Humor...I Need Humor...

[Undertoad]

Dag nabbit! Sorry Spexx! I swear normally I read ALL the posts...!

[Cyclefrance]

Just kicking back to the cop-cycle entries a mo (sorry, only just caught it) - don't know if it's me, but damned if anyone notices my presence when pedalling.
Unfortunately, I am not alone, research reveals, and this cycle-blindness extends to motorists of every kind (as well as pedestrians) - even those driving milk floats! We are so invisible that drivers are constantly trying to take us out unwittingly - although there are also who do so deliberately.

We have token cycle annexes - nice little patches of white lines along the edge of the road - never a complete line from one point to another, just randomly placed ones covering only a very short distance that generally coincide with where the edge of the road is at its least friendly (drain covers, potholes, that sort of thing) - and motorists don't take any notice of them anyway. If they're not driving into them then they will certainly park in them - or on us.

Much as I would like to, my cycle commute to work and back is limited to summer (inter-equinox) time - I wouldn't dare chance the roads around here once the light has failed. As one Frenchman I met, just come back from a brief cycle tour of southern England, so aptly put it: 'In France the cyclist is sacred - in England he is the sacrifice!'

That just about sums it up.

[slang]

Originally Posted by Cyclefrance

........ 'In France the cyclist is sacred - in England he is the sacrifice!'

Your pro-cycle descriptions of France(!?) are influencing my normally quietly hostile attitude CF.

When I come with my bike to visit, can I bring some turret looking bike accessory (non-functional of course ) so as not to be totally consumed with the French attitude? Maybe wave a big US flag and shoot some animals too? Talk shit about the UN and walk around piss drunk?

I dont speak French either, muchless perfectly grammatically correct French.

[Cyclefrance]

I was actually describing southern England, but, bar the US flag bit, all that you propose sounds pretty French to me. You should fit in well - just remember to sprinkle the word 'merde' liberally into your sentences and your lack of language will pass unnoticed... oh, and over-doing it on the garlic can also help...

BTW, I'd go for the fully functionning turret if I were you - check out MP and the Holy Grail French Castle scene for verification...

Trust also you have checked out my web site.....

[Spexxvet]

Originally Posted by Undertoad

Dag nabbit! Sorry Spexx! I swear normally I read ALL the posts...!

No need to apologize. I just thought you'd want to know why nobody is laughing.

[xoxoxoBruce]

She spent the first day packing her personal belongings into boxes, crates, and suitcases.
On the second day, she had the movers come to collect her things.
On the third day, she sat down for the last time at their beautiful dining room table by candlelight, put on some soft background music, and feasted on a pound of shrimp, a jar of caviar, and a bottle of Chardonnay.
When she had finished, she went into each and every room and deposited a few half-eaten shrimp shells dipped in caviar, into the hollow of the curtain rods.
She then cleaned up the kitchen and left.

When the husband returned with his new girlfriend, all was bliss for the first few days.
Then slowly, the house began to smell.
They tried everything, cleaning, mopping, and airing the place out.
Vents were checked for dead rodents, and carpets were steam cleaned.
Air fresheners were hung everywhere.
Exterminators were brought in to set off gas canisters, during which they had to move out for a few days, and in the end they even paid to replace the expensive wool carpeting.
Nothing worked.

People stopped coming over to visit.
Repairmen refused to work in the house.
The maid quit.
Finally, they could not take the stench any longer and decided to move.
A month later, even though they had cut their price in half, they could not find a buyer for their stinky house.
Word got out, and eventually, even the local Realtors refused to return their calls.
Finally, they had to borrow a huge sum of money from the bank to purchase a new place.

The ex-wife called the man, and asked how things were going.
He told her the saga of the rotting house.
She listened politely, and said that she missed her old home terribly, and would be willing to reduce her divorce settlement in exchange for getting the house back.
Knowing his ex-wife had no idea how bad the smell was, he agreed on a price that was about 1/10 of what the house had been worth, but only if she were to sign the papers that very day.
She agreed, and within the hour his lawyers delivered the paperwork.
A week later the man and his girlfriend stood smiling as they watched the moving company pack everything to take to their new home,

including the curtain rods.

