Six married men will be dropped on an island with 1 car and 4 kids each, for 6 weeks. Each kid plays two sports and either takes music or dance classes. **** There is no access to fast food. **** Each man must take care of his 4 kids, keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, complete science projects, cook, do laundry, etc. **** The men only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done. There is only one TV between them and there is NO REMOTE. ***** The men must shave their legs, wear makeup daily, which they must apply themselves, either while driving or while making four lunches. ***** They must attend weekly PTA meetings; Clean up after their sick children at 3:00 a.m.; make an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla and one marker; and get a 4-year-old to eat a serving of peas. ***** The kids vote them off the island, based on performance. ***** The last man wins… only if… he has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moments notice. ***** If the last man does win, he can play the game over and over again for the next 18-25 years.. eventually earning the right to be called ******************** Mother ********************
A bloke walks into an extremely posh restaurant, sits down and waives the waiter
over. I want to see the cock-sucking, mother-fucking boss now, he says. The
waiter is naturally a bit taken aback and replies Excuse me, sir, would you
refrain from using that kind of language in here, I will get the manager as soon
as I can.
The manager comes over and the bloke says Are you the chicken fucking manager
of this bastarding joint? Yes sir, I am, replies the manager but I would
prefer you not to use that kind of vernacular in this restaurant, there are
private parties and clients entertaining in here.
The bloke replies Fuck you anus features, wheres the fucking piano?
The manager is a bit puzzled and asks the bloke to clarify the situation.
Wheres the fucking piano, are you fucking deaf or what, you smelly stupid
cunt?
Ah, says the manager, Youve come about the pianist job out of the paper.
Too fucking right, the bloke replies.
The manager tentatively takes the bloke over to the piano and begs him not to
speak into the microphone.
Can you play any blues? the manager asks.
The bloke starts to play the most beautiful blues ever heard. Thats superb,
gasps the manager, What is it called?
I want to shag your missus on the sofa but the springs keep hurting my cock
end, replies the bloke.
The manager is a bit disturbed. Oh, do you know any jazz? asks the manager a
bit perplexed.
The bloke plays the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
Absolutely magnificent, cries the manager, What is that called?
I wanked over the washing machine but my bollocks got caught in the powder
drawer, replies the bloke.
The manager is a tad embarrassed at this one. Oh I say, do you know any
romantic ballads? asks the manager getting flustered. The bloke plays the most
heartbreaking melody ever. That was fantastic, crooned the manager, What is
that one called?
Shagging sheep under the stars with the moonlight shining on my hairy ring
piece, replies the bloke.
The manager is highly upset at the blokes language but is so moved by his music
that he offers the bloke a job on the condition that he does not introduce any
of the songs. The bloke accepts.
The arrangement goes swimmingly for a couple of weeks when one night the bloke
gets desperate for a wank. He leaves the restaurant and goes to the staff
toilets. Strangely there is a magazine stuffed behind the bowl. The bloke
retrieves the mag and discovers a good old wank mag. He naturally has a swift
one off the wrist. As he is coming he hears the manager shouting Where the fuck
is that fucking pianist?
The bloke whips up his trousers, returns to the restaurant and begins playing
some more tunes. After a couple of minutes a woman approaches him and whispers
Do you know your bollocks and knob are hanging out of your trousers dribbling
jissum all over your shoes?
The bloke replies Know it? I fucking wrote it!
A recent survey shows that the commonest form of marriage proposal these days consists of the words: Youre WHAT?!?!?
A ducks walks into a bar and asks, Got any grapes?
The bartender, confused, tells the ducks that no, his bar doesnt serve grapes. The duck thanks him and leaves.
The next day, the duck returns and says, Got any grapes?
Again, the bartender tells him that, no, the bar does not serve grapes, has never served grapes, and, furthermore, will never serve grapes. The duck, a little ruffled, thanks him and leaves.
The next day, the duck returns, but before he can say anything, the bartender begins to yell: Listen, duck! This is a bar! We do not serve grapes! If you ever ask for grapes again, I will nail your stupid duck beak to the bar!
The duck is silent for a moment, and then asks, Got any nails?
