there's ever anything really bothering you, you can do something about it. Just dial 823-4863.
The old lady at the mall really took her time pulling out of the parking pace. I didn't think she was ever going to leave. Finally, her car began to move and she started to very slowly back out of the slot. I backed up a little more to give her plenty of room to pull out. Great, I thought, she's finally leaving. All of a sudden this black Camaro come flying up the parking isle in the wrong direction and pulls into her space. I started honking my horn and yelling, "You can't just do that, Buddy. I was here first!" The guy climbed out of his Camaro completely ignoring me. He walked toward the mall as if he didn't even hear me. I thought to myself, this guy's an asshole, here sure a lot of assholes in this world. I noticed he had a "For Sale" sign in the back window of his car. I wrote down the number. Then I hunted for another place to park.
A couple of days later, I'm at home sitting at my desk. I had just gotten off the phone after calling 823-4863 and yelling, "You're an asshole!" (It's really easy to call him now since I have his number on speed dial).
I noticed the phone number of the guy with the black Camaro lying on my desk and thought I'd better call this guy, too. after a couple rings someone answered the phone and said, "Hello." I said, "Is this the man with the black Camaro for sale?" "Yes, it is." "Can you tell me where I can see it?" "Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th street. It's a yellow house and the car's parked right out front." I said, "What's your name?" "My name is Don Hansen." "When's a good time to catch you, Don?" "I'm home in the evenings." "Listen Don, can I tell you something?" "Yes," "Don, you're an asshole!" And I slammed the phone down.
After I hung up I added Don Hansen's number to my speed dialer. For a while things seemed to be going better for me. Now when I had a problem I had two assholes to call. Then, after several months of calling the assholes and hanging up on them, it just wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.
I gave the problem some serious thought and came up with a solution:
First, I had my phone dial asshole #1. A man answered nicely saying, "Hello." I yelled "You're an asshole!", but I didn't hang up. The asshole said, "Are you still there?" I said, "Yeah." He said, "Stop calling me." I said, "No." He said, "What's your name, Pal?" I said, "Don Hansen." He said "Where do you live?" "1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house and my black Camaro's parked out front." "I'm coming over right now, Don. You'd better start saying your prayers." "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole!" and I hung up.
Then I called asshole #2. He answered, "Hello." I said, "Hello, asshole!" He said, "If I ever find out who you are..." "You'll what?" "I'll kick your butt." "Well, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now, asshole!" And I hung up. Then I picked up the phone and called the police. I told them I was at 1802 West 34th Street and that I was going to kill my gay lover as soon as he got home. Another quick call to Channel 13 about the gang war going on down W. 34th Street.
After that I climbed into my car and headed over to 34th Street to watch the whole thing. Glorious!!!
Watching two assholes kicking the crap out of each other in front of 6 squad cars and a police helicopter was one of the greatest experiences of my life!
Name withheld to protect the guilty.
Once upon a time, there lived a man who had a terrible passion for baked beans. He loved them, but they always had an embarrassing and somewhat lively reaction on him.
One day he met a girl and fell in love. When it became apparent they would marry, he thought to himself, she'll never go through with the marriage with me carrying on like this, so he made the supreme sacrifice and gave up beans.
Shortly after that they were married.
A few months later, on the way home from work, his car broke down and since they lived in the country, he called his wife and told her he would be late because he had to walk. On his way home, he passed a small cafe and the wonderful aroma of baked beans overwhelmed him.
Since he still had several miles to walk he figured he could walk off any ill effects before he got home. So he went in and ordered, and before leaving had 3 extra large helpings of baked beans. All the way home he putt-putted. By the time he arrived home he felt reasonably safe.
His wife met him at the door and seemed somewhat excited. She exclaimed, "Darling, I have the most wonderful surprise for you for dinner tonight!"
She put a blindfold on him, and led him to his chair at the head of the table and made him promise not to peak.
At this point he was beginning to feel another one coming on. Just as his wife was about to remove the blindfold, the telephone rang. She again made him promise not to peek until she returned, and away she went to answer the phone.
While she was gone, he seized the opportunity. He shifted his weight to one leg and let go. It was not only loud, but ripe as a rotten egg. He had a hard time breathing, so he felt for his napkin and fanned the air about him.
He had just started to feel better, when another urge came on. He raised his leg and RRIIIPPPP !!! It sounded like a diesel engine revving, and smelled worse. To keep from gagging, he tried fanning his arms a while, hoping the smell would dissipate. He got another urge. This was a real blue ribbon winner, the windows shook, the dishes on the table rattled and a minute later the flowers on the table were dead.
While keeping an ear tuned in on the conversation in the hallway, and keeping his promise of staying blindfolded, he carried on like this for the next ten minutes, farting and fanning each time with his napkin. When he heard the phone farewells he neatly laid his napkin on his lap and folded his hands on top of it. Smiling contentedly, he was the picture of innocence when his wife walked in.
Apologizing for taking so long, she asked if he had peeked at the dinner table. After assuring her he had not peeked, she removed the blindfold and yelled, "SURPRISE!!!"
To his shock and horror, there were twelve dinner guests seated around the table for his surprise birthday party.
MEAT DISHES
VEGETABLES
SAUCES
SPECIALITIES
DESSERTS
BEVERAGES
Chopsticks extra.
