| Unique |
[Mar. 25th, 2007|10:26 pm] |
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| Although I can't drink at the moment, I still had to post this. Dear Alcohol.......... |
[Mar. 24th, 2007|01:29 pm] |
First & foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours. As my friend, you always seem to be there when needed. The perfect post-work cocktail, a beer at the game, and you're even around at the holidays, hidden inside chocolates, as you warm us when we're stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings. However, lately I've been wondering about your intentions. While I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, I feel that your influence has led to some unwise consequences:
1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity takes place after 2 a.m.
2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal, but why do you suggest that I eat a taco with fire sauce, along with a big Italian meatball and some stale bbq chips (washed down with WINE & topped off with a Kit Kat after a few cheese curls & chili cheese fries)? I'm an eclectic heater, but I think you went too far this time.
3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me that I need to do more yoga to improve my balance, I see NO need to hammer the issue home by causing me to fall down. It's completely unnecessary, and the black & blue marks that appear on my body mysteriously the next day are beyond me. Similarly, it should never take me more than 45 seconds to get the front door key into the lock. (And i know what my bathtub looks like i don't need a close up of it after falling off the pot, it's really hard to get outta there.)
4. Furthermore: The hangovers have GOT to stop. This is getting ridiculous. I know a little penance for our previous evening's debauchery may be in order, but the 3pm hangover immobility is completely unacceptable. My entire day is shot. I ask that, if the proper precautions are taken (water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin) prior to going to sleep/passing out face down on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be minimal & in no way interfere with my daily activities.
Alcohol, I have enjoyed our friendship for some years now & would like to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pockets.
In order to continue this friendship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above & address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Thursday 3pm (pre-happy hour) on your possible solutions & hopefully, we can continue this fruitful partnership.
Thank you,
Your biggest fan
P.S. THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
1. Innovative 2. Preliminary 3. Proliferation 4. Cinnamon 5. Statistic
THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
1. Specificity 2. British Constitution 3. Passive-aggressive disorder
THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:
1. Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.
2. Nope, no more beer for me.
3. Sorry, but you're not really my type.
4. Good evening, officer. Isn't it lovely out tonight?
5. Oh, I couldn't. No one wants to hear me sing
6. Fight? No way. Let's sit down and talk this out
7. Text message? No I have sent enough for the night
8. Dance? No I shouldn't. I should just sit here on the barstool |
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| Why Parents Drink |
[Mar. 10th, 2007|09:10 pm] |
A father passing by his son's bedroom was astonished to see that his bed was nicely made and everything was picked up. Then he saw an envelope, propped up prominently on the pillow that was addressed to "Dad." With the worst premonition he opened the envelope with trembling hands and read the letter.
Dear Dad:
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with Mom and you. I have been finding real passion with Stacy and she is so nice. But I knew you would not approve of her because of all her piercing, Tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion... Dad she's pregnant.
Stacy said that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children. Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for cocaine and ecstasy.
In the meantime we will pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it. Don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren.
Love,
Your Son John
PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my center desk drawer. I love you. Call me when it's safe to come home. |
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| Ghostly |
[Dec. 2nd, 2006|07:01 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | joke | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  amused | ] |
An extremely modest man was in the hospital for a series of tests, the last of which had left his bodily systems extremely upset. Upon making several false alarm trips to the bathroom, he decided the latest episode was another and stayed put.
He suddenly filled his bed with diarrhea and was embarrassed beyond his ability to remain rational. In a complete loss of composure he jumped out of bed, gathered up the bed sheets, and threw them out the hospital window.
A drunk was walking by the hospital when the sheets landed on him. He started yelling, cursing, and swinging his arms violently trying to get the unknown things off, and ended up with the soiled sheets in a tangled pile at his feet.
As the drunk stood there, unsteady on his feet, staring down at the sheets, a hospital security guard (barely containing his
laughter) who had watched the whole incident walked up and asked, "What the heck is going on here?"
The drunk, still staring down replied, "I think I just beat the crap out of a ghost." |
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| Why Women Are Crabby |
[Oct. 13th, 2006|07:25 pm] |
We start to "bud" in our blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find
anything that comes in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurts
so bad it brings us to tears. Enter the almighty, uncomfortable
training bra contraption the boys in school will snap until we have
calluses on our backs.
Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner). Along
with those budding boobs, we now bloat, we cramp, we get the hormone
crankies, have to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert
tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn't even know we had.
Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) is having sex for
the first time which is about as much fun as having a ramrod push
your uterus through your nostrils (if he did it right and didn't end
up with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what
all the fuss was about.
Then it's off to Motherhood where we learn to live on dry crackers
and water for a few months so we don't spend the entire day leaning
over Brother John. Of course, amazing creatures that we are (and we
are), we learn to live with the growing little angels inside us
steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we're
having Rosemary's Baby. Our once flat bellies now look like we
swallowed a watermelon whole and we pee in our pants every time we
sneeze. When the big moment arrives, the dam in our blessed Nether
Regions will invariably burst right in the middle of the mall and
we'll waddle with our big cartoon feet moaning in pain all the way to
the ER. Then it's huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says,
"Please stop screaming, Mrs. Hearmeroar. Calm down and push. Just one
more (or 10) good push," warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse
to punch the bastard (and hubby) square in the nose for making us
cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10lb bowling ball through a keyhole.
After that, it's time to raise those angels only to find that when
all that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morph into
walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little
poop machines.
The teen years. Need I say more? The kids are almost grown now and we
women hit our voracious sexual prime in our mid-30s to early 40s
while hubby had his somewhere around his 18th birthday (which just
happens to be the reason all that early hot man sex got you pregnant
in the first place).
Now we hit the grand finale: "The Menopause," the Grandmother of all
womanhood. It's either take the HRT and chance cancer in those now
seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat like
a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the
head off anything that moves.
Now, you ask why women seem to be more spiteful than men when men get
off so easy including the icing on life's cake: Being able to pee in
the woods without soaking their socks...
Now I love being a woman but "Womanhood" would make the Great Ghandi
a tad crabby.
Women are the "weaker sex"? Yeah right. Bite me!! |
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| A Mother's Dictionary |
[Sep. 21st, 2006|06:26 pm] |
Bottle feeding: An opportunity for Daddy to get up at 2 am too.
Defense: What you'd better have around de yard if you're going to let the children play outside.
Drooling: How teething babies wash their chins.
Dumbwaiter: One who asks if the kids would care to order dessert.
Family planning: The art of spacing your children the proper distance apart to keep you on the edge of financial disaster
Feedback: The inevitable result when the baby doesn't appreciate the strained carrots.
Full name: What you call your child when you're mad at him.
Grandparents: The people who think your children are wonderful even though they're sure you're not raising them right.
Hearsay: What toddlers do when anyone mutters a dirty word.
Impregnable: A woman whose memory of labor is still vivid.
Independent: How we want our children to be as long as they do everything we say.
Look out: What it's too late for your child to do by the time you scream it.
Prenatal: When your life was still somewhat your own.
Preprared childbirth: A contradiction in terms.
Puddle: A small body of water that draws other small bodies wearing dry shoes into it.
Show off: A child who is more talented than yours.
Sterilize: What you do to your first baby's pacifier by boiling it and to your last baby's pacifier by blowing on it.
Storeroom: The distance required between the supermarket aisles so that children in shopping carts can't quite reach anything.
Temper tantrums: What you should keep to a minimum so as to not upset the children.
Top bunk: Where you should never put a child wearing Superman jammies.
Two-minute warning: When the baby's face turns red and she begins to make those familiar grunting noises.
Verbal: Able to whine in words
Whodunit: None of the kids that live in your house.
Whoops: An exclamation that translates roughly into "get a sponge." |
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| The First Parent |
[Sep. 21st, 2006|06:23 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | joke | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | amused | ] |
Whenever your kids are out of control, you can take comfort from the thought that even God's omnipotence did not extend to his kids.
After creating Heaven and Earth, God created Adam and Eve. And the first thing He said to them was: "Don't."
"Don't what?", Adam replied.
"Don't eat the forbidden fruit."
"Forbidden fruit? Really? Where is it?"