Confused, the bartenders says no.
Good! says the duck. Got any grapes?
A leper walks into a bar, sits down, and orders a clod beer. The leper is sitting there, enjoying his beer, when he notices a man across the bar, staring at him, with an expression on his face like he is about to puke. The leper tries to ignore the man, and enjoy his beer, but the man keeps staring, and making faces. So finally, after suffering the mans stares for long enough, the leper stands, and calls across the bar, Hey man, whats your problem?? Im a leper, you know it, I know it, everyone knows it. I cant help it. Why do you have to be such an ass?
. the man, with the same grossed out look on his face replies, Its not you, the guy behind you keeps dipping his chip in your neck!.
Knock Knock
Whos there?
Hoffman!
Hoffman who?
Ill Hoffman, Ill puff and Ill blow your house down!
Today is the last day of your life so far.
Q: What did the duck say when he got hit by a boat in the lake
A: Quack. What did you think he said?
(This was posted a week ago in talk.pol.misc, but thought Id let you
mull it over. It is original writing, and is typical of my callous mode
of social thought which I occasionally fall into.)
Like many people, I have been thinking about the problem of homelessness in
Americas cities. Besides the obvious suffering of the homeless people, the
spectacle of raggedly dressed people bent for warmth in the subways and bus
stations of the cities greets visitors with a pronouncedly negative image.
I have struck upon a means of eliminating the privation of the homeless while
lessening the adverse impact they have on the surrounding neighborhoods.
At a cost of about $250 per individual, each can be outfitted with a friendly
Disney character costume. Generous insulation and bright, stain resistant
colors would help to insure that the occupant remains warm inside and cheerful
outside. As there are so many different characters, each participant would be
able to choose which outfit most closely fits his style.
This landmark project would have manifold beneficial effects. Travelers
arriving at the bus and train terminals would no longer comment on how awful
it is to be met with wave attacks of unkempt panhandlers. Instead, their kids
could laugh and feel safe and recall fondly how Mickey greeted them upon their
arrival to the Big City. Replace the heart-rending image of a woman swaddled
in torn clothes crouching for shelter in a shop doorway with that of a warm
and sweetly blushing Snow White settled snugly down with her pullcart of
possessions in the same alcove. A societal blemish has been instantly
transformed into a fantasy attraction!
The boost this program could provide to the participants sense of self-image
would be tremendous. They would enjoy a strong sense of camaradery. Instead
of facing a bleak street existence alone, they would belong to a happy family
of playful ducks, dogs and chipmunks. This would give everybody something to
be proud of. The necessity of keeping ones uniform spiffy and ones antics
competitively endearing (to bolster handout revenues) would be easy and fun.
And, as George Bush has observed, many of the homeless people on our streets
already identify with popular cartoon figures. The transition would be
painless for most everyone.
Expensive and marginally effective substance abuse recovery programs could
be avoided by the simple expedient of dressing addicts and drunks as either
pink elephants or Dopey the dwarf. A person suffering from a nervous tic could
become Pinnochio the dancing puppet boy. Persons who habitually argue with
demons or devils could be suited up with muffled headpieces to squelch the
sudden shouts. Creative application of the basics outlined here would enable
the administrators of this plan to massage away almost ANY obstacle, and allow
them to artfully blend these people back into society.
An office manager was sent three secretaries, equally qualified, to fill one vacancy. Well, thought the manager, Ill give them an honesty test to determine which secretary to keep.
To this end, he gave each secretary a money bag to take and bank telling them that there was $50 in the bag. (In fact, he had placed $100 in each bag; thus the honesty test.)
The first secretary goes to the bank, discovers the extra money, banks $50 and returns the extra $50 to the manager.
The second secretary goes to the bank, discovers the extra money, banks the full $100, and returns with a deposit slip as proof.
The third secretary goes to the bank, discovers the extra money, banks $50, goes to the local TAB and uses the $50 to win $300, then returns, explains to the manager and gives him the all the money.
Question: Which secretary does the manager select to retain?
?
?
?
?
?
?
?
Answer: Well, DUH!…The one with the biggest breasts!