SUC MI PAGODA
Cuntonese Cuisine
6969 Fellation Blvd.
Escondildo, CA 12698
281-6969
That's "Two ate one - Sixty-nine, Sixty-nine". PORKING IN THE REAR.
A LA CARTE ($2.69 each)
LUNCHEON SPECIALS
DINNER COMBINATIONS
Ausssies: Believe you should look out for your mates.
Brits: Believe that you should look out for those people who
belong to your club.
Americans: Believe that people should look out for and take
care of themselves.
Canadians: Believe that that's the government's job.
Aussies: Dislike being mistaken for Pommies (Brits) when
abroad.
Canadians: Are rather indignant about being mistaken for
Americans when abroad.
Americans: Encourage being mistaken for Canadians when
abroad.
Brits: Can't possibly be mistaken for anyone else when
abroad.
Americans: Spend most of their lives glued to the idiot
box.
Canadians: Don't, but only because they can't get more
American channels.
Brits: Pay a tax just so they can watch 5 channels.
Aussies: Export all their crappy programs, which no one
there watches, to Britain, where everybody loves them.
Americans: Love to watch sports on the idiot box.
Brits: Love to watch sports in stadiums so they can fight
with other fans.
Canadians: Prefer to actually engage in sports rather than
watch them.
Americans: Will jabber on incessantly about football,
baseball and basketball.
Brits: Will jabber on incessantly about cricket, soccer and
rugby.
Canadians: Will jabber on incessantly about hockey, hockey,
hockey, and how they beat the Americans twice, playing baseball.
Aussies: Will jabber on incessantly about how they beat the
Poms in every sport they played them in.
Americans: Spell words differently, but still call it
"English."
Brits: Pronounce their words differently, but still call it
"English."
Canadians: Spell like the Brits, pronounce like
Americans.
Aussies: Add "G'day", "mate," and a heavy accent to
everything they say.
Brits: Shop at home and have goods imported because they
live on an island.
Aussies: Shop at home and have goods imported because they
live on an island.
Americans: Cross the southern border for cheap shopping, gas
and liquor in a backwards country.
Canadians: Cross the southern border for cheap shopping, gas
and liquor in a backwards country.
Aussies: Are extremely patriotic to their beer.
Americans: Are flag-waving, anthem-singing, and obsessively
patriotic to the point of blindness.
Canadians: Can't agree on the words to their anthem, when
they can be bothered to sing them.
Brits: Do not sing at all but prefer a large brass band to
perform the anthem.
Americans: Drink weak, pissy-tasting beer.
Canadians: Drink strong, pissy-tasting beer.
Brits: Drink warm, beery-tasting piss.
Aussies: Drink anything with alcohol in it.
Brits: Are justifiably proud of the accomplishments of
their past citizens.
Americans: Are justifiably proud of the accomplishments of
their present citizens.
Canadians: Prattle on about how some of those great
Americans were once Canadian.
Aussies: Wollow on about how some of their past citizens
were once outlaw Pommies, but none of that matters after several beers.
Americans: Seem to think that poverty and failure are
morally suspect.
Canadians: Seem to believe that wealth and success are
morally suspect.
Brits: Seem to believe that wealth, poverty, success and
failure are inherited things.
Aussies: Seem to think that none of this matters after
several beers.
Canadians: Encourage immigrants to keep their old ways
and avoid assimilation.
Americans: Encourage immigrants to assimilate quickly and
dump their old ways.
Brits: Encourage immigrants to go to Canada or America.
Canadians: Endure bitterly cold winters and are proud of
it.
Brits: Endure oppressively wet and dreary winters and are
proud of it.
Americans: Don't have to do either, and couldn't care
less.
Aussies: Don't understand what inclement weather means.
Aussies: Have produced comedians like Paul Hogan and
Yahoo Serious.
Canadians: Have produced many great comedians, like John
Candy, Martin Short, Jim Carrey, Dan Akroyd, and all the rest at SCTV.
Americans: Think that these people are American!
Brits: Have produced many great comedians, but Americans
ignore them because they don't understand subtle humour.
The following are from the Washington Post Style Invitational (a weekly contest for readers). The idea is to redefine words from the dictionary.
Take this little quiz and find out!
SCORING: None. IF you think this is humorous, you're a Republican. IF you had a hard time picking the best answer because they're all so true, you're a Democrat.
I'll tell you a short poem;
I'll try to make it quick.
The subject is quite simple:
The joy of having a dick.
Penises are super things;
You ladies should be jealous.
An organ surrounded by sensitive skin
That's smooth and rarely hairless.
It starts to grow dramatically,
When you're about thirteen.
Your testicles on either side;
Your willy in between.
It dangles neatly down below;
Soft, obedient and loyal.
At the slightest hint of lust,
It's ready to uncoil.
It often has a mind all of its own;
It's like a wild untamed beast.
It squirms and writhes and stretches out;
When you expect it least.
Sometimes, yes, it misbehaves;
Erecting when it shouldn't.
A bumpy train ride sets it off;
Just when you wish it wouldn't.
And during the summer,
Wearing little, sunning on the beach
The slightest sight of shaking boobs
And to cover up you'll have to reach
Handle it with love and care;
For it can give great pleasure.
Has it grown since last weekend?
And when did you last measure?
