Jokes of the day for Sunday, 22 March 2009
| Funny jokes, funny photo and funny video collected from the internet on Sunday, 22 March 2009 |
A small boy is sent to bed by ...
A small boy is sent to bed by his father.five minutes later:"Da..aaad""What"
"I'm thirsty. Can you bring me a drink of water?"
"No. You had your chance. Lights out."
five minutes later: "Daa....aaad..."
"WHAT!?"
"I'm THIRSTY. Can I have a drink of water?"
I told you NO! Ifyou ask again I'll have to spank you!"
five minutes later.."Daaaa....aaaad!"
"When you come up to spank me can you bring a drink of water?"
Revenge is Sweet
There once was an old couple who had been married for thirty years.A tourist walks into a pet sho...
A tourist walks into a pet shop in Silicon Valley, and is browsing round the cages on display. While he's there, another customer walks in and says to the shopkeeper, "I'll have a C monkey, please."The shopkeeper nods, goes over to a cage at the side of the shop and takes out a monkey. He fits a collar and leash and hands it to the customer, saying "That'll be $5000."
The customer pays and walks out with his monkey.
Startled, the tourist goes over to the shopkeeper. "That was a very expensive monkey - most of them are only a few hundred dollars. Why did it cost so much?"
"Ah, that monkey can program in C - very fast, tight code, no bugs, well worth the money."
The tourist looks at the monkeys in that cage. "That one's even more expensive - $10,000 dollars! What does it do?."
"Oh, that one's a C++ monkey; it can manage object oriented programming, Visual C++, even some Java, all the really useful stuff."
The tourist looks round for a little longer and sees a third monkey in a cage on its own. The price tag round its neck says $50,000. He gasps to the shopkeeper, "That one costs more than all the others put together! What on earth does it do?"
"Well, I don't know if it does anything, but it says it's a Consultant."
After Quasimodo's death, ...
After Quasimodo's death, the bishop of the Cathedral of Notre Dame sent word through the streets of Paris that a new bell ringer was needed.The bishop decided that he would conduct the interviews personally and went up into the belfry to begin the screening process.
After observing several applicants demonstrate their skills, he had decided to call it a day when an armless man approached him and announced that he was there to apply for the bell ringer's job.
The bishop was incredulous. "You have no arms!"
"No matter" said the man. "Observe!" And he began striking the bells with his face, producing a beautiful melody on the carillon.
The bishop listened in astonishment; convinced he had finally found a replacement for Quasimodo.
But suddenly, rushing forward to strike a bell, the armless man tripped and plunged headlong out of the belfry window to his death in the street below.
The stunned bishop rushed to his side. When he reached the street, a crowd had gathered around the fallen figure, drawn by the beautiful music they had heard only moments before.
As they silently parted to let the bishop through, one of them asked, "Bishop, who was this man?"
"I don't know his name," the bishop sadly replied, "but his face rings a bell"
But, WAIT, There's more...
The following day, despite the sadness that weighed heavily on His heart due to the unfortunate death of the armless campanologist, the bishop continued his interviews for the bell ringer of Notre Dame.
The first man to approach him said "Your Excellency, I am the brother of the poor armless wretch that fell to his death from this very belfry yesterday. I pray that you honor his life by allowing me to replace him in this duty."
The bishop agreed to give the man an audition, and, as the armless man's brother stooped, picked up a mallet and struck the bells as beautifully as his brother. But as he finished, he groaned, clutched at his chest, twirled around and died on the spot.
Two monks, hearing the bishop's cries of grief at this second tragedy, rushed up the stairs to his side.
"What has happened? Who is this man?" the first monk asked breathlessly.
"I don't know his name," sighed the distraught bishop, but he's a dead ringer for his brother."
Sunday prayer...
Have you heard about 4-year-old Sammy who was asked to return thanks before Sunday dinner? The family members bowed their heads in expectation, and he began his prayer:
"Thank you God for all my friends: Joey, an' Susan, an' Billy, an' Tommy," and on and on he went, naming each friend one by one.
Next he thanked God for Mommy, Daddy, brother, sister, Grandma, Grandpa, and all his aunts and uncles.
Finally he got to the food.
"Thank you God for the turkey, an' the dressing, an' the fruit salad, an' the pies, an' the Cool Whip..."
And then he paused.
The pause was almost deafening, and all eyes were focused on young Sammy with his head still bowed in prayer.
Finally (almost when Father was about to interject an "Amen"), Sammy looked up at his mother and asked, "If I thank God for the broccoli, won't he know that I'm lying?"
Gay bar
Four things not to say in a gay bar.1 Bugger me it's hot in here!
2 Can I push your stool in?
3 Toss you for the next round!
4 Can I bum a fag?
E.T.
Q: Whats E.T. short for? A: Because he has little legs!Shortage Of Parachutes
A blonde, a brunette, a movie star, the pope, and a pilot were on a plane.
The plane was going down fast, and there were only four parachutes for all five of them.
The pilot took one and jumped, then the movie star took one and jumped, and then the blonde took one and jumped.
The pope told the brunette to take the last one.
The brunette said, "There are still 2 parachutes left! The blonde took my backpack!"
Getting tough
My grandfather worked in a blacksmith shop when he was a boy, and he used to tell me, when I was a little boy myself, how he had toughened himself up so he could stand the rigors of blacksmithing.
