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Humour Shots Part Twelve
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Email from a friend: "CanYouFixTheSpaceBarOnMyKeyboard?"
"May I take your order, Sir?" the waiter asked.
"Yes, how do you prepare your chickens?"
"Nothing special, Sir," he replied. "We just tell them straight out that they're going to die."
WANTED FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER (the actual AP headline)
Linda Burnett, 23, a resident of San Diego, was visiting her in-laws, and while there, went to a nearby supermarket to pick up some groceries. Several people noticed her sitting in her car with the windows rolled up and with her eyes closed, with both hands behind the back of her head. One customer who had been at the store for a while became concerned and walked over to the car. He noticed that Linda's eyes were now open, and she looked very strange. He asked her if she was okay, and Linda replied that she'd been shot in the back of the head, and had been holding her brains in for over an hour. The man called the paramedics, who broke into the car because the doors were locked and Linda refused to remove her hands from her head. When they finally got in, they found that Linda had a wad of bread dough on the back of her head. A Pillsbury biscuit canister had exploded from the heat, making a loud noise that sounded like a gunshot, and the wad of dough hit her in the back of her head. When she reached back to find out what it was, she felt the dough and thought it was her brains. She initially passed out, but quickly recovered and tried to hold her brains in for over an hour until someone noticed and came to her aid.
And, yes, Linda is a blonde......
As soon as she had finished convent school, a bright young girl named Lena left Ireland and made her way to New York where before long, she became a successful performer in show business.
Eventually she returned to her home town for a visit and on a Saturday night went to confession in the church, which she had always attended as a child.
In the confessional Father Sullivan recognized her and began asking her about her work. She explained that she was an acrobatic dancer, and he wanted to know what that meant.
She said she would be happy to show him the kind of thing she did on stage.
She stepped out of the confessional and within sight of Father Sullivan, she went into a series of cartwheels, leaping splits, handsprings and backflips.
Kneeling near the confessional, waiting their turn, were two middle-aged ladies. They witnessed Lena's acrobatics with wide eyes, and one said to the other: "Will you just look at the penance Father Sullivan is givin' out this night, and me without me bloomers on!"
I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?" She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.
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Why do they lock petrol station toilets? Are they afraid someone will clean them?
A young cook decided that the French would enjoy feasting on rabbits and decided to raise rabbits in Paris and sell them to the finer restaurants in the city. He searched all over Paris seeking a suitable place to raise his rabbits. None could be found. Finally, an old priest at the cathedral said he could have a small area behind the rectory for his rabbits. He successfully raised a number of them, and when he went about Paris selling them, a restaurant owner asked him where he got such fresh rabbits. The young man replied, "I raise them myself, near the cathedral. In fact, I have... a hutch back of Notre Dame."
Brenda, pregnant with her first child, was paying a visit to her obstetrician's office. When the exam was over, she shyly began, "My husband wants me to ask you..." "I know, I know," the doctor said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I get asked that all the time. Sex is fine until late in the pregnancy." "No, that's not it at all," Brenda confessed. "He wants to know if I can still mow the lawn."
"A new study says that over half of all Californians are obese. In fact, half of Californians are really two-thirds of Californians."
- Jay Leno
Mary's husband was incurably lazy. They both worked full time, but he never did anything around the house and certainly not any housework. That, he declared, was woman's work.
But one evening Mary arrived home from work to find the children bathed, a load of wash in the washing machine and another in the dryer, dinner on the stove and a beautifully set table, complete with flowers.
She was astonished, and she immediately wanted to know what was going on. It turned out that Charley, her husband, had read a magazine article that suggested working wives would be more romantically inclined if they weren't so tired from having to do all the housework in addition to holding down a full-time job.
The next day, she couldn't wait to tell her friends in the office.
"How did it work out?" they asked.
"Well, it was a great dinner," Mary said. "Charley even cleaned up, helped the kids with their homework, folded the laundry and put everything away."
"But what about afterward?" her friends wanted to know.
"It didn't work out," Mary said. "Charley was too tired."
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I have just been through the annual pilgimage of torture and humiliation known as buying a bathing suit.
When I was a child in the 1950's the bathing costume for a woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman with a mature figure - boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered.
They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a great job.
Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped from marble.
The mature woman has a choice -- she can either front up at the maternity department and try on a floral costume with a skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotumas escaped from Disney's fantasia, or she can wander around every run-of- the- mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of flourescent rubber bands. What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material.
The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which gives the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks. The reason for this is that a shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.
Anyway, I fought my way into the bathing costume, but as I twanged the shoulder strap into place I gasped in horror-- my bosom had disappeared!
Eventually I found one bosom under my left armpit. It took a while to find the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib. The problem is that modern bathing suits do not have bra cups. The mature woman is meant to wear her bosom spread across the chest like a speed hump. I realigned my speed hump and lurched toward the mirror to take full-view assessment. The bathing costume fitted all right, but unfortunately it only fitted those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom and side. I looked like a lump of play dough wearing undersize cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from the pre-pubescent salesgirl popped her head through the curtains "Oh There you are!" she said, admiring the bathing suits. I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to show me.
I tried a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversize napkin in a serviette ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with a ragged frill and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane on a bad day. I tried on a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.
I tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear them.
Finally I found a costume that fitted. A two piece affair with shorts-style bottoms and a halter top. It was cheap, comfortable and bulge-friendly, so I bought it. When I got home I read the label which said "Material may become transparent in water", but I'm determined to wear it anyway.
I'll just have to learn to breaststroke in the sand!
A feisty 70 year old woman had to call a furnace repairman. After a quick inspection, the man put some oil into the motor and handed her a $70 bill for labour.
"Labour charges!" she exclaimed. "It took you five minutes."
The repairman explained that his company had a minimum one-hour charge on every house call.
"Well, I want my remaining 55 minutes of labour," the lady responded, and she handed him a rake.