How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?

The doctor gave the man a jar and said, "Take this jar home and bring back a semen sample tomorrow." The next day the 85-year-old man reappeared at the doctor's office and gave him the jar, which was as clean and empty as on the previous day. The doctor asked, what happened and the man explained. "Well, doc, it's like this–first I tried with my right hand, but nothing. Then I tried with my left hand, but still nothing. Then I asked my wife for help. She tried with her right hand, then with her left, still nothing. She tried with her mouth, first with the teeth in, then with her teeth out, still nothing. We even called up Arleen, the lady next door and she tried too, first with both hands, then an armpit, and she even tried squeezin' it between her knees, but still nothing." The doctor was shocked! "You asked your neighbor?" The old man replied, "Yep, none of us could get the jar open."

Embryoidery!

Because its cheaper

No text found

While he was there he received a "Dear John" letter from his girlfriend. In the letter she explained that she had slept with two guys while he had been gone and she wanted to break up with him. ​ To add injury to the insult, she said she wanted back the picture of herself that she had given him. ​ So the Marine did what any squared-away Marine would do. He went around to his buddies and collected all the unwanted photos of women he could find. ​ In all, he got more than 25 pictures of various women (some with clothes and some without). ​ He then mailed them to his now-former girlfriend with the following note: ​ "I don't remember which one you are. Please remove your picture and send the rest back."

…have the same middle name

All of their friends swear, but it's just never been their thing. But tomorrow is the day! They decide to have a sleepover so they can start swearing together. The morning comes and both boys wake up excitedly and head downstairs to breakfast. The mother asked her son "what would you like for breakfast?" Her son replies "I'll take some fruit loops bitch." The mother immediately smacks the kid upside the head and sends him back to his room. She turns to the boys friend and says "I'm so sorry you had to see that, what would you like for breakfast?" The boy looks a little scared a replies "I don't know, but definitely not fucking fruit loops."

Go see a Cairo-practor.

A woman in labor suddenly shouted, "Shouldn't! Wouldn't! Couldn't! Didn't! Can't!" "Don't worry," said the doc. "Those are just contractions."

It's fine to have one and it's fine to be proud of it, but please don't whip it out in public and start waving it around… and PLEASE don't try to shove it down my child's throat.

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.

He loved his job. Driving a train had been his dream ever since he was a child. He loved to make the train go as fast as possible. Unfortunately, one day he was a little too reckless and caused a crash. He made it out, but a single person died. Well, needless to say, he went to court over this incident. He was found guilty, and was sentenced to death by electrocution. When the day of the execution came, he requested a single banana as his last meal. After eating the banana, he was strapped into the electric chair. The switch was flown, sparks flew, and smoke filled the air – but nothing happened. The man was perfectly fine. Well, at the time, there was an old Bulgarian law that said a failed execution was a sign of divine intervention, so the man was allowed to go free. Somehow, he managed to get his old job back driving the train. Having not learned his lesson at all, he went right back to driving the train with reckless abandon. Once again, he caused a train to crash, this time killing two people. The trial went much the same as the first, resulting in a sentence of execution. For his final meal, the man requested two bananas. After eating the bananas, he was strapped into the electric chair. The switch was thrown, sparks flew, smoke filled the room – and the man was once again unharmed. Well, this of course meant that he was free to go. And once again, he somehow managed to get his old job back. To what should have been the surprise of no one, he crashed yet another train and killed three people. And so he once again found himself being sentenced to death. On the day of his execution, he requested his final meal: three bananas. "You know what? No," said the executioner. "I've had it with you and your stupid bananas and walking out of here unharmed. I'm not giving you a thing to eat; we're strapping you in and doing this now." Well, it was against protocol, but the man was strapped in to the electric chair without a last meal. The switch was pulled, sparks flew, smoke filled the room – and the man was still unharmed. The executioner was speechless. The man looked at the executioner and said, "Oh, the bananas had nothing to do with it. I'm just a bad conductor."

When suddenly a wasp flies into the wife's vagina. She screams in terror, and frantically tells her husband what happened. He scoops her into his arms, throws her into the car and speeds to the hospital. At the hospital the doctor tries a few different ways to remove the wasp with each one failing. The doctor has an idea, turns to the husband and says, "We will coat your penis with honey, you insert it into your wife. When you feel the wasp on your head, slowly remove it." The husband gives it a try but with all the yelling, hectic drive and stress of the situation, he cannot get an erection. The doctor says, "With both your permissions, I can perform the procedure." Fearing that the wasp can do damage in there, they both readily agree. The doctor pulls down his scrubs, smears himself with honey and gets instantly hard. He slowly inserts his honey covered penis a few inches into the wife's vagina. Withdraws an inch, slides back in a couple inches, withdraws a few inches. "There he is… no, lost him… I think I got him. No, no. Lost him again…" Over the next 20 minutes, the doctor's comments has turned into grunts and pants. He now has sweat dripping from his face, while pumping the wife viorously. The wife is moaning wildly, and has locked her legs around the doctors hips. The husband is on the edge of his seat and screams, "Doctor, tell me what's happening!? What's going on in there!" Doctor replies, "Change of plans. I'm going to drown that little fucker."

Your spine

"With this, I will make America grate again."

"2 or 3" she replied. That probably explains why her marriage failed.

The bartender finally says that the bar is closed. So our man stands up to leave and falls flat on his face. He figures he'll crawl outside and get some fresh air and maybe that will sober him up. Once outside he stands up but again falls flat on his face. He crawls home. Reaching the door he tries to stand up, and yet again, falls flat on his face. He crawls through the door and up the stairs. When he reaches his bed he summons the last of his strength and tries one final time to stand. It's no use. He tumbles into bed and is soon sound asleep, only to awaken the next morning to the sound of his wife standing over him shouting. 'So… you've been out drinking again!' 'How did you know?' he asks, his head hung in shame. 'The pub called– you left your damn wheelchair down there again!'

Turned on and in the bath tub with me

Granted I would have preferred she didn't say it in a police lineup. But you have to take what you get.