There is a mute who wants to buy a toothbrush. By imitating the action of brushing one’s teeth, he successfully expresses himself to the shopkeeper and the purchase is done.
Now if there is a blind man who wishes to buy a pair of sunglasses, how should he express himself?
He opens his mouth and says. "I would like to buy a pair of sunglasses."
A guy is walking along the shoreline at the beach wearing just a pair of cut-off jeans. Sure enough he kicks up a bottle, pulls the cork, and out comes the Genie to give him one wish. The guy pulls out a map of the Middle East, and asks the Genie if he can bring Peace to this part of the World.
The Genie pales, and says "Master, these people have been at war since time began. It is their nature, the very fibre of their lives. What you ask is totally impossible. It is probably the only wish I cannot grant you. Ask for anything else and I will make it happen."
"OK," the dude says, "tomorrow morning have my wife awaken me, with the best blow job I’ve ever had, on her own, without my begging and pleading. Because SHE LIKES IT, because SHE WANTS TO, because IT TURNS HER ON!!"
The Genie thinks for a moment and says, "Let me see that map again"
A man walked into his back yard one morning and found a gorilla in a tree. He called a gorilla-removal service, and soon a serviceman arrived with a stick, a Chihuahua, a pair of handcuffs and a shotgun. "Now listen carefully," he told the homeowner. "I’m going to climb the tree and poke the gorilla with the stick until he falls to the ground. The trained Chihuahua will then go right for his, uh, sensitive area, and when the gorilla instinctively crosses his hands in front to protect himself, you slap on the handcuffs." "Got it", the homeowner replied. "But what’s the shotgun for?" "If I fall out of the tree before the gorilla", the man said, "shoot the Chihuahua."
A fellow was reading the paper one day lamenting the fact that his doctor has ordered him to lose 75 pounds. Next thing he sees is an advertisement for a guaranteed weight loss program. Guaranteed like heck, he thinks to himself. But lets see what they think they can do. He calls them on the phone and subscribes to the 3 day, 10 LB weight loss program. The next day there comes a knock at his door, and when he answers, there stands before him a voluptuous, athletic 19 year old babe dressed in nothing but a pair of Nikes and a sign hanging around her neck. She introduces herself as a representative of the weight loss company. The sign reads, If you can catch me, you can have me. Well, without a second thought he takes off after her (like who wouldn’t). A few miles later, huffing and puffing, he finally catches her and has his way with her. After they are through he kisses the girl one last time and thinks to himself with a nod, I like the way this company does business. For the next two days, the same girl shows up and the same thing happens each time. On the fourth day, he weighs himself and, sure enough, he has lost 10 pounds. Deciding that he likes his somewhat more slender physique, not to mention the method of treatment, he calls the company back and subscribes to their 5 day, 20 LB weight loss program. He thinks that losing 20 pounds in only 5 days seems like a lot, but he is intrigued by what their workout schedule might be like this time. As expected, the next day there comes a knock at his door. When he answers it there stands a 22 year old knockout dressed in nothing but a pair of Reeboks and a sign hanging around her neck. She is simply stunning, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She introduces herself as a representative of the weight loss company. The sign reads, If you can catch me, you can have me. He’s out the door like a shot. This gal is in excellent shape and it takes a while to catch her. But when he does, it is worth every cramp and wheeze. She is wonderful, the best he has ever had. He is really looking forward to the next four days… For the next four days, the same girl shows up and the same thing happens each time, much to his delight. On the sixth day, he weighs himself and, unbelievably, he has lost another 20 pounds. I love this company, he thinks to himself, I never knew losing weight could be so easy and so much fun. Feeling much better about himself, he decides to go for broke and subscribe to the companies 7 day, 50 pound weight loss program. Are you sure, sir? asks the representative on the phone. This is our most rigorous program. Absolutely, says he, I love your program. haven’t felt this good in years! The next day there comes a knock at his door and he enthusiastically answers it. There stands before him a 200 pound perfect specimen of a man dressed in nothing but racing spikes and a sign around his neck. He introduces himself as a representative of the weight loss company. The sign reads, If I can catch you, I can have you.
A guy wakes up in the morning. He has a massive hangover and can’t remember anything he did last night.
He picks up his robe from the floor and puts it on. He notices there’s something in one of the pockets and it turns out to be a bra.
He thinks, "Bloody hell what happened last night??"
He walks towards the bathroom and finds a pair of panties in the other pocket of his robe. Again he thinks, "What happened last night? Who was I with? Must have been a wild party."
He opens the bathroom door, walks in and has a look in the mirror. He notices a little string hanging out of his mouth and his only thought is, "If there’s a god, please let this be a teabag."
Online computer users sometimes engage in what is affectionately known as "cybersex". Often the fantasies typed via keyboards and shared through the Internet get pretty raunchy. This one, however, somehow misses the boat…
Dave (surname withheld) – Wellhung
Online Cyber Slut – Sweetheart
Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?
Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I work out every day, I’m toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36. What do you look like?
Wellhung: I’m 6’3" and about 250 pounds. I wear glasses and I have on a pair of blue sweat pants I just bought from Walmart. I’m also wearing a T-shirt with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner…it smells funny.
Sweetheart: I want you. Would you like to screw me?
Wellhung: OK
Sweetheart: We’re in my bedroom. There’s soft music playing on the stereo and candles on my dresser and night table.I’m looking up into your eyes, smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle your huge, swelling bulge.
