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september 9/11 divorce

Heights of ...

Height of Honesty - A pregnant woman asking the bus conductor for one & a half ticket.

Height of Confusion - Two earthworms making love in a bowl of noodles.

Height of pain - A monkey sliding down a knife’s edge using balls as his brakes.

Height of Foolishness - A guy peeping thru’ the keyhole of a glass door.

Height of Itch - A fat man hanging (upside down) from a roof trying to scratch his balls.

Height of Innocence - A teenager girl applying Clearsil to her nipples thinking them as pimples.

Height of Unemployment - Cobwebs in prostitute’s cunt.

Height of Competition:
1.A guy peeing beside a waterfall.
2.A topless lady standing near mount everest.

Height of Bravery: A naked man bending over to pick up a quarter on an island of gays.

Height of Disgustion: While wiping after a good toilet dump, your finger pokes through the paper.

Height of Technology: Condom with zip.

Height of Penetration: A baby girl born pregnant.

Height of Darkness: A negro searching for his penis in a dark room.

Height of fashion: A female applying LipStick to her vertical Lips.

Height of patience: A female lying naked under a banana tree and hoping for banana to fall in the right place.

Height of coincidence: And the banana falling in

HEIGHT OF PAIN: the whole banana bunch falls down..

Height of salesmanship: Monkey selling bananas

Height of laziness: A man marrying a pregnant woman

Height of coincidence: My Mother and Father got married on the same day, same time.

Height of Frustration: A boxer trying to scratch his balls.

Height of Trouble: A one handed man hanging from a cliff and his arse is itching.

Heaven and Hen

Tom did like he always does, kissing his wife, crawling into bed and
falling to sleep. All of a sudden, he wakes up with an elderly man dressed
in
a white robe standing in front of his bed.


"What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?...and who are you?" he
asked.


"This is not your bedroom," the man replied, "I am St. Peter, and you
are in heaven."


"WHAT! Are you saying I'm dead? I don't want to die! I'm too young,"
said Tom. "I want you to send me back immediately."


"It's not that easy", said St.Peter. "You can only return as a dog or
a hen. The choice is your own."


Tom thought about it for a while, and figured out that being a dog is
too tiring, but a hen probably has a nice and relaxed life. Running
around with a rooster can't be that bad.


"I want to return as a hen," Tom replied.


And in the next second, he found himself in a chicken run, really
nicely feathered. But now he felt like his rear end was gonna blow.
Then along came the rooster.


"Hey, you must be the new hen St. Peter told me about," he said. "How
do you like being a hen?"


"Well, OK I guess, but it feels like my ass is about to explode."


"Oh that!" said the rooster. "That's only the ovulation going on. You
need to lay an egg."


"How do I do that?" Tom asked.


"Cluck twice, and then you push all you can."


Tom clucked twice and pushed more than he was good for, and then
'plop' an egg was on the ground.


"Wow" Tom said. "That felt really good!" So he clucked again and
squeezed. And you better believe that there was yet another egg on the
ground. The third time he clucked, he heard his wife shout:


"Tom!! For cryin' out loud! Wake up! You're shittin' all over the
bed!"

Best Divorce Letter Ever

Dear Connie ,



I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our
cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore
I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me
talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my
fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my
pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things.
I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad
anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.



Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is
what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the
eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even
close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with
me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my
desperation.



She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth
and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect
body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit.
Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this
stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It
s all so superficial.



What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this
case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better
person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I
doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.



I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm tossed
her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I
feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her
slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss.
Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same
because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels
the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And
everything I do just reminds me of you.



Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last
year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she
figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she
meant till later, but that's not the real story.



Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're
banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack
She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not
hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And
all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old
vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can
watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can
t help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've
had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."



Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean
Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her
shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's
given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's
pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing
Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's
this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how
much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.



And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me
to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how
that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how
even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I
can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it.
Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away
and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.

Love, Dan
via[bf]