I mean how low can you go?
It means the world to me.
Don't worry, he's getting the help he needs. He's already checked into Rehabba-dabba-doo!
Friend: who?
Me: [narrows eyes]
It became a poultrygeist and laid deviled eggs. They had to bring in a priest for an eggsorcism.
The last one was too possessive.
He wanted to appear in Corporeal form!
Illegal possession of drugs.
I responded that nudists are defined by their lack of jeans
Edit: there->their
Edit 2: Awards? Wow! I'd like to thank the Academy, the community, my wife, and the man who made this post possible, my father in law!
Me: possession IS 9/10 of the law
Child: Iβm hungry and I want a toy and Iβm not going to nap today and-
Demon: π¦π° π¦π± ππ©π΄ππΆπ° π©π¦π¨π’ π±π₯π¦π°?
Me: itβs legally your problem now
They said he was carrying weapons of math instruction, and was a member of the Alge-bra movement.
Spook-key
But he did write a book titled "Mine Cough".
Iβm sure itβs saucer βEβ.
I could use some exorcise.
In hindsight, the small pupils were a dead giveaway...
Son: Who?
Dad: mhmm guess we found out.
They were amazing at possessing the ball.
*My son's joke. I'm so proud.
A polter-goose
Remember, never tell anyone your soulcial security number
Who?
That's the thing we-
It's based on achoo story.
The executioner. He was always stoning people.
Because possession is 9/10ths of the law.
The First man says: I committed 2nd degree murder
The Second says: I committed: 1st degree assault
The Third says: I committed 1st degree possession of drugs
The Fourth man simply says: Arson
The Second man asks him: What degree was it?
The Fourth man responds: I'm not sure, it was pretty hot though. About 525 Celsius-ish
It'll make your head spin.
No matter what, he wouldn't let his Ringo
It was tired of being a nobody.
But Iβm not really into the possessive type.
(My brotherβs joke not mine)
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 Trevorβs 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.
Trevorsβs 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 Trevorβs 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 wasnβt 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.
βWellβ said Jeff, βAs Iβm sure you know the convention comes to town laterβ.
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.
βYes of courseβ replied Trevor
... keep reading on reddit β‘So her demons would exercise themselves.
small arms
I love it. Itβs my prise possession.
After all, possession is 9/10ths of the law.
Arrested for possession.
So I came out to my family about 2 weeks ago using a meme as genderfluid and sent it to the family group chat. The moment my dad saw it the holy god of dad jokes must of possessed him and he typed into the group chat, βSo itβs not a drink?β
The CIA had changed its recruiting practices, what with all the recent leaks and other problems. So Mr. Johnson was more than a little surprised to see a pine tree, which was dressed in a rather nice suit, waiting outside his office when he arrived at 9 am. He asked his secretary, "Gladys, who is this?"
"Mr. Johnson, this is Mr. Cone, our newest hire. He wanted to talk with you about the Honduras assignment."
Mr. Johnson spoke to Mr. Cone in his office. His new pine tree colleague was very knowledgeable and well-spoken, but there was something about him that threw Mr. Johnson off. He tried to dismiss his concerns as imaginary, but it gnawed at him all through the morning. He barely touched his lunch, as some of the things Mr. Cone had said were still swirling around and around in his mind. He was sure something was wrong, so he went in to see the head of their office branch, Mr. Smith.
"Johnson! Come right in, come right in," said Mr. Smith, puffing on a cigar. Mr. Johnson poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and sipped at it nervously.
"You're being rather quiet today, Johnson. Tell me, what's troubling you?"
"It's just this new guy, Mr. Cone," Mr. Johnson said carefully, staring at the bottom of his whiskey glass. "Are we sure we know him as well as we think we do?"
Mr. Smith took only a small puff from his cigar before letting his hand rest back on his desk. "Now really, Johnson," he sighed, "you're a good agent. Your caution has served you well in the past, but paranoia doesn't look so good on you. Mr. Cone has the most impressive resumΓ© I've seen come across my desk in the last fifteen years. I've personally had him vetted by the best men in the business. He's going to be an asset to this office."
That was the response Mr. Johnson had been afraid of getting, but he continued to press his cause. "I understand that, sir. It's just that I'm getting the strangest feeling from this Cone fellow. Don't you think he's a little too perfect? A little too well-qualified?"
Mr. Smith stopped smoking his cigar altogether. A distant look came into his eyes as he mulled over the possibilities. "You don't suppose--"
"Yes," said Mr. Johnson, "I think he's a plant."
Note: I'm a mom, not a dad, but I'm pretty sure I only thought of this because my father-in-law tortures me with these kinds of stories almost constantly.
He was done for possession of coke.
Me: who
Son: who?
Me: found it!
Friend: who? Me: [narrows eyes]
So many ours.