Wellhung: I’m gulping, I’m beginning to sweat.
Sweetheart: I’m pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.
Wellhung: Now I’m unbuttoning your blouse. My hands are trembling.
Sweetheart: I’m moaning softly.
Wellhung: I’m taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.
Sweetheart: I’m throwing my head back in pleasure. The cool silk slides off my warm skin. I’m rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.
Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a hole in your blouse. I’m sorry.
Sweetheart: That’s OK, it wasn’t really too expensive.
Wellhung: I’ll pay for it.
Sweetheart: Don’t worry about it. I’m wearing a lacy black bra. My soft breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.
Wellhung: I’m fumbling with the clasp on your bra. I think it’s stuck. Do you have any scissors?
Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly. I’m reaching back undoing the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My nipples are erect for you.
Wellhung: How did you do that? I’m picking up the bra and inspecting the clasp.
Sweetheart: I’m arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue all over me.
Wellhung: I’m dropping the bra. Now I’m licking your, you know, breasts. They’re neat!
Sweetheart: I’m running my fingers through your hair. Now I’m nibbling your ear.
Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.
Sweetheart: What?
Wellhung: I’m so sorry. Really.
Sweetheart: I’m wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my blouse.
Wellhung: I’m taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a plop.
Sweetheart: OK. I’m pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your hard tool.
Wellhung: I’m screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!
Sweetheart: I’m pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.
Wellhung: I’m pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and out nibbling on you…umm… wait a minute.
Sweetheart: What’s the matter?
Wellhung: I’ve got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I’m choking.
Sweetheart: Are you OK?
Wellhung: I’m having a coughing fit. I’m turning all red.
Sweetheart: Can I help?
Wellhung: I’m running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I’m fumbling through the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?
Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.
Wellhung: I’m drinking a cup of water. There, that’s better.
Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.
Wellhung: I’m washing the cup now.
Sweetheart: I’m on the bed arching for you.
Wellhung: I’m drying the cup. Now I’m putting it back in the cabinet. And now I’m walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it’s dark, I’m lost. Where’s the bedroom?
Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.
Wellhung: I found it.
Sweetheart: I’m tuggin’ off your pants. I’m moaning. I want you so badly.
Wellhung: Me too.
Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately-our naked bodies pressing each other.
Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.
Sweetheart: Why don’t you take off your glasses?
Wellhung: OK, but I can’t see very well without them. I place the glasses on the night table.
Sweetheart: I’m bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!
Wellhung: I have to pee. I’m fumbling my way blindly across the room and toward the bathroom.
Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.
Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it’s dark. I’m feeling around for the toilet. I lift the lid.
Sweetheart: I’m waiting eagerly for your return.
Wellhung: I’m done going. I’m feeling around for the flush handle, but I can’t find it. Uh-oh!
Sweetheart: What’s the matter now?
Wellhung: I’ve realized that I’ve peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry again. I’m walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.
Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.
Wellhung: OK, now I’m going to put my…you know …thing…in your…you know…woman’s thing.
Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!
Wellhung: I’m touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your neck. Umm, I’m having a little trouble here.
Sweetheart: I’m moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can’t stand it another second! Slide in! Screw me now!
Wellhung: I’m flaccid.
Sweetheart: What?
Wellhung: I’m limp. I can’t sustain an erection.
Sweetheart: I’m standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my face.
Wellhung: I’m shrugging with a sad look on my face, my wiener all floppy. I’m going to get my glasses and see what’s wrong.
Sweetheart: No, never mind. I’m getting dressed. I’m putting on my underwear. Now I’m putting on my wet nasty blouse.
Wellhung: No wait! Now I’m squinting, trying to find the night table. I’m feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames and your candles.
Sweetheart: I’m buttoning my blouse. Now I’m putting on my shoes.
Wellhung: I’ve found my glasses. I’m putting them on. My God! One of our candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I’m pointing at it, a shocked look on my face.
Sweetheart: Go to hell. I’m logging off, you loser!
Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!
Sweetheart: <logged off>
RECEIVED FROM AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR:
You know that book Men are from Mars, Women from Venus? Well, this assignment was actually turned in by two of my English students: Rebecca and Gary. First, the Assignment: English 44A SMU Creative Writing (Prof. Miller).
In-class Assignment for Wednesday: Today we will experiment with a form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. One of you will then write the first paragraph of a short story. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back and forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.
And now, the Assignment as submitted by Rebecca & Gary:
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At first, Laurie couldn’t decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favourite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.
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Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far … 11 But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship’s cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.
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He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalising the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel." Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth — when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspapers to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one’s innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.
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Little did she know, but she has less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anuludrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament treaty through Congress had left Earth a defenceless target for the hostile alien enemies who were determined to destroy the human race.
Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anuludrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverise the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporised Laurie and 8S million other Americans. The President slammed his fist on the conference table. "We can’t allow this! I’m going to veto that treaty! Let’s blow ’em out of the sky!"
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This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.
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Yeah? Well, you’re a self-centred tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium.
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Asshole.
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Bitch.
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 was 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 to much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhoea. 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 can not 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 rivalling that of a skilled ballet dancer.
I was about half-way 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, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, 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 are 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 crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my oesophagus.
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 half-way 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 half-way 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 the 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.
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 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 centre 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 Steakhouse. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.