A man, a sheep, and a dog were the only survivors of a terrible shipwreck. They found themselves stranded on a desert island.
After being there a while, they got into the habit of going to the beach every evening to watch the sun set. One particular evening, the sky was a fiery red with beautiful cirrus clouds, the breeze was warm and gentle; a perfect night for romance.
As the days went by, the sheep started looking better and better to the lonely man until one evening, when he leaned over to the sheep and put his arm around it. The dog got extremely jealous, and growled fiercely until the man took his arm from around the sheep. After that, the three of them continued to enjoy the sunsets together, but there was to be no more cuddling.
A few weeks passed by and, lo and behold, there was another shipwreck. The only survivor was a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful woman the man had ever seen.
Trying to console her, the man introduced her to their evening beach ritual. It was another beautiful evening: red sky, cirrus clouds, a warm and gentle breeze; perfect for a night of romance.
Pretty soon, the man started to get “those feelings” again. He fought them as long as he could, but he finally gave in and leaned over to the young woman, cautiously, and whispered in her ear…. “Would you mind taking the dog for a walk?”
A photographer from a news organization was assigned to cover the fires in California.
His boss wanted pictures of the heroic work of the fire fighters as they battled the blaze but when the photographer arrived, he realized that the smoke was too thick. It would be impossible for him to photograph anything from ground level.
He requested permission to rent a plane and take photos from the air. His request was approved and arrangements were made. The photographer was told to report to a nearby airport where a plane would be waiting for him.
He arrived at the airport and saw a plane warming up near the gate. He jumped in with his bag and shouted, “Let’s go!”
The pilot swung the little plane into the wind, and within minutes they were in the air. The photographer said, “Fly over the park and make two or three low passes so I can take some pictures.”
“Why?” asked the pilot.
“Because I am a photographer,” he responded, “and photographers take photographs.”
The pilot was silent for a moment. Finally he stammered, “You mean you’re not the flight instructor?”
John died and was being given a tour of Heaven. St. Peter explained that Heaven not only had room enough for everybody, but that there were rooms for everybody as well.
He opened the first door, explaining, “This is the Catholic room,” and inside John could see a large group of people kneeling and saying Hail Mary.
The next room was a noisy one with shouts of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” could be heard through the door. “The Baptist room,” explained Peter.
The third room was silent, filled with contemplative souls. “Presbyterians,” Peter said.
When they came to the fourth room, Peter stopped John. “Shhh!” he said. “Be very quiet. These are the Lutherans, and they don’t think anybody else is here.”
No matter what you do, some people will never be happy.
For a few years now, my dad (who leans further to the right than Pinochet) has been using store bought almond milk. His reasoning was that he could buy it in bulk at Costco, and it stayed fresh much longer. I get that. Neither one of us are big milk drinkers but, when you need milk, you need it. After a couple weeks in the fridge, regular cow’s milk will wrinkle your nose, but an unopened carton of almond milk will taste just fine. Even if the flavor tends to be a little “woody”, almond milk makes good smoothies and works in most cooking and baking recipes.
Of course neither my dad nor I are lactose intolerant. We are neither environmental hipsters, nor do we give a rats ass about being politically correct, but pragmatism is a conservative quality that we highly prize. Money doesn’t grow on trees, so when you find a better deal, go with it.
And here I was thinking it’s one less thing that some neerdowell would attack me for, but I was wrong. Apparently “almond milk” is terrible for the environment. It’s also nutritionally deficient, contains chemical additives, and probably makes the baby jebus cry. Seriously?! WTF!
Of course if you take even a moment to fact check, you’ll see that none of the criticisms are really worth the time it took to fact check. Almond milk naturally contains less nutrition than cows milk, but so what? It still contains more nutrition than water. So now many brands contain chemical additives because people wanted more nutrition and flavor. It’s not like we don’t already fortify a shit-ton of foods anyway, but god forbid we put anything extra in a packaged product. Bad for the environment?! Now they’re bitching because the trees are bad because the farmers have to water them! So wake up sheeple! Trees are bad for the environment now!
Oh, and let’s not forget about those poor bees they bring in to pollinate the trees. They eventually die because the area contains pesticides. While that’s true, the fact is they buy the bees from bee keepers in other parts of the country who grow bee colonies specifically for exporting. Basically, it’s not actually contributing to the issue of “colony collapse” that plagues honeybees around the world, but trying to explain why bee farming is a good thing to these morons is a waste of time and energy.
