WisdomoftheEast originally sent this in during his now-completed equestrian phase. He has since embarked upon the euthanasia plane, starring Bob Hope.
A group of Kentucky second, third, and fourth graders, accompanied by two female teachers, went on a field trip to Churchill Downs, the hitherto unknown Louisville track, to see and learn about thoroughbred horse racing.
When it was time to take the children to the bathroom, it was decided that the girls would go with one teacher and the boys would go with the other.
The teacher assigned to the boys was waiting outside the men's room when one of the boys came out and told her that none of them could reach the urinal. Having no choice, she went inside, helped the boys with their pants and began hoisting the boys up, one by one, holding onto their "wee-wees" to direct the flow away from their clothes.
As she lifted one, she couldn't help but notice that he was unusually well-endowed. Trying not to show that she was staring, the teacher said, "You must be in the fourth grade!"
"No, ma'am,” he replied, “I'm riding Silver Arrow in the 7th.”
JOCOP Redux:The Field Trip
Jocop Flashback: Legless
In order to meet the challenge to our preeminence in 24/7 news coverage from the likes of bottom-feeding turd-lickers such as CNN, Sky, BBC, Reuters, www.round- andbrown.com, et al, and to commemorate the divorce settlement of Sir Paul McCartney and his beautiful bride, Peg, we re-run the following eyewitness account from David Marvin Mailer.
News reports have confirmed that Paul McCartney has separated from his wife Heather Mills-McCartney. Mrs Mills-McCartney is said to be distraught over the split. "He has been my crutch for so long," she said in an earlier briefing, "I have no idea why this has happened, I'm really stumped."
"She's running around in circles," according to a close friend. "She will need all the support she can get. It's not like it's easy to walk out on a relationship like this."
After his break up with Heather, Paul was asked if he would ever consider going down on one knee again. Paul said he would prefer it if we called her Heather.
Rumours abound over the split which have suggested that infidelity may have been the cause. "She's terrible," a source stated, "always trying to get a leg over."
Another source has suggested that her battle with alcoholism was the cause. "Macca couldn't handle it anymore" a friend said, "he would get home at night and find her absolutely legless."
Many have attributed this to a problem which started with the present that Paul bought her prior to the wedding. He gave her a new prosthetic leg for Christmas. But that was just a stocking-filler.
A miner in Africa has an accident and loses a leg. He says to his mate "I'm fucked, who'll want a one-legged gold digger?" His mate says: "Try Paul McCartney."
Finally a poem by Sir Paul:
I lay upon a grassy bank,
My hands were all aquiver.
Slowly I removed her suspender belt
And her leg fell in the river.
New Mobile Telephone Legislation
The Journal draws the readership’s attention to the following article from The Washington Post (more competitors--total assholes) on an urgent basis, particularly as so many of our subscribers are Young People™.
No More Calling in Cars for VirginiaTeens
By Tim Craid and Amy Orndorff
Washington Post Staff Writers
Saturday, June 30, 2007; Page B01
RICHMOND, June 29 -- Three laws aimed at improving highway safety -- including a ban on teenagers under 18 using their cellphones while driving -- go into effect Sunday in Virginia.
The cellphone ban, one of several dozen new laws approved by the General Assembly that will take effect Sunday, prohibits drivers age 15, 16 and 17 from talking, sending text messages or snapping photos with a phone while driving on Virginia roads. The ban also will apply to hands-free devices but will allow teens to use a phone during an emergency, such as if someone thinks he or she is being followed.
[Remainder of article meaningless. --Ed.]
As a public service, The Journal offers the following infotainment offer forwarded by Padraic O’Cossett, our Gaza Bureau Chief and Assistant to the Comptroller of Hamas PCL™.
Changes in Cell Phone Use Legislation
In a lightning-like, shock and awe effort to meet our customers' requirements under the new cell phone law, O'Cossett-Hamas Telecommunications PLC™ (OHT) have just completed a visit to the corporate headquarters of a major consumer electronics chain with global distribution facilities.
