The Friday Funny

Though I think it might have been better (for the title) if it had been just one plank ....

It's still friday in some parts of the world.

Deal with it.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying "Hello" I politely said, "This is Fred. Could I please speak with Robert Campbell?" Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right fukin' number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robert's correct number to call him, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

After hanging up with Robert, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.

When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're a Qunt!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'Cunt' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're a Qunt!". It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "Qunt" calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said "Hi, this is John Smith from the phone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?" He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, that's because you're a Qunt!"

Then one day I was at Lakeside Shopping Centre, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a gunmetal grey Land Rover cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first Qunt (I had his number on speed dial by this stage,) I thought that I'd better call the Land Rover Qunt, too. I said, "Is this the man with the gunmetal grey Land Rover for sale?" "Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yes, I live at 221 William Street. It's a terraced house, and the car's parked right out in front."

"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Steve Hansen," he said. "When's a good time to catch you, Steve?" "I'm home most days as I'm currently unemployed." "Listen, Steve, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Steve, you're a Qunt!" Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two Qunts to call. Then one day I came up with an idea.

I called Qunt #1. "Hello?" "You're a Qunt!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "Stop calling me," he screamed. "Make me," I said. "Who are you?" he asked. "My name is Steve Hansen." "Yeah? Where do you live?" "I live at 221 William Street, a terraced house. There's a gunmetal grey Land Rover parked out the front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Steve. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, Qunt," and hung up.

Then I called Qunt #2. "Hello?" he said. "Hello, Qunt," I said. He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." "You'll do what?" I said. "I'll kick your arse," he exclaimed. I answered, "Well, Qunt, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 221 William Street, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel 7 News about the hood war going down on William Street.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to William Street. I got there just in time to watch two Cunts beating the crap out of each other in front of six police cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew. Now I feel MUCH better. Take it from me, anger management really works...

India.

Mick Sawyer wrote: I wrote his number down with the word 'Cunt' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer

the way you do ...

(strange that one slipped through, Mick)

Must be the upper case.

Mick Sawyer wrote:I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying "Hello" I politely said, "This is Fred. Could I please speak with Robert Campbell?" Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right fukin' number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robert's correct number to call him, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

After hanging up with Robert, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.

When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're a Qunt!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'Cunt' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're a Qunt!". It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic "Qunt" calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said "Hi, this is John Smith from the phone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?" He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, that's because you're a Qunt!"

Then one day I was at Lakeside Shopping Centre, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a gunmetal grey Land Rover cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first Qunt (I had his number on speed dial by this stage,) I thought that I'd better call the Land Rover Qunt, too. I said, "Is this the man with the gunmetal grey Land Rover for sale?" "Yes, it is", he said. "Can you tell me where I can see it?" I asked. "Yes, I live at 221 William Street. It's a terraced house, and the car's parked right out in front."

"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Steve Hansen," he said. "When's a good time to catch you, Steve?" "I'm home most days as I'm currently unemployed." "Listen, Steve, can I tell you something?" "Yes?" "Steve, you're a Qunt!" Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two Qunts to call. Then one day I came up with an idea.

I called Qunt #1. "Hello?" "You're a Qunt!" (But I didn't hang up.) "Are you still there?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "Stop calling me," he screamed. "Make me," I said. "Who are you?" he asked. "My name is Steve Hansen." "Yeah? Where do you live?" "I live at 221 William Street, a terraced house. There's a gunmetal grey Land Rover parked out the front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Steve. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, Qunt," and hung up.

Then I called Qunt #2. "Hello?" he said. "Hello, Qunt," I said. He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." "You'll do what?" I said. "I'll kick your arse," he exclaimed. I answered, "Well, Qunt, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 221 William Street, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel 7 News about the hood war going down on William Street.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to William Street. I got there just in time to watch two Cunts beating the crap out of each other in front of six police cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew. Now I feel MUCH better. Take it from me, anger management really works...

I don't think it would work in practice.

Holiday Para-Sites

Clive the Crablouse had oiled up his lousy little legs and his lousy little arms, spread out his little flea blanket on the Miami beach, and was proceeding to soak up the sun, when who should traipse by but an old flea friend of his.

“Phil, what happened to you?”, asked Clive. Phil looked very ill, all wrapped up in a blanket, his nose running, his eyes red, and his little flea teeth chattering.

“I got a ride down here in some guy’s moustache, but the bastard had to come down here by motorbike. Nearly froze my nuts off,” wheezed Phil.

“Let me give you a tip, pal,” said Clive, luxuriously spreading some more sunblock on his lousy little shoulders. “You go to the stewardess lounge at the airport, hop up on the toilet seat with a little parachute on, and when an Air Florida stewardess comes in and shows you her backside, bingo! - up you leap and Bob's your uncle, you get yourself comfortable for a nice warm, executive-class ride to the sun. Got that?”

