Joke of the Day

[buffalobo]

Found it.

Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife!

A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Taser for their
anniversary submitted this:

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for
a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a
100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Taser.

The effects of the Taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long
Term adverse effect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to
retreat to safety.

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it
home...I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.

Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed
the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd
get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that
burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that
it couldn't be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently
(trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I
really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a
second), and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was 
going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I
did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.

Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading
glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand,
and Taser in another.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant;
a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major
loss of bodily control; and

a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on
the ground like a fish out of water.

Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.
All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5"
long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA
batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my
best. 

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one
side so as to say, ' Don 't do it stupid,' reasoning that a one second
burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided
to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it.

I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and...

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. WHAT THE... !!!

I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up
in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over
and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal
position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire,
testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the
oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I
had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the
fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my
body flopping all over the living room.

Note:
If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a Taser,
one note of caution:

There is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself!

You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by
a violent thrashing about on the floor!

A three second burst would be considered conservative!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at
that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and
surveyed the landscape.

My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace.

The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where
it originally was.

My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching.

My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my
bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. 

I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I had [censored] in my shorts, but was too numb to know
for sure, and my sense of smell was gone.

I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came
from my hair.

I'm still looking for my testicles and I'm offering a significant
reward for their safe return!

PS: My wife can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift
and now regularly threatens me with it!

If you think education is difficult, try being stupid!!!!

[stodg73]

Saw this on another forum and thought you guys would like it.


The King of Speed


Category: Military


True story? Dunno, but it sounds plausible.
- - -
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed.
Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "HoustonCenterVoice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the HoustonCenterControllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that... and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed.
"Ah, Twin Beach: I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed."
Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.

Then out of the blue, a Navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.
"Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check."
Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it -- ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.
And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion:
"Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done -- in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.
I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet.
Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke:
"Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?"
There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an everyday request:
"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice:

"Ah, Center, much thanks. We're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A. came back with,
"Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

[Zundfolge]

A black boy walks into the kitchen where his mother is baking and accidentally pulls the flour over onto his head.

He turns to his mother and says, “Look Mama, I’m a white boy!”

His mother smacks him and says, “Go tell your Daddy what you just said!”

The boy finds his father and says, “Look Daddy, I’m a white boy!” His Daddy bends him over, spanks him, stands the boy back up, and says, “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The boy replies, “I’ve only been a white boy for five minutes and I already hate you black people!”

[lc_nab]

Sugar free Gummy Bears from Amazon reviews

Oh man...words cannot express what happened to me after eating these. The Gummi Bear "Cleanse". If you are someone that can tolerate the sugar substitute, enjoy. If you are like the dozens of people that tried my order, RUN!

First of all, for taste I would rate these a 5. So good. Soft, true-to-taste fruit flavors like the sugar variety...I was a happy camper.

BUT (or should I say BUTT), not long after eating about 20 of these all hell broke loose. I had a gastrointestinal experience like nothing I've ever imagined. Cramps, sweating, bloating beyond my worst nightmare. I've had food poisoning from some bad shellfish and that was almost like a skip in the park compared to what was going on inside me.

Then came the, uh, flatulence. Heavens to Murgatroyd, the sounds, like trumpets calling the demons back to Hell...the stench, like 1,000 rotten corpses vomited. I couldn't stand to stay in one room for fear of succumbing to my own odors.

But wait; there's more. What came out of me felt like someone tried to funnel Niagara Falls through a coffee straw. I swear my sphincters were screaming. It felt like my delicate starfish was a gaping maw projectile vomiting a torrential flood of toxic waste. 100% liquid. Flammable liquid. NAPALM. It was actually a bit humorous (for a nanosecond)as it was just beyond anything I could imagine possible.

AND IT WENT ON FOR HOURS.

I felt violated when it was over, which I think might have been sometime in the early morning of the next day. There was stuff coming out of me that I ate at my wedding in 2005.

I had FIVE POUNDS of these innocent-looking delicious-tasting HELLBEARS so I told a friend about what happened to me, thinking it HAD to be some type of sensitivity I had to the sugar substitute, and in spite of my warnings and graphic descriptions, she decided to take her chances and take them off my hands.

Silly woman. All of the same for her, and a phone call from her while on the toilet (because you kinda end up living in the bathroom for a spell) telling me she really wished she would have listened. I think she was crying.

Her sister was skeptical and suspected that we were exaggerating. She took them to work, since there was still 99% of a 5 pound bag left. She works for a construction company, where there are builders, roofers, house painters, landscapers, etc. Lots of people who generally have limited access to toilets on a given day. I can't imagine where all of those poor men (and women) pooped that day. I keep envisioning men on roofs, crossing their legs and trying to decide if they can make it down the ladder, or if they should just jump.

If you order these, best of luck to you. And please, don't post a video review during the aftershocks.

PS: When I ordered these, the warnings and disclaimers and legalese were NOT posted. I'm not a moron. Also, not sure why so many people assume I'm a man. I am a woman. We poop too. Of course, our poop sparkles and smells like a walk in a meadow of wildflowers. Thanks for all the great comments. I've been enjoying reading them and so glad that the horror show I experienced from snacking on these has at least made some people smile.

[TFOGGER]

Appropriate for the day...

Not long ago and far away, Santa was getting ready for his annual trip. But there were problems everywhere. Four of his elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones so Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where. More Stress.Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys. So frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey. When he went to the cupboard, he found the elves had hid the liquor and there was nothing to drink.In his frustration, he dropped the coffee pot and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw it was made from.Just then the doorbell rang and Santa cussed on his way to the door. He opened the door and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.The angel said: "Where would you like to put this tree Santa?"And that my friend, is how the little angel came to be on top of the Christmas tree.

[henpecked]

Visiting with a customer that was considering one of my digital piano's for his wife for Christmas. He tells me "My wife said she's getting me a new SUV for Christmas."

"Really? That's nice!" I reply.

"Yep. Socks, Underwear, and Viagra."

[Scanker19]

A magic tractor is driving down the road, and turns into a field.

[wctriumph]

Why did the police arrest the belt?








For holding up a pair of pants!

[Irving]

What did the complete upper say to the stripped lower?












I'll be a some of a gun.

[BushMasterBoy]

Why do gay guys wear ribbed condoms? Better traction in the mud.