Higher Learning

Pot Smoker

Being circumcised, I couldn’t join a fraternity.
Apparently you have to be a complete dick.

***

I went online, and rated the Solar system.
I gave it one star.

***

I was watching porn the other day, but it was terrible. All I could see was some guy sitting on a couch, playing with himself, and crying….then I realized that the TV wasn’t turned on.

***

Man: How do you like your eggs in the morning?
Woman: Unfertilized, go away!

***

A man came home from the Social Security Office.
‘Honey,’ he said to his wife, ‘I finally
convinced them that I’m old enough to collect
Social Security.’

‘How?’ his wife asked. ‘Since the department of
records in the small town you were born in was
flooded, you can’t get a copy of your birth
certificate.’

‘I know,’ the man replied, ‘I just unbuttoned
my shirt and showed them all the gray hairs on my
chest. That convinced them that I’m old enough.’

His wife retorted, ‘Then while you were at it,
why didn’t you whip out your dick and get
disability, too?!’

***

There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become a great writer.

When asked to define “great” he said, “I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!” He now works for Microsoft, writing error messages.

***

What idiot called it a Sun, when it’s a space heater?

***

Why are all Jewish men circumcised?
Because Jewish women won’t touch anything that isn’t 10% off.

Why do Jewish men watch porno in reverse?
So that they can see the hooker give back the money

***

The elderly Italian man went to his parish priest and asked if the priest would hear his confession.
“Of course, my son,” said the priest.
“Well, Father, at the beginning of World War Two, a beautiful woman knocked on my door and asked me to hide her from the Germans; I hid her in my attic, and they never found her.”
“That’s a wonderful thing, my son, and nothing that you need to confess,” said the priest.
“It’s worse, Father; I was weak, and told her that she had to pay for rent of the attic with her sexual favors.”
“Well, it was a very difficult time, and you took a large risk – you would have suffered terribly at their hands if the Germans had found you hiding her.  I know that God, in his wisdom and mercy, will balance the good and the evil, and judge you kindly.” said the priest.
“Thanks, Father,” said the old man.  “That’s a load off of my mind.  Can I ask another question?”
“Of course, my son,” said the priest.
The old man asked, “Do I need to tell her that the war is over?”

***

 

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Sex Education

One day Joey asked his grandmother how old she
was. His grandmother said that you should never
ask a woman her age. Later on Joey asked his
grandmother again. And his grandmother still
wouldn’t tell him.

When his grandmother was
making dinner, Joey came in the kitchen and said,
“I know how old you are grandma. You are 61 years
old.” His grandmother asked, “How did you find
out?” Joey said, “I looked on your driver’s
license. Except I didn’t understand one thing.

You failed sex?”

****

The new hooker just finished her first trick, when
she came down the street, the seasoned veterans
gathered around to hear the details.

She said “Well, he was a big muscular handsome sailor.”

“Well, what did he want you to do?” they all asked.

She said, “I told him a straight lay would be $100,
but he didn’t have that much.”

Then she told him, “Oral sex would be $75, but he
didn’t have that much either.”

“Finally I asked him, well how much money do you have?”
He only had $25.

The new hooker said, “Well, for $25 all I can do
is service you by hand.”

He agreed and after getting the $ straight,
she said “He pulled it out and I put one hand on
it, and then a second hand above the first and
then the first hand above the second hand.”

“Oh my god” they all exclaimed, “It must have been
huge, then what did you do?”

“I loaned him $75!” she exclaimed.

****

As he was quietly watching television at home,
a chap hears a sound on the roof of his house
and rushes out to investigate. Seeing it was a
fair sized gorilla tearing the shingles off his
home he promptly calls up the local zoo
authorities to inform them one of their animals
had escaped. He is reassured that a gorilla
recovering unit is on the way and to remain calm.

A few minutes later, an old beat up truck,
displaying the Gorilla recovery unit logo on its
panels, pulls up to the house. The elderly driver
proceeds to remove from the back of the truck, a
Chihuahua dog, a pair of handcuffs, a ladder, a
baseball bat and a 12 gauge shotgun. Puzzled on
how this lone elderly was to solve the problem of
the gorilla, which had by now torn half the roof
apart, the chap asked him how he will go about
doing this.

As he hands him over the 12 gauge
shotgun, the zoo employee explains the plan:
‘First I’ll climb up there with the ladder, then
I approach the gorilla and knock him off the roof,
using the baseball bat. As soon as the gorilla
hits the ground, the specially trained Chihuahua
dog will attack its private parts.’

