The Hurt of two feetie.
They both come in twos
The sass-quatch
She was made up
Then the root of your fear is imaginary
She asked for ice for some imaginary wound, and as I gave her the ice pack (shaped like a circle with five fingers), she told me, "Thanks, Dad, I just needed a hand."
I've never been more proud.
"It's the numbers you use to call your imaginary girlfriend."
Well the jokes on them – they’re imaginary too.
Told my girlfriend I had some ideas for names for our future kids.
First was Penelope for a girl, because I always liked the nickname Penny. Girlfriend thought it was cute and agreed.
Next was Dimitri because it's not too common and sounds artsy. Girlfriend was not much of a fan, but agreed it would sound good with our last name.
Last was Nicholas Levar for a son's name. Named after Santa Claus and Star Trek's Geordi La Forge. I love Christmas and my girlfriend loves Star Trek. Girlfriend shot it down.
At this point I said, "But the nicknames are good! Penny, Dime, and Nick L. We would have 16 cents to our name! It makes cents to me!"
Not sure if she wants to have kids with me now.
EDIT: To the guys saying Dime isn't a nickname for Dimitri, they're MY imaginary kids, I'll call them what I damn want.
Because the root of their negativity is imaginary.
Many years ago, Red Skelton told the following joke using his inebriate character, Willie Lump Lump.
Willie explained to the young lady, “I keep a mongoose in my coat pocket. That way, when I go home after drinking, and there are snakes all over the lawn of my yard, I let the mongoose loose and he kills them all, so it’s safe for me to enter the house.”
The young woman sadly tried to explain, “I’ve got news for you, Mr. Lump Lump, those snakes are imaginary!”
Willie Lump Lump replied, “I’ve got news for you, so is the mongoose!”
http://red-skelton.info/articles/jokes/willie-lump-lump-and-the-mongoose/
I told her I was going into the kitchen to toast some bread. She raised an imaginary glass and proudly declared
"To the bread!"
Mom: "We'd better toast the almonds now."
Dad: *raises imaginary glass* "Here's to the almonds!"
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 resumé 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.
She was made up.