"It's over there," said God, wondering why He hadn't stopped after making the elephants.
A few minutes later God saw the kids having an apple break and He was angry.
"Didn't I tell you not to eat that fruit?" the First Parent asked.
"Uh huh," Adam replied.
"Then why did you?"
"I dunno," Adam answered.
God's punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own.
Thus the pattern was set and it has never changed. But there is reassurance in this story.
If you have persistently and lovingly tried to give them wisdom and they haven't taken it, don't be hard on yourself.
If God had trouble handling children, what makes you think it would be a piece of cake for you? |
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| When I'm an old lady, |
[Aug. 21st, 2006|02:14 pm] |
I'll live with each kid, And bring so much happiness...just as they did. I want to pay back all the joy they've provided. Returning each deed! Oh, they'll be so excited!
I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues, And I'll bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes. I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out. I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout!
When they're on the phone and just out of reach, I'll get into things like sugar and bleach. Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head, When they cook dinner and call me to eat, I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat, I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table, And when they get angry...I'll run...if I'm able!
I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click, I'll cross both eyes just to see if they stick. I'll take off my socks and throw one away, And play in the mud 'til the end of the day!
And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh, I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes. My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping, And say with a groan, "She's so sweet when she's sleeping!" |
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| Animal Diaries |
[Aug. 1st, 2006|11:42 pm] |
A dog's diary:
7 am - Oh boy! A walk! My favorite!
8 am - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 am - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
Noon - Oh boy! The yard! My favorite!
2 pm - Oh boy! A car ride! My favorite!
3 pm - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
4 pm - Oh boy! Playing ball! My favorite!
6 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Mom! My favorite!
7 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Dad! My favorite!
8 pm - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 pm - Oh boy! Tummy rubs on the couch! My favorite!
11 pm - Oh boy! Sleeping in my people's bed! My favorite!
A cat's diary:
Day 183 of my captivity. My captors continued to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from clawing the furniture.
Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded - must try this at the top of the stairs.
In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair - must try this on their bed. Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear in their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.
There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More important, I overheard that my confinement was due to my powers of inducing "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.
I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait; it is only a matter of time. |
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| There once was a chicken farmer who lived in a small village in China. |
[Jul. 14th, 2006|11:51 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | joke | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | amused | ] |
One year, all of his chickens were afflicted with a strange blight that caused them to lose their feathers. The farmer was deeply concerned about this, because winter was coming, and, if the chickens had no feathers, they would freeze to death. So, the farmer decided to consult the two wisest men in the land. First, he visited Mr. Ching, the renowned scholar. Mr. Ching leafed through all his agricultural and medicinal texts and poured over books and scrolls well into the night. Finally, he returned to the farmer and told him that if he crushed the leaves of a gum tree into powder, made it into tea, and fed it to his chickens, they would be cured.
The farmer then went to Mr. Ming, the great seer. Mr. Ming cast stones, read tea leaves, and poked through entrails until finally he came up with the answer: "Tea made from gum leaves will cause feathers to stick to chicken."
Now the farmer was ecstatic. The two wisest men in the land had given him exactly the same prescription.
So, as soon as he returned home, he took some gum leaves and made tea from them. He mixed this with the chicken feed and fed it to his chickens. But it didn't work. The chickens continued to lose their feathers, and, with the onset of winter, they all froze....
The moral of this story: "All of Ching's courses and all of Ming's ken, couldn't get gum tea to feather a hen!" |
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| Why, Why, Why??? |
[Jul. 13th, 2006|12:48 am] |
do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are getting weak?
Why do banks charge a fee on "insufficient funds" when they know there is not enough?
Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?
Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?
Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?
Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?
Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
Whose idea was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp"?
If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?
Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?
Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?
Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?
Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?
Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?
How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?
When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, "It's all right?"Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, "That hurt, you stupid idiot?"
Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?
In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was i n summer when we complained about the heat?
How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?
The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you. |
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| What did you do today? |
[Jul. 10th, 2006|11:10 pm] |
A man came home from work and found his three children outside, still in their pajamas, playing in the mud, with empty food boxes and wrappers strewn all around the front yard.