“Okay”, sniffed Phil.

Imagine Clive’s surprise when, a month or so later, on his next Miami vacation, stretched out all warm and cosy on the beach , who should he see but Phil - looking if anything more flu-ed up and miserable than before.

“Listen,” said Phil, “Don’t speak to me. I did everything you said. I hopped it to the airport and into the stewardess lounge and waited till a really cute one came in, I leapt up like you said and made a safe landing. Lots of warm bedding available, and I got myself so cosy that I must have dozed right off.”

“So?” asked Clive.

“So the next thing I know, I’m on this motorbike bastard's moustache again!”

1. Things are looking up.

Alex Ferguson, on the lookout for fresh young talent as ever, is watching a rather tame game at struggling Doncaster Rovers, and wondering why he bothered. The guy he was tipped off about keeps giving the ball away …… Gradually, however, he notices a young lad with obvious real potential.

Keen as ever to keep his established stars on their toes, he approaches the lad after the game and immediately offers him a contract.

Back at Old Trafford, Alex personally firms up the details of the contract with his new recruit: “Right then lad, I’ve decided to start you on a salary of 5,000 a week.”
“5,000 a week ? - I was lucky to get 250 back at Doncaster!”, the lad replies.

Ferguson continues “ Well we’re talking Man United here......the best team in the world, you’ve got to aim high and think big! I’ve also arranged a house for you, a 7-bed detached in Wilmslow.....set in 5 acres with its own pool and tennis courts.”

The lad is delighted. “7-bed detached?? - I only ever got a council flat at Doncaster!”

Ferguson continues “I told you, we’re talking Man United here......the best team in the world, you’ve got to aim high and think big! I’ve also arranged your transport, a Jaguar XK8 for the week and a Ferrari F50 for weekends.”

The lad is on cloud nine. “A Jag AND a Ferrari ??? - I only had a Reliant Robin at Donny!”

Ferguson continues “I told you, we’re talking Man United here......the best team in the world, you’ve got to aim high and think big! Right, now here's the serious bit. Now don't take this the wrong way. I'll let you start the first couple of games, but don’t be surprised if I have to pull you off at half time.”

The lad can’t believe it, he is so ecstatic that his face nearly falls off. “Pull me off at half time as well ???? - Wow, I only got half an orange and a cup of tea at Doncaster!”

lardbucket wrote:

Mick Sawyer wrote: I wrote his number down with the word 'Cunt' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer

the way you do ...

(strange that one slipped through, Mick)

Noticed that. Yes.

It used to work with 'Fuck' as well.

Still does.

A husband and wife are shopping in their local supermarket.

The husband picks up a case of Stella and puts it in their cart.

'What do you think you're doing?' asks the wife.

'They're on sale, only £10 for 24 cans' he replies.

'Put them back, we can't afford them,' orders the wife, and so they carry on shopping.

A few aisles further on along the woman picks up a £20 jar of face cream and puts it in he basket.

'What do you think you're doing?' asks the husband.

'It's my face cream. It makes me look beautiful,' replies the wife.

Her husband retorts: 'So does 24 cans of Stella and it's half the price.'

I know - I'm on my way to the cloakroom now..

And now .... an old chestnut ... but rather apt, given the recent goings-on!!

A lady walked into a Police Station and the desk Sergeant said "Can I help you?"
"Yes" she said, "I'd like to report a case of sexual assault".

"Where did it happen?" the Sergeant asked.
"In the park just down the road" she replied.

"Can you describe what happened?"
"Yes, I was walking along the footpath in the park near the trees when a man jumped out of bushes and dragged me in there, removed my nicks then he dropped his pants to his knees and had his way with me".

"Could you give me a description of him?"
"Yes, he was wearing white shoes, long white trousers, a white shirt and he had these two big long pads from his feet up to and over his knees, one on each leg".

"Sounds to me like he was a cricketer, most probably a batsman", said the Sergeant.
"Yes", said the lady, "He was an Aussie Cricketer".

"That's very observant", said the Sergeant, "Did you work that out from his accent?"
"No", she replied. "He just wasn't in for very long".

.

Here's one. It's really funny.

There was this bloke called Andrew.

He picked a bunch of cricketers to play for Australia.

Thought they would win the Ashes.

Then afterwards, when they'd been flogged by an innings in three of the matches, said he and his fellow selectors had done a good job.

How funny is that?

(And it's Friday, too...)

This is quite comical and its friday also

Another appropriate one in the circumstances

Q What do you describe an Australian with knowledge of how to handle a bat ?

Answer. A vet

Stolen from elsewhere:

I went to a brothel last night.

'I'm a bit kinky' I said. 'How much is it for total humiliation?'

'£80', came the reply.

'What do I get for that?'

'A baggy green cap and an Aussie shirt! '