Some people fret about its size;
They give it lots of thought.
Is seven inches long enough?
It makes guys quite distraught.
They peek across in urinals,
To compare and try to see
But if another glances back at them
There's no way that they can pee
Masturbating is a sin;
That's what some folk believe.
But those are just old wives' tales;
Cuz it really can relieve.
Without this fabulous organ,
No shag would be complete.
Lesbians will try their best;
But must admit defeat.
It has two main bodily functions,
I'm sure you'll all agree,
To start a whole new life,
And of course, daily to pee.
But I think the thing that's marvelous;
About that one eyed brute
Is that when its trying to procreate,
It knows which fluid to shoot.
And always it remains with you;
Until you're old and frail.
Don't take it out in public though,
Or you'll be thrown in jail.
And so to finish up this song
I'd have to say one thing.
Just to reach and touch my schlong,
It makes me want to sing!
I was scared at first.
It was very wide, and very long,
and it angled straight up.
I decided I had to try it once.
I slowly and carefully eased myself onto it.
It felt weird at first.
Then I got used to it.
I went up and down, and up and down on it.
I was really loving it.
Now I ride on escalators all the time.
I took my fingers and slowly,
and gently stretched it apart.
It was so pure and white.
I licked it once, twice..I found I couldn't stop.
I licked it faster and faster, and harder.
I began to scrape my teeth against it.
There it was, in my mouth!
All sweet and creamy.
I was done.
And I threw away the outsides of my Oreo cookies.
I squeezed it gently at first,
then a little bit harder.
There seemed to be more and more of it
I moved it towards my lips.
It was a strange and new sensation for me.
I put it in my mouth
and moved it around and around with my tongue.
The time soon came when I knew I had to spit it out.
It was quite an experience.
The 1st time I tasted toothpaste.
They were both round and firm.
There was only the slightest difference between the two.
I took one in my hand and twisted it hard.
I used my other hand to grab the other one
and twist it hard the other way.
Now there's a brighter light bulb in the living room.
It was very long, kind of thin.
I slid it between my fingers
until I got to the end of it.
I was turning it on.
It became firm in my hands,
and the end was wet.
Then it got very hard and began gushing out of the tip.
Then I took the garden hose and watered the bushes.
I knew it could be done.
I wanted to try but I didn't know if I could do it.
I called my friend.
He said he knew how to do it and would teach me.
He put his arms around me and started.
I watched nervously in the mirror.
He finally finished and pulled back slowly.
I felt relieved that it was over.
I hate neckties.
It looked warm and dark, and juicy and inviting.
I wasn't sure just what I wanted to do with it.
I carefully pulled it apart with my fingers to look into it better.
I knew how great it would be if I just started eating it.
But I decided to put ketchup on my burger.
Every once in a while, each of us experiences a perfect dump, its rare, but a thing of beauty in all respects. You sit down expecting the worst, but what you get is a smooth sliding, fartless masterpiece that breaks the water with the splashless grace of an expert diver. But that's not the end of it. You use some toilet tissue only to find that it was totally unnecessary. It makes you feel that all is right with the world and you are in perfect harmony with it.
Talk about nasty dumps. Depending on the dumper's tolerance, the beer dump is the end result of too many beers. it could have been 2 or 22, it doesn't matter. What you get is a sinister, lengthy, noisy dump accompanied by a malevolent fog that could close a bathroom for days.
Hot when it goes in, and rocket fuel when it leaves. The chili dump stays with you all day, making your tush feel like a heat shield.
Long, curly and perfectly formed like 2 feet of E13 telephone CO-axial cable. It loops lazily around the bowl, like a friendly serpent.You wonder admiringly, "DID I DO THAT? Where did it come from?" you leave the bathroom pleased with yourself.
In case you didn't know, a latrine is a hole in the ground with a tent around it where soldiers, boy scouts and flies go to dump. Tip: Don't ever, ever look in the hole.
This is the masterpiece of dumps. Its as perfectly formed as it can be. Delicate and slender with intricacies that would make da Vinci weep. And just think, you made it yourself. You may even want to break out the Polaroid, but maybe that's going a bit too far.
You're done [...] you reach for the toilet paper only to discover that empty cardboard cylinder. A mild panic begins coldly in your throat. You could use the curtains [...] no, someone would say "Where are the curtains?" Then what would you say? The rug? [...] too cumbersome. Then you must come to the same conclusion that every "empty roll dumper" must face [...] Pull up your slacks, tighten your tush and wriggle yourself to the nearest full roll.
You send the dump on its way, it drops like a depth charge into the bowl creating a column of cold bowl water that washes your bottom with a startlingly unpleasant shock. Now you're wet and embarrassed. Tip: Blot instead of wiping.
You are in mid-dump when the phone rings. What do you do? ABORT! Pinch it off, go for the phone, and save the rest for later. It isn't pretty, but you've gotta do what you gotta do.
Pain, that's what this dump and childbirth have in common. Its simply a case of too much dump trying to go through too small a hole, and there's no obstetrician to help.
Everyone has had to go outdoors from time to time. This can be a rather pleasant experience really. The open air, the nature, and a good bush all contribute to the peaceful ambiance that our primitive forefathers must have enjoyed. What can screw up this harmonious interlude is a troop of brownies or a patch of poison ivy.
