Stephen King has a son named Joe.
I’m not joking, but he is.
Stephen King has a son named Joe.
I’m not joking, but he is.
Last year, I had a great joke about inflation.
But it’s hardly worth it now.
I was gonna plan a vacation in Great Britain, but money’s a little tight, so Pretty Good Britain it is.
I’m sick of lying in bed and playing with myself all day long. I suppose I need to find someone to do that for me.
At my vasectomy consultation, the doctor said, “Now THIS is a big, beautiful penis!”
Then he pulled his pants back up and told me to get undressed.
There’s no “I” in “sperm.” And hopefully after that quick kick to the crotch, there will be no more sperm in “eye.”
If I lived in a country rife with civil unrest, I’d always hold the door for my dates, because you never know when a bomb is on the other side. Plus, I’d only date really large ladies.
When I went to leave my house today, there were so many birds outside that it was really scary, like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I can’t think of which one, though.
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