In researching hardware which would meet or exceed the new requirements, OHT have determined that the lowest price for a headset cum microphone unit, compatible with the major cell phone sets conforming to the requirements of the new legislation, is $51.47.
Taking advantage of extensive contacts in the wholesale end of the cellphone industry, OHT are pleased to announce they have negotiated procurement and retailing of alternative hardware configuration(s) which would meet the requirements of the relevant statute at a much lower price.
As a service to the small and medium "enterprise" community, OHT are making these units available on a first-come, first-served basis for only US$3.57 (Gaza residents, please include 692% jihad tax).
That's right. Only US$3.57!
This price is possible as a result of huge synergies, unbelievable economies of scale, LIFO (last-in, first-out) warehousing and distribution techniques, RORO (roll-on, roll-off) transport and logistical support and sharia-level quality control guidelines rigidly adhered to throughout the production sequence.
These kits have been fully tested for compatibility with all cellphone models including Motorola, Nokia, Siemens, Sprint, Verizon, DoCoMo and SonyEricsson. The units perform explosively.
A photo is attached. Please advise if you would be interested in one of these units at this low low price. This offer good until the end of the week only.
To see photo, please left click on→X
The Government They Deserve
Some sour old sonsabitches have recently been making noise to the effect that plummeting educational standards are contributing to a catastrophic decline in the level of public discourse across the West.
What bullshit.
S Revitz, the Journal's Philology Correspon- dent, has forwarded excerpts from recent essays by contemporary students (the Big PX in this case) which prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that it's all, like, whatever.
OK?
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse, without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
Retail Home Improvement Scam
Yet another apocryphal tale out of Home Depot (see also "The Gift of Our Time"). This is a confessional from Mike Rashoff. His wife already knows the whole story, no problem.
A "heads up" for you and any of your friends who may be regular Home Depot customers.
Over the last year I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you.
Here's how the scam works. Two seriously good-looking 18 or 19-year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping items into the trunk. They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. It is impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say "No" and instead ask you for a ride to another Home Depot. You agree and they get in the back seat. En route, they start having sex with each other. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while the other one steals your wallet.
I had my wallet stolen August 4th, 9th, Sept 10th, twice on the 15th, October 1st, Nov 17th, the 20th, three times just yesterday, and very likely again this upcoming weekend as soon as I can get my hands on some more wallets.
Action on Cocoa Beach
Sarah, a recently widowed Jewish lady, was sitting on a beach towel at Cocoa Beach, Florida. She looked up and noticed that a man her age had walked up, placed his blanket on the sand nearby and took up his copy of Civilization and its Discontents.
With a smile, she attempted to strike up a conversation with him.
"Hello, sir, how are you?"
"Fine, thank you," he responded, and turned back to his book.
"Do you come here often?" she asked.
"First time since my wife passed away last year," he replied, turning back to his book.
"Do you live around here?" she persisted.
"Yes, I live over in Suntree," he answered and then resumed reading.
Desperate to find a topic of common interest, Sarah persisted.
"Do you by any chance like pussycats?" she inquired.
With that, the man threw his book down, jumped off his blanket onto hers, tore off both their swimsuits and gave her the most passionate ride of her life.
As the cloud of sand began to settle, Sarah gasped and managed to ask the man, "How did you know that was what I wanted?"
"How did you know my name was Katz?
Legless
Several months ago, The International Brotherhood of Anglo-Saxon Journalists threatened this publication with litigation if it didn't start a celebrity section and provide some real news for a change. Naturally, the editorial board turned to the one correspondent most familiar with this vital aspect of modern existence on account of that nasty case of clap he picked up on Hollywood Blvd while covering the Madonna story for our competitor (what a bunch of assholes), The Engineering News-Record, to wit, David Marvin Mailer. When he submitted this report, it was hotter than a two-dollar hooker at Kilo 10. Now, it's older than petrified dog shit. But if only for the sake of our children, and our children's children, we include it here as a pubic service.
