The friar puts a sign outside that said ‘bell ringer wanted, tryouts Saturday morning’
Saturday morning rolls around, and there were three people lined up out front of the church waiting to try to ring the bell. A tall, muscular man, a skinnier, frail man, and an average sized man.
The friar took them all up one at a time and handed them the hammer to hit the church bells with.
The muscular man grabbed the hammer in one hand, slammed it into the bell, and nearly shattered both with the force behind the swing. The friar said that they’ll have to keep looking.
The frail man could barley pick up the hammer. He swung it pitifully, and managed to ting the bell. The friar just shook his head and chuckled, thanking the man for coming.
The average sized man refused the hammer. Before the friar could question it, the man reared his head back and slammed it into the bell, producing a ring of such pure tone and quality it brought a tear to the friar’s eye. While he was wiping the tear from his face, the man, stumbling from the impact of skull to bell, accidentally tripped and fell off the bell tower to his death.
Well, the townsfolk had heard the beautiful bell, and a small crowd had gathered beneath the bell tower around the man’s body.
Collectively, they said “Who is he Friar? What happened?”
The friar shook his head sadly and said
“I don’t know, but his face rings a bell”
BUT IT ISN’T OVER CAUSE THEY STILL NEED A BELL RINGEE ROUND TWO KIDDOS HERE WE GO!!
So the next morning, when the friar opened the doors in the morning, a man approached him and said “Friar, you don’t know me, but the man who died yesterday was my brother. I’d be honored if you’d let me ring the bell today in his honor.”
The friar nodded and let the new man up the bell tower, handing him the hammer.
With a nightly swing, the man slammed the bell, producing again a high quality ringing tone. Unfortunately, he slipped while off balance and fell off the bell tower too and died.
Again, people were gathered around and they all asked as one “Who is he, Friar, what happened?”
The friar looked at them all in turn and said “I don’t know, but he’s a dead ringer for his brother”
My dad is a circus performer. He’s been doing the same act for years and years, and it was at a performance of his that he met my mom. They both tell one story about his circus career. My father’s circus act is unique and nigh unbelievable. What he would do is place a walnut on a table just below his knees, whip out his dick, swing it around and use it to crack the walnut. One audience member who saw this when my dad just started out as a young man could not believe it, and left stupefied. Decades later, with my dad in his late 50’s and still doing the act, that same man came to see the performance. That time, my dad placed a coconut on the table, whipped out his dick, and split the coconut right in half. After the show, the man, insistent on talking to my dad, found him backstage, shook his hand, and asked: “After all these years, your performance still blows me away. But why have you changed to a coconut instead of a walnut?” My dad just looked at him and said: “Well, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
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 ➡Update: Thanks for all your applications! Give /u/parin89 and I a few days to take a look and confer!
(if you haven't put your application in yet, you've still got time)
-
Greetings /r/dadjokes subscribers,
Years have passed since this sub started up, and there are now literally millions of you. Whoa.
Two million people is just two many two handle for two moderators. Especially these days, when both /u/parin89 and I have two many other responsibilities and a whole lot less time. I'm 200% sure most of you would agree that more mods are needed.
So we're looking for 5 more moderators to get involved. If you're keen to apply, read the rest of this post and answer the three questions in your comment response.
Answer these 3 questions in your reply:
- How would you describe a dad joke?
- Do you currently moderate any other subreddits? If yes, which ones.
- You see a post that is not breaking the rules or reddit's posting guidelines, but is generally disliked by the community. What do you do?
Only apply if:
- You're a reasonable, fair-minded and patient human
- You're in it to keep this community a happy, friendly and safe place for other humans
- You've got previous mod experience from a decent sized community (let's say... 5k+)
- You're cool with the first few months being a trial run
- You understand that while we could use more active moderation, and would benefit from a few more rules, one of the things that makes this community great is that it's pretty open (after all, dad jokes repeat a lot and not every "repost" is necessarily an opportunistic attempt to game karma)
We'd benefit from a few practical things as well, it would be great if:
- You live in a timezone that covers off either the USA, the UK, Australia (we'd like a spread)
- You've got some automod experience
- You've got some sub-customisation experience
Don't apply if:
- You're ready to come out swinging with a power tripping ban hammer
- You're more concerned about Internet points than real people
We'll leave this stickied for a week and then come back to message a few people and make some selections.
After a few days of doing this, he realizes he is simply not fit for this type of job. On his final day of trying to chop down trees, he notices an old scrawny man chopping down trees as if he was a woodpecker, the amount of hits he made grew more and more each swing. The first swing was one hit, the next, ten hits, the next one, a hundred hits, and the next one after that, a thousand. He kept swinging until the tree he was swinging at was chopped down. Amazed, the young man walks over to the old man and asks, "Sir, what is your secret, how do you chop them down so quickly?"
