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| Posted by Antonio J. Lopez on 12-Aug-2005 | Something FishyOne day, this woman went to a bait shop to get her husband a fishing reel for his birthday. After selecting one, she inquired as to its cost.
The owner replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm blind and cannot see what reel you have. If you drop it on the floor, I'll recognize it and be of more help." So she did just that.
After hearing it hit the floor, the owner said, "That's the Johnson Model 9400. It'll be $40.00."
The woman decided to take it so she went to pick it up off the floor. Upon bending over, she let rip a stinky, sqeaky fart. The owner rang up the sale and said, "That'll be fifty dollars."
Fifty dollars?!?!" the woman exclaimed. "You just told me that is was forty dollars a moment ago!"
"Yes, I did", said the owner, "But that was for the reel.
The duck call is another $7.50 and the stink bait is $2.50."
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| Posted by Grinch on 12-Aug-2005 | Golf GenieGolf Genie
A couple was golfing one day on a very, very exclusive golf course, lined with million dollar houses. On the third tee the husband said, "Honey, be very careful when you drive the ball don't knock out any windows. It'll cost us a fortune to fix."
The wife teed up and shacked it right through the window of the biggest house on the course. The husband cringed and said, "I told you to watch out for the houses. Alright, let's go up there, apologize and see how much this is going to cost."
They walked up, knocked on the door, and heard a voice say, "Come on in." They opened the door and saw glass all over the floor and a broken bottle lying on its side in the foyer. A man on the couch said, "Are you the people that broke my window?"
"Uh, yeah. Sorry about that." the husband replied.
"No, actually I want to thank you. I'm a genie that was trapped for a thousand years in that bottle. You've released me. I'm allowed to grant three wishes-I'll give you each one wish, and I'll keep the last one for myself."
"OK, great!" the husband said. " I want a million dollars a year for the rest of my life." "No problem-it's the least I could do. And you, what do you want?" the genie said, looking at the wife. "I want a house in every country of the world," she said. "Consider it done." the genie replied.
"And what's your wish, genie?", the husband said. "Well, since I've been trapped in that bottle, I haven't had sex with a woman in a thousand years. My wish is to sleep with your wife."
The husband looks at the wife and said, "Well, we did get a lot of money and all those houses, honey. I guess I don't care." The genie took the wife upstairs and ravished her for two hours.
After it was over, the genie rolled over, looked at the wife, and said, "How old is your husband, anyway?" "
35." she replied.
"And he still believes in genies?....That's amazing!"
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| Posted by LP05 on 12-Aug-2005 | Da BearsWhy is Chicago called the Windy City?
Because the Bears blow!
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| Posted by Lisa M. Allen on 12-Aug-2005 | Alternative ChickenQ.-Why'd the chicken cross the road? A.- He was attached to Dennis Rodman's head!
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| Posted by Mike Kool on 11-Aug-2005 | 20 Golfing LawsLAW 1: No matter how bad your last shot was, the worst is yet to come. This law does not expire on the 18th hole, since it has the supernatural tendency to extend over the course of a tournament, a summer and, eventually, a lifetime.
LAW 2: Your best round of golf will be followed almost immediately by your worst round ever. The probability of the latter increases with the number of people you tell about the former.
LAW 3: Brand new golf balls are water-magnetic. Though this cannot be proven in the lab, it is a known fact that the more expensive the golf ball, the greater its attraction to water.
LAW 4: Golf balls never bounce off of trees back into play. If one does, the tree is breaking a law of the universe and should be cut down.
LAW 5: No matter what causes a golfer to muff a shot, all his playing partners must solemnly chant "You looked up," or invoke the wrath of the universe.
LAW 6: The higher a golfer's handicap, the more qualified he deems himself as an instructor.
LAW 7: Every par-three hole in the world has a secret desire to humiliate golfers. The shorter the hole, the greater its desire.
LAW 8: Topping a 3-iron is the most painful torture known to man.
LAW 9: Palm trees eat golf balls.
LAW 10: Sand is alive. If it isn't, how do you explain the way it works against you?
LAW 11: Golf carts always run out of juice at the farthest point from the clubhouse.
LAW 12: A golfer hitting into your group will always be bigger than anyone in your group. Likewise, a group you accidentally hit into will consist of a football player, a professional wrestler, a convicted murderer and a tax agent -- or some similar combination.
LAW 13: All 3-woods are demon-possessed.
LAW 14: Golf balls from the same "sleeve" tend to follow one another, particularly out of bounds or into the water (see Law three)
LAW 15: A severe slice is a thing of awesome power and beauty.
LAW 16: "Nice lag" can usually be translated to "lousy putt." Similarly, "tough break" can usually be translated "way to miss an easy one, sucker."
LAW 17: The person you would most hate to lose to will always be the one who beats you.
LAW 18: The last three holes of a round will automatically adjust your score to what it really should be.
