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Scottish Cow

The only cow in a small town in Ireland stopped giving milk.


The town folk heard they could buy a cow in Scotland quite cheaply, which in Scotland is...unusual. They journeyed to the land of Robbie Burns, discovered the inhabitants had ransacked the local distillery and were drunker even than the Irish, bought the cow cheaply and returned to Eire.


The cow was, comment on dit, Awesome. Yes. Awesome. That is to say, it produced excellent milk in quantity. This is the definition of Awesome.


The Eireans, desirous of creating a herd, procured a massive payout from Brussels, drank most of it, then hired a prize-winning stud bull to mate with the cow--her name was Fionnula. If/when they sobered up, they would never have to worry about milk again.


They installed the bull in the pasture and escorted Fionnula into his presence with great enthusiasm, winking, nudging, etc.


Alas, whenever the bull tried to mount the cow, the cow would move away.


No matter what approach the bull tried, the cow would move away from the bull and he--his name was John Thomas--was never able to fulfill his genetic destiny.


And lo, The People were upset and decided to bring in the veterinarian who was very wise and known the world over.


"Whenever Johnny tries to mount our cow, she moves away. If he approaches from the back, she moves forward. When he approaches her from the front, she backs off. If he attempts from the side, she walks away to the other side."


The vet rubbed his chin thoughtfully and pondered this before asking,


"Did ya by chance, buy the feckin cow in Scotland?"


The People were dumbfounded. No one had mentioned to the vet they had brought the cow over from Scotland.


"Verily, thou art truly wise, Vettie," they cried in unison. "Prithee, how did you know we got the cow from Scotland?"


The vet replied with a distant look in his eye.


"My wife is from Scotland."


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This Is London Calling

A Scotsman, carrying a huge suitcase, has been riding a London bus for five miles along its route, all the while attempting to avoid the ticket collector.

Finally, the conductor manages to corner him and orders him to pay up: "You've been on for five miles--that'll be 50p, please, and 10p for your suitcase."

The Scotsman responds: "I ha'not, I want a ha'p'ny fare, just got on this vera moment."

They begin to argue and the ticket collector becomes ever more enraged and finally, as the bus is passing over London Bridge, he grabs the Scotsman's suitcase and hurls it out of the bus.

It lands in the river and sinks without a trace.

The Scotsman stands gobsmacked for a moment and says to the ticket collector, "Not only are ye tryin' to overcharge me for the ticket...but now you've gone 'n' drowned me boy Robbie!"

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Subincontinental Humour

In response to an inadvertently amusing article in "Time's Up Magazine" on Indian-American humor, WisdomoftheEast, a resident of Hindutino, California and inventor of the original and ever-popular Vodkaburger™ ("Hold the beef! Eat the sauce!"™), has forwarded this previously little-known account of a diplomatic incident which took place during the Cold War:

When Mrs. Gandhi went to Moscow, Khrushchev took her for a tour of the city in his limo. Recalling his visit to India, he started giving her a hard time about the sanitary conditions there.

"When I was in Delhi, I saw human excrement lying everywhere."

Poor Mrs. Gandhi was terribly embarrassed, but only for a moment because just ahead was a man sitting on his heels, shitting on the side of the road. She pointed this out to the Premier.

Khrushchev was livid and didn't hesitate: "Driver, get out immediately and shoot that man!"

The driver got out, walked up to the man with his gun drawn, spoke briefly and then returned to the car.

"Sir, I can't shoot that man," blurted the driver.

"Why not?"

"He's the Indian ambassador."

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The Gag That Made RCH Famous

A Scotsman and a Jew went to a restaurant.

After a hearty meal, the waitress came by with the inevitable check.

To the amazement of all, the Scotsman was heard to say, "I'll pay it!" and he actually did.

The next morning's newspaper carried the news item:

"JEWISH VENTRILOQUIST FOUND MURDERED IN BLIND ALLEY."

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Stars and Stripes Already

Three construction workers, an Irishman, an Italian and a Jew, are building a skyscraper. They're sitting on a beam having lunch when the Irishman takes out his sandwich and says, "I can't believe it! My wife gave me another goddam roast beef sandwich. If she does this again I'm going to jump off this building!"

The Italian takes out his sandwich and says, "Tuna! For God's sakes, I hate tuna. If my wife gives me tuna tomorrow I'm going to jump, I swear!"

The Jewish guy takes out his lunch and says, "Egg salad! Dammit, if I find one more egg salad sandwich in my lunch I'm going to jump off this building!"

The next day, the Irishman takes out his sandwich, sees that it's roast beef and says, "Enough's enough!" and jumps.

The Italian guy takes out his sandwich, sees that it's tuna, and says, "That's it, I've had it!" and jumps.

The Jewish guy takes out his sandwich, discovers egg salad, and says, "I can't take it anymore!" and jumps.