[xoxoxoBruce]

Harry came into the office an hour late for the third time in a week. "What's the story this time, Harry?" his boss asked sarcastically. "Let's hear a good excuse for a change."
Harry sighed, "Everything went wrong this morning, boss.
The wife decided to drive me to the station. She got ready in ten minutes, but then the draw bridge got stuck.
I swam across the river--see, my suit's still damp--ran out to the airport, got a ride on Mr. Trump's helicopter, landed on top of Radio City Music Hall, and was carried here piggyback by one of the Rockettes."
"You'll have to do better than that, Harry," said the boss. "No woman can get ready in ten minutes!"

[Iggy]

Wally's wedding night At 85 years of age, Wally married Lou Anne, a lovely 25 year old.
Since her new husband is so old, Lou Anne decides that after their wedding she and Wally should have separate bedrooms, because she is concerned that her new but aged husband may overexert himself if they spend the entire night together.
After the wedding festivities Lou Anne prepares herself for bed and the expected "knock" on the door. Sure enough the knock comes, the door opens and there is Wally, her 85 year old groom, ready for action.

They unite as one. All goes well, Wally takes leave of his bride, and she prepares to go to sleep.

After a few minutes, Lou Anne hears another knock on her bedroom door, and it's Wally. Again he is ready for more "action".

Somewhat surprised, Lou Anne consents for more coupling. When the newlyweds are done, Wally kisses his bride, bids her a fond goodnight and leaves.

She is set to go to sleep again, but, aha you guessed it - Wally is back again, rapping on the door, and is as fresh as a 25-year-old, ready for more "action".

And, once again they enjoy each other.

But as Wally gets set to leave again, his young bride says to him, "I am thoroughly impressed that at your age you can perform so well and so often.

I have been with guys less than a third of your age who were only good once. You are truly a great lover, Wally."

Wally, somewhat embarrassed, turns to Lou Anne and says:
.........."You mean I was here already?"

-----------------------
The moral of the story: Senior moments have their advantages.


I can't post attachments... So I will have try later for the funny images not related to above joke.

[Elspode]

It was a lively night in the revival tent, and Reverend Johnson was gripped with the power of the Spirit.

"I tell you all, the Lord is with us tonight! I can feel His power running through me! There's gonna be a healing tonight! Who needs healing?! Stand up, and tell the audience your name!"

A stooped old woman slowly struggled to her feet with the assistance of her crutches. "Reverend, my name is Mrs. Smith, and I have always had to use these crutches to walk."

"Well, sister, come on up here, and feel the healing power of the Lord!"

As she slowly made her way to the stage, a young man stood up. "Reverend, my name ith Mithter Joneth, and I have alwaith thpoken with a lithp."

"Well, Mr. Jones, come up to the stage and stand next to Mrs. Smith!"

"Now, Mrs. Smith," said the preacher, putting his hands on her head, "feel the *power* of the Lord!" The preacher quivered for a moment, then said, "Now, Mrs. Smith, go behind that screen and pray to the Lord, and you shall be healed!" Mrs. Smith painfully walked behind the screen with on her crutches.

"Mr. Jones, feel the power of the Lord," said the preacher, again placing his hands on the head of the subject. After quivering even more than the first time, he said, "Mister Jones, go behind that screen and pray with Mrs. Smith!"

There was a soft murmur from the crowd as the minutes slowly ticked by, the preacher alternately gazing up to the sky, wringing his hands, and pacing back and forth in a near frenzy. Finally, he spoke.

"Mrs. Smith! I want you to throw your left crutch over the screen!" The audience gasped as the left crutch sailed over the screen and clattered on the stage.

"Now, Mrs. Smith, I want you to throw your right crutch over the screen!" The audience cheered loudly as the right crutch came flying over the screen.

"Now, Mr. Jones, say something in a loud, clear voice so everyone can hear you!"

"MITTITH SMITH JUTH FELL ON HER ATH!"

[Cyclefrance]

The Indian camp was like any other, As boys, the braves would learn their various customs: how to make and throw a tomahawk, how to track buffalo and deer, and also how to build a teepee.

Sadly not all were good at the last task, and one particular brave was really no good at all. Whereas everyone else’s tepee was strong and tall and tightly bound with blankets and hides, there was one brave whose tepee was… well, just a mess really.