This is a dump that is simply too big to go through the aperture provided by nature for the purpose. You sit there, thinking over your dilemma. First it hurts, and it isn't going to get any better. You wonder if you'll ever see your loved ones again. You imagine the newspaper headlines screaming "Man dies trying to hatch monster loaf". You realize you'll have to resolve the crisis before you can leave the bathroom. Basically there are only three things you can do:
The phrase "Shit Happens" really applies here in a big way. When the ice in your tainted margarita makes contact with your lower intestinal tract, the fun begins. For the next 72 hours you'd be better off if you carried your own portable toilet with you because you will spend most of that time on the pot and the rest of the time in a fetal position. Now you realize why Mexico never had a navy.
You're just sitting there in a state of sublime peace when all of a sudden you emit a group of noisy gassy bursts that break the silence like machine gun fire. The guy in the next stall hits the floor like a combat veteran cradling his umbrella like an M16 [...] damn commies.
You feel a noisy one coming on. Relatives, friends or work mates are within earshot, so you must employ some clever techniques to cover the disgusting sounds you are about to emit. Timing is obviously very important here. At the precise moment of release, try the following sound effects:
You have enough on your mind when you're in the bathroom without worrying about a lockless door and someone bursting in to find you in mid- dump mode. So how can you prevent this embarrassing spectacle from taking place? One way is to strategically place your foot against the door. If you can't reach to do this [...] hum loudly.
For the most part you've completed your dump, but there's one little morsel that refuses to drop off. You're getting impatient. Someone else wants to use your stall. So, you grip the seat with both hands and wriggle, twist and pump but that last little stubborn piece just hangs there, suspended, clinging like a canned peach between you and the bowl water. Maybe the person pounding impatiently on the door has scissors.
You go, then you stand up to flush, and the darn thing has disappeared. Where'd it go? Did it creep down the pipe? Did you dream the whole thing? Is it lurking out of sight? Should you wipe [...] maybe you should just to make sure you went. Should you flush? you'd better, because if you don't, you know it will reappear and smile at the next person who comes in.
You feel so bad that you don't know which end of you to put down first. You have roaring cramps, so you sit down. Then a wave of nausea rolls over you like a cold fog, so you stand up and cramps squeeze your intestines like a vice so you sit down again [...] up down up down. Don't you wish Mom were close by?
Construction workers and outdoor concert goers will tell you about going in a portable toilet. My best description would be, "Its like taking a shit in an upright coffin". Its claustrophobic and it smells bad [...] best advice [...] go in a paper cup.
In the beginning, the lord created the earth, the sky and the firmament, but I hope he didn't create this dump, because there is nothing biblical about it, you run out of gas. That's right, you run out of propulsion. The dump is right there at the end of your barrel and refuses to go any further. You grunt, you squeeze, you wriggle but it just stays there like a lump of lead. You've only got two choices here. One is to squeeze the damn thing back up your intestine and wait until next time. The other is to pretend you're a proctologist and go after it yourself. Not a pretty picture is it??
No matter how much you wipe, it doesn't seem to be enough. You blow the whole roll and you have to flush 25 times too. The whole episode is consumer waste.
You flush the dump and the swirling motion of the receding bowl water forces the dump to the porcelain sides, scraping a creative squiggle on its way down. You flush again but the curlicue hangs there [...] love it or leave it. Its your choice.
Ahhhh, you're done, so you wipe, put yourself together, wash your hands and are about to vacate the bathroom when you feel another dump coming. You have to return for a curtain call. The world's record is seven encores.
This is a dump that's going so badly, you say "Lord, if I live through this, I'll take up religion" you always get through it, but seldom keep the promise you made in desperation, because a born again dump is like childbirth [...] you forget the pain quickly.
Once in a heavily crowded bus three guys were seated, while three girls besides them were standing. By understanding their problems, the guys offered the girls to sit on each of their laps. [Yes, you can trust us]
Without hesitation the girls agree and each of the girl sits on a guys's lap. [See, they trust us]
After some time first girl askes first guy "Are you a Mechanical Engineer?" Then he replies with wonder "Yes! How did You Know ?" She tells "Your Piston is starting to hit my cylinders".
After quite some movement the second girl asks the second guy "I think you are an Electrical Engineer?" Astonished, the guy asks "What makes you ask this question?" She says "Nothing, but I am receiving Shock Waves from your Laser Gun".
Then finally the third girl questions the other guy with an embarassing voice, "Hello, you are a great Civil Engineer isn't it?" To which he exclaims with wonder, "Certainly, what's the problem?" She replies, "No problem, but your dam is broken and its flooded my village".
It all started with an enquiry from a nurse.
"It all started with an enquiry from a nurse," Dr Karl Kruszelnicki told listeners to his science phone-in show on the Triple J radio station in Brisbane. "She wanted to know whether she was contaminating the operating theatre she worked in by quietly farting in the sterile environment during operations, and I realised that I didn't know. But I was determined to find out."
Dr Kruszelnicki then described the method by which he had established whether human flatus was germ-laden, or merely malodorous. "I contacted Luke Tennent, a microbiologist in Canberra, and together we devised an experiment. He asked a colleague to break wind directly onto two Petri dishes from a distance of five centimetres, first fully clothed, then with his trousers down. Then he observed what happened. Overnight, the second Petri dish sprouted visible lumps of two types of bacteria that are usually only found in the gut and on the skin. But the flatus which had passed through clothing caused no bacteria to sprout, which suggests that clothing acts as a filter.
