Latest Jokes

A man was getting a haircut prior to a trip to Rome.
He mentioned the trip to his barber who responded…
“Rome? Why would anyone want to go there?
It’s crowded and dirтy and full of Italians.
You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”
“We’re taking American Airlines,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”
“American Airlines?” exclaimed the barber.
“That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly and they’re always late.
So, where are you staying in Rome?”
“We’ll be at the downtown International Marriott.”
“That dump? That’s the worst hotel in the city.
The rooms are small, the service is surly and they’re overpriced.
So, whatcha doing when you get there?”
“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope.”
“That’s rich,” laughed the barber. “You and a million other people trying to see him.
He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”
A month later, the man again came in for his regular haircut.
The barber asked him about his trip to Rome.
“It was wonderful,” explained the man, “not only were we on time in one of American Airlines s brand new planes, but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class.
The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a beautiful 28-year-old stewardess who waited on me hand and foot.
And the hotel - it was great! They’d just finished a $25 million remodelling job, and now it’s the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us the presidential suite at no extra charge!”
“Well,” muttered the barber, “I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”
“Actually, we were quite lucky, for as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to personally meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.
Sure enough, five minutes later the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand!
I knelt down as he spoke a few words to me.”
“Really?” asked the barber. “What’d he say?”
He said, “Where’d you get the сrаррy haircut?”
Martha says the interesting thing about fly fishing is that it's two lives connected by a thin strand. Come on, Martha. Grow up.
The old pool shooter has won many a game in his life. But now it was time to hang up the cue. When he did all the other cues came crashing to the floor. "Sorry," he said with a smile.
If I ever do a book on the Amazon, I hope I am able to bring a lightheartedness to the subject, in a way that tell the reader we are going to have fun with this thing.
Even though he was and enemy of mine, I had to admit that what he had accomplished was a brilliant piece of strategy. First, he punched me, then he kicked me, then he punched me again.
If you're a Thanksgiving dinner, but you don't like the stuffing or the cranberry sauce or anything else, just pretend like you're eating it, but instead, put it all in your lap and form it into a big mushy ball. Then, later, when you're out back having cigars with the boys, let out a big fake cough and throw the ball to the ground. Then say, "Boy, these are good cigars!"
Most people don't realize that large pieces of coral, which have been painted brown and attached to the skull by common wood screws, can make a child look like a dear.
Is there anything more beautiful than a beautiful, beautiful flamingo, flying across in front of a beautiful sunset? And he's carrying a very beautiful rose in his beak, and also he's carrying a very beautiful painting with his feet. And also, you're drunк.
I scrambled to the top of the precipice where Nick was waiting. "That was fun," I said. "You bet it was," said Nick. "Let's climb higher."
"No," I said. "I think we should be heading back now."
"We have time," Nick insisted. I said we didn't, and Nick said we did. We argued back and forth like that for about 20 minutes, then finally decided to head back. I didn't say it was an interesting story.
In a saloon in the old West, a large crowd of cowboys was drinking and carousing with the dance hall girls. In walked a greenhorn Easterner, a dry goods supplier from New York. He sat down at the bar and ordered a вееr. Just then a boy ran in from outside through the swinging doors, completely out of breath. The crowd stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

“Big John’s in town,” the boy said, gasping.

In less than a minute, the entire crowd, except for the greenhorn, tumbling over one another, rushed out, including the bartender and everyone else who worked at the saloon, leaving the place completely empty and in disarray. The greenhorn realized that he should probably go, too. So he quickly downed the remainder of his вееr, grabbed ahold of his sample case and started for the door.

Unfortunately, before he could reach it, another cowboy walked in, blocking his way. The man was huge, almost seven feet tall and muscular, with a face that was menacing, rugged and scarred. Hanging from his belt were two large six-shooters that had obviously seen plenty of action. The Easterner, frozen in fear, stood glued to the spot, unable to speak.

The huge man, towering over him, then glared at the greenhorn and said in a, deep, gravelly voice, “You drink with me.”

The greenhorn saw this as an order, not an invitation. So he walked over with the man, his heart pounding, fearing for his life, then sat down at the bar next to the cowboy, who then proceeded to pour each of them a whiskey. The massive cowpoke quickly downed his drink, wiped his face with his sleeve then stood up and started walking towards the door.

“Can’t stay,” he said, “ Big John’s in town.”