Jokes anyone? -

Larry L.

Lifetime Supporter
Three Blondes are stuck on island....

...within sight of mainland but too far to swim. They stumble onto a magic lamp and a genie pops out and offers them each one wish.

The first blonde wishes she were twice as smart so she could get off the island. The genie turns her into a redhead and she finds a large piece of driftwood that gives just enough buoyancy that she manages to swim to the mainland.

The second blonde thinks that looks like it takes too much energy, so she wishes she were five times as smart so she could get off the island. The genie turns her into a brunette and she starts building a raft. It takes a long time but when it's finished she floats across on it with little effort.

It's late now and the third blonde would like to get home both quickly and easily. She wishes she were ten times as smart so she could figure out the quickest way to the mainland. The genie turns her into a man, and she walks across the bridge.


WARNING! Never tell that to a blonde when at or anywhere near a gun range...
 

Larry L.

Lifetime Supporter
A Jewish Rabbi and a Catholic Priest met at the town's annual 4th of July picnic.

Old friends, they began their usual banter.

"This baked ham is really delicious," the priest teased the rabbi. "You really ought to try it. I know it's against your religion, but I can't understand why such a wonderful food should be forbidden! You don't know what you're missing You just haven't lived until you've tried Mrs. Hall's prized Virginia Baked Ham. Tell me, Rabbi, when are you going to break down and try it?"

The rabbi looked at the priest with a big grin, and said, "At your wedding."
 
As good as this bar is," said the Scotsman, "I still prefer the pubs back home. In Glasgow, there's a wee place called McTavish's where the landlord goes out of his way for the locals. When you buy four drinks, he'll buy the fifth drink."

"Well, Angus," said the Englishman, "At my local in London, the Red Lion, the barman will buy you your third drink after you buy the first two."

"Ahhh, dat's nothin'," said Paddy Sheehan, the Irishman. "Back home in me favourite pub in Galway, the moment you set foot in the place, they'll buy you a drink, then another, all the drinks you like, actually. Then, when you've had enough drinks, they'll take you upstairs and see dat you get laid, all on the house!"

The Englishman and Scotsman were suspicious of the claims. "Did this actually happen to you?"

"Not meself, personally, no," admitted the Irishman, "but it did happen to me sister quite a few times."
 

Keith

Moderator
As good as this bar is," said the Scotsman, "I still prefer the pubs back home. In Glasgow, there's a wee place called McTavish's where the landlord goes out of his way for the locals. When you buy four drinks, he'll buy the fifth drink."

"Well, Angus," said the Englishman, "At my local in London, the Red Lion, the barman will buy you your third drink after you buy the first two."

"Ahhh, dat's nothin'," said Paddy Sheehan, the Irishman. "Back home in me favourite pub in Galway, the moment you set foot in the place, they'll buy you a drink, then another, all the drinks you like, actually. Then, when you've had enough drinks, they'll take you upstairs and see dat you get laid, all on the house!"

The Englishman and Scotsman were suspicious of the claims. "Did this actually happen to you?"

"Not meself, personally, no," admitted the Irishman, "but it did happen to me sister quite a few times."

One of my all-time favourite jokes Gary and I don't do 'structured' jokes as a rule. The cool thing is, you can maintain political correctness (that's a joke by the way) by changing the denominations to protect the easily offended... :drunk:
 
Recent events show that :-

The United States & Britain are having a competition on who can screw themselves up the most.

Britain is currently in the lead, but America will undoubtedly win as they have a Trump card.
 
God loves a trier :)
 

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Larry L.

Lifetime Supporter
One Monday morning the postman was walking through the neighborhood on his usual route, delivering the mail.

As he approached one of the homes he noticed that both cars were still in the driveway.
His wonder was cut short by David, the homeowner, coming out with a load of empty beer, wine and spirit bottles for the recycling bin.

"'Wow David, looks like you guys had one hell of a party last night,' the Postman commented.

David, in obvious pain, replied, 'Actually we had it Saturday night. This is the first time I have felt like moving since 4:00 o’clock Sunday morning .We had about
15 couples from around the neighborhood over for some weekend fun and it got a bit wild. We all got so drunk around midnight that we started playing WHO AM I?'

The Postman thought for a moment and said, 'How do you play WHO AM I?'
‘Well, all the guys go in the bedroom and come out one at a time covered with a sheet with only the 'family jewels' showing through a hole in the sheet. Then the women try to guess who it is..'

The postman laughed and said, 'Sounds like fun, I'm sorry I missed it.'
'Probably a good thing you did,' David responded, 'your name came up seven times...'
 