"Our deduction is that the enteric zone in the second Petri dish was caused by the flatus itself, and the splatter ring around that was caused by the sheer velocity of the fart, which blew skin bacteria from the cheeks and blasted it onto the dish. It seems, therefore, that flatus can cause infection if the emitter is naked, but not if he or she is clothed. But the results of the experiment should not be considered alarming, because neither type of bacterium is harmful. In fact, they're similar to the 'friendly' bacteria found in yoghurt.
"Our final conclusion? Don't fart naked near food. Alright, it's not rocket science. But then again, maybe it is?"
(Canberra Times, 17/7/01. Spotter: Michael Doyle)
The British Government's policy of socialised medicine has recently been broadened to include a service called "Proxy Fathers". Under the government plan, any married woman who is unable to become pregnant through the first five years of her marriage may request the service of a proxy father---a government employee who attempts to solve the couple's problem by impregnating the wife.
The Smiths, a young couple, have no children and a proxy father is due to arrive. Leaving for work, Mr. Smith says, "I'm off. The government man should be here soon." Moments later a door-to-door baby photographer rings the bell.
The Top Twenty Ways to Tell Someone Their Fly Is Unzipped
Good: You're pregnant.
Bad: It's triplets.
Ugly: Your husband had a vasectomy five years ago.
Good: Your husband is not talking to you.
Bad: He wants a divorce.
Ugly: He's a lawyer.
Good: Your son is finally maturing.
Bad: He's involved with the woman next door.
Ugly: So are you.
Good: Your son studies a lot in his room.
Bad: You find several pornographic movies hidden there.
Ugly: You're in them.
Good: Your hubby and you agree, no more kids.
Bad: You can't find your birth control pills.
Ugly: Your daughter borrowed them.
Good: Your husband understands fashion.
Bad: He's a cross-dresser.
Ugly: He looks better than you do.
Good: You give "the birds and the bees" talk to your
14-year-old daughter.
Bad: She keeps interrupting.
Ugly: With corrections.
Good: The postman's early.
Bad: He's wearing fatigues and carrying a shotgun.
Ugly: You gave him nothing for Christmas.
Good: You son is dating someone new.
Bad: It's another man.
Ugly: He's your best friend.
Good: Your daughter got a new job.
Bad: As a hooker.
Ugly: Your co-workers are her best clients.
Way Ugly: She makes more money than you do!
There are nine beautiful deserted islands in the middle of nowhere where the following people are stranded:
2 Italian men and 1 Italian woman
2 French men and 1 French woman
2 German men and 1 German woman
2 Greek men and 1 Greek woman
2 English men and 1 English woman
2 Bulgarian men and 1 Bulgarian woman
2 Japanese men and 1 Japanese woman
2 Irish men and 1 Irish woman
2 American men and 1 American woman
One month later on these absolutely stunning deserted islands in the middle of nowhere, the following things have occurred.
One Italian man killed the other Italian man for the Italian woman.
The two French men and the French woman are living happily together in a menage a trois.
The 2 German men have a strict weekly schedule of when they alternate with the German woman.
The 2 Greek men are sleeping with each other and the Greek woman is cleaning and cooking for them.
The 2 English men are waiting for someone to properly introduce them to the English woman.
The Bulgarian men took one look at the endless ocean, another look at the Bulgarian woman, and started swimming.
The two Japanese men have faxed Tokyo on their wristband "Faxi-Mon" and are still waiting for instructions.
The Irish began by dividing the island into North and South and by setting up a distillery. They do not remember if sex with the ravishing tempremental redhed is in the picture because it gets sort of foggy after the first few liters of coconut whiskey, but they are satisfied in that at least the English are not getting any.
The two American men are contemplating the virtues of suicide as they listen to the American woman bitching about how sex is always unsatisfying, on the true nature of feminism, how she can do everything that they can do only better, about the necessity of fulfillment, the equal division of household chores, how all men except her father are pigs, how her relationship with her mother is improving, and how her last boyfriend, even though he was a pig, respected her opinion and treated her much nicer, at least before he committed suicide.
But, on the American island, at least the taxes are low and it is not raining.
Professors of different subjects define the same word in different ways:
A very touching letter.Sometimes it becomes difficult to just "let go" of old relationships. As an example, read on about the following guy, who writes to his old beloved (a prior marriage, I presume). It will bring tears to your eyes. Really.
Dear Terri: I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says ... "There's no one like you, Terri." I look for you in the eyes of every woman I see, but they're not you.
They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at the Rainbow Room and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.
She was young, Terri, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits you wouldn't believe and an ass like a tortoise shell. Every man's dream, right?
But as I sat on the couch being blown by this coed, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so surface. What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes. But you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person?
Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Terri? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little.
Later, after I'd tossed her about a quart of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some niggling feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there, Terri, to watch. Do you know that I mean? Nothing feels the same without you, baby. Jesus Terri, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at Mt.Sinai Baptist Church? Well, she drops by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured that I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we have a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know we're fucking in our old bedroom. And this broad's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know like a real woman does when she's not hung up about God and her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves.