‘When I get back on the ground, the gorilla will
have lowered its hands to its groin area to
protect itself thus making it easy for me to slip
on the handcuffs.’ ‘Then, I lead him to the
truck, lock him up and take him back to the zoo.’

Amazed at the procedure, the somewhat startled
house-owner asks why he was handed the 12 gauge
shotgun?

‘Well… ‘explains the experienced gorilla
retriever, ‘It’s just a precaution, should things
not go exactly as planned. In the unlikely event
that once I’m on the roof, the gorilla knocks me off
with the baseball bat.

Shoot the dog!!!!’

 

Orange Blossom Special

Before a motorcycle accident and a plant closing imposed a higher level of poverty, I was fortunate enough to accompany my brother three successive years, on nine-day trips to Florida.  With little over a week available, we made the first road-trips down and back in 24-hour marathon runs.  The second year he wanted to go, I was on a day-shift, done work at 3 P.M.  He talked his employer into letting him off on a Friday afternoon at the same time.

He gassed his van up and drove south two hours to pick me up.  I was packed and ready and standing at the curb at 5 P.M.  I don’t think the vehicle even came to a complete stop.  I waved goodbye, tossed my suitcase in, and did a running, Pony Express mount.

Less than four hours later, we were ready to cross the Ambassador Bridge to Detroit.  At that time of night, customs wasn’t busy, and we were soon on I-75, heading for Toledo.  We drove through Ohio, crossing the river at Cincinnati, and on into Kentucky.  I don’t know why he wanted to leave Friday night.  We’d both been up for 18 hours, and had at least another 18 hours of travel ahead of us.  Sleepy drivers fall off roads.  I told him that I would pay for a motel room as soon as he could find one.  Before long, a Motel 8 hove into view out of the dark.

By now, it was well past midnight.  We registered and went to our room.  I pulled the drapes tightly shut.  We were on the west side of the building, and I didn’t think we’d be there long enough for a rising sun to be a problem.  We both threw ourselves into bed.  I turned out the lights, and I think I was asleep before the room got dark.

As usual, my bladder set a four-hour alarm.  I came awake and looked at the clock.  Sure enough, it read 4:59.  Now, the brother is an early riser, often out of bed by this time, or even earlier, but yesterday was a big day.  If I don’t wake him, I might get at least another hour or two of sleep.  I carefully pulled back the covers and quietly slid out of bed.

Apparently the walls of the motel were made of inferior grade cardboard.  We were half a mile above the highway, but I could hear the big-rigs going past.  I slowly pussy-footed toward the washroom in the dark.  When the wife and I travel, we take along a little night-light.  With the drapes drawn, in the immortal words of my old shop teacher, it was darker than the inside of a pig’s ass.

I silently reached the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light so that the maid didn’t have to mop up my miscalculation.  I ain’t sittin’ down; I don’t care what you say!  I turned the light back off and waited a few seconds for my vision to adjust.  Fat lot of good that did.  I’ve been down in a cave that was barely darker than this room.

With my left hand on the bathroom wall, I edged my way back towards my bed.  Suddenly, I found that the maid had left the garbage pail just a little farther out from under the desk than I remembered.  My right foot came forward and, like trying for a football field-goal, I hoofed it a good one.  I thought I broke a couple of toes.  The pail left the floor, clanged off the wall, ricocheted off the end of the dresser, and clattered to the floor.  Damn!  That worked out so well.

Instantly, the brother was awake!  What time is it??  Five o’clock!  Hell, might as well be on the road as here.  We tossed back on, what few clothes we’d taken off, and I went to the office and checked us out.  I guess motel clerks get to see it all.  The same young guy who checked us in barely raised an eyebrow, five hours later, when we left.

Not exactly the Ritz-Carleton, the place cost me $60 for four hours rack-time.  Fifteen bucks an hour, a resident hooker should have been involved.  The brother brought the van around and we headed a little further up the side road to a 24-hour gas station.  Refueled, and just a little fuzzy around the edges, by six A.M. we were already a lot closer to Atlanta than we had been.

We reached the brother’s place in Florida in time for a late supper, rather than an early breakfast.  We stopped at a nearby Subway outlet. I perused the menu board, trying to decide how hungry I was.  They offered six-inch subs, and twelve-inch subs, so I decided on a twelve-inch, tuna sandwich.  In a full Southern drawl, the young female clerk asked, “Is that like a foot-long?”   What are they teaching Southern belles these days?  “Yes, Scarlett!  That’s like a foot-long.”

