Rebels!
[video]http://www.collegehumor.com/video/6846855/gay-men-will-marry-your-girlfriends[/video]
yup
no....
ZZZZZZ
ZZZZZZ
Four great religious truths?
1. Muslims do not recognize Jews as God's chosen people.
2. Jews do not recognize Christ as the Messiah.
3. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the leader of the Christian
world.
4. Mormons do not recognize each other in Mesquite, Las Vegas, Hooters,
the local liquor store, or a Lifestyle M&G.
1. Muslims do not recognize Jews as God's chosen people.
2. Jews do not recognize Christ as the Messiah.
3. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the leader of the Christian
world.
4. Mormons do not recognize each other in Mesquite, Las Vegas, Hooters,
the local liquor store, or a Lifestyle M&G.
SUGARSANDSPICE wrote:
Four great religious truths?
1. Muslims do not recognize Jews as God's chosen people.
2. Jews do not recognize Christ as the Messiah.
3. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the leader of the Christian
world.
4. Mormons do not recognize each other in Mesquite, Las Vegas, Hooters,
the local liquor store, or a Lifestyle M&G.
So true especially the morman part lol
Super
OH!
What Wine Label....l!
there is some funny shit in here lol
OMG Im busy.!
Holiday Cheer
At this time of the year, when the roadblocks come up with great regularity, I would like to share a personal experience with my closest friends about drinking and driving.
As you well know, some of us have been known to have had brushes with the authorities on our way home from an occasional social session over the years.
A couple of nights ago, I was out for an evening with friends and had a couple of cocktails and some rather nice red wine.
Knowing full well I may have been slightly over the limit, I did something I've never done before ~ I took a cab home. Sure enough, I passed a police road block but, since it was a cab, they waved it past.
I arrived home safely without incident, which was a real surprise;
[b][size=100][size=200]I
At this time of the year, when the roadblocks come up with great regularity, I would like to share a personal experience with my closest friends about drinking and driving.
As you well know, some of us have been known to have had brushes with the authorities on our way home from an occasional social session over the years.
A couple of nights ago, I was out for an evening with friends and had a couple of cocktails and some rather nice red wine.
Knowing full well I may have been slightly over the limit, I did something I've never done before ~ I took a cab home. Sure enough, I passed a police road block but, since it was a cab, they waved it past.
I arrived home safely without incident, which was a real surprise;
[b][size=100][size=200]I
r
s
2
Oh My!
Don't make me pour "BBQ SAUCE" on you.....!
This is a long one, but if you don't laugh, you should not be human. Check with your local robotic repairman.
Dear Honey...
Let me preface this by saying that you moving in here has been nothing short of wonderful, and I cherish every moment.
I know you have repeatedly asked me to swallow my pride and come to grips with the incessantly squawling, unprincipled f*ckers that are your cats, but I've hit a bit of a snag.
Take today, for example.
I so infrequently get weekdays off, as you know, that I really try and maximize it when I do. I'm glad you appreciated that I was feeling chipper enough this morning to bounce out of bed, whistling, to make you French Toast and send you off on your merry way, but I have a confession to make.
Now I love that you care so much for me that you insist that I maintain a "healthy" diet, and I, um, "love" vegetables but...
My day today was to revolve principally around bong hits and hacking through my burgeoning TIVO list, finally getting the chance to dissect the finer points and clever subtext of "Ice Road Truckers" while committing lewd and lascivious acts on the bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken I bought last night and hid in the garage.
(which you, in your unending wisdom, have all but banished from "our" diet.)
I was a couple of hours in, wiping my hands on my shorts and thoroughly enjoying Canadian sots trying to justify a career choice that is only slightly less exciting than watching Slot Car racing, when it unfolded.
Your cat, you know - the fat orange one with the inappropriate eating problem? The one you refer to, without an ounce of irony, as "husky?"
F*cker would not leave me alone.
I tried the grungy sock full of catnip.
I tried the spray bottle.
Nothing short of a tornado siren was going to distract Husky from the mouthwatering shiny cardboard bucket on the coffee table.
(I even tried inflating and popping a paper bag, repeatedly, - no dice.)
It was so ravenously engorged at the thought of getting a crack at my chicken that it was licking the air...
We'll come back to the cat...
First let's pause and think about combining black coffee and a belly-full of chicken grease with the curried "health" that you fed me last night.
Gurgle...
Gurgle...
Not that your cooking isn't the world's most delicious, but intestinally mixing the two is, ironically enough, like oil and water.
Back to the cat...