And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad too. 'Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Terri ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex aid." (Some of this I thought about later.) You know what I mean? What happened to our spontaneity? You get so caught up in the routine of a marriage and you just lose sight of each other. And then you lose yourself. That's the saddest part of all for me. But I keep thinking we can get it back. I know we can, because I only want this stuff with you.
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Shannon's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders. She's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good counsel about you and about women in general. (She's pulling for us to get back together, Terri. She really is.)
So we're drinking in the hot tub and talking about happier times. Here's this hot girl with the same DNA as you (although, let's face it, she got an extra helping of the sexy gene) and all I can do is think of how much she looks like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Shannon's really into the whole anal thing and that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside the steaming hot Dutch oven of your sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you? It's true, baby. In your heart you know it.
Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances and start fresh? I think we can. I keep thinking that I think if you'd just try it, I wouldn't have to pressure you so much. Because who needs all that bitterness, Terri? It just tears us apart. And I can't be apart from you. Because I love you.
And physics is to mathematics as sex is to masturbation, as Richard Feynman used to say :-)
It's like this:
Which you prefer probably depends on your personal fetish. Engineers argue that the last is most fulfilling of all, though it is not as aesthetically beautiful to outsiders as the second and neither is as convenient as the first.
Top 9 reasons to go to Work Naked
A Courteous Person: One who says "Excuse me" before farting and "sorry" after that.
A Dishonest Person: One who farts and then blames one's dog.
A Foolish Person: One who suppresses a fart for hours.
A Knowledgeable Person: One who knows when to fart.
A Miserable Person: One who truly enjoys to fart but cannot.
A Mysterious Person: One who exudes undetectable farts.
A Nervous Person: One who stops in the middle of a fart.
A Proud Person: One who think his farts are extremely pleasant.
A Sadistic Person: One who farts in bed and fluffs the covers over his bed mate.
A Scientific Person: One who farts regularly but is concerned with pollution.
A Shy Person: One who releases silent farts and then blushes.
A Stereotype Person: One who farts regularly.
A Strategic Person: One who conceals one's farts by loud laughter.
A Stupid Person: One who farts and then takes in a deep breath to balance up.
A Thrifty Person: One who has farts in reserve.
A Vain Person: One who loves the smell of one's own fart.
An Amiable Person: One who loves the smell of other people's fart.
An Anti-Social Person: One who excuses himself and farts in complete privacy.
An Aquatic Person: One who farts in the bath then bursts the bubbles.
An Athletic Person: One who farts at the slightest exertion.
An Honest Person: One who admits he has farted but offers a good medical reason.
An Intelligent Person: One who can determine the smell his neighbors' farts.
An Unfortunate Person: One who tries to fart but shits instead.
Once upon a time, pretty Polly Nomial was skipping through a field of vectors when she came to the edge of a singularly large matrix. Now Polly was convergent, and her mother had made it an absolute condition that she never entered such an array without her brackets on. But Polly had changed her variables that morning and had been feeling particularly badly behaved, she ignored her mothers's condition on the grounds that it was insufficient, and made her way in among the complex elements.
Rows and columns enveloped her on all sides. Tangents approached her surface. She grew tensor and tensor. Quite suddenly, three branches of a hyperbola touched her at a single point, she oscillated wildly and lost all sense of directrix. She tripped over a square root protruding from the erf, and tumbled headlong down a steep gradient. When she was once again in possesion of her variables, she found herself apparently in a non-euclidean space. She was being watched, however: that smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking inner product. As his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular expression crossed his face. Was she convergent? He wondered. He decided to integrate improperly at once. Hearing an improper fraction behind her, Polly rotated and saw Curly approaching with his power series extrapolated. She could tell at once from his degenerate conic and his dissipative terms that he was bent to no good.
"Eureka!" she gasped.
"Ho, ho," said our operator. "What a symetric little asymptote you have. I bet your angles are just dripping with secs."
"Stay away from me!" she said. "I haven't got my brackets on."
"Calm yourself, my dear," he said. "Your fears are purely imaginary."
"I, I," she thought, "Maybe he's not normal..Maybe he's even a homomorphism."
"What order are you?" the brute demanded.
"Seventeen," she replied.
Curly leered. "Enough of this idle chatter. Lets go to a decimal place I know, and I'll take you to the limit."
"Never!" she gasped.
"Arcsinh!!!" He swore the vilest oath he knew. Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was powerless, Curly removed her discontinuities. He stared at her significant places and began smoothing out her points of inflection. Poor Polly. She could feel his hand tending towards her asymptotic limit. The algorithmic method was now her only hope. Her convergence would soon be gone forever.
Curly's radius squared itself. Polly's loci quivered. He intergrated by parts. He intergrated by partial fractions.The complex beast even went all the way around and did a contour intergration. Curly went on operating until he was completely and totally exhausted of all his primitive roots.
When Polly arrived home that night, her mother noticed that she had been truncated in several places. But it was too late to differentiate now. Nine transformations later, she went to L'Hopital and generated a small but pathological function which left zeros and residues all over the place and drove poor Polly to deviation.
The moral of this story is: If you want to keep your expressions convergent, keep them well differentiated from complex operators.
BTW, Bill Clinton is not the correct answer for all of them!
