Clean Joke Thread...

[trekkiedane]

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Roses are #FF0000, violets are #0000FF.
All my base are belong to you.

 

[Tora Ziyal]

^Then it would've been my guess that you've heard these before

An arch bishop runs into the Pope's office and states that there is good news and bad news.

"Let's have the good news first then", says the Pope.

"The Messiah is back"

"What could be bad about that?"

"He came back in Salt Lake City."

*snicker* Hadn't heard it before, but I like it.

 

[cooleddie74]

Guy walks into a bar.

And it hurt...really bad.

 

[trekkiedane]

The irate customer calling the newspaper office, loudly demanded to know where her Sunday edition was.


"Madam", said the newspaper employee, "today is Saturday. The Sunday paper is not delivered until tomorrow, on SUNDAY".
There was quite a long pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a ray of recognition as she was heard to mutter, ..


..."Well, that explains why no one was at church either.

ETA:
I'm not really into 'talking animals' but this one is quite funny:

[yt]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGeKSiCQkPw[/yt]​

 

[Mr. Laser Beam]

Rene Descartes walks into a bar and orders a beer. Then the bartender asks him if he wants another one. Rene says "I think not," then he disappears.

 

[cooleddie74]

A Buddhist walks up to a hot dog vendor and asks the proprietor to make him one with everything.

 

[trekkiedane]

Not a joke -but I did find it in the third joke thread over on SETI@home. I'm sure there are members here who'll appreciate this story:

This was forwarded to me by LTC Robert Bent, US Army, Retired

Written by Brian Schul—former sled (SR-71 Blackbird) driver.

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane—intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.

Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done—in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it—the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.

"Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

 

[captcalhoun]

that's hilarious

 

[cooleddie74]

You wouldn't know I was born a Caesarean section baby, except that when I leave the house I go out one of the side windows.

 

[trekkiebaggio]

This joke's not G-rated and dripping with family values, but it's clean.


Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?

It was dead.

Why did the second monkey fall out of the tree?

It was tied to the first monkey.

Why did the third monkey fall out of the tree?

Peer Pressure.

Why did the squirrel fall out of the tree?

It was doing a monkey impression.

 

[trekkiedane]

I'm not one for the 'blonde-jokes' -not even back in the day everybody else seemed to get a kick out of them- but this one's actually rather funny if you ask me:

A blonde walks into a bank in New York City and asks for the loan officer. She says she's going to Europe for two weeks an needs to borrow $5000.

The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for the loan, so the blonde hands over the keys to a new Rolls Royce. The car is parked on the street in front of the bank, she has the title, and everything checks out. The bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan.

The bank's president and its officers all enjoy a good laugh at the blonde for using a $250,000 Rolls as collateral against a $5000 loan. An employee of the bank then drives the Rolls into the bank's underground garage and parks it there.

Two weeks later the blonde returns and repays the $5000 loan and the interest, which comes to $15.41. The loan officer says, “Miss, we are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely, but we are a little puzzled. We checked you out and found out that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is – why would you bother to borrow $5000?”

The blonde replies, “Where else in New York City can I park my car for two weeks for only $15.41 and expect it to be there when I return?”

 

[Tora Ziyal]

^ Personally, I'd just call it a NYC joke. It would work just as well w/o her being blonde.

 

[trekkiedane]

^You're right of course, I think the blonde part is in there to throw the reader off guard in the first place (which is why I emphasized it before telling the joke )

Another rich-person-joke:

A bum comes up to the front door of a very expensive house and raps gently on the door. When the rich owner answers, the bum asks him, "Please, sir, could you give me something to eat? I haven't had a good meal in several days."

The owner says, "I have made a fortune in my lifetime by supplying goods for people. I've never given anything away for nothing. However, if you go around the back, you will see a gallon of paint and a clean paint brush. If you will paint my porch, I will give you a good meal."

So the bum goes around back and a while later he again knocks on the door. The owner says, "Finished already? Good. Come on in. Sit down. The cook will bring your meal right in."

The bum says, "Thank you very much. But there's something that I think you should know. It's not a porch you got there. It's a BMW."

 

[Tora Ziyal]

^Good point about the blonde part throwing one off. I hadn't thought about that.

Here's one I love:

A minister in a large city was short on time and couldn't find a parking space with a meter, so he parked his car in a no-parking zone. He put a note under the windshield wiper that read, "I have circled the block 10 times. If I don't park here, I'll miss my appointment. Forgive us our trespasses."

When he returned, the minister found a parking citation, along with this note from the police officer: "I've circled this block for 10 years. If I don't give you a ticket, I'll lose my job. Lead us not into temptation."

 

[cooleddie74]

Courtesy of the genius known as Mitch Hedberg:

"I haven't slept for five days.

Because that would be too damn long!"

 

[Mr. Laser Beam]

More Mitch:

- I hate sandwiches at New York delis. It's like a cow with a cracker on each end! "Would you like anything else, sir?" "Yeah, a loaf of bread and some other people!"

- Imagine if somebody got killed by an arrow. They would never solve the crime! "Look at that dead guy!...Let's go that way."

 

[captcalhoun]

what goes 'hahahahahahaha-bonk?'

someone laughing their head off.

 

[Methos]

Wife: "I want you to whisper dirty things in my ear" *wink*

Husband: kitchen, bathroom, living room...

M

 

[cooleddie74]

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To get away from the same tired, stupid jokes.

 

[trekkiedane]

A couple lived near the ocean and used to walk the beach a lot. One summer they noticed a girl who was at the beach almost every day. She wasn't unusual, nor was the travel bag she carried, except for one thing; she would approach people who were sitting on the beach, glance around and then speak to them.

Generally, the people would respond negatively and she would wander off. But occasionally someone would nod and there would be a quick exchange of money and something that she carried in her bag.

The couple assumed that she was selling drugs and debated calling the cops, but since they didn't know for sure, they decided to just continue watching her.

After a couple of weeks the wife said, 'Honey, have you ever noticed that she only goes up to people with boom boxes and other electronic devices?' He hadn't and said so.

Then she said, 'Tomorrow I want you to get a towel and our big radio and go lie out on the beach. Then we can find out what she's really doing.'

Well, the plan went off without a hitch and the wife was almost hopping up and down with anticipation when she saw the girl talk to her husband and then leave.. The man then walked up the beach and met his wife at the road.

'Well, is she selling drugs?' she asked excitedly.

'No, she's not,' he said, enjoying this probably more
than he should have.

'Well, what is it then? What does she do ?' his wife fairly shrieked.

The man grinned and said, 'She's a battery salesperson.'

'Batteries?' cried the wife.

'Yes!' he replied...











Wait for it...










'She Sells C Cells by the Seashore!'

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