The corolla virus.
A young cowboy from Montana goes off to college. Half way through the semester, having foolishly squandered all his money …. he calls home. "Dad," he says, "You won't believe what modern education is developing! They actually have a program here in University that will teach our dog, Ole' Blue how to talk!" "That's amazing," his Dad says. "How do I get Ole' Blue in that program?" "Just send him down here with $1,000" the young cowboy says "and I'll get him in the course." So, his father sends the dog and $1,000. About two-thirds of the way through the semester, the money again runs out. The boy calls home. "So how's Ole' Blue doing son?" his father asks. "Awesome, Dad, he's talking up a storm," he says, "but you just won't believe this — they've had such good results they have started to teach the animals how to read!" "Read!?" says his father, "No kidding! How do we get Blue in that program?" "Just send $2,500, I'll get him in the class." The money promptly arrives. But the young lad has a problem. At the end of the year, his father will find out the dog can neither talk, nor read. So he shoots the dog. When he arrives home at the end of the year, his father is all excited. "Where's Ole' Blue? I just can't wait to see him read something and talk!" "Dad," the boy says, "I have some grim news. Yesterday morning, just before we left to drive home, Ole' Blue was in the living room, kicked back in the recliner, reading the Wall Street Journal, like he usually does". "Then Ole' Blue turned to me and asked, so, is your daddy still messing around with that little redhead who lives down the street?" The father went white and exclaimed, "I hope you shot that lying dog before he talks to your Mother!" "I sure did, Dad!" "That's my boy!"
There’s no menu: You get what you deserve.
But to be fair, those crows shouldn't have been gathering in the middle of the road
If it were served warm it would be JustWater
Do you know why redwood is the favorite tree species of every dog? It has the thickest bark.
A dwarf walks into a brothel with a honeycomb and a jackass. The madam asks how she can help him. He says "I need a woman for mine has left me." The madam says "Whatever for? And what are the honeycomb and jackass for?" The dwarf says, "my wife found a genie that could grant her three wishes. For the first wish she asked for a house fit for a queen, so he gave her this honeycomb, the second wish she asked for the nicest ass in all the land, so he gave her this Jackass. The madam then asks "what about the third wish?" "She asked the genie for my cock to hang down past my knee." "That's not so bad." "Not so bad?" Spluttered the dwarf "I used to be 6 foot 3!"
So I packed all my bags and right.
His Captain yells, "Good Lord Corporal! What happened to you?" "Well Captain", he says, wiping blood from his face, "I was out on watch, and I looked across the road. And I saw this Russian soldier, real big bastard. And I looked at him, and he looked at me. So I started walking towards him, and he starting walking towards me. And we met in the middle of the road." "And I said to him 'Putin is an evil, murdering, election cheating tyrant!" "And he said to me, 'Trump is retarded, lying, spoiled rotten little baby!" "While we were standing there shaking hands, we got hit by a truck."
Police are working tirelessly to catch him
I can see it clearly.
The money wasn't great, but he got to keep the tips.
Well the flag is a big plus
That'd be way too many
Because they make up everything.
The one I already had wasn't bored enough.
Fuck you pear, you taste like shit
I called the doctor “My wife is going into labor! What should I do?” “Is this her first child?” he asked.
"No, this is her husband."
The gambler calls his tax attorney and they go to see the IRS agent. As they are waiting in the office, the IRS agent looks over his paperwork and says: "The reason for your audit is that you have a relatively lavish lifestyle, but not much income to justify it, can you tell me what you do for living?" Gambler says "I am a professional gambler." "A gambler?" said the IRS agent with slightly puzzled and surprised look on his face. "Yes, I make my money by betting, would you like a demonstration?" "Sure" said the IRS agent "let's have a demonstration" "I will bet you $1,000; that I can bite my eye" said the gambler. "OK, you have a bet" replied IRS agent with a smirk on his face. The gambler pops out his glass eye and bites it. IRS agent is shocked as he did not see that coming, and he did agree to a $1,000 bet in from of gamblers attorney. "All right, all right, this was not really fair" said the gambler. "I will give you a chance to win your money back. I will bet you another $1,000 that I can bite my other eye." IRS agent looks over the guys paperwork and see that he is not legally blind and takes the bet. The gambler takes out his dentures and bites his other eye. The IRS agent is now visibly stressed and sweating for being on the hook for $2,000. "I tell you what. Double or nothing, I will stand on the edge of your desk, close my eyes and piss into the garbage can on the other side of the room without spilling a drop, what do you say?" IRS agent is a little perplex, but does not see how that would be possible and takes the bet. The gambler stands on the agents desks, unzip his pants, closes his eyes and pisses all over the agents desk. "YES!!!" exclaimed the IRS agent knowing he won the bet and does not own the gambler any money. "Ahh, shiiiit" said the attorney. "What's the matter?" asked the IRS agent. "Well, he bet me $20,000 that he will come to your office today, piss all over your desk, and you would be happy about it."
It was absolutely ribbiting
Unfortunately, the police found it.
In a dad-a–base
Saturday and Sunday…the rest are weekdays.
I don't know if it was because she was still wearingthem or because the rest of the family was there. Either way it made the rest of the funeral very awkward.
http://imgur.com/gallery/LVgGlW7 My eyes nearly rolled out of my head.
