The Lucky Frog
A man takes the day off work and decides to go out golfing. He is on the
second hole when he notices a frog sitting next to the green. He thinks
nothing of it and is about to shoot when he hears, "Ribbit.9 Iron" The man
looks around and doesn't see anyone. "Ribbit. 9 Iron." He looks at the frog
and decides to prove the frog wrong, puts his other club away, and grabs a
9 iron. Boom! he hits it 10 inches from the cup. He is shocked. He says to
the frog, "Wow that's amazing. You must be a lucky frog, eh?" The frog
replies "Ribbit. Lucky frog." The man decides to take the frog with him to
the next hole. "What do you think frog?" the man asks. "Ribbit. 3 wood."
The guy takes out a 3 wood and Boom! Hole in one. The man is befuddled and
doesn't know what to say. By the end of the day, the man golfed the best
game of golf in his life and asks the frog, "OK where to next?" The frog
reply, "Ribbit. Las Vegas."
They go to Las Vegas and the guy says, "OK frog, now what?" The frog says,
"Ribbit. Roulette." Upon approaching the roulette table, the man asks,"What
do you think I should bet?" The frog replies, "Ribbit.$3000, black 6." Now,
this is a million-to-one shot to win, but after the golf game, the man
figures what the heck. Boom! Tons of cash comes sliding back across the
table. The man takes his winnings and buys the best room in the hotel. He
sits the frog down and says, "Frog, I don't know how to repay you. You've
won me all this money and I am forever grateful."
The frog replies, "Ribbit, Kiss Me." He figures why not, since after all
the frog did for him he deserves it. With a kiss, the frog turns into a
gorgeous 15-year-old girl. "And that, your honor, is how the girl ended up
in my room."
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> Henry Ford went to Heaven upon his death and was given a warm welcome
> at the pearly gates. St. Peter, after completing the formalities, asked him how
> he would like to spend his time. Ford, the great inventor, asked to see some of
> the inventors before him.
>
> So St. Peters printed out the list of all the inventors currently (doing time)
> in heaven. As Ford started to go through the list, he came across the name
> Adam. He queried if it was the same guy who discovered Eve, the woman.St.
> Peters confirmed that indeed Adam was the man credited with the invention of
> women. Ford requested an audience with Adam, as he had a few things to
> straighten out with him.
>
> When the scheduled meeting took place, Ford was all over Adam,
> attacking him for the flaws in his invention.
>
> "Your invention is the most stupid work of engineering ever saw. There
> is too much of front end protrusion, the rear end wobbles too much, it
> chatters at high speeds and the intake is placed too close to the exhaust."
>
> Obviously, Adam doesn't like it too much. He thinks for a while and
> then leads Henry Ford to the Celestial Computer. He works with the
> enormous data-banks and in a few minutes there is beeps and all that,
> and out come a few charts and graphs.
>
> "Look here, Mr. Ford. Despite all the flaws you pointed out, data shows
> that there are more men riding my product than yours."
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Mexicans
The American tourist got the shock of his life ,when a Mexican with a
6-shooter jumped out from behind a cactus.
"Take my money,my car but don't kill me",said the tourist.
"I no kill you if you do what I say"said the Mexican. "Just unzip
your pants and start spanking the monkey ",he ordered.
Although shocked the tourist did what he was told and was surprised
that even with a gun in his face he was strangely able to enjoy himself.
"Right,now do it again",said the Mexican.
The Yank protested but with the gun against his nose,he managed to
produce the goods again, luckily he was ambidextrous.
"And yet again,Gringo or I will shoot you dead."
With sweat running down his brow, cramping and exhaustion the yank
managed a final effort of white instant pudding.
"Good"said the Mexican,"now you give my sister a ride to the next
village."
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I ma sure we have all heard this one before, but here it goes anyway, hold
>onto your socks
> WARNING, this is steamy stuff. You either need to read this,
>curled-up on a sofa with an exotic drink, or with a cold shower
>close-by..........
>
> We met in a secluded field, the sun nearly kissing the evening horizon.