News reports have confirmed that Paul McCartney has separated from his wife Heather Mills-McCartney. Mrs Mills-McCartney is said to be distraught over the split. "He has been my crutch for so long," she said in an earlier briefing, "I have no idea why this has happened, I'm really stumped."
"She's running around in circles," according to a close friend. "She will need all the support she can get. It's not like it's easy to walk out on a relationship like this."
After his break up with Heather, Paul was asked if he would ever consider going down on one knee again. Paul said he would prefer it if we called her Heather.
Rumours abound over the split which have suggested that infidelity may have been the cause. "She's terrible," a source stated, "always trying to get a leg over."
Another source has suggested that her battle with alcoholism was the cause. "Macca couldn't handle it anymore" a friend said, "he would get home at night and find her absolutely legless."
Many have attributed this to a problem which started with the present that Paul bought her prior to the wedding. He gave her a new prosthetic leg for Christmas. But that was just a stocking-filler.
A miner in Africa has an accident and loses a leg. He says to his mate "I'm fucked, who'll want a one-legged gold digger?" His mate says: "Try Paul McCartney."
Finally a poem by Sir Paul:
I lay upon a grassy bank,
My hands were all aquiver.
Slowly I removed her suspender belt
And her leg fell in the river.
Top 16 Agrarian/Bucolic/Limited DNA Hits
Forwarded by Michael Edward Rashoff. He used the "r" word which we refuse to run on this site as part of our PC drive-by.
16. It's Hard To Kiss The Lips At Night That Chewed Your Ass Out All Day
15. If I Can't Be Number One In Your Life, Then Number Two on You
14. If The Phone Don't Ring, You'll Know It's Me
13. How Can I Miss You If You Won't Go Away
12. I Liked You Better Before I Got To Know You
11. I Still Miss You, Baby, But My Aim's Getting Better
10. I Wouldn't Take Her To A Dogfight 'Cause I'm Afraid She'd Win
9. I'll Marry You Tomorrow But Let's Honeymoon Tonight
8. I'm So Miserable Without You It's Like You're Still Here
7. If I'd Shot You When I First Wanted To, I'd Be Out Of Prison By Now
6. My Wife Ran Off With My Best Friend and I Sure Do Miss Him
5. She Got The Ring and I Got The Finger
4. You're The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly
3. Her Teeth Was Stained But Her Heart Was Pure
2. She's Looking Better After Every Beer
And the Number One song is...
1. I Ain't Never Gone To Bed With an Ugly Woman, But I've Sure Woke Up With A Few
The Gift of Our Time
Hugh Jorgen sent this in because he felt the journal had waxed immorally tendentious, hard-bitten, crapulent, embittered and primarily fecal.
Hugh felt it needed a dash of sentiment to bring out the Hallmark side of the site's weltanschauung.
After all, life does have another side, one replete with warmth, inspiration and the indomitable human spirit--
We can make a difference when we give a child the gift of our time....
A young family moved into a house next door to a vacant lot.
One day a construction crew turned up to start building a house on the empty lot. The young family's 5-year old daughter naturally took an interest in all the activity going on next door and spent much of each day observing the workers.
Eventually the construction crew, all of them diamonds-in-the rough, more or less adopted the young girl as a kind of project mascot. They chatted with her, let her sit with them while they had coffee and lunch breaks, and gave her little jobs to do here and there to make her feel important. At the end of the first week they even presented her with a pay envelope containing a couple of dollars.
The little girl took this home to her mother who cooed all the appropriate words of approval and suggested that they take the two dollars "pay" she had received to the bank the next day to open a savings account.
When they got to the bank, the teller was equally impressed and asked the little girl how she had come by her very own pay packet at such a young age.
The little girl proudly replied, "I worked last week with the crew building the house next door to us."
"My goodness gracious," said the teller, "and will you be working on the house again this week, too?"
The little girl replied, "I will if those assholes at Home Depot ever deliver the fucking sheet rock."