Dear John:
I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we're apart. I can be forever happy--will you let me be yours?
Gloria
Dear John:
I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people, who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men, I yearn. For you, I have no feelings whatsoever. When we're apart, I can be forever happy. Will you let me be?
Yours,
Gloria
Peru Hotel S.A.
Hotel Isla Esteves-Puno
Mr.Passing:
If it did not obtain you response until the third stamped, I will serve you to cut the call and to return to attempt it, thus avoided you the unnecessary collection of their its your his called since telephony system register the call as of the stamped quarter though may not have been obtained response.
Thanks.
Michael Palin, Full Circle, St.Martin's Press, 1997.
Here's a list of phrases to use when you want to be left alone on long flights, at parties, bus rides, at the polo grounds, etc).
Many people are at a loss for a response when someone says, "You don't know Jack Schitt!" Now you can handle the situation.
Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married Oh Schitt, the owner of Knee-Deep Schitt, Inc.
In turn, Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt, and the deeply religious couple produced 6 children: Holie Schitt, the twins Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Giva Schitt, and Bull Schitt.
Against his parents' objections, Deep Schitt married Dumb Schitt, a high school dropout. Dip Schitt married Loada Schitt, and they produced a timid son, Chicken Schitt. Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt were inseparable throughout childhood, and consequently married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg Schitt, Byrd Schitt, and Hoarse Schitt.
Bull Schitt, the prodigal son, left home to tour the world. He recently returned home with his new bride, Pisa Schitt.
After being married for 15 years, Jack and Noe divorced. Noe later married Mr. Sherlock, and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock.
Now, when someone says you don't know Jack Schitt, you can correct him.
What do I know about sex? I'm a married man."
Tom Clancy
"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome
things that money can buy."
Steve Martin
"You know that look women get when they want sex? Me neither."
Drew Carey
"Sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as meaningless
experiences go its pretty damned good."
Woody Allen
"Having sex is like playing bridge. If you don't have a good partner,
you'd better have a good hand."
Unknown
"If it weren't for pickpockets I'd have no sex life at all."
Rodney Dangerfield
"Documentation is like sex: when it is good, it is very, very good; and
when it is bad, it is better than nothing."
Dick Brandon
"Science is like sex: sometimes something useful comes out, but that is
not the reason we are doing it"
Richard Feynman
"All pop music is about sex. Rock is about wanting to do it, jazz is about
doing it, and country and western is about feeling guilty after you've done
it."
Robert Waldo Brunelle, Jr.
"Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on Saturday
night."
Woody Allen
"I think there are two areas where new ideas are terribly dangerous:
economics and sex. By and large, it's all been tried, and if it's really new,
it's probably illegal or dangerous or unhealthy."
Felix G. Rohatyn
"It isn't premarital sex if you have no intention of getting married."
Matt Barry
"Love ain't nothin' but sex misspelled."
Harlan Ellison
"Love is a matter of chemistry. Sex is a matter of physics."
Unknown
"Programming is like sex. One mistake and you have to support it for the
rest of your life."
Michael Sinz
"Remember, if you smoke after sex you're doing it too fast."
Woody Allen
"Sex at age 90 is like trying to shoot pool with a rope."
George Burns
"Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation. The other eight are
unimportant."
Henry Miller
"There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal,
particularly in women. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL
convertible."
P. J. O Rourke
"I bet that if you actually read the entire vastness of the U.S. Tax Code,
you'd find at least one sex scene."
Dave Barry
"My cousin is an agoraphobic homosexual, which makes it kind of hard for
him to come out of the closet."
Bill Kelly
"As the French say, there are three sexes: men, women, and clergymen."
Rev. Sydney Smith
"Homosexuality is God's way of insuring that the truly gifted aren't
burdened with children."
Sam Austin
"I can remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty."
George Burns
"It isn't premarital sex if you have no intention of getting married."
Matt Barry
"Leaving sex to the feminists is like letting your dog vacation at the
taxidermist."
Camille Paglia
"Life is a sexually transmitted disease."
Unknown
"My kid had sex with your honour student."
Bumper Sticker
"My sexual preference is not you."
On A T-shirt
10% of the women had sex within the first hour of their first date
20% of the men had sex in a non-traditional place
36% of the women favor nudity
45% of the women prefer dark men with blue eyes
46% of the women experienced anal sex
70% of the women prefer sex in the morning
80% of the men have never experienced homosexual relations
90% of the women would like to have sex in the forest
99% of the women have never experienced sex in the office.
Conclusion: Statistically speaking, you have a better chance of having anal sex in the morning with a strange woman in the forest than to have sex in the office at the end of the day.
Moral: Do not stay late in the office. Nothing good will ever come of it!
Dear Sir,
I wish to apply for an operation to make me sterile. My reasons are numerous. After being married for seven years and having got seven children, I have come to the conclusion that contraceptives are useless.
After getting married I was advised to use the rhythm method. Despite trying the bhangra , my wife fell pregnant and I ruptured myself doing the bhale-bhale. Apart from that, where do you find a band when you get the urge at two o'clock in the morning?
A doctor suggested the safe period. At the time, we were living with in-laws and we had to wait three weeks for the safe period, when the house was empty. Needless to say this didn't work, and the wife got pregnant.
