If you’ve never tried donkey meat, don’t bother.
It tastes like ass.
If you’ve never tried donkey meat, don’t bother.
It tastes like ass.
Bill Cosby must feel good knowing the people who released doves outside Michael Jackson’s child molestation trial might still love him.
If I were god, I’d wait till the seventh day and try to do it all that evening, but then I’d probably get sidetracked when I invented Comedy Central and I’d have to ask for an extension on the eighth day. And if I didn’t get it, who cares? I’m god!
My daughter asked me to explain AI to her.
I said, “You know how Dad gives wrong answers confidently? It’s like that but faster.”
If you’re ever of a mind to use a little saliva of your T.P. to blunt the scratch of it across your ass, you might want to stay focused on the whole “lick, wipe, lick, wipe” order of the event chain.
My girlfriend is all pissed off because I ruined her Mickey Mouse bobblehead. I maintain that with all that alcohol in my system, it looked exactly like a butt plug.
I woke up to an allergic reaction spreading all over my body.
My instinct was to go straight to the doctor, but then I realized that one should never make rash decisions!
Do you happen to own a parrot?
‘Cause you look like you could handle a cockatoo.
Two nuns are riding their bicycles through the village. One says, “I’ve never come this way before.”
The other replies, “Me neither. It must be the cobblestone.”
If I ever start an online-dating service, I’ll call it StrangerDanger — not just because it sounds edgy and daring, but then if someone hooks up with a psychopath, they can’t say they weren’t warned.
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