6620 - Saturday jokes

What’s the difference between a $20 steak and a $55 steak?

February 14.

I got an email from a man claiming to be an Egyptian pharaoh, asking me to help him move money to the United States. I think it’s a pyramid scheme. (Bilbo)

In the near future there is going to come a time when AI tells a woman that she is wrong and needs to calm down.

This will mark the end of AI and possibly computers all together.

How do we know how happy a clam is?

White Americans in Minneapolis are putting Mexican flags on their cars so that ICE will waste time by pulling them over. Minnesotans are calling it ICE fishing.

“There are no words in the English language that have all the vowels in alphabetical order,” he said facetiously.

A Rabbi once complained to a Methodist minister that the Christians had stolen the Ten Commandments.

"Yes, we stole them, " said the minister.  "But you can't say we've kept them."

I'm not sure of the name of the essential oil that calms people down. It’s Chloroform, isn’t it? (Bilbo)

How old were you when you learned "Never odd or even" spelled backward is still "Never odd or even"?

Today years old.

I've been playing a game called Silent Tennis. It's like regular tennis without the racquet.

The price of chimneys have gone through the roof. (Bilbo)

One minute you’re young and cool, maybe a little dangerous; the next minute you’re reading Amazon reviews for birdseed. (Bilbo)

Angry poster...

"Bad Bunny is performing in Spanish, and I don't understand that language XX".

Commenter...

"Relax. We've seen your posts and the way you confuse "there, their, they're, then, than, it's, its, your, and you're", we are not sure you understand English.

tRUMP celebrated at the Winter Olympics after winning the gold medal in the downhill presidency.

MAGAts truly are the biggest snowflakes. They cry over Bad Bunny, they cry over American athletes speaking out, they cry over Disney movies. They are insufferable, sensitive, and perpetually unhappy.

Bondi: "Stop mailing coupons for Depends to the White House or else". Hmmmmmmmm

In 1986, a group of mathematics teachers protested against calculators, fearing children would rely on them instead of learning simple math. 

Roses are red,

horses go clop,

for the best vasectomy,

Dr. Dick Chopp. 

(He's a Urologist in West Lake Hills, Texas)

Someone told me to check my attitude. I did. It’s still there. (Bilbo)

Let's admit that drinking bleach and shoving a UV light up your ass is the closet we've gotten to a republican healthcare plan in the last 16 years.

We need to start referring to “age” as “level,” because “Level 74” sounds way cooler than “74 years old.” (Bilbo)

It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.

A good way to threaten somebody is to light a stick of dynamite. Then you call the guy and hold the burning fuse up to the phone. "Hear that?" you say. "That's dynamite, baby."

I bet the main reason the police keep people away from a plane crash is they don't want anybody walking in and lying down in the crash stuff, then, when somebody comes up, act like they just woke up and go, "What was THAT?!"

When you go in for a job interview, I think a good thing to ask is if they ever press charges.

Probably the earliest flyswatters were nothing more than some sort of striking surface attached to the end of a long stick.

We used to laugh at Grandpa when he'd head off and go fishing. But we wouldn't be laughing that evening when he'd come back with some whore he picked up in town.

I think the mistake a lot of us make is thinking the state-appointed shrink is our friend.

I hope life isn't a big joke, because I don't get it.

An accountant is someone who knows the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

An economist is an expert who will know tomorrow why the things he predicted yesterday didn't happen today.

A statistician is someone who is good with numbers but lacks the personality to be an accountant.

A mom dad and baby tomato are walking down the street and the baby starts to lag behind so the dad goes back and smashes the baby and says "ketchup".

What do you call a person with leprosy in a bath tub? 

Stew.

What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work? 

A stick.

How do you top a car? Tep on the brake tupid.

Did you hear about the cat who swallowed a ball of yarn? 

She had mittens!

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs who's stuck on a wall? 

Art.

Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.  

Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.

Time flies like an arrow.  

Fruit flies like a banana.

A golfer comes into the club house after a bad round.  The pro says, "It looks like it was a pretty rough day."

The golfer replies, "You bet it was.  The best two balls I hit all day was when I was coming out of the sand trap and stepped on the rake!"

Right now I'm having amnesia and Deja vu at the same time.  

I think I've forgotten this before.

Have you ever wondered why just one letter makes all the difference between here and there? 

How do you know when it's time to tune your bagpipes?

6619 - Thursday trees

Trees by Bilbo, Kathy, and me.

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6618 - Data breaches

I don't know if this is only for USA data breaches. Still a lot of good info.

https://www.identitytheft.gov/Databreach 

The following is from Malwarebytes to which I have a subscription. I don't know if that matters. You put in your email, it sends you a code, then sends you all your personal information on the dark web.

https://www.malwarebytes.com/digital-footprint 

This came back with my social security number, passwords (that I had changed), emails, birthday, credit rating, have a credit card, home address, city, state, country. It also shows what data breaches disclosed what information.

6617 - Just don't!

All in all, it hadn't been a good day.

Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump.

I'd tried to jump start the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.

As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for my fiancée. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go."

This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.

2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

3. Poop on seat.

4. Poop and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I'm normally a fairly shameful shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but big things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone.

As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on.

Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: 1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul odor quickly made its way underneath the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that?? (gag)"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in. surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the bathroom.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

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