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This is funny. (1 Viewer)

MC Gas Money said:
One of the funniest articles ive ever read

http://www.cracked.com/blog/7-terrible-sports-achievements-that-will-never-be-equaled/
Click to expand...
"My point is, Shaquille O'Neal hasn't even missed 17 free throws in a row and he shoots foul shots like a timid third grader raising his hand to ask if it's okay to have a seizure."

"I guess we can break the tie with Cubs pitcher Bob Buhl. He didn't have a hit for the entire 1962 season and then some to go 0 for 88. But screw that. Counting a pitcher in your batting statistics is like counting your priest in your sexual conquests."

:lmao:

 
Last edited by a moderator:
An old hillbilly farmer had a wife who nagged him unmercifully. From morning till night (and sometimes later), she was always complaining about something. The only time he got any relief was when he was out plowing with his old mule. He tried to plow a lot.

One day, when he was out plowing, his wife brought him lunch in the field. He drove the old mule into the shade, sat down on a stump, and began to eat his lunch. Immediately, his wife began haranguing him again. Complain, nag, nag; it just went on and on.

All of a sudden, the old mule lashed out with both hind feet; caught her smack in the back of the head. Killed her dead on the spot.

At the funeral several days later, the minister noticed something rather odd. When a woman mourner would approach the old farmer, he would listen for a minute, then nod his head in agreement; but when a man mourner approached him, he would listen for a minute, then shake his head in disagreement. This was so consistent, the minister decided to ask the old farmer about it.

So after the funeral, the minister spoke to the old farmer, and asked him why he nodded his head and agreed with the women, but always shook his head and disagreed with all the men.

The old farmer said: "Well, the women would come up and say something about how nice my wife looked, or how pretty her dress was, so I'd nod my head in agreement."

"And what about the men?" the minister asked.

"They wanted to know if the mule was for sale."

 
Another one. This is from the blog of a friend of mine from HS.

The Tale of the Pantsless Clown

I was hanging out with my sister yesterday, as part of my weekend-long birthday festivities, when my nieces and nephew started clamoring to hear Stories About When We Were Kids™.

And perhaps this wasn’t the best story to tell, but I automatically launched into The Tale Of The Pantsless Clown.

It was around ’78-’79. I was eight, and Tina was six. At the time, we lived on Samoset Avenue in Hull. My mother had choir practice down the street at Saint Ann’s, and figured that Tina and I could manage for a couple of hours by ourselves without burning down the house. By today’s parenting standards, this would have been enough to have us placed in state custody. All I can tell you is that, hey, it was the Seventies. We ate terrible food laced with at least a soupçon of Red #5 on the daily, played completely unsupervised for hours on end in abandoned buildings, and had very questionable television watching habits.

I don’t know where our dad was. Probably away on a business trip. Our older brother was thousands of miles away on an exchange student program in Málaga, where he’d send postcards lamenting the preponderance of bad disco. All I know is that we were instructed to go inside once the streetlights came on, and that perhaps there’d be McDonalds in our future if we managed not to cause serious harm to ourselves or to the furniture.

We amused ourselves with the neighborhood kids, being mindful to glance up at the streetlights now and again. For some reason, the easygoing chatter of children turned very dark, and before long, we were being regaled with the story of a clown in a van. A clown that was naked from the waist down, only you wouldn’t know that until he beckoned you to come closer as he proferred…I don’t know…candy or a puppy or something. And you’d be so shocked at this pantsless clown that you wouldn’t even scream as he snatched you and tossed you into the back of his van.

As Tina and I grappled with the horror of this, the streetlights started coming on. And our friends were called in to enter their respective, safe, parented homes. Being all of two years older, I knew that I was responsible for Tina, who was perched in a tight little ball on the edge of the sidewalk, sobbing. I placed my hand comfortingly on Tina’s shoulder. “C’mon – we should go inside now.”

She looked up at me, huge blue-green eyes round with terror. “But…butbutbut…what if THE CLOWN IS WAITING FOR US IN THE HOUSE?!”

This hadn’t occurred to me. I mean, Jesus, we were total clownbait, weren’t we? Desperately, I tried to suss out my options. Run to a neighbor’s house? No, I was acutely conscious of not interrupting dinner. Stay where we were? No – the thing was to keep moving.

“Get up. We’re going to Saint Ann’s.”

We ran all the way up Samoset Avenue, crying hysterically, checking over our shoulders for headlights that appeared vaguely hostile. Like they’d be attached to a van driven by a pantsless clown. And we arrived at the church shivering and scared witless. I managed to pull open the huge mahogany door and was immediately hit with the smell of incense and floor polish. The sound of the organ and the choir, my mother’s pristine soprano ringing to the rafters, abruptly stopped and I heard: “Betty – aren’t those your girls?”

