[Rhodes22-list] jokes

[Michael Meltzer]

In August 1975 three men were on their way in to rob the Royal Bank of
Scotland in Rothesay, when they got stuck in the revolving doors. They had
to be helped free by the staff and, after thanking everyone, sheepishly left
the building. A few minutes later they returned and announced their
intention of robbing the bank, but none of the staff believed them. When
they demanded 5,000 pounds in cash, the head cashier laughed at them,
convinced that it was a practical joke. One of the men jumped over the
counter, but fell to the floor clutching his ankle. The other two tried to
make their getaway, but got trapped in the revolving doors again. They were
captured.

--
Two women decided to go out one evening, without their husbands.

Laughing the entire evening away and finding that they had consumed entirely
too much wine, they decided it was time to head home. They were about
halfway home when both ladies decided that they needed to find a bathroom
quick. They noticed the only place to stop was a cemetery. A little bit
scared and tipsy, they decided they'd just have to stop there... they
couldn't wait any longer.

Stumbling off the road into the cemetery they soon discovered they had no
toilet paper or Kleenex but the trip being an urgent one, they decided to
'just make do'!

The first one decided to use her panties and then discard them. The second
one had on new panties and not wanting to leave them behind grabbed a big
ribbon from a floral wreath on the gravestone next to her.

The morning after, the two husbands were talking to each other on the phone,
and one of them said to the other: "You know, we'll have to keep a closer
watch on our wives...it seems that those two were up to no good last night.
My wife came home in the wee hours without her panties...".

The other one responded: "Well, you're lucky, mine came home with a
card stuck to her butt that read... "We will never forget you... The Carboni
Brothers".

++
A man appears before the pearly gates.

St. Peter asks. "Have you ever done anything of particular merit?"

"Well, I can think of one thing," the man offers. "Once I came upon a gang
of bikers who were threatening a young woman. I directed them to leave her
alone, but they wouldn't listen. So I approached the largest and most
heavily tattooed biker. "I smacked him on the head, kicked his bike over,
ripped out his nose ring and threw it on the ground, and told him, 'Leave
her alone now or you'll answer to me.'"

St. Peter was impressed and asks, "When did this happen?"

"A couple of minutes ago."

 - from Jimi Pocius

--
A pastor and two of his deacons are out on the river fishing in their
rowboat. Twelve o'clock rolls around, and one of the deacons notices a nice
spot on the bank to have lunch. He turns to the others and says, "That looks
like a nice spot for lunch. What do you say we have lunch over there?"

The other deacon agrees, and so does the pastor. The deacon stands up in the
boat, steps out onto the river and walks over to the bank. The pastor looks
on with amazement, and thinks to himself, if his deacon is holy enough to
walk on water, surely he can.

The other deacon stands up, picks up the picnic basket, steps out of the
boat, and walks over to the bank and sits with the first deacon. Again, to
his amazement, the pastor thinks again, if his second deacon is holy enough
to walk on water, surely he can.

The pastor stands up, steps out of the boat, and sinks into the water. The
first deacon turns to the second and says, "Think we should have told him
where the rocks are?"

 - from Sue Greene

--
1) Go to www.google.com
2) Type in (but don't hit return): "weapons of mass destruction"
3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search"
button
4) Read what appears to be a normal error message carefully.

 - from Sandy Fraser

--
The dot-com bubble may have burst a long time ago, but the "dot-commer" has
arrived -- in Merriam-Webster's latest Collegiate Dictionary. "Dot-commer"
is among the new class of inductees in this tome of the English tongue.
"Headbanger," "dead presidents" (paper money), "McJob" (menial work with no
future), and "longneck" (something to guzzle after a tough day in the IT
department) also made the cut. The Web has had the biggest influence on the
American language in the past decade, one lexicographer said, both with the
number of new words it has created and the speed with which they've become
mainstream slang.

--
Some people say cats never have to be bathed. They say cats lick themselves
clean. They say cats have a special enzyme of some sort in their saliva that
works like new, improved Wisk - dislodging the dirt where it hides and
whisking it away.

I've spent most of my life believing this folklore. Like most blind
believers, I've been able to discount all the facts to the contrary, the
kitty odors that lurk in the corners of the garage and dirt smudges that
cling to the throw rug by the fireplace.

The time comes, however, when a man must face reality: when he must look
squarely in the face of massive public sentiment to the contrary and
announce: "This cat smells like a port-a-potty on a hot day in Juarez."