A lady of several years experience said if we made love while breast feeding we would be all right. Well, I finished up with a clear skin, silky hair and was very healthy...but the wife got pregnant yet again.
Another tale we heard was if the wife jumped up and down after intercourse this would prevent pregnancy. She slipped a disk but still got pregnant again.
I asked the chemist about the condoms and he demonstrated them, so I bought a packet. My wife fell pregnant again, which did not surprise me as I never did believe how stretching one of those things over your thumb could prevent babies.
We tried the coil next but that didn't work. It had a left-hand screw and my wife is definitely a right-hand screw.
The Dutch cap was next and seemed to be our answer, but my wife got severe headaches when the only size available was too tight across forehead.
Eventually we tried the Pill, but it kept dropping out, so she tried it between her knees and I couldn't get anywhere near her.
You must appreciate my problems. If I can't have the operation I will have to resort to oral sex, and I can't believe that talking about it is any substitute for the real thing.
Yours Sincerely,
Santa Singh
The National Poetry Contest had come down to two semi-finalists--a Yale graduate and a redneck from Alabama. They were given a word, then allowed two minutes to study the word and come up with a poem that contained the word. The word they were given was "Timbuktu".
First to recite his poem was the Yale graduate. He stepped to the microphone and said,
"Slowly across the desert sands
Trekked a lonely caravan
Men on camels, two by two
Destination Timbuktu."
The crowd went crazy. No way could the Alabama redneck top that, they thought. The Alabama redneck calmly made his way to the microphone and recited:
"Me and Tim a huntin went
Met three whores in a pop up tent
They was three, and we was two
So I bucked one, and Timbuktu."
The Alabama redneck won hands down!
This is The Never Ending Story of a 9 To 5, Working Girl, and The American President. The latter of whom offered the former an Indecent Proposal.
It seems this Top Gun was Addicted To Love, to Youngblood. He had a Basic Instinct, Fatal Attraction, for this Pretty Woman, this Babe. He liked to Kiss The Girls, and liked Boys On The Side [...] but that's Oliver's Story.
Casual Sex? No, she saw Career Opportunities, The Sure Thing. She had Great Expectations.
It was to be a Close Encounter Of The Third Kind, a Mission Impossible. We're talking Risky Business, Dangerous Ground. Till now she'd played The Saint, but this would be Unforgiven, for she would break The Ten Commandments.
It Happened One Night. It would be An Affair To Remember. The Bodyguard would be the means of the Deliverance. She was in the Head Office From Dusk Till Dawn. She started with a Striptease, then Goin' South for The Fly. His pants Falling Down to his Sneakers, revealing The Pelican Briefs. Looked like there'd be Foul Play. She would Free Willy Two, and be surprised by the Hook. Up Close And Personal, she put her parted Jaws upon The Thing. She'd never let Eight Men Out before, but he was Blown Away. Trading Places, he slipped his Goldfinger into her Paradise Alley. He could smell her Heat and taste her Primal Fear. Her Field Of Dreams began to Grease. Their Private Parts made Contact. He thrust his Shaft into The Abyss. She felt a Sudden Impact, and her Crimson Tide broke upon his Great Balls OF Fire!
He expected an Easy Rider, but she was a Twister, and Rocky Two. She squirmed Every Which Way But Loose. He drove his Willy Wonka with Speed into The Deep. Then Chitty, Chitty, Bang! Bang! He released Hot Shots of his White Squall into her Dark Passage. She felt The Wiz, then The Big Chill, and Speechless, Waiting To Exhale, let out a Scream. It was over in 8 Seconds. Then came The Long Kiss Good Night.
The Morning After, Dazed And Confused, she told her Circle Of Friends what had occurred. She said she was told if there was ever a Q&A by Internal Affairs to protect the President with Secrets & Lies. All The Presidents' Men wanted her to be a Liar, Liar.
Unbeknownst, one of these confidants was Wired.
48 Hrs. Another 48 Hrs. 9 1/2 Weeks. Another 9 1/2 Weeks. Then seeking Fame and Big Fortune, this confidant would hold The American President for Ransom. He wasn't Above Suspicion, he was Fair Game. She thought, "I'm Gonna Git You Sucka!". She told the press, "I Know What You Did Last Summer."
She Set It Off [...] a Chain Reaction which could Breakdown the Absolute Power of the President, Against All Odds. He'd be Better Off Dead, Fallen. Grumpy Old Men and Ordinary People will shout their Conspiracy Theory. His Misery would cause Dead Presidents to rollover in their grave. When the tapes are aired, he would Coming To America.
However Suspect, the President was a Diehard In The Line Of Fire. He addressed the people and stated, "This is Much Ado About Nothing. Stand By Me. Right wing advocates will Say Anything and should Never Cry Wolf."
The First Lady And The Tramp also showed Courage Under Fire. Clueless, and without a Witness For The Prosecution, the Dragnet came to a halt. The American President was no longer Under Siege, and The Shadow over the Capitol disappeared with The Rising Sun.
In a recent television show in the UK, actor and comedian John Cleese explained three reasons why the British are superior to Americans:
New product idea for the millennium!
Y2K-Y Jelly: when you want to put four digits where only two could fit before.
[ Assorted Humor | Krishna Kunchithapadam ]
Last updated: Sun Jun 27 17:00:19 PDT 2004
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