We got a full night’s sleep, instead of losing most of Sunday catching up.  Anything that doesn’t kill you….can be put into a blog post, and laughed about later.  Next trip, we bring along the brother’s friend Norm.  You’ll like Norm.  He can outwit scrambled eggs.

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice

The son and I were discussing a subject the other day, something we’ve been aware of for some time.  Once you die, nobody is supposed to say anything negative about you.  In fact, when someone dies, the survivors go out of their way to find something, anything, nice, to describe the deceased.

The people I’m talking about are usually ones we’ve read about in the newspapers, so the term, ”Known to police”, often applies.  You can abuse your wife and kids, kick your dog, throw rocks though your neighbor’s windows, screw hookers, and die by being run down by a big-rig while wandering down the middle of a road in a drug and alcohol-induced fog, and someone will still be quoted as saying, But in his entire life, he never once parked in a handicap spot.

Case in point, a body was found in a local park.  Two days later, the papers report that a male has been arrested and charged with manslaughter.  So far, nothing unusual.  The papers don’t give names, so the dead guy could be Bob, or, Nkwumbe.  But then, the guy named Bob gets easy, cheap bail, and Nkwumbe‘s relatives start wailing.  Black guy is killed and white guy gets out, it’s racism!  Two days later, about a hundred people, mostly South Sudanese, but with some whites among them, march on city hall.  Why city hall?  They acknowledge to the local paper, that they played the race card too soon, but now wish to complain that the police aren’t providing them enough information.  March on the police station.  See how long that lasts.

Bob says, he and his girlfriend were walking through the park, and the black guy accosted them with a replica pistol and tried to rob them.  He dug into his backpack, pulled out a knife, stabbed the black guy once, and they ran for it.  Nkwumbe’s mother and sisters insist that he would never do such a thing.  He just got out of jail after serving four months for assault, but, he was turning his life around.  He’s a good boy now.  Yeah, right!

I’m going to keep an eye on this story.  Even assuming that the black guy actually was the deserving criminal we believe he is, there are a couple of questions I have about the white “victim.”  If he really thought that the gun was real, how did he have the time and the presence of mind, to dig in a backpack, for a knife that he just happened to be carrying?  If he knew the gun was a fake, how and why did he get close enough to kill the black guy with one stab?  Having stabbed him and run for their lives, why didn’t they report the altercation to the police?  There’s more to this than meets the eye but, if Nkwumbe was at home on the couch, minding his own business, his mama wouldn’t have to whitewash a black man.

In another case of not taking responsibility for one’s actions, we have a man in Toronto on trial for murder.  He and his buddy, both crack addicts, were roaming the streets, when they encountered a man at an ATM.  They staggered over to harass the guy, and his friend sucker-punched him.  They giggled, and lurched on down the street.  Here’s where it went bad.  Like the Zimmerman guy in Florida, who shot the Negro kid after being told by police to ignore him and not get out of the car, the victim got four of his buddies from a bar and went out to find them.

Five drunks against two crack-heads, not good odds or conducive to a good ending.  They caught up to them at a pedestrian tunnel, where crackerbox bashed his head with a brick, and then stomped it several times, killing him.  Trying to beat the murder rap, he’s playing it as self-defense.  He claims that, after he hit him with the brick and knocked him down, the guy trying to stumble back to his feet constituted a danger, so he stomped him.  It was all spur-of-the-moment.  The victim’s grandmother asks, if it wasn’t premeditated, why did he have a brick?  It might have just been lying on the ground.  I know, if five guys approached me, at night, in a tunnel, I’d be looking for something too.

Now he’s trying to get sympathy, and lighter sentencing, from the judge.  His lawyer cited a difficult childhood and a troubled life.  He’s abused booze and drugs since he was nine.  Just once, I’d like to hear one of these guys admit, “My Mom and Dad were fine, I’m just a shithead.”  He’ll probably find Jesus in jail.  Why is it that so many jerks give their life to God, only after f**cking it up so badly, that nobody else wants it?

Meanwhile, it turns out that the victim, who was partying in a bar, and then went out looking for trouble with four of his friend, and found it, was an award-winning hockey player who was about to start a job with a Boston legal firm in three days.  And he liked kittens, and helped old ladies across the street.