xpost from r/funny

When the black male reaches a certain age, a string is tied around his penis and on the other end is a weight. After a while, the weight stretches the penis to 24 inches. Later that evening as the husband was getting out of the shower, his wife looked at him and said, "How about we try the African string-and-weight procedure?" The husband agreed and they tied a string and a weight to his penis. A few days later, the wife asked the husband, "How is our little tribal experiment coming along?" "Well, it looks like we're about half way there," he replied. "Wow, you mean it's grown to 12 inches?" "No, it's turned black."

A podcaster.

No, there are a whole series of fairy tales that begin with ‘If elected, I promise…’

​ A linguistics professor was lecturing to his class one day. “In English,” he said, “a double negative forms a positive. In some languages though, such as Russian, a double negative is still a negative.” “However,” he pointed out, “there is no language wherein a double positive can form a negative.” A voice from the back of the room piped up, “Yeah. Right.”

Edit: Thanks for the gold!

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.

Guy: two? It’s always three, right? Genie: look at your crotch. Guy: Damn, that’s a huge dick. Genie: I’ve been doing this for centuries. You’re welcome.

An old west dime novel writer is out looking for a good story when he wanders into a saloon. He sees a group of rough rider lookin' scoundrels playing poker and he musters up enough courage to sit down with 'em (thinkin' he might get a story out if he was lucky). "Mind if I play?" The others look up with a scowl that would curdle milk, but one looks at the clock and shakes his head. He points out the time to the others and they gather up their chips and go. "Play alone, we're a-leavin'. Wild Bill's comin' to town." The writer is confused, but smells a story brewing; a strong one at that. He hoofs it up to the bar, passing most other patrons on their way out, and slaps a whole dollar bill on the table, "Barkeep, give me a beer and a story, and you can keep the change." After taking a quick glance at the clock, the bartender shakes his head, pours the beer, and pushes the bill back to the reporter. "The drink is on the house, but I suggest you drink it quick and leave. Wild Bill is coming to town." Without another word the 'tender puts his last glass away and walks right out the swinging doors, leaving the reporter in an empty bar. Now fear in his gut tears at him as he hears the emptiness in that bar. This emptiness seems to seep in as he realizes that he's about to be the last man in this town, alone with only the sound of that ticking clock to keep him company. Still, a story of this caliber must be worth something; so he waits… Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, Bong<CRACK!>- Just as the clock strikes the first chime of twelve, a sound like thunder splitting a mountain is heard outside. The reporter runs to the doors to see what it is. In the distance and closing fast is a tornado coming right for the bar. The reporter hits the ground and watches as the tornado comes up to the bar and stops. The wind settles and there is a giant of a man riding a grizzly bear. He steps off the bear, and instead of hitching it, he punches the great beast right in the face <WHAM!>, knocking it cold on the ground. The reporter is so scared he runs back into the bar and dives behind the counter, sure that this is the last of his days. <KaPLOW!> the giant kicks in the saloon doors, and they turn to splinters that imbed themselves into the walls and break bottles and glasses that they touch. The man walks up to the bar, breaking every floor board with each thundering step. He looks down at the reporter and slams his fist on the bar, cracking it down the middle, "GIMME A DRINK!" The reporter comes up, shakily holding out two bottles of whisky; which the giant snatches up, chews the glass tops off of, and drinks down as fast as the amber liquid can spill from the bottles. He throws both bottles in the air, whips out his six-shooter and fires off a round. The single bullet rips through both bottles showering the reporter with shards that rain down. Regretting his curiosity and repenting of his life, the reporter stands on weakened legs and whimpers out, "W-w-w-would y-you like a-another drink?" The man turns to him, fire in his eyes, then glances at the clock… "Nah, I gotta go. Wild Bill's comin' to town."

She said she hated all the constant Star Wars puns. ​ I look at therapist and said, "Divorce is strong with this one!" ​ ​

A Soviet army is marching through a Finnish forest when a general hears a voice from over a hill shout: "one Finnish soldier is better than 10 Soviet soldiers!" The general promptly send 10 soldiers to root out the voice, there is gunfire, and then silence. After a few minutes, the voice shouts defiantly: "One Finnish soldier is better than a hundred Soviet soldiers!!" The general sends a hundred men to remove the nuisance, there is a racket of gunfire, and then quiet. The voice crys out loudly once more: "One Finnish soldier is better than a thousand Soviet soldiers!!" Enraged, the general sends a thousand men charging over the hilltop to shut up that voice once and for all, an epic battle rages, and then quiet. After a few minutes, a gravely wounded Soviet crawls back over the hill and crys: "It's a trap! There are two Finnish soldiers!!"

Whether they like it or not

You can't spell advertisements without semen between the tits.(edited)

She said, “I think the baby is coming” Me: I don’t think he can get in. He will be underage.

Some assholes got my pen

A π-thon

I don't know but Alaska.

She whispers, "You look like you could use a little fun. For $100, I'll do anything you ask me to in three words or less." The man takes a drink of his beer, then takes out $100 and says, "Paint my house."

The look on his face was priceless.