My mother raced down the front aisle, her brick-red polyester pantsuit fwisk-fwisk-fwisking as she approached us, face pinched in maternal concern. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Tina and I exploded in a cacophonous din of wailed explanations:

“There’s this clown….”
“…in a big black car…”
“NO, a WHITE VAN…”
“…and he’s not wearing anything…”
“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”
“…and he’s really mean and he puts kids in the van…”
“…and he…”
“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”
“We WANTED to go inside like you SAID.”
“BUT THE CLOWN IS INSIDE THE HOUSE, MA.”

My mother looked at me, then looked at my sister, then looked back at me. “JESUS H. CHRIST,” she muttered, then directed us into a pew, where we sat quietly ashamed until practice was over.

There was no McDonald's for dinner.
Click to expand...
 
Mr. Ected said:
Another one. This is from the blog of a friend of mine from HS.

The Tale of the Pantsless Clown

I was hanging out with my sister yesterday, as part of my weekend-long birthday festivities, when my nieces and nephew started clamoring to hear Stories About When We Were Kids™.

And perhaps this wasn’t the best story to tell, but I automatically launched into The Tale Of The Pantsless Clown.

It was around ’78-’79. I was eight, and Tina was six. At the time, we lived on Samoset Avenue in Hull. My mother had choir practice down the street at Saint Ann’s, and figured that Tina and I could manage for a couple of hours by ourselves without burning down the house. By today’s parenting standards, this would have been enough to have us placed in state custody. All I can tell you is that, hey, it was the Seventies. We ate terrible food laced with at least a soupçon of Red #5 on the daily, played completely unsupervised for hours on end in abandoned buildings, and had very questionable television watching habits.

I don’t know where our dad was. Probably away on a business trip. Our older brother was thousands of miles away on an exchange student program in Málaga, where he’d send postcards lamenting the preponderance of bad disco. All I know is that we were instructed to go inside once the streetlights came on, and that perhaps there’d be McDonalds in our future if we managed not to cause serious harm to ourselves or to the furniture.

We amused ourselves with the neighborhood kids, being mindful to glance up at the streetlights now and again. For some reason, the easygoing chatter of children turned very dark, and before long, we were being regaled with the story of a clown in a van. A clown that was naked from the waist down, only you wouldn’t know that until he beckoned you to come closer as he proferred…I don’t know…candy or a puppy or something. And you’d be so shocked at this pantsless clown that you wouldn’t even scream as he snatched you and tossed you into the back of his van.

As Tina and I grappled with the horror of this, the streetlights started coming on. And our friends were called in to enter their respective, safe, parented homes. Being all of two years older, I knew that I was responsible for Tina, who was perched in a tight little ball on the edge of the sidewalk, sobbing. I placed my hand comfortingly on Tina’s shoulder. “C’mon – we should go inside now.”

She looked up at me, huge blue-green eyes round with terror. “But…butbutbut…what if THE CLOWN IS WAITING FOR US IN THE HOUSE?!”

This hadn’t occurred to me. I mean, Jesus, we were total clownbait, weren’t we? Desperately, I tried to suss out my options. Run to a neighbor’s house? No, I was acutely conscious of not interrupting dinner. Stay where we were? No – the thing was to keep moving.

“Get up. We’re going to Saint Ann’s.”

We ran all the way up Samoset Avenue, crying hysterically, checking over our shoulders for headlights that appeared vaguely hostile. Like they’d be attached to a van driven by a pantsless clown. And we arrived at the church shivering and scared witless. I managed to pull open the huge mahogany door and was immediately hit with the smell of incense and floor polish. The sound of the organ and the choir, my mother’s pristine soprano ringing to the rafters, abruptly stopped and I heard: “Betty – aren’t those your girls?”

My mother raced down the front aisle, her brick-red polyester pantsuit fwisk-fwisk-fwisking as she approached us, face pinched in maternal concern. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Tina and I exploded in a cacophonous din of wailed explanations:

“There’s this clown….”

“…in a big black car…”

“NO, a WHITE VAN…”

“…and he’s not wearing anything…”

“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”

“…and he’s really mean and he puts kids in the van…”

“…and he…”

“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”

“We WANTED to go inside like you SAID.”

“BUT THE CLOWN IS INSIDE THE HOUSE, MA.”

My mother looked at me, then looked at my sister, then looked back at me. “JESUS H. CHRIST,” she muttered, then directed us into a pew, where we sat quietly ashamed until practice was over.

