Two twins, Donny and Johnny, are asked by their parents what they each would like for their 10th birthday.
Id like a new bike says Donny. Then I could ride around and see everything that happens in the neighborhood.
And Id like a radio for my room says Johnny. Then I would hear all the news that goes on in town.
So their parents buy them the gifts. Later on that day, Donny is out on his bike when he comes upon a serious car crash. There are bodies and emergency vehicles all over.
I gotta go tell Mom says Donny, so he races back to the house and shouts Mom! Theres been a terrible accident!
Yeah, yeah says his brother, We heard all about it on my new radio.
Donny is disappointed he could not be first with the news, so he leaves on his bike. A little while later, he comes upon a burning orphanage.
Wow! I gotta go tell Mom.
So he races home again and yells for his Mom, but again Johnny interupts and says We heard it all on my new radio.
Once again Donny leaves disappointed. He rides and rides until he is out in the country. He sees a big, fat pig all alone in a field, and decides since he appears to be alone, to fuck the pig. He has his first orgasm and is so excited he thinks I gotta go tell Mom!
He races home and yells Mom, Mom! I lost my virginity!
His brother says with a sneer, In a pigs ass you did!
And Donny says That FUCKIN radio!!!
A woman is driving down the freeway with her daughter Kimmie. Kimmie is digging through the glove box looking for something.
Oh, SHIT! yells young Kim in complete frustration.
Kim! Do you know what that means? said the woman.
Yes, Mommie. Thats what you say when you cant find something.
How do you fit four gays on a barstool?
Turn it over.
Tim Kelly was walking therough a dim passageway when someone spoke to
him. Good evenin, Kelly, said the muffled figure. Dont ye be knowin your
old friend Grogan any more?
Kelly stared at Grogan, whose face was a patchwork of bandages and
adhesive plaster. One arm was in a sling and he was leaning on a crutch.
Saints! cried Kelly. Was ye hit by a train, Grogan, or did ye merely
jump from the trestle?
It couldve been both, said Grogan, considerin the feel of it. But the
truth is, I was in bed with Murphys wife when Murphy himself comes in with
a murtherin big shillelagh in his hand, and the inconsiderate creature
beat the livin bejazus outa me.
He did indade, said Kelly. But couldnt ye defend yrself, Grogan?
Hadnt ye nothin in your own hand?
Only Mrs. Murphys ass, said Grogan. Its a beautiful thing in
itself, but not worth a dom in a fight.
Youre only young once, but you can be immature forever.
Real programmers dont eat quiche. Real programmers dont even know how to spell
Quiche. They like Twinkies, Coke, and palate-scorching Szechwan food.
Real programmers dont write application programs. They program right down to the bare
metal.
Application programs are for dullards who cant do system programming.
Real programmers dont write specs. Users should be grateful for whatever they get.
They are lucky to get any program at all.
Real programmers dont comment their code. If it was hard to write, it should be hard to
understand and even harder to modify.
Real programmers dont draw flowcharts. Flowcharts are, after all, the illiterates form of documentation. Cavemen drew flowcharts; look how much it did for them.
Real programmers dont read manuals. Reliance on a reference is a hallmark of the
novice and the coward.
Real programmers dont use Cobol. Cobol is for wimpy application programmers.
Real programmers dont use Fortran. Fortran is for wimpy engineers who wear white socks pipe stress freaks, and crystallography weenies. They get excited over finite state
analysis and nuclear reactor simulation.
Real programmers dont use PL/1. PL/1 is for insecure mommas boys who cant choose
between Cobol and Fortran.
Real programmers dont use BASIC. In fact, no programmers use BASIC
after reaching puberty.
Real programmers dont use APL, unless the whole program can be written on one line.
Real programmers dont use LISP. Only effeminate programmers use more parentheses than
actual code.
Real programmers dont use Pascal, Bliss, ADA or any of those sissy-pinko computer science
languages. Strong typing is a crutch for people with weak memories.
Real programmers never work 9 to 5. If any real programmers are around at 9 a.m. its
because they were up all night.
Real programmers dont play tennis or any other sport which requires a change of clothes.
Mountain climbing is ok, and real programmers often wear climbing boots to work
in case a mountain should suddenly spring up in the middle of the machine room.
Real programmers disdain structured programming. Structured programming is for
compulsive, pre-maturely toilet-trained neurotics who wear neckties and
carefully line up sharpened pencils on an otherwise uncluttered desk.
Real programmers dont like the team programming concept. Unless, of course, they are
the Chief Programmer.
Real programmers have no use for managers. Managers are a necessary evil. Managers
are for
dealing with personnel bozos, bean counters, senior planners and other mental
defectives.
Real programmers scorn floating point arithmetic. The decimal point was invented for
pansy bed-wetters who are unable to think big.
Real programmers dont drive clapped-out Mavericks. They prefer BMWs, Lincolns or pick-up
trucks with floor shifts. Fast motorcycles are highly regarded.
Real programmers dont believe in schedules. Planners make up schedules. Managers
firm up schedules. Frightened coders strive to make schedules. Real
programmers ignore schedules.
Real programmers like vending machine popcorn. Coders pop it in the microwave oven.
Real programmers use the heat given off by the cpu. They can tell what
job is running just by listening to the rate of popping.
Real programmers know every nuance of every instruction and use them all in every read
program.
Puppy architects wont allow execute instructions to address another execute as
the target instruction. Real programers despise such petty restrictions.
Real programmers dont bring brown bag lunches to work. If the vending machine sells it, they
eat it. If the vending machine doesnt sell it, they dont eat it. Vending
machines dont sell quiche.
How do you get a Harvard graduate off your porch?
Just pay him for the pizza.
A woman awakes during the night to find that her husband was not in bed. She puts on her robe and goes downstairs to look for him. She finds him sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him. He appears to be in deep thought, just staring at the wall. She watches as he wipes a tear from his eye and takes a sip of his coffee. Whats the matter, dear?, she whispers as she steps into the room, Why are you down here at this time of night?. The husband looks up from his coffee, Do you remember 20 years ago when we were dating, and you were only 15? he asks solemnly. Yes I do she replies. The husband paused, the words were not coming easily. Do you remember when your father caught us in the back seat of my car making love? Yes, I remember said the wife, lowering herself into a chair beside him. The husband continued… Do you remember when he shoved the shotgun in my face and said, Either you marry my daughter, or Ill send you to jail for 20 years?. I remember that too she replied softly. He wiped another tear from his cheek and said, I would have gotten out today.
An old man goes to the doctor. The doctor asks for stool, urine, blood, and semen samples. The old man cant believe it. He takes all his little sample jars and goes home.
At home, he tells his wife that the doctor wants stool, urine, blood, and semen samples.
The wife looks aghast and then realisation spreads like the dawn across her wrinkled facial features. Thats easy, she says, relief obvious in her voice. All he wants is your pajama pants!
You might be a redneck if…
Three quarters of the clothes you own have logos on them.