However you want to spell it (humor/humour), it’s the stuff that I find funny. That doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll agree with me but luckily it’s a free world.
My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. I went to sleep and woke up with someone elses thighs.
It was just that quick. The replacements had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine?
I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans.
And then the thieves struck again.
My arse was next. I knew it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear-end to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. But my new arse was attached at least three inches lower than my original.
I realised I’d have to give up my jeans in favour of long skirts.
Two years ago I realized my arms had been switched. One morning I was fixing my hair and was horrified to see the flesh of my upper arm swing to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush.
This was really getting scary – my body was being replaced one section at a time. What could they do to me next?
When my poor neck suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a turkey neck, I decided to tell my story.
Women of the world wake up and smell the coffee! Those plastic surgeons are using REAL replacement body parts – stolen from you and me!
The next time someone you know has something “lifted”, look again – was it lifted from you?
THIS IS NOT A HOAX. This is happening to women everywhere.
WARN YOUR FRIENDS!
P S: Last year I thought someone had stolen my boobs. I was lying in bed and they were gone. However, when I jumped out of bed, I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept. Now I keep them hidden in my
Dear Dogs and Cats:
The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.
The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Racing me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn’t help because I fall faster than you can run.
I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other, stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out on the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.
For the last time, there is no secret exit from the bathroom! If, by some miracle, I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge in an attempt to open the door. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom ( i.e. going to the toilet) for years – canine/feline attendance is not required.
The proper order for kissing is: Kiss me first, then go smell the other dog or cat’s butt. I really cannot stress this enough.
Finally, in fairness, dear pets, I have posted the following message on the front door:
TO ALL NON-PET OWNERS WHO VISIT AND LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT OUR PETS:
Remember, dogs and cats are better than kids because they:
A man goes to confession, sits down and tells the priest, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”
“What was your sin, my son?” the priest asked.
“Obscene language,” the man replied.
“That’s a terrible sin,” the priest replied. “Do you swear often?”
“No,” answered the man, “but do you know the local golf course?”
“Indeed I do,” said the priest
“I play there often. When I was on the tee at the fourth hole, the long par three, I hit one of the best drives of my life. It must have gone 220 yards on the fly, straight down the middle, took one bounce, and then hit a sprinkler head and bounced off into the bush.”
“I’m not surprised that you swore,” said the priest, “If that had happened to me…”
“No, I didn’t swear then. The shot I had hit was a great one and the bounce was just the luck of the game. When I checked the position of my ball, I realized that I still had a chance of making par. The ball was on a hardpan lie, and there was a small gap through the trees for me to have a shot at the green. I really should have taken the safe option and just played out sideways to the fairway, but I had hit such a great drive that my confidence was high.”
The man continued, “I was still about 200 yards from the green, so I took a five wood from the bag, positioned the ball back in my stance to keep it low and hopefully get under the trees, told myself to forget about all the hazards and just imagine the ball on the green, and played the shot. Even using the wood, I nipped the ball perfectly off the hard lie, the ball kept low as I planned, and flew straight as a die toward the green, took one bounce onto the green, hit the flagstick and bounced off sideways into that deep pot bunker to the right of the green.”
“My son, my son,” said the priest, “I’m ready to forgive you already. That would have made a saint swear.”
“No father,” said the man, “I didn’t swear then. I realized that I had just played two perfect shots and only bad luck had stopped me from getting the result I deserved. When I saw my ball, I thought that all my hopes of making par had disappeared. It was lying right against the face of a five-foot deep bunker with very little green to work with, and I really should have gone out sideways, but after the two good shots, I was feeling confident. I took my sand iron out, opened the clubface fully, aimed the ball about six feet left of the pin and played the shot. The ball popped almost straight up in the air, landed on the green, and the spin on the ball dragged it back to four inches from the pin.”
“F#?!ing hell!” said the priest, “don’t tell me you missed a four-inch putt?”
He cursed out the elves and threw down his list
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works
I’ve busted my arse for damn near a year
Instead of “Thanks Santa” – what do I hear
The old lady bitches cause I work late at night
The elves want more money – The raindeer all fight
Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids
Donner is pregnant, and Vixen has AIDS
And just when I thought that things would get better
The arseholes from IRD sent me a letter
They say I owe taxes if that aint damn funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus money?
And all the kids these days – they are all the pits
They want the impossible.. Those mean little shits
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls… Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo’s – No request for them
They want computers and robots… They think I’m f**kin IBM!
If you think that’s bad… just picture this
Try holding those brats.. with their pants full of piss
They pull on my nose – they grab my beard
And if I dont smile – their mums think I’m weird
Flying thru the air… dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I’m quitting this job.. there’s just no enjoyment
I’ll sit on my fat arse, and draw unemployment
Theres no Christmas this year… now you know the reason!!
I found me a blonde, I’m going SOUTH for the season!!!
I’ll laze in the sun, into bed I’ll get tucked
And those snotty nosed brats… can go and get f**ked.
Effective immediately, the following economising measures are being implemented in the “Twelve Days of Christmas” subsidiary:
Overall we can expect a substantial reduction in assorted people, fowl, animals and related expenses. Though incomplete, studies indicate that stretching deliveries over twelve days is inefficient. If we can drop ship in one day, service levels will be improved.
Regarding the lawsuit filed by the attorney’s association seeking expansion to include the legal profession (“thirteen lawyers-a-suing”), a decision is pending.
Deeper cuts may be necessary in the future to remain competitive. Should that happen, the Board would request management to scrutinize the Snow White Division to see if seven dwarfs is the right number.