How Do You Know Which Woman Is Married?

A teacher was helping her third-grade students with a math problem. After choosing a student in particular, she recited the following story:

“Billy, there are three birds sitting on a telephone wire. A man with a gun shoots one of the birds. How many birds are left on the wire?”

The boy pauses. “None,” he replied thoughtfully.

“No, no, no. Let’s try again, maybe you didn’t hear me correctly,” the teacher says patiently. She holds up three fingers. “There are three birds sitting on a wire. A man with a gun shoots one,” she puts down one finger, “how many birds are left on the wire?”

“None,” the boy says with authority.

The teacher sighs. “Tell me how you came up with that.”

“It’s simple,” says the boy, “after the man shot one bird, the noise from the gun scared the other two away.”

“Well,” she says, “that’s not technically correct, but I like the way you think.”

“Thanks,” chimes the boy, “now let me ask you a question.”

“Okay,” she said guardedly.

“There are three women sitting on a bench eating popsicles. One woman is licking the popsicle, one woman is biting the popsicle, and one is sucking the popsicle. Which one is married?” he asked innocently.

The teacher looked at the boy’s angelic face and writhed in agony, turning three shades of red.

“C’mon,” the boy said impatiently, “which one is it, the one licking the popsicle, the one biting it, or the one sucking it? Which one is married?”

“Well, uh,” she gulped and in a barely audible whisper replied, “the one who’s sucking?”

“Naw,” he says with surprise, “the one with the wedding ring. But I like the way you think.”


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Talking On Your Cellphone While In A Public Restroom

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 jumpstart 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 go Christmas shopping. 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. Poo on seat.

4. Poo 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 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.

Bet Live

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
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under 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 loo.

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


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The Two Dollar Bill

On my way home from work, I stopped at Taco Bell for a quick bite to eat. In my billfold are a $50 bill and a $2 bill. I figure that with a $2 bill, I can get something to eat and not have to worry about anyone getting irritated at me for trying to break a $50 bill.

Me: “Hi, I’d like one seven-layer burrito please, to go.”

Server: “That’ll be $1.04. Eat in?”

Me: “No, it’s to go.” At this point, I open my billfold and hand him the $2 bill. He looks at it kind of funny.

Server: “Uh, hang on a sec, I’ll be right back.”

He goes to talk to his manager, who is still within my earshot. The following conversation occurs between the two of them: Server: “Hey, you ever see a $2 bill?” Manager: “No. A what?”

Server: “A $2 bill. This guy just gave it to me.”

Manager: “Ask for something else There’s no such thing as a $2 bill.” Server: “Yeah, thought so”

He comes back to me and says, “We don’t take these. Do you have anything else?”

Me: “Just this fifty. You don’t take $2 bills? Why?”

Server: “I don’t know.”

Me: “See here where it says legal tender?”

Server: “Yeah.”

Me: “So, why won’t you take it?”

Server: “Well, hang on a sec.”

He goes back to his manager, who has been watching me like I’m a shoplifter, and says to him, “He says I have to take it.”

Manager: “Doesn’t he have anything else?”

Server: “Yeah, a fifty. I’ll get it and you can open the safe and get change ”

Manager: “I’m not opening the safe with him in here.”

Server: “What should I do?”

Manager: “Tell him to come back later when he has real money.”

Server: “I can’t tell him that! You tell him.”

Manager: “Just tell him.”

Server: “No way! This is weird. I’m going in back.”

The manager approaches me and says, “I’m sorry, but we don’t take big bills this time of night.”

Me: “It’s only seven o’clock! Well then, here’s a two dollar bill.”

Manager: “We don’t take those, either.”

Me: “Why not?”

Manager: “I think you know why.”

Me: “No really, tell me why.”

Manager: “Please leave before I call mall security.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Manager: “Please leave before I call mall security.”

Me: “What on earth for?”

Manager: “Please, sir.”

Me: “Uh, go ahead, call them”

Manager: “Would you please just leave?”

Me: “No.”

Manager: “Fine — have it your way then.”

Me: “Hey, that’s Burger King, isn’t it?”

At this point, he backs away from me and calls mall security on the phone around the corner. I have two people staring at me from the dining area, and I begin laughing out loud, just for effect. A few minutes later this 45-year-oldish guy comes in.

Guard: “Yeah, Mike, what’s up?”

Manager (whispering): “This guy is trying to give me some (pause) funny money.”

Guard: “No kidding! What?”

Manager: “Get this … a two dollar bill.”

Guard (incredulous): “Why would a guy fake a two dollar bill?”

Manager: “I don’t know. He’s kinda weird. He says the only other thing he has is a fifty.”

Guard: “Oh, so the fifty’s fake!”

Manager: “No, the two dollar bill is.”

Guard: “Why would he fake a two dollar bill?”

Manager: “I don’t know! Can you talk to him, and get him out of here?”

Guard: “Yeah.”

Security Guard walks over to me and…… Guard: “Mike here tells me you have some fake bills you’re trying to use”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Guard: “Lemme see ’em.”

Me: “Why?”

Guard: “Do you want me to get the cops in here?”

At this point I am ready to say, “Sure, please!” but I want to eat, so I say “I’m just trying to buy a burrito and pay for it with this two dollar bill.

I put the bill up near his face, and he flinches like I’m taking a swing at him. He takes the bill, turns it over a few times in his hands, and says, Hey, Mike, what’s wrong with this bill?”

Manager: “It’s fake.”

Guard: “It doesn’t look fake to me.”

Manager: “But it’s a two dollar bill.”

Guard: “Yeah?”

Manager: “Well, there’s no such thing, is there?”

The security guard and I both look at him like he’s an idiot, and it dawns on the guy that he has no clue.

So, it turns out that my burrito was free, and he threw in a small drink and some of those cinnamon thingies, too.

Made me want to get a whole stack of two dollar bills just to see what happens when I try to buy stuff.


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