At long last, Jesus
We'd like to welcome Our Lord, Jesus Christ, to this website.
He's a good ole boy and we are grateful to Wisdomof theEast, a registered Hindu fanatic and hophead, for sending this in.
Aside from your personal salvation--correct me if I'm wrong--isn't there some sort of traffic-related advice also contained herein?
Waiter!!
Get a Dog
Padraic O'Cossett is a son-of-a-bitch. That is to say, a real son-of-a-bitch--of actual canine genetic extraction. He's not saying which side of the family. But you can see it for yourself in a New York minute if you're ever with him in a parking lot. He will drop trou, assume the doggy position and make his way down a row of SUV's. He'll whiz on a bladder's worth of Goodyears faster than the Commander-in-Chief exiting the Worst President in History Awards Banquet.
Paddy sent these in....
Ever notice how people increasingly spend less time with other people. And more time with their dogs?
Ever wonder why?
The Senator from New York
From Padraic O'Cossett, a patriot. Now famous for the epigram: "Don't Vote. It only encourages them."
The Senator from New York, Hillary Rodham Clinton and her driver were cruising along a country road one evening when an ancient cow loomed suddenly in front of the car. The driver tried to avoid it, but it was too late. The aged bovine was struck and lay injured, panting in pain, on the side of the road.
Not unmindful of political consequences associated with events which may appear trivial at first, but grow into political if not dimensional, significance later (as several interns can verify), Hillary instructed her driver to drive up to the farmhouse, call in the vet and explain in full to the owners what had occurred--along with her complete innocence in the unfortunate accident. Just like with the cattle futures.
She remained in the car making phone calls to lobbyists. About an hour later, the driver staggered back to the car in complete disarray.
He was holding a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon '59 in one hand, a half-smoked Cuban Montecristo in the other and was smiling from ear to ear from a face ravaged with lipstick.
"My god, what happened?" demanded Hillary.
"Well," the driver replied, "the farmer gave me the cigar, the wife gave me the wine and their beautiful twin daughters made mad, passionate love to me!"
"Good lord," exclaimed Hillary. "You must have said or done something…untoward! What happened?" she inquired nervously.
"I just stepped inside the door," the driver replied, "and told them, 'I'm Hillary Clinton's driver and I've just hit the old cow.' The rest happened so fast, I couldn't stop it."
Agrarian/Bucolic/Limited Genetic Diversity (PC Version)
Slicker than owl shit, this came in from Hugh Jorgen last year. He originally used the word “redneck" which is not even remotely halal--this being a venue of impeccable PC pedigree. Accordingly, I have redacted this (and any other) anecdote so that it conforms to universally applicable standards of socio-political rectitude. Serendipitously, this was done in such a way as to render the political correction undetectable.
A small zoo in Oklahoma had a rare specimen of gorilla. Within a few years, the gorilla, a female, became difficult to handle. Upon examination, the veterinarian determined the problem. The gorilla was in season. To make matters worse, there was no male gorilla available.
Mulling the problem over, the Zoo Keeper thought of Bobby Lee Walton, a person of bucolic-agrarian extraction and part-time worker at the zoo responsible for cleaning the animal cages. Bobby Lee, like other persons from a background of restricted genetic diversity, had limited cognitive facility but possessed ample ability to satisfy a female of any species on a reproductive basis.
The Zoo Keeper thought Bobby Lee might be the solution so he approached him with a proposition. Would Bobby Lee be willing to mate with the gorilla for $500?
Bobby Lee showed some interest, but said he would have to think the matter over carefully.
The following day, Bobby Lee announced he would accept the offer, but only under four conditions:
"First", Bobby Lee said, "I ain't gonna kiss her on the lips." The Keeper quickly agreed to this condition.
"Second", he said, "You cain't never tell no one about this." The Keeper again readily agreed to this condition.
"Third", Bobby Lee said, "I want all the chil'drun raised as Baptist." Once again it was agreed.