The door of his wife's car was open, as was the front door to the
house and there was no sign of the dog. Proceeding into the entry, he found an even bigger mess. A lamp had been knocked over, and the throw rug was wadded against one wall. In the front room the TV was loudly blaring a cartoon channel, and
the family room was strewn with toys and various items of clothing. In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, the fridge door was open wide, dog food was spilled on the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand was spread by the back door. He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and more piles of clothes, looking for his wife. He was worried she might be ill, or that something serious had happened. He was met with a small trickle of water as it made its way out the bathroom door. As he peered inside he found wet towels, scummy soap and more toys strewn over the floor. Miles of toilet paper lay in a heap and toothpaste had been smeared over the mirror and walls.
As he rushed to the bedroom, he found his wife still curled up in the bed in her pajamas, reading a novel. She looked up at him, smiled, and asked how his day went.
He looked at her bewildered and asked, "What happened here today?"
She again smiled and answered, "You know every day when you come home from work and you ask me what in the world I do all day?"
"Yes," was his incredulous reply.
She answered, "Well, today I didn't do it. |
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| Hans Grapje |
[Jul. 8th, 2006|11:57 am] |
Hans Grapje was raised in a Catholic school in The Hague and, as a young man, aspired to become a priest, but was drafted into the Army during WWII and spent two years co-piloting B17s until his aircraft was shot down in 1943 and he lost his left arm. Captain Grapje spent the rest of the war as a chaplain, giving spiritual aid to soldiers, both Allied and enemy.
After the war, he became a priest, serving as a missionary in Africa, piloting his own plane (in spite of his handicap) to villages across the continent. In 1997, Father Grapje was serving in Zimbabwe when an explosion in a silver mine caused a cave-in. Archbishop Grapje went down into the mine to administer last rights to those too severely injured to move. Another shaft collapsed, and he was buried for three days, suffering multiple injuries, including the loss of his right eye. The high silver content in the mine's air gave him purpura, a life-long condition characterized by purplish skin blotches.
Although Cardinal Grapje devoted his life to the service of God as a scholar, mentor, and holy man, church leaders agree: he will never ascend to the Papacy. No one wants a one-eyed, one-armed, flying purple Papal leader. |
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| Farting his guts out |
[Jul. 7th, 2006|01:20 pm] |
This is a story about a couple who had been happily; married for years. The only friction in their marriage was the husband's habit of farting loudly every morning when he awoke. The noise would wake his wife and the smell would make her eyes water and make her gasp for air. Every morning she would plead with him to stop ripping them off because it was making her sick. He told her he couldn't stop it and that it was perfectly natural. She told him to see a doctor she was concerned that one day he would blow his guts out.
The years went by and he continued to rip them out! Then one Thanksgiving morning as she was preparing the turkey for dinner and he was upstairs sound asleep, she looked at the; bowl where she had put the turkey innards and neck, gizzard, liver and all the spare parts and a malicious thought came to her.
She took the bowl and went upstairs where her husband was sound asleep and, gently pulling back the bed covers, she pulled back the elastic waistband of his underpants and emptied the bowl of turkey guts into his shorts.
Some time later she heard her husband waken with his usual trumpeting which was followed by a blood curdling scream and the sound of frantic footsteps as he ran in to the bathroom. The wife could hardly control herself as she rolled on the floor laughing, tears in her eyes! After years of torture she reckoned she had got him back pretty good.
About twenty minutes later, her husband came downstairs in his bloodstained underpants with a look of horror on his face. She bit her lip as she asked him what was the matter. He said, "Honey, you were right." "All these years you have warned me and I didn't listen to you."What do you mean?" asked his wife. Well, you always told me that one day I would end up farting my guts out, and today it finally happened. But by the grace of God, some Vaseline and two fingers, I think I got most of them back in." |
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| Court Humor |
[Jun. 30th, 2006|01:52 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | joke | ] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  drained | ] |
These are from a book called Disorder in the American Courts, and are things people actually said in court, word for word, taken down and now published by court reporters who had the torment of staying calm while these exchanges were actually taking place.
( Funny ) |
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bored
complacent
bitchy
LMAO!!!
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