So is almond milk really that good? Meh… It’s nice if you need milk occasionally, but fresh cows milk does taste a little better IMHO. Is it bad for the environment? Compared to what? Let’s face it, human existence and everything connected to it is bad for the environment. If you’re so concerned about it, go kill yourself! I hear suicide is making a comeback these days. But almonds and almond milk aren’t any worse for the environment than your typical overzealous vegan.
Next thing you know they’ll be protesting vegeburgers. Oh wait… they already are.
Jerry passed a house with a little red light burning in front, so he stepped inside.
There was nothing in sight and nothing there but an empty bare hallway, with two doors reading, “Over 35” and “Under 35.”
He decided to be truthful and entered the door that said, “Over 35.”
Jerry found himself in another empty hallway, this one with two doors that read, “Over 8 inches” and “Under 8 inches.”
Truthful again, he went through the “Under 8 inches” door and found himself in another empty hall, with two more doors reading, “Once a night” and “Over 4 times a night.”
Still wanting to be truthful, Jerry entered the door marked “Once a night” and found himself back out on the street.
The moral of this story is: “Always tell the truth and you’ll never get screwed.”
Evelyn was suing the Northridge Medical Center after her husband went in for an operation which left him unable to have sex with her afterwards.
On the witness stand, Evelyn testified, “My husband Frank and I used to have an amazing sex life until he went into that hospital and had his operation. Now he’s completely lost interest in having sex with me, and it’s all because of those bastards!”
It seemed that the case was clearly in her favor until the surgeon who perform Frank’s surgery took the stand.
“Look,” said the exasperated surgeon, “all I did was remove Frank’s cataracts.”
Two old friends, Warren and Kenny, went on a fishing trip together. Because neither were especially avid fishermen, they rented all their equipment. They rented the reels and rods, the wading suits, the rowboat, and even a cabin in the woods. It was to be a fully immersive fishing experience.
On their first day fishing, they didn’t catch anything. The same thing happened on the second day, and again, they caught nothing on the third day. Finally on the last day of their vacation, Kenny and Warren managed to catch one small fish.
Both of the men were rather disappointed with their vacation, and on the drive home
Warren said to Kenny, “Do you realize that that one lousy fish we caught cost us over fifteen hundred bucks?”
Kenny’s eyes lit up and replied, “Wow! Then I guess it was a good thing we didn’t catch any more!”
Marc and Nancy signed up to participate in a study about the sex lives of married couples.
One of the sex researchers called about a recent survey that seemed to have a bit of a discrepancy. “In response to the question on frequency of intercourse, you answered ‘twice a week’. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” said Marc.
“But it also says here that your wife, Nancy, is having intercourse several times a night. Is this some kind of mistake?” asked the researcher.
“No, it’s correct,” replied Marc, “and that’s how it’s going to stay until our second mortgage is paid off.”
I suppose I should start by telling you how it happened. It was an otherwise nondescript day back in February. I went to get out of my rocker-recliner and when I scooched forward to get up, the front armrests bottomed out on the floor as they always do. Unbeknownst to me, Alex just happened to be laying down there that fateful day, and his left arm managed to get pinched.
Of course he yowled the loudest I'd ever heard him yell in his entire life and shot off into the basement. I felt terrible about it, but then I had no way of knowing he was down there when I went to get up. After a short while, Alex came back upstairs, and I was able to check for injury.
Shockingly, there were no broken bones, no blood, and Alex was able to walk just fine. It almost seemed cartoonish at the time, but down the left side of his left arm was a ribbon of flattened fur. He seemed somewhat indifferent to this, and acted like he just wanted to put the whole thing behind him. Seeing as Alex didn't appear to be in immediate danger, I took a "wait and see" position.
Over the next month, the "ribbon" began to shrink inward towards his elbow. I took this as a good sign that his injury was healing naturally and everything would be fine... But things were not fine. After a month and a half, his elbow began to swell. By mid-April I had to take him in to the vet for an exam.
The vet did a fair bit of Hmmm'ing and scrunched her face a lot. She didn't want to poke it with anything for fear it might introduce something. She took some measurements and expressed a "wait and see" attitude. I then scheduled a follow up appointment two months out.
Only a month later in mid-May, the swelling on his elbow had increased to the point that it started to ulcer. I called the vet and got him in immediately. This time they tried to drain it, but it went horribly. After the first stick, Alex started squirting blood all over the place, and the vet and technician freaked out and were running around looking for towels while I had to hold my cat down in a growing pool of his own blood.
