The priest says “I can’t remember the last time a bunch of men came in here that intensely.... or can I?”
HEYYY I'M WOKKIN ERE 🗽🍳
He definitely harbored a grudge.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor replies, “but I can’t see you right now.”
The doctor looked at him crossly, pointed out of the door and said "get to the end of the cue!"
Trevor loved tractors. And I mean, really loved tractors. Forget any obsessions or high-level interests you may have, chances are they pale in the face of Trevor’s love for tractors.
Every day Trevor would get up, in his tractor-themed bedroom in his tractor-themed house, with its tractor-themed wallpaper and tractor-themed carpets, and he would make his bed with its tractor-themed duvet and tractor-themed sheets. He would go downstairs in his tractor-themed pajamas into his tractor-themed kitchen, with its tractor-themed tiles and cupboards, and he would eat his breakfast while perusing the latest tractor-themed magazine or annual.
Trevors’s degree in Agricultural Engineering hung on his living room wall, along with a copy of his thesis, which centred around (you guessed it) tractors. The living room was decorated with all sorts of tractor-related trinkets, including die-cast models, paintings and drawings.
The hedges in Trevor’s front garden were trimmed in the shape of tractors. His lawn was vividly decorated with tractor-driving garden gnomes, and his garden furniture was constructed from various parts from vintage tractor designs.
Trevor just had one thing missing from his otherwise tractor-centric life; he had never actually owned, nor driven, a real tractor.
Not for his lack of trying, of course. Trevor had been to many tractor shows over the years, and visited many farms with friends of his, but none of the tractors he had seen had ever been quite right. Trevor was so knowledgeable about tractors that every single one he had come across had possessed some hidden trait that he wasn’t keen on. His first experience of driving a real tractor had to be perfect.
One day, Trevor was flicking through one of his favourite publications, Powertrain Quarterly, when there was a knock at the door. Trevor answered, and it was his friend and fellow tractor enthusiast, Jeff.
Trevor welcomed Jeff in, and over tea and crumpets served on tractor-themed crockery, they discussed the merits of aluminium drawbars and front-end loaders. Eventually Trevor pressed Jeff to explain the reason for his visit.
“Well” said Jeff, “As I’m sure you know the convention comes to town later”.
The convention. Trevor had been thinking of little else the past three weeks. The neighbouring town annually threw a convention for farmers, particularly farmyard machinery. There would be combine harvesters, lawnmowers, and of course, tractors.
“Yes of course” replied Trevor
... keep reading on reddit ➡When i was little, my dad told me Barg's root beeer was named after the sound of the burp you make after drinking it. I believed him.
A couple of years ago, one night, I was about to propose to my girlfriend when my roommate Joseph barged into the porch out of nowhere, tripped and fell over, breaking a glass table with his face. Totally ruined the mood. Now, I didn't know Joseph THAT well, don't even remember where he was from, but let' just say I put my plans on hold to help him through his injuries.
Joseph had gotten big glass shard in his eye, making him completely blind in that eye. He was walking around with one of those cotton pads on his eye for a couple of months. Then suddenly, he disappeared, along with my girlfriend
Apparently they'd bonded during the time after his injuries, and eloped together , left me behind without as much as a note. I tried to track them down, but never could.
In conclusion, if it hadn't been for cotton eye Joe, I'd have been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, cotton eye Joe?
The B-road starts bragging extensively about his status as a B-road. The bar staff and patrons aren't impressed.
Then, an A-road struts in. The A-road immediately starts criticising the B-road, whilst also bragging about his own status. The two get into a big argument, and the patrons are starting to get riled up.
Then, a motorway barges his way into the bar, and starts boasting that he is better than the A-road and B-road combined. The argument escalates, and some customers grab their belongings, preparing to leave.
And then, a solid white line walks into the bar.
The whole bar falls silent. The argument stops dead in its tracks, and the three roads immediately disperse, avoiding eye contact with the new customer.
The solid white line goes up to the bar, orders a drink, and consumes it slowly. The bar is still silent. As soon as he is finished, the solid white line turns and leaves the bar without a word. The three roads breathe a sigh of relief.
The barman is astounded. "What the hell was that about?!" he exclaims.
"We don't mess with him" mutters the motorway.
"Why not?"
"He's a cycle path".
Everyone was being very polite, patient and not barging in.
Even between the laughing and joking, the women in front of me insisted that we swap places, so I could get mine first.
I thought to myself at last a decent punchline
Did you hear about that man who crashed his boat int the dockyard ? It was so rude of him to barge in.
I finally put a lock on the door to keep him from barging in.
It was quite the ordeal (oar deal).
and today, we were playing a game of "Yes, Let's!" If you're unfamiliar, that's a group improv exercise where one person says "Let's do a thing!" and everybody else replies "Yes, let's!" and then proceeds to act out the scene. After acting out said scene, somebody freezes, then everybody freezes, and then someone else starts one.
In this case, it was "Let's go to a Michael Jackson tribute concert!" Now, we'd just been coached to assume distinct roles in an attempt to construct a coherent narrative, and so I, as an awkward, scrawny, blond white man, slipped effortlessly into the role of a shitty Michael Jackson impersonator. And I must have been doing something right, because the rest of the group quickly formed a scene as the audience, security, and crew, and stupidity ensued as I sucked at being Michael Jackson for all I was worth.
A few people started heckling, and then one of the audience members barged past security and mimed punching me in the head, whereupon I dramatically spun and dropped to the floor with a resounding THUD (knowing how to fall is a useful skill). The reaction was about a third laughs, a third stage-gasps, and a third just confusion. But I did get a few compliments after the exercise on my impression and my theatrics.
So I'd say that was a pretty big hit.
Got wife good tonight. She had just laid out all the kid's Xmas presents in the guest room with sacks and wrapping paper, scissors, etc and instructed me how she wanted it done.
Then our daughter barges in. Wife scrambles to cover the gifts. So I say:
> "Mommies and Daddies need privacy sometimes. We have sacks in here!"
Arty, a professional hit man, will only let his friend pay him a dollar for the job. Professional courtesy. Arty strangles the wife, but both the maid and butler hear the commotion and come barging into the room. Arty has to take care of them as well, but by the time he's done, the cops have arrived and he is arrested.
The news reports the next morning:
"Arty Chokes 3 for a Dollar."