Now you know that I "love" the cats, and that my near-constant provocation is steadfast evidence of my being a concerned and dedicated pet owner; in that I'm merely ensuring that they get plenty of exercise and maintain a healthy grasp on their problem-solving skills, right?
Well Husky didn't get the hint and, being unwilling to trap it in the bedroom and ultimately have to replace the shredded door, again, I decided to try something new.
(Well, it's not new to me, I have been doing it since day one, but it's new to try and use it as a behavioral modification tool and not just as baseless, yet hilarious, harassment on my part.)
You see, honey, I like to fart on the cats.
Before you get angry, please understand that it's an entirely harmless guilty pleasure. Deep down, and despite the desperate scramble away from me, they like it...
They sniff.
A lot.
I should also explain that the majority of the time it's more of a farting "at" thing, kind of like a 240-pound bombardier beetle.
Today wasn't supposed to be too terribly different.
So I, having had enough of the obese welfare cat's incessant pleas for KFC, decided to defuse the situation and give it some canned food.
It was following it's furtive, gasping consumption of an entire can in seconds that inspiration struck.
Recalling prior experience with your curries; (especially the time that you couldn't sleep from the guilt of having ostracized me to the couch thanks to my unavoidable outgassing, only to ask me to compromise by returning to bed, next to you, sequestered in my mummy-style sleeping bag, effectively braising me in my own fetid juices and requiring a HazMat shower the next morning...) I suspected, correctly, that at some point soon I would be locked and loaded for bear.
Or cat.
Now I know that it seems petty of me to admit this, but my goal was to make the cat vomit. (Please don't try and analyze or understand this - we're talking about the guy that likes to pelt you with single- roll toilet papers in the grocery store.)
I lowered my shorts just enough to expose the blowhole, wanting the cat to fully enjoy the impending heady aroma completely unfiltered.
(No, I didn't wiggle my junk. That would be creepy.)
Besides, I happen to know for a fact that a dangling scrotum is nearly indistinguishable from a catnip sock - to a cat that is.
I assumed the teabag stance directly over your fuzzy, rust-colored child substitute and, growling its name, pulled the trigger on what I thought would be a gloriously noxious aerosol "F*ck You."
The cat, sensing the looming menace, froze in place.
My digestive tract, carbed and relieved of any back-pressure, responded with alarming immediacy.
It got away from me.
Fast...
My balloon knot opened much further than is necessary to expel vapor and...
I'm sorry, honey -
I sh*t on the cat.
Before I could stop it, it just blasted out like Edge shaving cream.
You know a single, unbroken rope of mucilaginous hatred that, when exposed to air, morphs into more of a viscous foam?
I looked like a penguin sh*tting.
Oddly enough, it was relatively silent, sounding more like when you peel the skin off a chunk of baloney.
Zzzziiiiipppp!
It smelled like someone set fire to every trash dumpster in India.
The cat looked as though it had been restrained and dipped headfirst into Mutter Paneer.
(Don't ask me how I know what that looks like.)
Now Honey, I know that all of your stories have a moral that I love sitting through three hours of you talking at me to hear, so I know what the deal is here.
The moral to this story is:
Please, for the love of Christ...
No more f*cking curries.
Neither my colon nor the cats can take it.
Please.
In the ensuing typhoon of caterwauling and carnage, fifteen framed photos and seven of your eight plants took collateral damage.
Also, you know that quilt on the back of the couch, the one your grandmother brought us back from Branson?
It now looks like someone clubbed a harp seal on it.
Oh yeah, and the drapes...
Sorry.
I have to go clean up the crime scene before you get home.
Oh yeah and, before I forget, lets just say that if "hypothetically" you're to put a cat soaked in Tide, Febreeze, and Downy into a washing machine, should you switch to the Gentle cycle or can you just leave it on Super Wash and let it rip?
P.S.
I already know that "there will be snow on the ground before I see your vagina again", so save your breath.
It was sooooo worth it.
Dear Honey...
Let me preface this by saying that you moving in here has been nothing short of wonderful, and I cherish every moment.
I know you have repeatedly asked me to swallow my pride and come to grips with the incessantly squawling, unprincipled f*ckers that are your cats, but I've hit a bit of a snag.
Take today, for example.
I so infrequently get weekdays off, as you know, that I really try and maximize it when I do. I'm glad you appreciated that I was feeling chipper enough this morning to bounce out of bed, whistling, to make you French Toast and send you off on your merry way, but I have a confession to make.
Now I love that you care so much for me that you insist that I maintain a "healthy" diet, and I, um, "love" vegetables but...