One story was how he had developed his arm and shoulders muscles. He said he would stand outside behind the house and, with a 5-pound potato sack in each hand, he would extend his arms straight out to his sides and hold them there as long as he could.
After awhile, he tried 10-pound potato sacks, then 50-pound potato sacks. Finally, he got to where he could lift a 100-pound potato sack in each hand and hold his arms straight out for more than a full minute!
Next, he started putting potatoes in the sacks.
Snowboarding Lesson
When you're 47 years old, you sometimes hear a small voice inside you that says: "Just because you've reached middle age, that doesn't mean you shouldn't take on new challenges and seek new adventures. You get only one ride on this crazy carousel we call life, and by golly you should make the most of it." This is the voice of Satan.
I know this because recently, on a mountain in Idaho, I listened to this voice, and as a result my body feels as though it has been used as a trampoline by the Budweiser Clydesdales.
I am currently on an all-painkiller diet. "I'll have a black coffee and 250 Advil tablets" is a typical breakfast order for me these days.
This is because I went snowboarding.
For those of you who, for whatever reason, such as a will to live, do not participate in downhill winter sports, I should explain that snowboarding is an activity that is popular with people who do not feel that regular skiing is lethal enough.
These are of course young people, fearless people, people with 100 percent synthetic bodies who can hurtle down a mountainside at 50 miles per hour and knock down mature trees with their faces and then spring to their feet and go, "Cool."
People like my son. He wanted to try snowboarding, and I thought it would be good to learn with him, because we can no longer ski together.
We have a fundamental difference in technique: He skis via the Downhill Method, in which you ski down the hill; whereas I ski via the Breath-Catching Method, in which you stand sideways on the hill, looking as athletic as possible without actually moving muscles (this could cause you to start sliding down the hill).
If anybody asks if you're OK, you say, "I'm just catching my breath!" in a tone of voice that suggests that at any moment you're going to swoop rapidly down the slope; whereas in fact you're planning to stay right where you are, rigid as a statue, until the spring thaw.
At night, when the Downhillers have all gone home, we Breath-Catchers will still be up there, clinging to the mountainside, chewing on our parkas for sustenance.
So I thought I'd take a stab at snowboarding, which is quite different from skiing.
In skiing, you wear a total of two skis, or approximately one per foot, so you can sort of maintain your balance by moving your feet, plus you have poles that you can stab people with if they make fun of you at close range.
Whereas with snowboarding, all you get is one board, which is shaped like a giant tongue depressor and manufactured by the Institute of Extremely Slippery Things. Both of your feet are strapped firmly to this board, so that if you start to fall, you can't stick a foot out and catch yourself. You crash to the ground like a tree and lie there while skiers swoop past and deliberately spray snow on you.
Skiers hate snowboarders. It's a generational thing. Skiers are (and here I am generalizing) middle-aged Republicans wearing designer space suits; snowboarders are defiant young rebels wearing deliberately drab clothing that is baggy enough to cover the snowboarder plus a major appliance. Skiers like to glide down the slopes in a series of graceful arcs; snowboarders like to attack the mountain, slashing, spinning, tumbling, going backward, blasting through snowdrifts, leaping off cliffs, getting their noses pierced in midair, etc.
Skiers view snowboarders as a menace; snowboarders view skiers as Elmer Fudd.
I took my snowboarding lesson in a small group led by a friend of mine named Brad Pearson, who also once talked me into jumping from a tall tree while attached only to a thin rope.
Brad took us up on a slope that offered ideal snow conditions for the novice who's going to fall a lot: Approximately seven flakes of powder on top of an 18-foot-thick base of reinforced concrete.
You could not dent this snow with a jackhammer. (I later learned, however, that you COULD dent it with the back of your head.)
We learned snowboarding via a two step method:
Step One: Watching Brad do something.
Step Two: Trying to do it ourselves.
I was pretty good at Step One. The problem with Step Two was that you had to stand up on your snowboard, which turns out to be a violation of at least five important laws of physics.
I'd struggle to my feet, and I'd be wavering there and then the Physics Police would drop a huge chunk of gravity on me, and WHAM my body would hit the concrete snow, sometimes bouncing as much as a foot.
"Keep your knees bent!" Brad would yell, helpfully.
Have you noticed that whatever sport you're trying to learn, some earnest person is always telling you to keep your knees bent? As if that would solve anything. I wanted to shout back, "Forget my Knees! Do Something About these Gravity Chunks!"
Needless to say my son had no trouble at all. None. In minutes he was cruising happily down the mountain; you could actually see his clothing getting baggier. I, on the other hand, spent most of my time lying on my back, groaning, while space-suited Republicans swooped past and sprayed snow on me.
If I hadn't gotten out of there, they'd have completely covered me; I now realize that the small hills you see on ski slopes are formed around the bodies of 47-year-olds who tried to learn snowboarding.
So I think, when my body heals, I'll go back to skiing. Maybe sometime you'll see me out on the slopes, catching my breath. Please throw me some food.
Fertilizer
A farmer was driving along the road with a load of fertilizer. A little boy, playing in front of his house, saw him and called, "What've you got in your truck?"
"Fertilizer," the farmer replied.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked the little boy.
"Put it on strawberries," answered the farmer.
"You ought to live here," the little boy advised him. "We put sugar and cream on ours."