After they got things back under control, she tried again with a larger needle, and went in from a different direction. After plunging to the center of the mass, she remarked that it was solid and that the fluid had probably dispersed into the surrounding tissue. She then went on to suggest that it might even be "malignant" and recommended a biopsy. They gave me an estimate for the procedure that ran from $500 to $800. I immediately left and made an appointment with another vet that I had gone to in the past.
The next day, my alternate vet didn't have any good news. By now, Alex's arm was very infected. At first he suggested that the arm would have to come off, but after noting Alex's age, he pulled back and recommended palliative care. I pushed for a quote on the cost of an amputation, and he informed me it would be around $3500 at the lowest, and that at his age, Alex would only live another 6 months after the surgery, and to just stick with palliative care.
They gave Alex a shot of antibiotics, a shot for long term pain management, prednisolone tablets and a liquid antibiotic, along with an appointment to come back about a month later.
Over the memorial day weekend, I cleaned Alex's wound and administered his meds. Alex was still Alex though. He obviously wanted to live, so I began making phone calls. Eventually I got in touch with the Humane Society. It took week and a half to finally get in, but after looking at Alex's arm, their surgeon said that the arm was "not compatible with long term survival" and agreed to amputate it... in two weeks.
That was the longest two weeks of my life.
Every day that thing on his elbow grew bigger and bigger. In the final week, it started to split open. It looked like something out of a horror movie. The outer layer of skin died off and eventually I had to cut the hard chunk of dried flesh off with scissors. Fortunately the antibiotics prescribed by the second vet kept the wound site free from infection.
And through all of this, Alex was still Alex. He just kept on living his life like nothing was wrong. Even with that thing on his arm, he still walked normal, climbed up and down the stairs, jumped on the bed, table, dresser, et cetera. Part of me knew this cat was gonna make it, but part of me was scared that his arm was going to go septic and Alex would die.
I felt relieved on the day of the surgery. We made it through to this day! Alex would be a tripod, but he was going to live! I dropped Alex off at the Human Society and went to work expecting to pick him up between 4:00 pm and 5:00 pm.
My phone rang a little before noon. The voice on the other end informed me that the surgery had gone fine, and they didn't notice anything wrong during the procedure, but in the recovery room, Alex's heart rate began to drop, he went non-responsive, and his pupils dilated. The surgeon explained that sometimes a blood clot will break free during the surgery and make its way into the brain. Alex had had a stroke. There was nothing more they could do.
Moments later, Alex died.
Usually I show off pictures of Gail here, (she's doing find by the way). Gail is a fun dog who loves to constantly run and play, but Alex was the one that I could really count on for affection. He would hop up on my chest when I was resting in my recliner and purr. He would be there at the door to greet me when I came home. He would keep me company when I pooped. He would wake me in the morning, and insist I gave him a thorough petting before I went to sleep at night. He talked to me with his incessant meows, and made sure I never left the house without filling the food and water bowls. Alex loved to get his "full kitty massage" complete with belly rubs, and he was the kind of cat that would walk up and headbutt me to let me know I was his as much as he was mine.
Flush Twice has been around since May of 2003. It started out as a JOTD (Joke of the Day) website. New jokes were published every weekday. Over the years, good jokes were increasingly hard to come by, and eventually they got so rare that I just stopped trying to publish them.
Since 2004 there has also been an eponymous comic. I still occasionally publish a new one on Saturdays. It’s also rare anymore, but sometimes it happens.
Here lately I’ve been posting a “Link of the Day”. For the time being, I will be featuring a new website from my enormous collection of bookmarked websites every weekday. None of it is solicited promotions, and no one is paying me to feature their site. These are just websites that at one time I thought were interesting enough to add to my bookmarks folder.
I highly encourage using some kind of ad blocking extension before clicking on any of these links. You’ll also hear me say this phrase a lot about these posts: “They can’t all be winners.” But it’s better than just leaving the site abandoned.
The jokes were generously provided by friends and visitors such as yourself. I want to express my eternal thanks to everyone over the years who helped contribute to the collection.
So what is it that makes a joke funny?
It all boils down to a sudden shift in perception. The story starts you thinking one way, then the punchline turns that thinking on its ear. The art of the joke is to craft a short story that isn’t overly contrived, then deliver a punchline that suddenly shifts your perception about the story you were being told.
Many of the jokes on this site are offensive, and I make no apologies for it. Offensive jokes work by making the reader uncomfortable through the use of a taboo subject thus enhancing the underlying humor. Without the offensive element, the joke would simply not be as funny.