When that day arrives at your house, as it has in mine, I have some advice
you might consider as you place your feline friend under your arm and head
for the bathtub:

Know that although the cat has the advantage of quickness and lack of
concern for human life, you have the advantage of strength. Capitalize on
that advantage by selecting the battlefield. Don't try to bathe him in an
open area where he can force you to chase him. Pick a very small bathroom.
If your bathroom is more than four feet square, I recommend that you get in
the tub with the cat and close the sliding-glass doors as if you were about
to take a shower. (A simple shower curtain will not do. A berserk cat can
shred a three-ply rubber shower curtain quicker than a politician can shift
positions.)

Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all the skin from
your body. Your advantage here is that you are smart and know how to dress
to protect yourself. I recommend canvas overalls tucked into high-top
construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves, an army helmet, a hockey
facemask, and a long-sleeved flak jacket.

Prepare everything in advance. There is no time to go out for a towel when
you have a cat digging a hole in your flak jacket. Draw the water. Make sure
the bottle of kitty shampoo is inside the glass enclosure. Make sure the
towel can be reached, even if you are lying on your back in the water.

Use the element of surprise. Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply
carry him to his supper dish. (Cats will not usually notice your strange
attire. They have little or no interest in fashion as a rule. If he does
notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking part in a product
testing experiment for J.C. Penney.)

Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to survival. In a
single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub enclosure,
slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and squirt him with
shampoo. You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds of your life.

Cats have no handles. Add the fact that he now has soapy fur, and the
problem is radically compounded. Do not expect to hold on to him for more
than two or three seconds at a time. When you have him, however, you must
remember to give him another squirt of shampoo and rub like crazy. He'll
then spring free and fall back into the water, thereby rinsing himself off.
(The national record for cats is three latherings, so don't expect too much.
)

Next, the cat must be dried. Novice cat bathers always assume this part will
be the most difficult, for humans generally are worn out at this point and
the cat is just getting really determined. In fact, the drying is simple
compared to what you have just been through. That's because by now the cat
is semi permanently affixed to your right leg. You simply pop the drain plug
with your foot, reach for your towel and wait. (Occasionally, however, the
cat will end up clinging to the top of your army helmet. If this happens,
the best thing you can do is to shake him loose and to encourage him toward
your leg.) After all the water is drained from the tub, it is a simple
matter to just reach down and dry the cat.

In a few days the cat will relax enough to be removed from your leg. He will
usually have nothing to say for about three weeks and will spend a lot of
time sitting with his back to you. He might even become psychoceramic and
develop the fixed stare of a plaster figurine.

You will be tempted to assume he is angry. This isn't usually the case. As a
rule he is simply plotting ways to get through your defenses and injure you
for life the next time you decide to give him a bath.

But at least now he smells a lot better.

--
a. The number of physicians in the US is 700,000.

b. Accidental deaths caused by Physicians per year is 120,000.

c. Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171. (US Dept. of Health Human
Services)

                 Then think about this:

a. The number of gun owners in the US is 80,000,000.

b. The number of accidental gun deaths per year (all age groups) is 1,500.

c. The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .0000188.

Statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun
owners.

FACT:   NOT EVERYONE HAS A GUN, BUT ALMOST EVERYONE HAS AT LEAST ONE DOCTOR.

Please alert your friends to this alarming threat. We must ban doctors
before this gets out of hand. As a public health measure I have withheld the
statistics on lawyers for fear that the shock could cause people to seek
medical attention.

 - from Fred Frost

--
http://www.sunbelt-software.com/stu/eye.htm

 - from Carol Bagshaw

--
(Mumf note: this next one is like a bad accident: you can't help but watch;
as you go through this, ya gotta wonder why this guy would take the time to
tell us all this...)

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 were 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 too 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 shit, 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 shit. 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 cannot 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 shit 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 halfway 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, such a thing
would not have bothered me, 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
is 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 shit 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 shit the
consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying
out of my ass. But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that
moment. The shit 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 halfway 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 shit 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 shit 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 shit 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 shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring
curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper. (Mumf note: I think this guy was an
acquaintance of Carmen's and came to a party at my house!)

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 (Mumf note: I think I worked with this guy.) or something and just
needed to bring 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

 - from Rob Brucato, who is NOT aka Steve Crisp

--