Pat

Supporter
The IRS suspected a fishing boat owner wasn't paying proper wages to his deckhand and sent an agent to investigate him.

IRS AUDITOR: "I need a list of your employees and how much you pay them".

Boat Owner: "Well, there's Clarence, my deckhand, he's been with me for 3years. I pay him $1,000 a week plus free room and board. Then there's the mentally challenged guy. He works about 18 hours every day and does about 90% of the work around here. He makes about $10 per week, pays his own
room and board, and I buy him a bottle of Bacardi rum and a dozen Budweisers every Saturday night so he can cope with life. He also gets to sleep with my wife occasionally".

IRS AUDITOR: "That's the guy I want to talk to - the mentally challenged one".

Boat Owner: "That would be me. What would you like to know"?
 

Larry L.

Lifetime Supporter
the irs suspected a fishing boat owner wasn't paying proper wages to his deckhand and sent an agent to investigate him.

Irs auditor: "i need a list of your employees and how much you pay them".

Boat owner: "well, there's clarence, my deckhand, he's been with me for 3years. I pay him $1,000 a week plus free room and board. Then there's the mentally challenged guy. He works about 18 hours every day and does about 90% of the work around here. He makes about $10 per week, pays his own
room and board, and i buy him a bottle of bacardi rum and a dozen budweisers every saturday night so he can cope with life. He also gets to sleep with my wife occasionally".

Irs auditor: "that's the guy i want to talk to - the mentally challenged one".

Boat owner: "that would be me. What would you like to know"?

lolololololol!!!! I didn't see that one coming 'a-tall'!

'Sooooooo true! :thumbsup::thumbsup::thumbsup::thumbsup:
 


Cow, Ant & an Old Fart


A cow, an ant and an old fart are debating on who is the greatest of the three of them.
The cow said, "I give 20 quarts of milk every day and that's why I am the greatest!"
The ant said, "I work day and night, summer and winter, I can carry 52 times my own weight and that's why I am the greatest!"
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This is a story about the iconic SR-71 Blackbird whose full operating specs are still classified to this day. The story, from the now out-of-print book Sled Driver by former SR-71 jockey Brian Shul (available used on Amazon for just $700). Here’s the ultimate aviation troll:

There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the ” Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
 

Larry L.

Lifetime Supporter
my name is alice smith and i was sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with a new dentist. I noticed his dental diploma, which bore his full name.

suddenly, i remembered a tall, handsome, dark haired boy with the same name had been in my secondary school class some 30-odd years ago. could he be the same guy that i had a secret crush on, way back then?

upon seeing him, however, i quickly discarded any such thought. his balding, grey haired man with the deeply lined face was far too old to have been my classmate.

after he examined my teeth, i asked him if he had attended morgan park secondary school .

'yes, yes i did. I'm a morganner! 'he beamed with pride.

'when did you leave to go to college?' i asked.

he answered, in 1965. Why do you ask?

'you were in my class!' i exclaimed.

he looked at me closely.

then the ugly, old, bald, wrinkled, fat arsed, grey haired, decrepit bastard asked... 



'what subject did you teach ?'
 

Keith

Moderator
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The man walks up to him and says, "I didn't know you were into earrings."

"Don't make such a big deal, it's only an earring," he replies sheepishly.

His friend falls silent for a few minutes, but then his curiosity prods him to ask, "So, how long have you been wearing one?"

"Ever since my wife found it in my car."
</td> </tr> </tbody></table>
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The woman entered the room, and with a knowing smile teasing her full lips, she sank into the comfort of the plush chair in the corner.

The handsome stranger turned, having sensed her approach.

Locking his steely grey eyes on hers, he moved slowly toward her, his experienced gaze measuring her, hypnotizing her with his soft murmurs of assurance.

He sank to his knees before her and without a word, smoothly released her from her constraining attire. With a sigh of surrender, she allowed his foreign hands to unleash her bare flesh. He expertly guided her through this tender, new territory, boldly taking her to heights she had never dared to dream of, his movements deliberate, confident in his ability to satisfy her every need.

Her senses swam. She was overcome with an aching desire that had gone unfulfilled for so long. And, just as it seemed that ecstasy was within her grasp, he paused, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought, "It's too big! - it will never fit!"
Then, with a sudden rush, it slid into place as if it had been made only for her. As pleasure and contentment washed over her, she met his steady gaze, tears of gratitude shining in her eyes.

And he knew it wouldn't be long before she returned. Oh, yes, this woman would want more. She would want to do it again and again and again...

Don't you just love shopping for shoes?
 

Pat

Supporter
Pastor Maldonado arrives for his Mercedes interview.
 

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