"And last of all", Bobby Lee stated, "You gotta give me another week to come up with the $500."
Men Are Happier
More pro-feminine observation--Praise Jaysus!--on the state of the gender wars which are literally tearing this country apart due solely to day-in, day-out sexist outrage against Women on the part of the anti-feminist, low-life scumbags who comprise the male readership of this site. You know who you are, you rotten cocksuckers. This was contributed by Mostly Big Dave, against his will. His woman threatened to stop his pocket money....
Men are just happier people.
What do you expect from such simple creatures? Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack.
You can be President. [WTF? -Ed.] You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white t-shirt to a water park. You can wear no shirt to a water park. Car mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky.
You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character. Wedding dress: $5000. Tux rental: $100. People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them. The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected. New shoes don't cut, blister or mangle your feet. One mood all the time.
Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about tanks. [WTF? -Ed.] A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase. You can open all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are more than enough. You almost never have strap problems in public. You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes. Everything on your face stays its original color. The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades. You only have to shave your face and neck.
You can play with toys all your life. Your belly usually hides your big hips. One wallet and one pair of shoes--one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes.
No wonder men are happier.
Feminine Hygeine
This was forwarded by Hugh Jorgen who knows a thing or three about clean women and the bars they are unlikely to frequent. Actually, this was forwarded to him by a woman, he actually knows nothing about it. The following, told by Woman for Woman, is a brief, pithy, witty and compassionate summary of what broads face out there day-to-day--for the benefit of the women-baiting sonsabitches who visit this site, damn their eyes. Most of all, note how economical and terse is the writer's prose.
When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter.
The dispenser for the modern seat covers (invented by someone's mother, doubtless) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't—so you carefully, but quickly, drape it around your neck, because you don’t want it to spend any time, at all, on that floor.
Then you yank down your pants and assume "The Stance."
In this position, your aging, toneless thigh muscles commence to quiver. You'd love to sit down, but you hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."
To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother’s voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have known there was no toilet paper!"
Your thighs shake with increasing frequency. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday—the one that's still in your purse. That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible to maximize surface area. It is smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The door slams against your purse which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.
"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide directly down onto the toilet seat. It is sopping wet.
You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every malevolent microbe known to mankind, all residing on the uncovered seat because you forgot to lay down that prophylactic toilet paper—not that there ever was any, but you had failed to anticipate this.
By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being sucked in as well. At that point, you give up.
You are now soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You are exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
Now you can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting to enter the inner sanctum. You are no longer able to smile politely to these women.
A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you needed it?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it into the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this."
As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long? And why is your purse hanging around your neck?"
This explains to men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.
Memorial Stone
Padraic O'Cossett, another infamous misogynist who will pay dearly in his next life when he comes back as a tampon, sent this in as an overt challenge to the Editor's deeply held feminist beliefs.
Joe's will provided $30,000 for an elaborate funeral. As the last guests departed the affair, his wife, Helen, turned to her oldest friend, Judy.
"Well, I'm sure Joe would be pleased," said Helen.
"I'm sure you're right," replied Judy who lowered her voice and leaned in close. "How much did this really cost?"
"All of it?" said Helen. "Thirty thousand."
"No!" Judy exclaimed. "I mean, it was very nice, but $30,000?"
Helen answered: "The funeral was $6,500. I donated $500 to the church. The wake, food and drinks were another $500. The rest went for the memorial stone."
Judy computed quickly. "$22,500 for a memorial stone? My God, how big is it?!"
"Four and a half carats.”
Grand Ole Afterlife
Alas--unattributed.
One day in the future, the Commander-in-Chief, as must we all, expires...shuttles off his mortal coil...passes on to the next incarnation.
He goes straight to Hell where The Devil is waiting for him. With a clipboard.
"I don't know what to do," says The Devil. "You’re on my list, but I have no room for you. You definitely have to stay here, so I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I've got some folks here who weren't as god-awful as you. I can let one of them go--but you'll have to take their place."
