PAGANW0LF
Trust male - 43 years
Blog / Tags / Humour
Blog messages with the tag 'Humour':
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SCIENTISTS INVENT DILDO THAT CAN REMOVE SPIDERS
MEN were declared obsolete last night after scientists finally perfected a dildo that can remove spiders from a bathtub. The invention, described as the 'Holy Grail of dildo technology' will come with a free scrunchy and a bag of synthetic sperm and be in the shops in time for a man-free Christmas.
Inventor Professor Holly Brubaker said: "Upon discovering a spider the woman simply points the dildo at it and presses the big, pink button marked 'icky spider'. "The dildo will emit an ultrasonic pulse and the spider will then run as fast as it can for the nearest available exit." She added: "The woman can then return to pleasuring herself by candlelight while eating a big bowl of chocolate buttons and reading about the fat parts of all the celebrities she watches on Living TV."
News of the breakthrough has led to a wave of nostalgia among women for the men they will soon be chasing down the garden path with one of their own golf clubs.
Emma Bradford, from Peterborough, said: "I think what I'll miss most is being spoken to like a child by someone who thinks he's the cleverest person in the world because he read the answers to all the Trivial Pursuit questions when he was 15." Jane Gerving, from Hatfield, said: "I'll miss living with the funniest man in the universe. He's just so very fucking funny. All the time." She added: "And of course, I'll miss the farts. The unrelenting tsunami of God awful, eye-watering, gut-wrenching farts."
Tom Logan, a pointless unit from Doncaster, said: "I got rid of a bat once. Can your dildo get rid of a bat?"
Scientists now predict the last man will have the last wank sometime in 2093 -
Being Dead
Being dead used to be ever so easy. They’d put you in a box, lower you gingerly into the ground and let you rot in peace. Or, if the ground in your town was full, they’d throw you on a fire and let you spend the rest of time in a vase, on your mother’s mantelpiece. Now, though, in the same way that you can get married underwater or during a parachute jump, you can choose how you wish to be disposed of when you have done dying. Just this week, for instance, a former navy diver called Derick Redfern was attached to the nose of a torpedo, which was then detonated on the sea bed off Plymouth. This means that now, and for all time, Mr Redfern is a part of the Gulf Stream. Meanwhile, in Spain, officials at the Catalunya circuit near Barcelona announced on Monday that motor-racing fans can now be laid to rest at the track. Quite how this will work I don’t know. It’ll certainly be a big nuisance for Lewis Hamilton next year if he skids in the final corner on Geoff Simmons of Batley. Perhaps they mean that a dead person can be used as part of the tyre wall. Or maybe to soak up oil spills. Some may argue that if you are used as a crash barrier or detonated on the sea bed, some of death’s dignity is lost. I’m not sure this is so, because I don’t see much dignity in lying in a box with your eyes leaking out of your face either. Far better, surely, to use your liquefying body as a soft landing for racing drivers. And if you wind up in the Atlantic conveyor, at least you get to see the Caribbean once in a while – something that’s not possible if you are lying under 6ft of earth.
I’ve always said that when I die I want to be buried, because the summerlands will be hard to enjoy if I’ve been cremated. Seriously, you’re never going to pull one of the Goddess's handmaided if you look like the contents of a Hoover bag. It’s for this reason I’m nervous about donor cards. I don’t think it’d be much fun in the land of milk and honey with no liver.
However, now that it’s possible to make all sorts of odd requests, I’m reconsidering my Post-Reaper strategy. This needs serious thought. I know this because I have watched people try to scatter the remains of their loved ones off the old Viaduct at Millers Dale. It sounds lovely, but because it’s always windy, the bereaved family normally ends up going home with bits of their dearly departed dad in their hair. This means that, far from ending up on a lonely rocky outcrop, he winds up being washed down the plughole amid much sobbing, wailing, gnashing of teeth and herbal essences.
Space is tempting because there’s no wind, and it doesn’t change, and I’m delighted to report there is indeed a company that will blast your ashes into orbit for just £250. A word of warning, though. While the company managed to get bits of Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek, into orbit, it made a bit of a hash of things when it came to getting the Enterprise’s chief engineer up there. The first time it tried, the rocket crashed and Scotty ended up not in the Andromeda Galaxy but just outside Santa Fe, in New Mexico. Happily he was found, and earlier this year he was launched again from a Pacific atoll. But that went wrong too when the rocket exploded, sending the Canadian actor into the sea, where, one day, he will probably crash head-on into Derick Redfern. -
Coven pecking order
HIGH PRIEST: Leaps tall buildings in a single bound, is more powerful than a speeding locomotive, is faster than a speeding bullet, walks on water, and dictates policy to God.