Soon after, reporters go to the wife of the Irishman. She says, plaintively, "If he had only told me he didn't want roast beef, I would have made him something else." The Italian's wife, in tears, tells reporters, "He should have just told me he didn't want tuna! Why didn't he tell me?"

The reporters go to the Jewish guy's wife, who says, "I don't understand that man. Everyday he makes his own lunch."

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Sven and Ole Redux

Ole and Sven are drinking buddies who work as aircraft mechanics in Minneapolis and one day the airport is fogged in and they're stuck in the hangar with nothing to do.

So Ole says, "By gor, I vish ve had somethin ta drink!"

Sven says, "Me too! Y'know, I hear you can drink dat yet fuel and get a buzz. Ya vanna try it?"

So they pour themselves a couple of glasses of high octane and get totally legless.

Next morning Ole wakes up and is surprised at how good he feels. In fact he feels GREAT! No hangover! No side effects! Nothing!

The phone rings. It's Sven who asks: "How iss yew feelin dis mornin?"

Ole says, "I feel great. How bout you?"

Sven says, "I feel great, too. Ya don't have no hangover?"

Ole says, "No! Dat yet fuel iss great stuff--no hangover, nothin. Ve oughta do dis more often!"

"Yah, vell, but dere's yust vun ting Ole."

Ole asks, "Vat's dat?"

Sven questioned, "Haff you farted yet?"

Ole stopped to think. "No."

"Vell don't. 'Cause I'm in Milvaukee"

Ole Olsen Rides Again

Ole Olsen is walking home from the meat packers late at night through the park when he sees a woman in the shadows.

"Twenty dollars..." she whispers.

Now Ole, he'd never been with a hooker before, but decides, vatt de helvete, it's only twenty bucks.

So they enter the bushes, throwing off their clothing in semi-frenzied Malmo modality.

They're busily engaged in the Southwestern Swedish Pork Grinder when, seemingly out of nowhere, a blinding light floods the couple in all its prurient ardor.

It's an officer of the law.

"Well well well. And what would be going on here then, people?" inquires the officer.

"I'm making luff to my vife!" Ole answers indignantly.

"Ah!" says the cop, "I'm so sorry, I had no way of knowing."

"Vell," says Ole, "I din't neider, 'til you shine that damm light in her face--"

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Detroit Shocks With Bold Insourcing Move

JOCOP News Service, November 2, 2008
by David Marvin Mailer

Media pundits and the Association of Automotive Journalists That Missed The Detroit Meltdown In Its Entirety (AAJTMTDMIIE) were caught with their fender skirts down by the collective decision of GM, Ford and Chrysler to opt for bankruptcy, void all existing UAW contracts and insource all future labour from Bangladesh.

Meanwhile, automotive staff at "The Detroit Free Press" took their lives en masse in the editorial room, moving "The Times Literary Supplement" to note distinct parallels to a near-identical drama recounted in "The Tale of the 47 Ronin," said to have originally been inspired by the teachings of Yamaga Soko (1622-1685).

Rick Wagoner, CEO of GM, was said to be considering similar action in the event the brickies of Bangladesh refused to emigrate to Detroit under the auspices of graduate student visas within the next three business days.

"The anti-immigration crowd can go fuck themselves," Wagoner stated. "Far as I know, these guys are the only ones who can possibly save our ass."




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Tao of Wong

The Editorial Waterboard has recently received confirmation of a rumor at the Rheum Room--a Rheum Room Rumor--to the effect Padraic O'Cossett's application for a position as Chief Information Officer at a major PRC petrochemical megacomplex had indeed been rejected with the usual polite apologies.

O'Cossett, reached by semaphore at his ranch in Crawford, TX, indicated his attempts to secure employment with a mainland energy firm would continue unabated in line with the outline of successful job application procedures written by Hilarious Hamrodius Clitorius--don't rub her the wrong way now, heah?

Su Qiang married Lee Wong in a traditional Chinese ceremony at the Taoist temple in San Francisco's Chinatown in conformance with the requirements of tradition, including dim sum and tangential fallout of all the uninformed cultural enthusiasm from the honkies they'd had to invite for unavoidable business reasons.

Then, in traditional fashion, and with great family fanfare and generational approbation, The Wongs announced they were about to have a male child to extend the family name and tradition into perpetuity, in honorable obeisance to the law of ancestor respect and valutiation.

Auspiciously in the early hours of the new year, Mrs Wong gave birth to a lovely, healthy, bouncy baby boy.

The baby, alas, was conspicuously Caucasian.

"Congratulations?" ventured the nurse querulously to the new 'father.'

Mr Wong stared stoically into the baby's face, observing the red hair....

"Well Mr Wong," inquired the nausationally perky nurse, "what will you and Mrs Wong name the baby?"

The puzzled father looked again at the new baby boy and then said, "First, two Wongs do not make a white!"

"So we name the kid Sum Ting Wong, send him to Yale 'n' then Rangrey!"