> The warm breeze was full of that earthy musky scent that only those
> fortunate enough to live outside the urban rat race know, and quiet
> whispering of leaves in the Weeping Willow overhead added the final
>touch to the most romantic scene.
> We lay there, both naked. I knew I had to have her and have her now.
> Without a word being spoken, I managed to move myself to a position of
> dominance. I could feel instantly that this is what she had been
>waiting for as she frantically thrust her pelvis at my approaching organ.
> I moved slowly at first, inch by inch, until I was fully inside her.
>Then as tension rose, we began the ultimate in sex. Although inexperienced,
> she approached every change of position with enthusiasm, moaning with
> despair every time I withdrew to prevent myself from ending
> it all too soon. As sexual tension heightened towards the inevitable
> mind-blowing climax, it was all I could do to hold out until the moment
> we had been both waiting for was upon us. As it did, we rolled together
> in the now damp grass.
> As the last deep orange glow of the long setting sun melted into the
> darkness of approaching night, as we lay there still entwined in an
> amorous embrace, I kissed her long and lovingly and whispered how good
>she had been, she tenderly and sensuously licked my inner ear and
>whispered, "Baaa", then re-joined the flock.
> - A Australian edition of Mills & Boon -
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>Subject: sonofabitch
>
>A priest decides to take a walk to the pier near his church. He looks
>around and finally stops to watch a fisherman load his boat. The fisherman
>notices, and asks the priest if he would like to join him for a couple of
>hours. The priest agrees. The fisherman asks if the priest has ever fished
>before, to which the priest says no. He baits the hook for him and says,
>"Give it a shot father".
>After a few minutes, the priest hooks a huge fish and struggles to get it
>in the boat.The fisherman says "Whoa, look at the size of that
>sonofabitch!"
>Priest: "Uh, please sir, can you mind your language?"
>Fisherman:(THINKING QUICKLY) "Ermm, I am sorry father, but that's what this
>fish is called - a sonofabitch!"
>Priest: "Oh, I'm sorry - I didn't know."
>After the trip, the priest brings the fish to the church and spots the
>bishop.
>Priest: "Look at this big sonofabitch!"
>Bishop: "Please, mind your language, this is a house of God."
>Priest: "No, you don't understand - that's what this fish is called, and I
>caught it. I caught this sonofabitch!"
>Bishop: "Hmmm. You know, I could clean this sonofabitch and we could have
>it for dinner."
>So the Bishop takes the fish and cleans it, and brings it to the
>headmother.
>Bishop: "Could you cook this sonofabitch for dinner tonight?"
>Head Mother: "My lord, what language!"
>Bishop: "No, sister, that's what the fish is called - a sonofabitch! Father
>caught it, I cleaned it, and we'd like you to cook it.
>Head Mother: "Hmmm. Yes, I'll cook that sonofabitch tonight."
>By chance, the Pope stops by for dinner with the three of them, and they
>all think the fish is great. He asks where they got it.
>Priest: "I caught the sonofabitch!"
>Bishop: "And I cleaned the sonofabitch!"
>Head Mother: "And I cooked the sonofabitch!"
>The Pope stares at them for a minute with a steely gaze. He then takes off
>his hat, puts his feet up on the table, and says, "Y'know, you fuckers are
>alright."
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>For the philosophers amongst us!
> Jean-Paul Sartre
>
>We have recently been lucky enough to discover several previously lost
>diaries of French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre stuck in between the
>cushions of our office sofa. These diaries reveal a young Sartre
>obsessed not with the void, but with food. Aparently Sartre, before
>discovering philosophy, had hoped to write "a cookbook that will put to
>rest all notions of flavor forever.'' The diaries are excerpted here for
>your perusal.
>
>October 3
>
>Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually
>eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin
>work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.
>
>October 4
>
>Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep
>creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea,
>but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet
>that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste
>like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back.
>Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux
>suggested paprika.
>
>October 6
>
>I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is
>bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of a cigarette, some coffee, and
>four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but
>my journey is still long.