3RD DEGREE INITIATE: Leaps short buildings in a single bound, more powerful than a shunting engine, is just as fast as a speeding bullet, walks on water...if the sea is calm, and talks to God.
2ND DEGREE INITIATE: Leaps short buildings with a running start and favourable winds, is faster than a BB, more powerful than a railway donkey truck, walks on water in a swimming pool, and talks to God...if a special request is approved.
1ST DEGREE INITIATE: Clears a small hut, loses the race with the locomotive, can fire a speeding bullet, swims well, and is occasionally addressed by God.
NEOPHYTE: Runs into small buildings, recognizes a locomotive two out of three times, frequently wets self with a water pistol, can do the dog paddle, and mostly mumbles to animals.
HIGH PRIESTESS: Lifts tall buildings to walk under them, kicks locomotives off the track, catches speeding bullets in her teeth, freezes water with a single glance..........SHE *IS* GOD! -
OH MAN I'M TIRED!
A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his wife stayed home.
He wanted her to see what he went through so he prayed:
"Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours while my wife merely stays at home. I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to switch with mine for a day. Amen."
God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish.
The next morning, sure enough, the man awoke as a woman. -
He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, set out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their lunches, drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning, took it to the cleaners and stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping, then drove home to put away the groceries, paid the bills, and balanced the check book.
He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog.
Then it was already 1P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do the laundry, vacuum, dust, and sweep and Mop the kitchen floor. Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument with them on the way home. Set out milk and cookies and got the kids organized to do their homework, then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he did the ironing.
At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for salad, breaded the pork chops and snapped fresh beans for supper. After supper, he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed. At 9 P.M. he was exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went to bed where he was expected to make love, which he managed to get through without complaint.
The next morning, he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and said:
"Lord, I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh! Oh! Please, let us trade back."
The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied:
"My son, I feel you have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things back to the way they were. You'll just have to wait nine months though. You got pregnant last night." -
The Masters rules of the dungeon
I found this while having a bimble through the net, I thought it highly amusing and rather funny
When thou dost come unto me and beseech me, saying, "Verily, do I request of you a good paddling," then surely I will grant unto thee a good paddling. During the period of the paddling, thou shalt not say unto me "What was that, a mosquito?", nor compare thy paddling to the flight of any other insect, or any creeping thing upon the earth, be it a moth, or a caterpillar; nor draw any likeness between the instrument of thy paddling and the feathers of the birds above; for surely shalt thy paddling grow mighty and endless, and welts shall be upon thy backside for four and thirty days.
And in those days when thou art being flogged, thou shalt not giggle and wag thy ass in a taunting manner, nor squirm and attempt to escape when the flogging becomes greater for it, for then wilt thou be cast into bondage, so that thine ass will no longer be able to wiggle, nor shalt thou be able to squirm.
Thou shalt not speak with thy mouth full, though moaning is possible with a gag and is acceptable to my ears.
Neither shalt thou allow the passions of thy loins to reach the pinnacle of their fruition, save for those times when I commandeth thee; and in those times, thou shalt come with the force of a raging firestorm, with much screaming and wailing; for thy screams of ecstasy are pleasing to me.
Thou shalt wear no clothing that is displeasing in my sight, nor place within thy pants back issues of National Geographic magazine or the book of Yellow Pages, to protect thy backside from the force of my hand; for verily I will notice, and remove the magazine, and upon your backside shall I become medieval. So it is written.
Thou shalt not take thy master's name in vain, nor forget thy master's title when asked. Thou shalt say "sir" or "maestro" when asked thy master's title. Thou shalt not say "buttercups," nor "sugarpants," nor even "bunnykins," nor refer to any other cute and cuddly beast that doth roam the earth. Neither shalt thou say "Oh yeah? Make me!" For truly will I then make you, and the bruises shall be on your ass like a plague of locusts unto Egypt.