My day today was to revolve principally around bong hits and hacking through my burgeoning TIVO list, finally getting the chance to dissect the finer points and clever subtext of "Ice Road Truckers" while committing lewd and lascivious acts on the bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken I bought last night and hid in the garage.
(which you, in your unending wisdom, have all but banished from "our" diet.)
I was a couple of hours in, wiping my hands on my shorts and thoroughly enjoying Canadian sots trying to justify a career choice that is only slightly less exciting than watching Slot Car racing, when it unfolded.
Your cat, you know - the fat orange one with the inappropriate eating problem? The one you refer to, without an ounce of irony, as "husky?"
F*cker would not leave me alone.
I tried the grungy sock full of catnip.
I tried the spray bottle.
Nothing short of a tornado siren was going to distract Husky from the mouthwatering shiny cardboard bucket on the coffee table.
(I even tried inflating and popping a paper bag, repeatedly, - no dice.)
It was so ravenously engorged at the thought of getting a crack at my chicken that it was licking the air...
We'll come back to the cat...
First let's pause and think about combining black coffee and a belly-full of chicken grease with the curried "health" that you fed me last night.
Gurgle...
Gurgle...
Not that your cooking isn't the world's most delicious, but intestinally mixing the two is, ironically enough, like oil and water.
Back to the cat...
Now you know that I "love" the cats, and that my near-constant provocation is steadfast evidence of my being a concerned and dedicated pet owner; in that I'm merely ensuring that they get plenty of exercise and maintain a healthy grasp on their problem-solving skills, right?
Well Husky didn't get the hint and, being unwilling to trap it in the bedroom and ultimately have to replace the shredded door, again, I decided to try something new.
(Well, it's not new to me, I have been doing it since day one, but it's new to try and use it as a behavioral modification tool and not just as baseless, yet hilarious, harassment on my part.)
You see, honey, I like to fart on the cats.
Before you get angry, please understand that it's an entirely harmless guilty pleasure. Deep down, and despite the desperate scramble away from me, they like it...
They sniff.
A lot.
I should also explain that the majority of the time it's more of a farting "at" thing, kind of like a 240-pound bombardier beetle.
Today wasn't supposed to be too terribly different.
So I, having had enough of the obese welfare cat's incessant pleas for KFC, decided to defuse the situation and give it some canned food.
It was following it's furtive, gasping consumption of an entire can in seconds that inspiration struck.
Recalling prior experience with your curries; (especially the time that you couldn't sleep from the guilt of having ostracized me to the couch thanks to my unavoidable outgassing, only to ask me to compromise by returning to bed, next to you, sequestered in my mummy-style sleeping bag, effectively braising me in my own fetid juices and requiring a HazMat shower the next morning...) I suspected, correctly, that at some point soon I would be locked and loaded for bear.
Or cat.
Now I know that it seems petty of me to admit this, but my goal was to make the cat vomit. (Please don't try and analyze or understand this - we're talking about the guy that likes to pelt you with single- roll toilet papers in the grocery store.)
I lowered my shorts just enough to expose the blowhole, wanting the cat to fully enjoy the impending heady aroma completely unfiltered.
(No, I didn't wiggle my junk. That would be creepy.)
Besides, I happen to know for a fact that a dangling scrotum is nearly indistinguishable from a catnip sock - to a cat that is.
I assumed the teabag stance directly over your fuzzy, rust-colored child substitute and, growling its name, pulled the trigger on what I thought would be a gloriously noxious aerosol "F*ck You."
The cat, sensing the looming menace, froze in place.
My digestive tract, carbed and relieved of any back-pressure, responded with alarming immediacy.
It got away from me.
Fast...
My balloon knot opened much further than is necessary to expel vapor and...
I'm sorry, honey -
I sh*t on the cat.
Before I could stop it, it just blasted out like Edge shaving cream.
You know a single, unbroken rope of mucilaginous hatred that, when exposed to air, morphs into more of a viscous foam?
I looked like a penguin sh*tting.
Oddly enough, it was relatively silent, sounding more like when you peel the skin off a chunk of baloney.
Zzzziiiiipppp!
It smelled like someone set fire to every trash dumpster in India.
The cat looked as though it had been restrained and dipped headfirst into Mutter Paneer.
(Don't ask me how I know what that looks like.)
Now Honey, I know that all of your stories have a moral that I love sitting through three hours of you talking at me to hear, so I know what the deal is here.
The moral to this story is:
Please, for the love of Christ...
No more f*cking curries.
Neither my colon nor the cats can take it.
Please.
In the ensuing typhoon of caterwauling and carnage, fifteen framed photos and seven of your eight plants took collateral damage.