>
>October 7
>
>Today I agian modified my omelet recipe. While my previous attempts had
>expressed my own bitterness, they communicated only illness to the
>eater. In an attempt to reach the bourgeoisie, I taped two fried eggs
>over my eyes and walked the streets of Paris for an hour. I ran into
>Camus at the Select. He called me a "pathetic dork" and told me to "go
>home and wash my face." Angered, I poured a bowl of bouillabaisse into
>his lap. He became enraged, and, seizing a straw wrapped in paper, tore
>off one end of the wrapper and blew through the straw. propelleing the
>wrapper into my eye. "Ow! You dick!" I cried. I leaped up, cursing and
>holding my eye, and fled.
>
>October 10
>
>I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional
>dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely.
>Today I tried this recipe:
>
> Tuna Casserole
>
> Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish
>
> Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the
> oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When
> night falls, do not turn on the light.
>
>While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its
>inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize
>that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I
>am becoming more and more frustated.
>
>October 12
>
>My eye has become inflamed. I hate Camus.
>
>October 25
>
>I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire
>cookbook. Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself,
>embody the plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well
>as providing the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the
>four basic food groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of
>foodstuffs from the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen,
>refusing to admit anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a
>recipe calling for two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and
>a leek. While this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead.
>
>November 15
>
>I feel that I may be very close to a great breakthrough. I had been
>creating meal after meal, but none seemed to express the futility of
>existence any better than would ordering a pizza. I left the house this
>morning in a most depressed state, and wandered aimlessly through the
>streets. Suddenly, it was as if the heavens had opened. My brain was
>electrified with an influx of new ideas. "Juice, toast, milk.." I
>muttered aloud. I realized with a start that I was one ingredient away
>from creating the nutritious breakfast. Loathsome, true, but filled with
>existential authenticity. I rushed home to begin work anew.
>
>November 18
>
>Today I tried yet another variation: Juice, toast, milk and Chee-tos.
>Again, a dismal failure. I have tried everything. Juice, toast, milk and
>whiskey, juice, toast, milk and chicken fat, juice, toast, milk and
>someone else's spit. Nothing helps. I am in agony. Juice, toast, milk,
>they race about my fevered brain like fire, like an unholy trinity of
>cruel denial. And the fourth ingredient! What could it be? It eludes me
>like the lost chord, the Holy Grail. I must see the completion of my
>task, but I have no more money to spend on food. Perhaps man is not
>meant to know.
>
>November 21
>
>Camus came into the restaurant today. He did not know I was in the
>kitchen, and before I sent out his meal I loogied in his soup. Sic
>semper tyrannis.
>
>November 23
>
>Ran into some opposition at the restaurant. Some of the patrons
>complained that my breakfast special (a page out of Remembrance of
>Things Past and a blowtorch with which to set it on fire) did not
>satisfy their hunger. As if their hunger was of any consequence! "But
>we're starving," they say. So what? They're going to die eventually
>anyway. They make me want to puke. I have quit the job. It is stupid for
>Jean- Paul Sartre to sling hash. I have enough money to continue my work
>for a little while.
>
>November 24
>
>Last night I had a dream. In it, I am standing, alone, on a beach. A
>great storm is raging all about me. It begins to rain. Night falls. I am
>struck by how small and insignificant I am, how the entire race of Man
>is but a speck in the eye of God, and I am but a speck of humanity.
>Suddenly, a red Cadillac convertible pulls up beside me, In it are these
>two beautiful girls named Jojo and Wendy. I get in and the take me to
>their mansion in Hollywood and give me a pound of cocaine and make mad,
>passionate love to me for the rest of my life.
>
>November 26
>
>Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a
>live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word "cake." I was
>very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for
>dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement
>yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.
>
>November 30
>
>Today was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had
>hoped. During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty
>Crocker on the wrist. The beaver's powerful jaws are capable of felling
>blue spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more
>than a match for the tender limbs of America's favorite homemaker. I
>only got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty
>lawsuit.
>
>December 1
>
>I have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am
>now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and
>ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin,
>but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on
>cigarettes and black coffee.
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