While walking down the street one day a 'Member of Parliament' is tragically hit by a truck and dies.

His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

'Welcome to heaven,' says St. Peter. 'Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you.'

'No problem, just let me in,' says the man.

'Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.'

'Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,' says the MP.

'I'm sorry, but we have our rules.'

And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.

Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.

They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and champagne.

Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly & nice guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go.

Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises...

The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

'Now it's time to visit heaven.'

So, 24 hours pass with the MP joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

'Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity.'

The MP reflects for a minute, then he answers: 'Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell.'

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell.

Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage.

He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. 'I don't understand,' stammers the MP. 'Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?'

The devil looks at him, smiles and says, 'Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted.'

AMAZING
/me claps

TL/DR

Was it funny?

Posted by KublaKhan TL/DR Was it funny?

Shorter version for the lazy:

A MP dies. St peter meets him at the gates of heaven and tells him to spend 24 hrs in heaven and hell then decide where he wants to spend eternity.
In hell he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course surrounded by his political friends; they play golf, dine on lobster, caviar and champagne, and it turns out the devil is a really nice guy who dances and tells jokes.
His 24 hours in heaven are spent floating from cloud to cloud playing the harp and singing. St Peter then asks him where he'd like to spend eternity.
The MP tells him he can't believe he's saying this, but he'd like to stay in hell.
He is sent back to hell, but now he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. All his friends are dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above.
The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder. 'I don't understand,' stammers the MP. 'Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?'
The devil looks at him, smiles and says, 'Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted.'

Thanks Yield for the lazy version. *bats eyelashes

What is the difference between Jack Daniels and George Custer?







































Jack Daniels is still killing Indians.

Posted by dirt What is the difference between Jack Daniels and George Custer? Jack Daniels is still killing Indians.

"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 Sh*****. 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. Sh***** was blathering to Mrs. Sh***** about the sh**** 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 *** 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."

So you pooped? I don't get it.

What's a Parliament?

Posted by HarvestmanMan What's a Parliament?

Scroll down to read a touching and powerful message from artist Stevie Wonder
in regards to Michael Jackson’s Death…



































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Stolen from bandi:

Why would you win in a race against Michael Jackson?

'Cuz he likes to come in a little behind.

If we're going the Michael Jackson route, please, allow me.



What's the difference between Michael Jackson and a dog race?

The dogs wait for the hare to come out.



What's the difference between Michael Jackson and acne?

Acne doesn't come on your face until you're about 14.

Did you guys hear they are trying to close down Cedar Point?















They are trying to keep kids away from Sandusky.

Bathroom jokes? Bathroom jokes!

No man is an island, but urination.

It's a well-known fact that Mohandas Gandhi was frail due his constant fasting. Not many people know, however, that another of his health issues was recurring bad breath. Due to his wearing sandals constantly, Gandhi also developed very large callouses on his feet.






In short, he was a super-calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.

Funny, Sick & Twisted


poker and live and let live...
Two couples were playing cards one evening. John accidentally dropped some cards on the floor. When he bent down under the table to pick them up, he noticed that Bill's wife Sue, legs spread wide, wasn't wearing any underwear! Shocked by this, John upon trying to sit back up again, hit his head on the table and emerged red-faced.

Later, Jo...hn went to the kitchen to get some refreshments. Bill's wife followed and asked, "Did you see anything that you liked under there?"

Surprised by her boldness, John courageously admitted that, well, indeed he did.

She said, "Well, you can have it but it will cost you $500." After taking a minute or two to assess the financial as well as the moral costs of this offer, John indicates that he is indeed interested.

She tells him that since her husband, Bill, works Friday afternoons and John doesn't, that John should be at her house around 2:00 PM Friday afternoon.

When Friday rolled around, John showed up at Bill's house for the planned time with Sue at 2:00 PM sharp and after paying her the agreed sum of $500, they went to the bedroom and closed their sexual transaction as Sue had promised. Afterwards, John quickly dressed and left.

As usual, Bill came home from work at 6:00 PM and upon entering the house, asked his wife abruptly, "Did John come by the house this afternoon?"

A little worried, Bill's wife answered, "Why yes, he did stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?"

Her heart nearly skipped a beat when her husband curtly asked, "And did he give you $500?"

In terror, she assumed that somehow he had found out, and after ushering up her best poker face, replied, "Well, yes, in fact he did give me $500."

Bill, with a satisfied look on his face, surprised his wife by saying, "Good I was hoping he did. John came by the office this morning and borrowed $500 from me. He promised me he'd stop by our house this afternoon on his way home and pay me back."

How can you spot a Secret Service agent?
















They're the ones in the brothel.