The branches that took the weight sagged where they should have been strong, and he never did quite get it together when it came to securing the covering. It just sort of flapped in the breeze. Needless to say, when it rained, the teepee leaked. And even the interior was bad. Just a single buffalo hide on the ground, from a very old buffalo as well, quite thin and barely capable to keep the dirt at bay.

And so it was that the brave acquired a new name: Poor Tent. And Poor Tent never really was admired by the rest of the tribe, in fact he had to live on the perimeter of the camp, away from all the others. The thought of having their nice clean, dry, strong teepees next door to the sad and desperate construction that Poor Tent made was just not acceptable. Seems that neighbour problems were as strong then as they are today!

Now the chief of this tribe was blessed with three daughters, and their father was very proud of his young girl squaws. They did everything together, That is until that age arrived when all young Indian girls started to think of their future as the wife of a brave.

For two of the squaws this presented no problem for their father, for they were attracted to two of the strongest braves in the tribe, but the third and youngest (and somewhat his favourite), Little Running Deer by name, just fell in love with Poor Tent.

Her father was angry. He did not know what to do to try to stop her and so he threatened to banish her. But Little Running Deer’s love was strong, and Poor Tent loved her too. And so it was that the chief’s youngest squaw left her family to join her loved one and live on the perimeter of the camp, resting on the sad buffalo hide inside Poor Tent’s teepee, while her sisters enjoyed living inside the camp in the luxury of their teepees, and resting on their grand and thick buffalo hides..

Time passed and the three squaws had babies. Three healthy sons, one each. And those healthy sons grew to be strong young boys. But even still, Poor Tent and Little Running Deer were never permitted to return to the camp. Still they lived outside on the perimeter.

The years passed and the sons reached their teenage years, and began to learn to hunt - how to stalk the buffalo and deer as their fathers had also learned before them.

And so it was one day, that all three sons found themselves tracking the same buffalo. A huge beast it was, and one of the largest in the herd, They stalked it quietly and stealthily. Unbeknown to them, their chief (and grandfather) was there also watching them from behind.

All went well as they moved gradually closer to the beast, but then suddenly, the buffalo found their scent. He looked at them snorting and stamping the ground with his hooves. And then, in a moment he charged. The first two sons soon realised that the buffalo was going to charge right into them all, and they turned and ran, but Poor Tent’s son caught sight of his grandfather and realised that if he moved from the animal’s path then the buffalo would surely kill the chief. With little time to spare, Poor Tent’s son raised his bow that he was carrying and drew and fired in quick succession three arrows straight at and into the buffalo about the neck head and chest. The beast pulled back momentarily, but then seemed to be even angrier at this assault and charged again. Another three arrows, one ,two, three, and as each one hit, the buffalo eased and then resumed his charge. With no more then a mere few yards left, Poor Tent’s son released his last and final arrow. Fast true and hard it sped towards its target and buried itself deep into the chest and heart of the buffalo, and this giant of an animal collapsed but five paces from the young brave. The young brave’s heart pounded but the chief was safe!

The chief looked at the grandson who had saved his life and knew what he must do.

So that evening he called all the braves and squaws to the centre of the camp where they sat in a large circle. And in the middle of the circle were laid the hides from the teepees of the three fathers. And behind each hide a mother stood, each of the three chief’s daughters. And on each one of the hides a squaw’s son sat.

And the chief appeared and addressed his tribe, telling them of the danger he had faced and how but one brave had saved him. And when he had finished his tale. He stopped and looked at Poor Tent who was standing next to Little Running bear now, and then turned again to his tribe and said:

‘Today, Poor Tent and his family will return to the tribe because of his son’s bravery. For so it must be, no longer must they be cast outside our tribe, for Poor Tent’s son has saved my life and proved his bravery as good as any mans, and certainly as good as, if not better than, both the other two braves together that are also sitting here. For so it shall be told and written - passed forward from generation to generation for all to know from this day forward – the son of the squaw on the hide Poor Tent uses, is equal to the sons of the squaws on the other two hides!’

(Just think about it….)

[xoxoxoBruce]

[Iggy]

I feel really bad... but I don't get it.

[jinx]

*coughpythagoreantheoremcough*

[Iggy]

Ohhh.... I get it now.


Thanks!!

[lumberjim]

long way to go for a bad pun.