Make me laugh & I will buy you a beer…

A family is at the dinner table. The son asks the father, “Dad, how many kinds of boobs are there?” The father, surprised, answers, “Well, son, a woman goes through three phases. In her 20s, her breasts are like melons, round and firm. In her 30s and 40s, they are like pears, still nice, hanging a bit. After 50, they are like onions.” “Onions?” the son asks. “Yes. You see them and they make you want to break down and cry!”
This infuriates his wife and daughter. The daughter asks, “Mom, how many different kinds of penises are there?” The mother smiles and says, “Well, a man also goes through three phases. In his 20s, his penis is like an oak tree, mighty and hard. In his 30s and 40s, it’s like a birch tree, flexible but reliable. After his 50s, it’s like a Christmas tree.” “A Christmas tree?” the daughter asks. “Yes: Dead from the root up, and the balls are just there for decoration!”

How can you tell if you’re making love to a teacher, a nurse or an airline stewardess?
A teacher says we got to do this over and over again until we get it right.
A nurse says hold still this won’t hurt a bit.
And a airline stewardess says put this over your mouth and nose and breathe normally.

Doctor, “What seems to be the problem?”
Patient, “Doc, I’ve got the farts. I mean I fart all the time,”
The Doctor nods, “Hmm.”
Patient, “My farts do not stink and you can’t hear them. It’s just that I fart all the time. Look, we’ve been talking here for about 10 minutes and I’ve farted five times. You didn’t hear them and you don’t smell them, do you?”
“Hmm,” says the Doctor,
He picks up his pad and writes out a prescription.
The patient is thrilled “Great doc. This prescription, will it really clear up my farts?”
“No,” sighs the Doctor, “The prescription is to clear your sinuses. Your nose must be all stopped up. And next week I want you back here for a hearing test.”

A man is taking a woman home after their first date. When they get to her door, he asks if he can come inside.
Woman: Absolutely not. I never ask a guy to come in on the first date.
Man: All right then how about on the last date?

A little boy’s first day in school and a teacher was going to play a “guessing” game. She passed out different items to each of the students and proceeded to ask each student what item they received. When it was the new boy, Johnny’s turn, the teacher gave him a candy kiss.
She asked ” Do you know what it is?” Johnny replied “No.” The teacher said, “Go ahead and open it up and taste it.” Little Johnny did so. The teacher then asked, “Now do you know what it is?” Little Johnny said “Noooo.” The teacher said, “I’ll give you a hint….it is something your daddy wants from your mommy every morning before he goes to work.”
A little girl in the back of the class jumps up and screams.

Pastor: Do you know where little boys and girls go when they do bad things?
Johnny: Sure, out in back of the church yard.

Q: Why is the roach clip called a roach clip?
A: Because pot holder was taken

Q. What does a blonde and beer bottles have in common?
A. They’re both empty from the neck up.

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Hands Off My Happy Hour

Nobody should be allowed to use the term “Happy Hour” unless they serve booze.
It pisses me off to see a daycare center with a “happy hour” sign – unless they’re willing to serve up some liquor to the parents, in which case I’d be more inclined to allow it.
Taco Bell, that authentic taste of Old Mexico, has now introduced “happy hour” – I’m not sure what it is, but you can bet your ass there’s no alcohol involved.
Starbucks now has a happy hour. But they still don’t serve any kind of booze.  There are an untold number of restaurants which advertise their version of happy hour, with not one drop of John Barleycorn on the premises.
So how in the Sam Hell can they call it happy hour, when there isn’t anything happy about it? Happy Hour with no liquor is like sex without the girl; a bank account with no money; Stevie Ray without his guitar.  It’s going to be a pretty lame happy hour without the juice, is it not?

Starbucks has introduced a lame yuppie version of Happy Hour for suburban Mollies & Milktoasts...

The phrase “Happy Hour” was first created by sailors in the British Navy. For one hour a day before “taps” sent them to their bunks, the sailors would get their ration of grog and have a little drinking party on the main deck.
It was always about the grog., and skippers who didn’t give out the sauce didn’t have any happy hours, just a gang of sullen angry guys with bad attitudes. Can you blame them?

"Happy Hour at Home" with no booze, and also no meat. WTF is wrong with this picture? Has Happy Hour turned into a schmuck in a bow tie with some veggies, at home?

There are even churches with happy hours now.  One advertises this: “Our Happy Hour gatherings include informal networking time and an opportunity to relax after the work day.”
First and fucking foremost, it’s hard to relax inside of a church. Next you’ve got all of these bastards trying to “network” with you. That’s gotta be as bad as a swarm of angry mosquitoes. And finally, there’s no booze.
Why would you willfully and intentionally subject yourself to such torment?
I guarantee you, I could do a lot better at “informal networking” – if I cared to do so – at any neighborhood watering hole.  The glow of cocktails lubricates the process, making it easy to make connections.
As for relaxing after the work day, that just ain’t going to happen at church. How am I supposed to relax, when lightning from heaven may strike me dead at any moment?
Oh sure, lightning can theoretically strike me down at the corner pub, but have you ever seen it happen? I haven’t.