There was no McDonald's for dinner.
Click to expand...
Click to expand...
I don't get it. Was there really a clown?

 
Officer Pete Malloy said:
Mr. Ected said:
Another one. This is from the blog of a friend of mine from HS.

The Tale of the Pantsless Clown

I was hanging out with my sister yesterday, as part of my weekend-long birthday festivities, when my nieces and nephew started clamoring to hear Stories About When We Were Kids™.

And perhaps this wasn’t the best story to tell, but I automatically launched into The Tale Of The Pantsless Clown.

It was around ’78-’79. I was eight, and Tina was six. At the time, we lived on Samoset Avenue in Hull. My mother had choir practice down the street at Saint Ann’s, and figured that Tina and I could manage for a couple of hours by ourselves without burning down the house. By today’s parenting standards, this would have been enough to have us placed in state custody. All I can tell you is that, hey, it was the Seventies. We ate terrible food laced with at least a soupçon of Red #5 on the daily, played completely unsupervised for hours on end in abandoned buildings, and had very questionable television watching habits.

I don’t know where our dad was. Probably away on a business trip. Our older brother was thousands of miles away on an exchange student program in Málaga, where he’d send postcards lamenting the preponderance of bad disco. All I know is that we were instructed to go inside once the streetlights came on, and that perhaps there’d be McDonalds in our future if we managed not to cause serious harm to ourselves or to the furniture.

We amused ourselves with the neighborhood kids, being mindful to glance up at the streetlights now and again. For some reason, the easygoing chatter of children turned very dark, and before long, we were being regaled with the story of a clown in a van. A clown that was naked from the waist down, only you wouldn’t know that until he beckoned you to come closer as he proferred…I don’t know…candy or a puppy or something. And you’d be so shocked at this pantsless clown that you wouldn’t even scream as he snatched you and tossed you into the back of his van.

As Tina and I grappled with the horror of this, the streetlights started coming on. And our friends were called in to enter their respective, safe, parented homes. Being all of two years older, I knew that I was responsible for Tina, who was perched in a tight little ball on the edge of the sidewalk, sobbing. I placed my hand comfortingly on Tina’s shoulder. “C’mon – we should go inside now.”

She looked up at me, huge blue-green eyes round with terror. “But…butbutbut…what if THE CLOWN IS WAITING FOR US IN THE HOUSE?!”

This hadn’t occurred to me. I mean, Jesus, we were total clownbait, weren’t we? Desperately, I tried to suss out my options. Run to a neighbor’s house? No, I was acutely conscious of not interrupting dinner. Stay where we were? No – the thing was to keep moving.

“Get up. We’re going to Saint Ann’s.”

We ran all the way up Samoset Avenue, crying hysterically, checking over our shoulders for headlights that appeared vaguely hostile. Like they’d be attached to a van driven by a pantsless clown. And we arrived at the church shivering and scared witless. I managed to pull open the huge mahogany door and was immediately hit with the smell of incense and floor polish. The sound of the organ and the choir, my mother’s pristine soprano ringing to the rafters, abruptly stopped and I heard: “Betty – aren’t those your girls?”

My mother raced down the front aisle, her brick-red polyester pantsuit fwisk-fwisk-fwisking as she approached us, face pinched in maternal concern. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Tina and I exploded in a cacophonous din of wailed explanations:

“There’s this clown….”

“…in a big black car…”

“NO, a WHITE VAN…”

“…and he’s not wearing anything…”

“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”

“…and he’s really mean and he puts kids in the van…”

“…and he…”

“HE HAS NO PANTS ON.”

“We WANTED to go inside like you SAID.”

“BUT THE CLOWN IS INSIDE THE HOUSE, MA.”

My mother looked at me, then looked at my sister, then looked back at me. “JESUS H. CHRIST,” she muttered, then directed us into a pew, where we sat quietly ashamed until practice was over.

There was no McDonald's for dinner.
Click to expand...
Click to expand...
I don't get it. Was there really a clown?
Click to expand...
your face is a pantsless clown

 
Jack and Jill went up the hill

so Jack could lick Jill's candy

Jack got a shock, and a mouthful of c##k

'cause Jill's real name was Randy!

 
Green and Gold said:
MC Gas Money said:
One of the funniest articles ive ever read

http://www.cracked.com/blog/7-terrible-sports-achievements-that-will-never-be-equaled/
Click to expand...
"My point is, Shaquille O'Neal hasn't even missed 17 free throws in a row and he shoots foul shots like a timid third grader raising his hand to ask if it's okay to have a seizure."