"Tellya what I'm gonna do--I'll even let you decide who leaves," The Devil concludes.
The Commander-in-Chief concluded this was fair--although he'd have preferred to run it by the VP--and then agreed to The Devil's proposition.
The Devil opened the first room.
In it was Ronald Reagan and a large pool of water. The former President kept diving in and surfacing empty-handed—over and over and over. Such was his fate in Hell.
"No,” said the Commander-in-Chief, "I don't think so. I'm not a good swimmer and I don't think I could do that all day long."
The Devil led him to the next room. In it was Richard Nixon with a sledge hammer and a room full of rocks. All he did was swing that hammer, time after time after time.
"No, I've got this problem with my shoulder. I would be in constant agony if all I could do was break rocks all day," commented the Commander-in-Chief.
The Devil opened a third door. In it, the Commander-in-Chief saw Bill Clinton, lying on the floor with his arms staked over his head and his legs spread-eagled. Bent over him was Monica Lewinsky doing what she does best.
The Commander-in-Chief took this in and, after the usual 2.7 seconds careful consideration prior to making an important decision, announced: "Yeah! I can handle this one!"
The Devil smiled and said: "OK, Monica, you're free to go."
Parking Space
An Hasidic Jew walks into the Manhattan branch of a major international bank and asks for the loan officer. He says he is going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000.
The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for such a loan, so the man hands over the keys to a new Rolls Royce parked on the street in front of the bank. Everything checks out and the bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan.
An employee drives the Rolls into the bank's underground garage and parks it there.
Two weeks later, the man returns, repays the $5,000 and the interest, which comes to $15.41.
The loan officer says, "We are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely, but we are a little puzzled. While you were away, we checked you out and found that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is why would you bother to borrow $5,000?"
The Hasidic Jew replied, "Where else in New York can I park my car two weeks for 15 bucks?"
The Best Undiscovered Entertainer in the World
Don Parton used to tell this one at the bar in Chuck’s Steak House (R.I.P.) across the street from Bluor Utah (R.I.P.) in San Rateo (R.I.P.). It was forwarded by Bo Stenberg who was there.
An agent standing on Vine St. checks his watch, sees he has an hour to kill before his meeting in the Capitol Building, so he slips into one of the bars around the corner on Hollywood Blvd., one he's never been to before, and inside it's a piano bar. He takes a seat, orders a double VO, and the pianist commences playing and then starts to sing.
At first, the agent can't believe his ears. But then as the pianist keeps going from song to song, he just can't contain himself.
"Jesus H. Christ!" he says, "you are one great entertainer. I mean really great. I can't understand why you're working in this place, you oughta be playing Carnegie Hall."
"I couldn't agree more," replies the entertainer. "I guess I just haven't had the big break yet. But my time will come."
"Maybe it's come already," says the agent, holding out his business card bearing the name of the biggest talent agency in town. "Say, that last number you sang, that was just beautiful, I can't get the tune outta my mind. What's it called?"
"That one? That was 'I Love You So Fucking Much I Can't Shit.'"
Diplomatic Incident
Submitted in strictest kneed-to-know confidentiality by Col. Redass. Burn before reading.
The annual cocktail party at the British embassy is attended by everyone who is anyone on the diplomatic circuit. White ties and tails. The art of small talk is paramount. Drinking is watched carefully, for who knows who might be recruited for what purpose(s) and by whom?
Unfortunately, a Swiss functionary has been at the gin. He is talking to the Norwegian Ambassador.
“And what do you do at the Swiss Embassy?” inquires the Norwegian diplomat, visually treading conversational water, scanning the room for bigger fish to shmooze.
“I am the Naval Attaché, ” replies the Swiss functionary.
The Norwegian ambassador looks puzzled.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the man from Oslo says. “You are landlocked in Switzerland. You don’t have a Navy. How could you be a Naval Attaché?”
“Norway has a Minister of Culture, doesn’t it?”
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