¡Boicot!

In the wake of Hilarious Hamrodius Clitorius' victory--you don't want to rub her the wrong way--in the swing vacuum of Puerto Rico, Hispanics across the continent reveled in their candidate's magnificent showing in glorious downward electoral spiral.

Meanwhile, seldom in the anals of the long struggle for equal superiority under the law has the technique of economic boycott reached the summit of tactico-strategic impact as that realized earlier this month in the cosmopolitan conurbation of Victoria, Texas, population 55,000, about 125 miles southwest of Houston.

It was there that electoral pendejos of the local branch of La Raza tore a page from the book started by Rosa Parks in 1957 in Little Rock, Arkansas at which time altercations with the man potentially signified a neighborhood barbecue involving the actual neighborhood as fire-starter with the inhabitants standing in as sausage, burgers, ribs, etc., all to the amusement of local intellectuals.

The La Raza equivalent in the year 2008 being, of course, the inexcusable absence of epazote from the frijol.

As La Raza was at the very forefront of the Clitorius Suppository movement from the beginning and had voted PRI constantly, it is only fitting that the following news item head today's roster of 24/7 international news coverage y si no me chupas, lloro...

JOCOP News Service, Tuesday, Victoria, TX

Local Hispanic leaders, in opposition to pending Immigration Legislation, boycotted all Caucasian-owned businesses in the Victoria area this weekend as a demonstration of their economic impact on the community.

The boycott was declared a success in the Hispanic community which noted that revenue in White-run businesses suffered a 19% decline.

In a surprise twist, business owners who were the object of the boycott also declared victory, pointing out that shoplifting had fallen by 77%.

The Limited Spectrum DNA Agrarian-Bucolic of Infinite Distinction

A Mexican, an African-American and an Agrarian Bucolic Limited Spectrum DNA Hillary Rodham Clinton suppository were inexplicably walking in tandem along the beach when they happened upon a bottle with a genie inside.

They opened it and she came out with a whoosh.

"I'm sorry," said she in a deep Joan Crawford voice, "but I have only three wishes for the lot of you--so you each get one. Make it good."

The Mexican thought a moment, then announced his decision.

"I wish that all my Latino friends, relatives and Raza members be able to return to Mexico where they can enjoy a good life with plenty of tortillas, arroz y frijol, together with a decent, elected and representative government and democracy and absence of civil strife and corruption!"

The genie waved her wand with a flourish.

"It is done," said she. And the Mexican had disappeared in a puff of vapor.

The African-American was next. He had been thinking while the Mexican spoke.

"That sounded pretty good. We sure as hell didn't get a royal welcome here, this was one hard goddam row to hoe. And not too many breaks since. So I wish for the equivalent of that Mexican fella--all African-Americans to return to Africa where they can live the good life, eat plenty of ribs and collard greens, smoke cancer-free Kool cigarets, enjoy the benefit of good, clean, democratically elected government free of corruption...and, of course, revel in the complete absence of tribal war and/or civil strife."

The genie again waved her wand and the black man disappeared in a puff of smoke.

She then turned to the gentleman of Georgian extraction but he looked a bit puzzled.

"Are you telling me all them Meskins and Nigrahs just went back to Mesko and Africa? And took all their kinfolk with 'em?" inquired the agrarian.

"That is correct, Sir," replied the genie. "And now it is time for your wish...."

"Praise Jaysus! Well--what with the tacos and jigs gone, I guess I can go ahead and celebrate! Gimme a Dr. Peppah!"

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Tanto amó Diós al mundo que dió a su Hijo único, etc.

Sandpile

An Italian, a Scotsman and a Chinese fellow are hired at a construction site.

The foreman points out a huge pile of sand and says to the Italian guy, "You, Dago, you're in charge of sweeping."

To the Scotsman he says, "Shitface, you're in charge of shoveling."

And to the Chinese guy, "Gook, you're in charge of supplies."

He then says, "Now, I have to attend a serious meeting of top executives and I'll be gone for two hours. I expect you bastards to make a big dent in that pile."

So the foreman hauls ass from the jobsite. When he returns, the pile of sand is untouched.

He asks the Italian, "Goddammit, you didn't sweep jack shit. Why?"

The Italian replies, "Ai no godda da broom. You say Chinee fella he gonna be inna charge da supply. But he disappear and no canna fin' him nowhere."

Then the foreman turns to the Scotsman and says, "And you, you fucking alky, I thought I told you to shovel this pile."

The man from Glasgow replies, "Aye, ye did laddie, boot ah couldnay get meself a shoovel! Ye left th' Chinese gadgie in chairge of supplies, boot ah couldnay fin' him either."

The foreman is really angry now and storms off toward the pile of sand to look for the Chinese guy.

Who, just then, leaps out from behind the pile of sand and screams at the top of his voice:

"SUPPLIES!"