"I guess we can break the tie with Cubs pitcher Bob Buhl. He didn't have a hit for the entire 1962 season and then some to go 0 for 88. But screw that. Counting a pitcher in your batting statistics is like counting your priest in your sexual conquests."

:lmao:
Click to expand...
Went to that author's main site. Great stuff there. Here's one of his:

http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-deranged-authors-who-wrote-same-book-over-over/

 
What's the difference between Bill Cosby and Charles Manson?

Charles Manson can get young women to have sex with him willingly.

 
EMBARRASSING MEDICAL EXAMS

1. A man comes into the ER and yells . . .'My wife's going to have her baby in the cab.'

I grabbed my stuff, rushed out to the cab, lifted the lady's dress and began to take off her underwear.

Suddenly I noticed that there were several cabs - - -...

and I was in the wrong one.

Submitted by Dr. Mark MacDonald,

San Francisco

2... At the beginning of my shift I placed a stethoscope on an elderly and slightly deaf female patient's anterior chest wall.

'Big breaths,'. . . I instructed.

'Yes, they used to be,'. . . Replied the patient.

Submitted by Dr. Richard Byrnes,

Seattle, WA

3. One day I had to be the bearer of bad news when I told a wife that her husband had died of a massive myocardial infarct.

Not more than five minutes later, I heard her

Reporting to the rest of the family that he had

Died of a 'massive internal fart.'

Submitted by Dr. Susan Steinberg

4. During a patient's two week follow-up appointment with his cardiologist, he informed me, his doctor,

that he was having trouble with one of his medications.

'Which one?'. .. . I asked.

'The patch.'

'The Nurse told me to put on a new one every six hours

and now I'm running out of places to put it!'

I had him quickly undress and discovered what I hoped I wouldn't see.

Yes, the man had over fifty patches on his body!

Now, the instructions include removal of the old patch

before applying a new one.

Submitted by Dr. Rebecca St. Clair,

Norfolk, VA

5. While acquainting myself with a new elderly patient, I asked,

'How long have you been bedridden?'

After a look of complete confusion she answered,

' Why, not for about twenty years - when my husband was alive.'

Submitted by Dr. Steven Swanson,

Corvallis, OR

6. I was performing rounds at the hospital one morning and while checking up on a man I asked . . .' So how's your breakfast this morning?'

'It's very good except for the Kentucky Jelly.

I can't seem to get used to the taste,' Bob replied.

I then asked to see the jelly and Bob produced

a foil packet labeled 'KY Jelly.'

Submitted by Dr. Leonard Kransdorf,

Detroit

7. A nurse was on duty in the Emergency Room

when a young woman with purple hair styled

into a punk rocker Mohawk, sporting a variety of tattoos,

and wearing strange clothing, entered.

It was quickly determined that the patient had acute appendicitis,

so she was scheduled for immediate surgery.

When she was completely disrobed on the operating table,

the staff noticed that her pubic hair had been dyed green

and above it there was a Tattoo that read . . .' Keep off the grass.'

Once the surgery was completed, the surgeon wrote a short note on the patient's dressing, Which said, 'Sorry . . . Had to mow the lawn.'

Submitted by RN no name,

AND FINALLY!! ! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

8. As a new, young MD doing his residency in OB,

I was quite embarrassed when performing female pelvic exams.

To cover my embarrassment I had unconsciously

formed a habit of whistling softly.

The middle-aged lady upon whom I was performing this exam

suddenly burst out laughing,

further embarrassing me.

I looked up from my work and sheepishly said. . ..

' I'm sorry. Was I tickling you?'

She replied with tears running down her cheeks from laughing so hard . . ..

' No doctor but the song you were whistling was,

' I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Wiener .'

Dr. Wouldn't submit his name....

1 MORE

Baby's First Doctor Visit

This made me laugh out loud.

I hope it will give you a smile!

A woman and a baby were in the doctor's examining room,

waiting for the doctor to come in for the baby's first exam.

The doctor arrived, and examined the baby, checked his weight, and being a little concerned, asked if the baby was breast-fed or bottle-fed.

'Breast-fed,' she replied.

'Well, strip down to your waist,' the doctor ordered.

She did.

He pinched her nipples, pressed, kneaded,

and rubbed both breasts for a while

in a very professional and detailed examination.

Motioning to her to get dressed, the doctor said,

'No wonder this baby is underweight. You don't have any milk.'

'I know,' she said, 'I'm his Grandma,

But I'm glad I came.'
Click to expand...
 
Last edited by a moderator:
First posted in The Shark Pool:

@SteveRushin: With a win on Sunday Jimmy Clausen would tie Mark Vlasic for most career victories (2) by an NFL quarterback named for a brand of pickle.

 
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