LAW 19: Golf should be given up at least twice per month.
LAW 20: All vows taken on a golf course shall be valid only until the sunset of the same day
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| Posted by Nymph on 11-Aug-2005 | Snow Boarding For the YoungWhen you're 47 years old, you sometimes hear a small voice inside you that says: "Just because you've reached middle age, that doesn't mean you shouldn't take on new challenges and seek new adventures. You get only one ride on this crazy carousel we call life, and by golly you should make the most of it."
This is the voice of Satan.
I know this because recently, on a mountain in Idaho, I listened to this voice, and as a result my body feels as though it has been used as a trampoline by the Budweiser Clydesdales.
I am currently on an all-painkiller diet. "I'll have a black coffee and 250 Advil tablets" is a typical breakfast order for me these days.
This is because I went snowboarding.
For those of you who, for whatever reason, such as a will to live, do not participate in downhill winter sports, I should explain that snowboarding is an activity that is popular with people who do not feel that regular skiing is lethal enough.
These are of course young people, fearless people, people with 100 percent synthetic bodies who can hurtle down a mountainside at 50 miles per hour and knock down mature trees with their faces and then spring to their feet and go, "Cool."
People like my son. He wanted to try snowboarding, and I thought it would be good to learn with him, because we can no longer ski together.
We have a fundamental difference in technique: He skis via the Downhill Method, in which you ski down the hill; whereas I ski via the Breath-Catching Method, in which you stand sideways on the hill, looking as athletic as possible without actually moving muscles (this could cause you to start sliding down the hill).
If anybody asks if you're OK, you say, "I'm just catching my breath!" in a tone of voice that suggests that at any moment you're going to swoop rapidly down the slope; whereas in fact you're planning to stay right where you are, rigid as a statue, until the spring thaw.
At night, when the Downhillers have all gone home, we Breath-Catchers will still be up there, clinging to the mountainside, chewing on our parkas for sustenance.
So I thought I'd take a stab at snowboarding, which is quite different from skiing.
In skiing, you wear a total of two skis, or approximately one per foot, so you can sort of maintain your balance by moving your feet, plus you have poles that you can stab people with if they make fun of you at close range.
Whereas with snowboarding, all you get is one board, which is shaped like a giant tongue depressor and manufactured by the Institute of Extremely Slippery Things. Both of your feet are strapped firmly to this board, so that if you start to fall, you can't stick a foot out and catch yourself. You crash to the ground like a tree and lie there while skiers swoop past and deliberately spray snow on you.
Skiers hate snowboarders. It's a generational thing. Skiers are (and here I am generalizing) middle-aged Republicans wearing designer space suits; snowboarders are defiant young rebels wearing deliberately drab clothing that is baggy enough to cover the snowboarder plus a major appliance. Skiers like to glide down the slopes in a series of graceful arcs; snowboarders like to attack the mountain, slashing, spinning, tumbling, going backward, blasting through snowdrifts, leaping off cliffs, getting their noses pierced in midair, etc.
Skiers view snowboarders as a menace; snowboarders view skiers as Elmer Fudd.
I took my snowboarding lesson in a small group led by a friend of mine named Brad Pearson, who also once talked me into jumping from a tall tree while attached only to a thin rope.
Brad took us up on a slope that offered ideal snow conditions for the novice who's going to fall a lot: Approximately seven flakes of powder on top of an 18-foot-thick base of reinforced concrete.
You could not dent this snow with a jackhammer. (I later learned, however, that you COULD dent it with the back of your head.)
We learned snowboarding via a two step method:
STEP ONE: Watching Brad do something.
STEP TWO: Trying to do it ourselves.
I was pretty good at Step One. The problem with Step Two was that you had to stand up on your snowboard, which turns out to be a violation of at least five important laws of physics.
I'd struggle to my feet, and I'd be wavering there and then the Physics Police would drop a huge chunk of gravity on me, and WHAM my body would hit the concrete snow, sometimes bouncing as much as a foot.
"Keep your knees bent!" Brad would yell, helpfully.
Have you noticed that whatever sport you're trying to learn, some earnest person is always telling you to keep your knees bent? As if THAT would solve anything. I wanted to shout back, "FORGET MY KNEES! DO SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GRAVITY CHUNKS!"
Needless to say my son had no trouble at all. None. In minutes he was cruising happily down the mountain; you could actually see his clothing getting baggier. I, on the other hand, spent most of my time lying on my back, groaning, while space-suited Republicans swooped past and sprayed snow on me.
If I hadn't gotten out of there, they'd have completely covered me; I now realize that the small hills you see on ski slopes are formed around the bodies of 47-year-olds who tried to learn snowboarding.
So I think, when my body heals, I'll go back to skiing. Maybe sometime you'll see me out on the slopes, catching my breath. Please throw me some food.
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