I certainly do not recall the sources of these any more, but I was browsing a forum I used to frequent long ago, and came across a bunch of random jokes I had posted at various times. I did not have anything else in mind to post here today so I thought that some of them might make better a “rainy day”.
Doctor Dave slept with one of his patients and felt guilty all day long. No matter how much he tried to forget about it, he couldn’t. The guilt and sense of betrayal was overwhelming. But every once in a while he’d hear an internal, reassuring voice that said:
“Dave, don’t worry about it. You aren’t the first doctor to sleep with one of their patients and you won’t be the last. And you’re single. Let it go…”
But invariably the other voice would bring him back to reality:
“Dave, you’re a vet…”
Some Random Metaphors:
Oh, Jason, take me!” she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31 pence-a-pint night.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m.at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red crayon.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
Are you tired of all those sissy, mushy “friendship” poems that always sound good but never actually come close to reality? Well, here is a series of promises that really speaks to true friendship!
1. When you are sad, …I will get you drunk and will help you plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
2. When you are blue, …I’ll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
3. When you smile, …I’ll know you finally got laid.
4. When you are scared, …I will rag you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried, …I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit whining.
6. When you are confused, …I will use little words to explain.
7. When you are sick…………stay away from me until you’re well again. I don’t want whatever you have.
8. When you fall, …I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
This is my oath, I pledge ’til the end. Why you may ask? Because you’re my friend!
Send this to ten of your closest friends and get depressed because you can only think of two, and one of them is not speaking to you right now anyway.
Remember: A friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body.
Let me know if I ever need to bring a shovel.
It is with the saddest heart that I have to pass on the following news about a great American icon…Veteran Pillsbury spokesperson, The Pillsbury Doughboy, died yesterday of a severe yeast infection and complications from repeated pokes to the belly. He was 71.
Doughboy was buried in a slightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out, including Mrs. Buttersworth, the California Raisins, Hungry Jack, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, Capt’n Crunch, Mr. Goodbar, The Tidy Bowl Man, and many others.
The graveside was piled high with flours as longtime friend, Aunt Jemima, delivered the eulogy, describing Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded, always rose to the occasion, but whose later life was filled with many turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much his time on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he was considered a roll model for millions, even as a crusty old man.
Doughboy is survived by his second wife, Play Dough. They have two children, and a bun in the oven. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.
It was another Payday and I was tired of Mr. Goodbar.
I saw Miss Hershey standing behind the Powerhouse on the corner of Clark and Fifth Avenue when I whipped out my Whopper and whispered, “Hey Sweetheart, how’d you like to Crunch on my big hunk for a Million Dollar Bar?”
Well, she immediately went down on my Tootsie Roll, and it was like pure Almond Joy!
I couldn’t help but grab her delicious Mounds because it was easy to see that this little Twix had the Red Hots.
It was all I could do to hold the Snickers and Crackle as my Butterfinger went up her tight little Kit Kat and she started to scream “Oh Henry, Oh Henry!”
Soon she was fondling my Peter Pan and ZagNut and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I blew my Milk Duds clear to Mars that gave her a taste of the old Milky Way.
She asked me if I was into M&M, but I said, “Hey Chicklet, no kinky stuff.” I said, “Look you little Reese’s Pieces, don’t be a Zero, be a Lifesaver. Why don’t you take my Whatchamacallit and slip it up your Bit ‘O’ Honey?”
(What a piece of Juicy Fruit she was, too!)
She screamed, “Oh Crackerjack, better than the Three Musketeers!” as I rammed my Ding Dong up her Rocky Road and into her Peanut Butter Cup.
Well, I was giving it to her Good ‘N’ Plenty, when all the sudden… my Starburst!
Yeah, as luck would have it, she started to grow Chunky and complained of a Wrigley in her stomach.
Sure enough, nine months later, out popped? Baby Ruth!
One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
One was blind and the other couldn’t, see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”
A paralyzed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys,
If you don’t believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!
Ladies and gentlemen, hobos and tramps,
Cross-eyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants,
I come before you to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There will be a Mother’s Day meeting for fathers only;
Admission is free, so pay at the door,
Pull up a seat and sit on the floor.
The topic to discuss…
The crime that has never been committed
One bright day in the middle of the night,
The Pacific Ocean caught alight.
The blind man saw it, The deaf man heard it,
The dumb man called the fire brigade.
A man with no legs ran for the fire engine,
The fire engine was drawn by four dead donkeys,
Sitting at a square round table,
Eating vinegar with a fork.
And the narrator,
With his story untold,
Loud and bold,
The beginning words,
To the meeting’s end,
You, my enemy,
Are now my friend,
Oh, I see said the blind man,
To his two deaf daughters on the disconnected telephone.