Happy Hour at 8 in the morning, with Jesus, no booze, and a guy who looks like a pro wrestler passing on marching orders from the almighty... sounds like a real blast... You go on ahead, I'll catch up with you...

All of these phony happy hours irritate me. It makes me want to walk in the place and order a shot of Bombay Sapphire. “Calling Dr. Bombay, come in Dr. Bombay…”
Another baronym (bar word) that’s being misappropriated is “shot” – as in, “gimme another shot of that rotgut horsekiller whiskey.”
These days, you can get a “shot” of energy drink, juice, coffee, and yogurt.  None of them have a trace of alcohol in them.
Is nothing sacred anymore? Will “happy hour” degenerate into some stupid fucking Walt Disney family-friendly hour of spending money without relaxing?  How can a tradition so pure and good be abducted by the soul-less corporate automatons who scrabble over your last twenty bucks?
If I ever decide to have a “happy hour” at my printing shop, there will be plenty of booze and mixers. That’s what happy hour means.

Some of you ignorant Yankee yuppies out there might go down to the smoothie shop at happy hour and do a couple of shots of some fruity boozeless cocktail.
Then you can get up on your hind legs and pretend like you’re supposed to be a real man.
I‘ll be keeping it real, Happy Hour that is, down at the local bar…


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Move over, asshole!

It is now against the law to get in the passing lane and drive at the speed limit in Texas – that’s the left-hand lane for those of you who are too dumb to know that. The police are out writing tickets at this very moment.
I hope they catch you, you son of a bitch. I hope the cops see you in your stupid dually roadhog – which you can’t even drive worth a shit – tooling down Gulf Freeway going 56 mph in the passing lane, and pull you over.
While you’re blocking everyone else who is actually trying to get somewhere, you’re all spaced out, talking on your Galaxy phone and sending tweets out to your twats or posting your lame loser status on Facebook.
Can’t you move that goddamned behemoth over into the slow lane (that would be the right lane) and creep along where you’re not stopping me and everyone else? Must we all rust up while we dawdle along behind you?
You might not realize it, but the rest of us driving down the road are not on a fucking sightseeing trip. We’re not out there driving just to catch a glimpse of the beautiful sunset silhouetting the refinery towers. We’re driving because we are going somewhere where we can drink, smoke, fuck, talk, eat, make money, and buy shit, you slowpoke fuckhead.
I hope they pull you over and strip search you on the side of the road.
I hope you forget your court date, a warrant is issued, and they serve that warrant at your job, where everyone can see how you look in a pair of handcuffs. Then, I hope they put you in a filthy cell with a big mean hairy tattooed parole violator with a fucked up nickname like “Mister Happy” or “Bang Bang.”
It‘s no longer legal for you to get over to the left and say to yourself “I‘m doing the speed limit, so back off motherfuckers.” The great State of Texas has decreed that those of us who haul ass should have the exclusive use of the fast lane. So please move out of the way, lardass. I ain’t got no time to waste.
Trust The Fonz:
Hi senior citizen, it’s your friendly banker here, and have I got a deal for you.
Remember how I financed your house for you? Remember how you paid me a total of $450,000 for a house that appraised at less than one-fourth of that amount?
Remember how I told you that a home was the best investment you could ever make?
Well, now I am ready to buy that house from you for a whopping $35,000! Yep, isn’t that great news? It’s a new thing we call a “reverse mortgage” and you might have noticed a bunch of has-beens on TV talking about it, trying to sell you on the idea.
Fred Thompson, Robert Wagner, and even the Fonz are all selling reverse mortgages. So you know it has to be a good thing.  Of course, none of them has signed up for one…
The fact is, these are tough times for bankers. We’ve managed to devour almost all of the pensions and retirement plans in America, and we have screwed the working man until he really ain’t got a pot left to piss in.
So now we must turn our sights to seniors, who are the last segment of society that holds any significant wealth. Most of that wealth is tied up in family homes, so that is what we’re now going after.
Luckily for us, the US government is allowing us to get away with a greedy scheme which might eventually become the largest collective fuck-job ripoff in history.
Basically, the way it works is, we send you a check every month for a couple of hundred bucks while we wait for you to die. You still have to pay the taxes, insurance, and upkeep on the property, so your net is going to be pretty close to zero. Then, as soon as you’re dead, we swoop in and take possession. You won’t have to worry about your heirs fighting over the house, because we will get it.
Then, we will slap a coat of paint on it, sell it for a half-million to the next moron to come along, and then steal it back from him as soon as he gets old and realizes he can’t live on Social Security either.
So, in the final analysis, you were merely renting that house from me. It was mine before you bought it, it was mine while you were paying on it, and it will be mine when you’re dead and gone. So shut up and sign.
Line up, senior citizens, and sell the family legacy for chump change to a guy who hopes you won’t live much longer.


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