Continuous Joke Thread

[Blazinjr]

A man dies and goes to heaven and St. Peter is there to greet him at the pearly gates.  As he goes through the gates he sees a bunch of these clocks hanging on a huge wall.  He asks Peter what those are for.  Peter replies " each one is a persons and for each lie the person tells the minute hand moves one spot.  They walk a little bit and the guy sees a clock and both hands are on 12 o'clock.  He asked " whose is that?"   Peter replies that is Mother Thersas, she has never told a lie.  They walk a little more and he see another one with the minute hand on 12:02 and he asked "whose is that one?"   Peter replies "Abraham Lincoln, he only told 2 lies his whole life."  As they walk on the guy ask " Where is George Bushs' clock?"

Peter replies "God has it in his office.....  He is using it as a fan.."


After a party one night 2 friends were drunk are in a car wreck and one is killed instantly, the other is in a coma for a week then dies.  When he dies an angel greets him but then tells him he is going to hell, then poof he is standing in a big green field with a huge tree in the middle.  Under the tree his friend is setting there with a beautiful blonde beside him and a big jug of beer on the other side.  As he walked closer to his friend he seen his friend had a real sad look on his face.  He got up to his friend and said "  Why are you so sad?  This place is nice and you got plenty of beer and a nice looking woman beside you."  
His friend handed him the jug of beer.  He grabbed the jug and put it to his mouth and nothing would come out.  He looked at the jug and said " there's no hole in it!"  

His friend looked up at him and said "There's no hole in the blonde either"

[pandy]

Dear Staff,

It is advised that you come to work dressed according to your salary. If we see you wearing Prada sneakers and carrying a Gucci Bag we assume that you are doing well financially and therefore you do not need a raise.

If you dress poorly, you need to learn to manage your money better, so that you may buy nicer clothes and therefore you do not need a raise.

If you dress in-between, you are right where you need to be and therefore you do not need a raise.

PERSONAL DAYS:
Each employee will receive 104 personal days a year.
They are called Saturday and Sunday.

LUNCH BREAKS:
Skinny people get 30 minutes for lunch as they need to eat more so that they can look healthy.

Normal-size people get 15 minutes for lunch to get a balanced meal to maintain their average figure.

Fat people get 5 minutes for lunch, because that's all the time needed to drink a Slim Fast and take a diet pill.

SICK DAYS:
We will no longer accept a doctor's statement as proof of sickness. If you are able to go to the doctor, you are able to come to work.

RESTROOM USE:
Entirely too much time is being spent in the restroom.
There is now a strict 3-minute time limit in the stalls.
At the end of three minutes, an alarm will sound, the
toilet paper roll will retract, the stall door will open and a picture will be taken. After your second offense, your picture will be posted on the company bulletin board under the "Chronic Offender" category.

SURGERY:
As long as you are employed here, you need all your organs.
You should not consider removing anything. We hired you intact. To have something removed, constitutes a breach of employment.

Thank you for your loyalty to our company. We are here to provide a positive employment experience. Therefore, all questions, comments, irritations, aggravations, insinuations, allegations, accusations, contemplation, consternation and input should be directed elsewhere.

Have a nice week!

[pandy]

Living Will

A man and his wife are sitting in the living room and he says this to her:

"Just so you  know, I never want to live in a vegetative state dependent on some machine. If that ever happens, just  pull the plug."

His wife gets up and unplugs the TV.

[werase643]

Texas Chili Cook-Off...

Are folks in TX really like this?? Enjoy...

If you can read this whole story without laughing then there's no
hope for you. I was crying by the end. Note: Please take time to read
this slowly.

They actually have a Chili Cook Off about
the time Halloween comes around. It takes up a major portion of a
parking lot at the San Antonio City Park. Judge #3 was an
inexperienced Chili Taster named Frank, who was visiting from
Springfield, IL.
Frank: "Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili
cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I
happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for
directions to the Coors Light truck, when the call came in. I was
assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili
wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have
free beer during the tasting, so I accepted."

Here are the scorecard notes from the event:

*****************************************************

CHILI # 1 - MIKE'S MANIAC MONSTER CHILI...

Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.
Judge # 2 - Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.
Judge # 3 (Frank) -- Holy shaZam!, what the hell is this stuff? You
could remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put
the flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are crazy.
*****************************************************

CHILI # 2 - AUSTIN'S AFTERBURNER CHILI...

Judge # 1 -- Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.
Judge #2 -- Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken
seriously.
Judge # 3 -- Keep this out of the reach of children.  I'm not sure
what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people
who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more
beer when they saw the look on my face.
*****************************************************

CHILI # 3 - FRED'S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI...

Judge # 1 -- Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick.
Judge # 2 -- A bit salty, good use of peppers.
Judge # 3 -- Call the EPA. I've located a uranium spill. My nose
feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by
now. Get me more beer before I ignite.
Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part
of my chest. I'm getting shaZam!-faced from all of the beer.
*****************************************************

CHILI # 4 - BUBBA'S BLACK MAGIC...

Judge # 1 -- Black bean chili with almost no spice.  Disappointing.
Judge # 2 -- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish
or other mild foods not much of a chili.
Judge # 3 -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was
unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the
beermaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills.
That 300-LB woman is starting to look HOT. just like this nuclear
waste I'm eating! Is chili an aphrodisiac?

*****************************************************
CHILI # 5 LISA'S LEGAL LIP REMOVER...

Judge # 1 -- Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground,
adding considerable kick. Very impressive.
Judge # 2 -- Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must
admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead
and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me
needed paramedics.
The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had
given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring
beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if I'm burning my lips
off. It really pisses me off that the other judges asked me to stop
screaming. Screw those rednecks.
*****************************************************
CHILI # 6 - VERA'S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY...

Judge # 1 -- Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili.
Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2 -- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and
garlic. Superb.
Judge # 3 -- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with
gaseous, sulfuric flames. I shaZam! on myself when I farted and I'm
worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand
behind me except that Sally. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to
wipe my ass with a snow cone.
*****************************************************
CHILI # 7 - SUSAN'S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI...

Judge # 1 -- A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned
peppers.
Judge # 2 -- Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw
in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. **I should take note
that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of
distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.
Judge # 3 -- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I
wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world
sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with
chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of
lava to match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they'll know
what killed me. I've decided to stop breathing it's too painful.
Screw it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just
suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.
*****************************************************
CHILI # 8 - BIG TOM'S TOENAIL CURLING CHILI...
Judge # 1 -- The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too
bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2 -- This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild
nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge #3 farted,
passed out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of
himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. poor feller, wonder how
he'd have reacted to really hot chili?
Judge # 3 - No Report

[werase643]

I couldn't read this all the way through in one sitting....the first time I read it....years ago

The following is not for the easily offended or overly (or even moderately) squeamish. Quit here if you categorize yourself as either of the above. Not kidding.

It's a dinner that went terribly wrong.

The Steakhouse Incident - originally posted in triangle.dining.

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shaZam!, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shaZam!. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the
same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shaZam! at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shaZam! no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shaZam! the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shaZam! wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shaZam! wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even
though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shaZam! remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shaZam! that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shaZam!. All while thick shaZam! was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no f%$king toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to being the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished
cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and
intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

Steve Crisp

[Mk1inCali]

[/end thread]

[NiceGuysFinishLast]

[/end thread]

SPOILSPORT!!!!!