I guess it's only fare
As mushroom as possible.
Because one egg is un oeuf.
Four men went golfing together one day; three headed to the first tee and one went into the club house to take care of the bill. The three men started talking, bragging about their sons. The first man told the others, "My son is a home builder and he's so successful that he gave a friend a new home – for free." The second man said, "My son was a car salesman and now he owns a multi-line dealership. He's so successful that he gave a friend two Cadillacs." The third man, not wanting to be outdone bragged, "My son is a stock broker and he's doing so well that he gave his friend an entire stock portfolio." The fourth man joined them on the tee after a few minutes of taking care of business. The first man mentioned, "We were just talking about our sons. How is yours doing?" The fourth man replied, "Well, my son is gay. I'm not totally thrilled about it, but he must be good. His last three boyfriends gave him a house, two cars, and a stock portfolio."
I won’t rest until I find it.
I am so bored I have too much toilet paper I need a ventilator
She was in charge of the hops.
Everyone gets it.
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.
But people who rob bakeries really take the cake.
My door to door fruit delivery business failed terribly because of my horrible interpersonal skills.
I was driving people bananas.
He had exceeded the maximum number of loggin' attempts.
It was the least I could have done for him.
Because you pull the Bonaparte.
I had sex last night with 2 blonde hair, blue eyed 18 year old twins that I met in a bar. I was telling my best friend about it this morning and he said "I don't understand the attraction, wouldn't it be like just having sex twice with the same person? Could you even tell them apart?" I said "Sure Kim had a cute little beauty mark just under her chin, and her twin Tim has a dick."
They were sole mates
I thought to myself; "Damn, she sounds just like the wife"
He should see my new mouse pad.
You look a bit flushed.
Never mind she was just at the grocery store
A pregnant woman who is expecting triplets walks into a bank, while she is in there a robber walks in and shouts for everyone to get down on the ground, the woman is too slow so the man shoots her 3 times and runs away from the scene. The woman survives, and the doctor told her that in 12 years, each of her children will have to pass the bullet. So in 12 years, her 1st son walks up to her and says ‘mum I’ve just peed out a bullet’ so she tells him the story.Her Daughter then walks up and says the same, so again the mother tells the story.Then her 3rd son walks up to her and says ‘mum you’ll never guess what’ which she replies with ‘let me guess you peed out a bullet’ which he replies with ‘no, I was masturbating and I shot the dog’.
…and then, they asked him to count to ten. The man counted, "two, four, six, eight, ten." Then they put the right-half back and removed the left-half, and again asked the man to count to ten. The man counted, "one, three, five, seven, nine." The scientists then removed both halves of the man's brain, and asked him again to count to ten. The man said, "look, we're gonna count to ten. We're gonna count. Because I know numbers, I have the best numbers. All the politicians in Washington can't count to one-believe me, I've counted to one many, many times. They said we couldn't count to ten. Well, I'm beating all of those people in the polls. We're gonna count to ten. Everybody, count to ten. Okay? And let me tell you – let me tell you something. I will be the best counting President God has ever created. We are gonna count to so many tens, I tell you. Look at that!"
It’s open Mike night!
to talk about hispanic attacks.
My girlfriend said that it wasn’t working out between us and that we should start seeing other people.
So I took her wheelchair. Just as I thought… She couldn’t stand to leave me.
He soon finds himself in a line of souls going to St. Peter to enter heaven. In no time at all there's only one person in tront of him. St Peter tells the man "ah yes, state your name and occupation" The man replies " Will Snikket, taxi driver in New York City" St Peter looks at his list for a moment and says "yes, take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the kingdom of the Lord" The priest is next, St Peter asks him " your name and occupation" "Father Samuel, minister of the church of God", the priest eagerly replies. After perusing his list for a moment St Peter looks at the preist and says " very well, take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the kingdom of the Lord" At hearing this the priest is indignant, " what, but I've been faithfully serving the lord all my life, why did that taxi driver get such amazing treatment compared to me". St Peter stares silently at the priest. Finally he replies, " my child, up here we work by results. While you preached people slept, but while he drove, people prayed".
micro soft porn
He was disqualified.
I think I might have terror wrists.
Mother: Before I die, I have to tell you something. You're ad- ado- Son: I'm adopted?! Mother: No, you're adorable Son: sniffs Thanks, mom Mother: That's why I chose you at the adoption center
…now I sneak out of parties to go home.
They just drank at home.
“Being 70 is the worst!” The 70 year old exclaims. “Every morning at 7, I wake up to pee, but nothing comes out!”“Oh, that’s nothing!” The 80 year old says. “Each morning at 8, I wake up to poop, and I sit on the toilet for what seems like hours, but nothing comes out!”“Oh, that’s nothing” The 90 year old says. “I have it the worst!”“Can you pee?” The first man asks.“Certainly! Every morning at 7, I pee like a champion.”“Can you poop?” The second man asks.“Yes I can! Each morning at 8, I have a regular bowel movement.”“Then I don’t understand what the problem is!” The first man says.“Well, I wake up at 9!”