I said "No, but I can do a great Bohemian Rhapsody"
On the right palm, on the forehead, on the left palm, and on the abdomen. The first victim is discovered in the Florida Everglades. 0, 8, 2 on his hands and forehead. 5 on his abdomen. “We believe the numbers may be significant,” a uniformed man reads from a prepared statement to the press, “but we cannot say for sure at this time.” Detective Pierce has seen more faces of death than any man should ever have to endure, but this case—this seems different, somehow. Another victim is discovered in the marshes of Louisiana soon after. 0, 8, 0 on her hands and forehead. 19 on her abdomen. Are they connected? Law enforcement in Louisiana contact the agency in Florida. Criminal psychologists and cipher experts are called in to decode the strange numerical messages. Nothing yet. There isn’t enough data. Detective Pierce knows, if there is a deeper meaning, it will only surface with more bodies. To solve the murder, more must be committed. A cruel irony. A third victim emerges, and a macabre certainty is apparent—a serial killer. 0, 6, 9; 2 “What could it mean?” Detective Pierce ponders over a table littered with dozens of photographs. The psychological stress begins to weigh on him. He first began the investigation into the mysterious number killings, and he now makes it his mission to discover the secret of these symbols and put an end to this evil. More victims. 0, 7, 1; 6 0, 6, 5; 10 0, 7, 8; 8 0, 7, 3; 12 0, 6, 9; 4 0, 7, 8; 9 “069 repeats!” the authorities notice after the ninth victim is discovered. “It’s certainly a code!” “And here! The victims with 8 and 9 on the abdomen have identical numbers on the hands and forehead too: both 0, 7, 8.” Detective Pierce broods over this information. He locks himself away with the numbers, poring through literature about ciphers and codes. He devises complex algorithms to analyze the data, looking for patterns. Pierce has always put work before his family. His colleagues will all tell you that. But the domestic strain from the number killings is pushing his relationships to the brink of collapse. Another body in Florida. 0, 8, 5; 17 Pierce is on the scene, crouching over the Number Killer’s latest conquest, examining the slapdash 17 scrawled unceremoniously on the abdomen. “Detective Pierce.” A voice from behind him. Pierce stands and peels the purple nitrile gloves from his hands and glowers at the intruder on his crime scene. “Agent Rickson. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my crime scene now, sir. I’ll need a full briefing.” “The hell it is!” Pierce snaps back. “I’ve been working these killings from day one! You think you can just come in here with your federal mandate and expect me to catch you up on all the work my people have done?!” Agent Rickson hands Pierce a bound legal envelope. “You’ve been relieved.” “This isn’t over. You’re gambling with people’s lives…sir.” Detective Pierce practically spits the final word at the agent’s feet before snatching the envelope and rushing off the scene. Over the next two weeks, eight more victims. Pierce’s anxiety has left him unable to leave his office. He hasn’t been home in three days. Though he’s officially off the case, he’s still haunted by the numbers and mounting body count. His work has suffered to the point that his superiors have issued reprimands. At his wits’ end, Detective Pierce pulls officer Malloy into his office. Malloy is a rookie who’s eager to please and has a knack for numbers. “I need you on special assignment, rookie.” Pierce is looking pensively out his office window when Malloy enters. “Special assignment, sir?” “Secret, special assignment, Malloy.” He turns and places a sealed envelope on the table. “I need you to collect everything we have on the Number Killings. Meet me at the address enclosed here. Tomorrow night. Midnight. Tell no one.” “But sir, I thought you had been reliev-” “Dammit, rookie! Do you want more people to die?! We need to figure out this nonsense now or we’re going to end up with dead bodies in triple digits, son!” Malloy reluctantly agrees. He smuggles boxes of files and pictures out of the precinct late the next night and meets Pierce at an abandoned warehouse to go over the information. For hours, the two sit at opposite tables, running numbers, delving into research, and analyzing the evidence, late into the early hours of the morning. With a sudden energetic vigor, Malloy springs from his chair and cries out, “ASCII!” Startled out of his analytic trance, Pierce inquires, “What did you say, Malloy?” “ASCII! It’s a computer language that uses numbers to represent letters! Look!” Malloy pulls up a reference sheet and begins arranging numbers on Pierce’s desk. “If we take the abdomen numbers as the order, and the palm and foreheadnumbers as the code for the letter…” “Malloy, you’re a genius!” Working furiously, Pierce and Malloy clear a space on the dusty warehouse floor to lay out the pictures in sequence: Abdomens: 6, 12, 17… G, I, U… 4, 9, 11… E, N, G… In minutes, the men have spread 76 photos over a 10 foot square of the warehouse floor and scratched nervous letters on ripped sheets of notebook paper under each group corresponding to the symbol. As they finish, Malloy stands back to survey the message. “No…” All blood drains from his face. His legs go weak, and he collapses onto his knees. “It can’t…It just…It can’t! Detective Pierce is wide-eyed next to Malloy’s broken form, mouth agape. A sound from the warehouse wall rattles the building as a dozen federal agents storm the facility. “Mother of God…” Pierce doesn’t even notice the agents. His unbroken stare is consumed by the message on the dusty warehouse floor. Agent Rickson grabs hold of Detective Pierce. “You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal investigation and tampering with evidence.” Malloy sheepishly confesses. “I told them everything! I told them you wanted me to take the evidence. It was a setup. I was worried about you. I’m sorry! But I never thought…oh God! What can we do?!” Pierce is handcuffed, and as he is dragged backward from the grotesque mosaic of death, he laughs in spite of himself, “You monster…” As he comes back to his senses, Pierce begins tearing at the agents pulling him away. He lets out a shrill, animalistic shriek… “YOU MONSTER!!” The other agents crowd around the space on the floor that has itself become a crime scene, and in an eerie silence, they collectively ponder the ethereal message left by the elusive Numbers Killer: “NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP” EDIT (TLDR): Thanks for the support, and also some people are asking for a tldr because (obviously) it's really long. Here's a video to basically sum it up. Have a nice day. Also, thank you /u/about_tyme for ASCII number edits.
I used a penny stamp to mail a love note. But instead of writing it, I only sprayed it with my favorite cologne.
With a cent, I sent a scent.