The old man turns and says, "It's all about the rhythm." Puzzled by the old man's answer, the young man returned home pondering what he said.
The next morning, he was motivated to keep trying to be a lumberjack. "If an old scrawny man can do it, so can I!" he thought.
So he went back to the forest, and tried to use his advice. Trying to time each swing, he realizes this simply doesn't work. Later in the day, he sees the old man again, comes up to him, and asks, "I tried to time my swings, but it does no more than just chopping normally. How do you do it?"
"You can't just make up any old rhythm and follow it, you have to find a very specific one," he says, "you have to find the Logger-rhythm."
Paul has a shitty life, his wife constantly berates him, his job sucks, his boss is a bully, his car is a shitty 85 ford pinto with a cracked windshield and is in bad need of a new transmission and to top it all off he's chubby, balding, and he has a small penis.
The only thing good in Paul's life is his friend Artie. Artie isn't the brightest bulb in the world, but he's always been there for Paul in the tough times. On October 5, 1953 Artie stood up for Paul against his bully in 7th grade. Artie got his ass handed to him at that time, but so did Paul. That incident resulted in a life long friendship. Paul and Artie went to the same High School together. They traveled around Europe that one summer in college. Artie was Paul's best man at his wedding. Everyone thought speech Artie gave was terrible, But Paul loved it Artie was his best friend.
Artie's life wasn't much better either, he never had the smarts for that great Job. In fact he was stuck in a dead end job as a construction labourer. Artie's car was pretty shitty too. Artie never married, but he was happy in the knowledge that at least he didn't end up with Paul's shitty wife.
For Paul's 46th birthday Artie was pretty broke, so all he could get his friend was a single lottery ticket. Artie being the sentimental guy that he was picked the date of the start of their friendship, and their respective ages (46, 45). Paul loved the present, and thought that the two of them should go to the Legion that friday to split a round of beers and listen to them call out the numbers.
On Friday they are both sitting there at the Legion having a laugh over a couple of beers when the cute lottery girl comes on the t.v. to read out the numbers. Paul pulls out the ticket and spreads it out on the beer stained table in front of them. The lottery girl starts reading out the numbers, 45, 10, 05. Both of Paul and Artie's hearts start beating, thats 200$ already. 53, Holy crap thats like a 10, 000 ticket. They both start losing their shit. 46....... Paul feints. He just won the jackpot. 37million dollars.
Two minutes later Artie finally revives Paul. Paul and Artie celebrate the night away, buy round after round for the people at the Legion and get absolutely shittered. They close out the bar and as the ugly lights come on they stumble blitzed, singing, onto the street arm in arm with the winning lottery ticket in hand and start the long walk back to Paul's place.
Halfway home, Paul comes to two drunken
... keep reading on reddit ➡I start with just having a normal conversation like normal people do while I wait for an opportune time to slip in this story of mine.
The Story:
Did you hear about that kid on the bridge with the brick about a year ago? Yeah, this kid was apparently on an overpass for I-95 (nearby interstate. Locality makes it believable.) with a brick tied to a rope. He just sat there swinging it at passing cars, breaking their windshields just for a laugh. Eventually, the brick got caught in one and didn't come back out like it usually did. Instead, this time, the rope got wrapped around his arm and the sudden yank pulled his arm clean off. The driver tried to sue, but got nowhere because it was a kid. However, the driver was arrested for armed robbery.
Gets groans every time.
After a few days of doing this, he realizes he is simply not fit for this type of job. On his final day of trying to chop down trees, he notices an old scrawny man chopping down trees as if he was a woodpecker, the amount of hits he made grew more and more each swing. The first swing was one hit, the next, ten hits, the next one, a hundred hits, and the next one after that, a thousand. He kept swinging until the tree he was swinging at was chopped down. Amazed, the young man walks over to the old man and asks, "Sir, what is your secret, how do you chop them down so quickly?"
The old man turns and says, "It's all about the rhythm." Puzzled by the old man's answer, the young man returned home pondering what he said.
The next morning, he was motivated to keep trying to be a lumberjack. "If an old scrawny man can do it, so can I!" he thought.
So he went back to the forest, and tried to use his advice. Trying to time each swing, he realizes this simply doesn't work. Later in the day, he sees the old man again, comes up to him, and asks, "I tried to time my swings, but it does no more than just chopping normally. How do you do it?"
"You can't just make up any old rhythm and follow it, you have to find a very specific one," he says, "you have to find the Logger-rhythm."