Also, you know that quilt on the back of the couch, the one your grandmother brought us back from Branson?
It now looks like someone clubbed a harp seal on it.
Oh yeah, and the drapes...
Sorry.
I have to go clean up the crime scene before you get home.
Oh yeah and, before I forget, lets just say that if "hypothetically" you're to put a cat soaked in Tide, Febreeze, and Downy into a washing machine, should you switch to the Gentle cycle or can you just leave it on Super Wash and let it rip?
P.S.
I already know that "there will be snow on the ground before I see your vagina again", so save your breath.
It was sooooo worth it.
oh yeah!!! This should be the new 12 days of christmas!
A man wanted to get married. He was having trouble choosing among three likely candidates. He gives each woman a present of $5,000 and watches to see what they do with the money.
The first does a total makeover. She goes to a fancy beauty salon, gets her hair done, new makeup; buys several new outfits and dresses up very nicely for the man. She tells him that she has done this to be more attractive for him because she loves him so much.
The man was impressed.
The second goes shopping to buy the man gifts. She gets him a new set of golf clubs, some new gizmos for his computer, and some expensive clothes. As she presents these gifts, she tells him that she has spent all the money on him because she loves him so much.
Again, the man is impressed.
The third invests the money in the stock market She earns several times the $5,000. She gives him back his $5,000 and reinvests the remainder in a joint account. She tells him that she wants to save for their future because she loves him so much.
Obviously, the man was impressed.
The man thought for a long time about what each woman had done with the money he'd given her.
Then he married the one with the biggest boobs.
Men are like that, you know.
On another note!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer
The first does a total makeover. She goes to a fancy beauty salon, gets her hair done, new makeup; buys several new outfits and dresses up very nicely for the man. She tells him that she has done this to be more attractive for him because she loves him so much.
The man was impressed.
The second goes shopping to buy the man gifts. She gets him a new set of golf clubs, some new gizmos for his computer, and some expensive clothes. As she presents these gifts, she tells him that she has spent all the money on him because she loves him so much.
Again, the man is impressed.
The third invests the money in the stock market She earns several times the $5,000. She gives him back his $5,000 and reinvests the remainder in a joint account. She tells him that she wants to save for their future because she loves him so much.
Obviously, the man was impressed.
The man thought for a long time about what each woman had done with the money he'd given her.
Then he married the one with the biggest boobs.
Men are like that, you know.
On another note!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer
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any wonder why men cheat?
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We have posted before but with it being so cold here it is again...
...
...
Amish Sex
An Amish woman and her daughter were riding in an old buggy one cold blustery day.
The daughter said to her mother, 'My hands are freezing cold.'
The mother replied, 'Put them between your legs. Your body heat will warm them up.'
The daughter did, and her hands warmed up.
The next day, the daughter was riding with her boyfriend who said,
'My hands are freezing cold.'
The girl replied, 'Put them between my legs. The warmth of my body will warm them up.'
He did and warmed his hands.
The following day, the boyfriend was again in the buggy with the daughter.
He said, 'My nose is cold.'
The girl replied, 'Put it between my legs. The warmth of my body will warm it up'.
He did and warmed his nose.
The next day the boyfriend was again driving with the daughter, and he said, 'My penis is frozen solid.'
The following day the daughter was driving in the buggy with her mother again, and she says to her mother, 'Have you ever heard of a penis?'
Slightly concerned the mother said,' Why,yes...?! Why do you ask?'
The daughter replies: 'They make one hell
of a mess when they defrost, don't they?!
An Amish woman and her daughter were riding in an old buggy one cold blustery day.
The daughter said to her mother, 'My hands are freezing cold.'
The mother replied, 'Put them between your legs. Your body heat will warm them up.'
The daughter did, and her hands warmed up.
The next day, the daughter was riding with her boyfriend who said,
'My hands are freezing cold.'
The girl replied, 'Put them between my legs. The warmth of my body will warm them up.'
He did and warmed his hands.
The following day, the boyfriend was again in the buggy with the daughter.
He said, 'My nose is cold.'
The girl replied, 'Put it between my legs. The warmth of my body will warm it up'.
He did and warmed his nose.
The next day the boyfriend was again driving with the daughter, and he said, 'My penis is frozen solid.'
The following day the daughter was driving in the buggy with her mother again, and she says to her mother, 'Have you ever heard of a penis?'
Slightly concerned the mother said,' Why,yes...?! Why do you ask?'
The daughter replies: 'They make one hell
of a mess when they defrost, don't they?!