5th Aug (Impressed huh?)
Posted: 05 Aug 2003, 08:59
Now this is a tad funny but the 'profanity filter' may destroy it a little...we'll see...I have others...
This bloke with Tourette's Syndrome walks into the most exclusive
restaurant in town.
'Where's the pissing, motherfucking manager, you cocksucking arsewipe?' he inquires of one of the waiters. The waiter is taken-aback and replies,
'Excuse me sir but could you please refrain from using that sort of language in here. I will get the manager as soon as I can'.
The manager comes over and the bloke asks, 'Are you the chicken-f**king
manager of this bastard place?'
'Yes sir, I am,' replies the manager, 'but I would prefer it if you could
refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant'
'f**k off' replies the bloke 'and where's the f**king piano?' 'Pardon?'
says the manager.
'f**king deaf as well, are we? You snivelling little piece of s**t, show
me your c**t piano.'
'Ah,' replies the manager, 'you've come about the pianist job' and shows
the bloke to the piano.
'Can you play any blues?'
'Of course I f**king can,' and the bloke proceeds to play the most
inspiring and beautiful sounding honky-tonk blues that the manager has
ever heard.
'That's superb. What's it called?'
'I tried to shag yer missus on the sofa but the springs kept hurting my
dick,' replies the bloke.
The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The
bloke proceeds, playing the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
'Magnificent,' cries the manager, 'What's it called?'
'I Wanted a wank over the washing machine but I got my balls caught in the soap drawer'.
The manager is a tad embarrassed and asks if he knows any romantic
ballads.
The bloke then plays the most heartbreaking melody the manager has ever heard, 'And what's this called?' asks the manager. 'As I f**k you under the stars with the moonlight shining off your hairy ring-piece,' replies
the bloke.
The manager is highly upset by the bloke's language but offers him the job on condition that he doesn't introduce any of his songs or talk to any of the customers.
This arrangement works well for a couple of months until one night,
sitting opposite him, is the most gorgeous blonde he has ever laid his
eyes on.
She's wearing an almost see through dress, her breasts are almost falling
out the top of her black lace bra,and the skimpy little 'G' string she's
wearing is doing very little to conceal her ample charms. She's sitting
there with her legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus
shoots as the butter is dripping down her chin. The image is too much for
the bloke and he scurries off to the Gents to furiously masturbate. He's
tugging away furiously when he hears the manager's voice.
'Where's that bastard pianist?'
He just has time to relieve himself, and in a fluster he runs back to the
piano having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts
playing some more tunes. The blonde steps up and walks over to the piano, leans over and whispers in his ear, '
Do you know your knob and bollocks are hanging out your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?'
'Know it' he said, 'Hell I wrote it.'
This bloke with Tourette's Syndrome walks into the most exclusive
restaurant in town.
'Where's the pissing, motherfucking manager, you cocksucking arsewipe?' he inquires of one of the waiters. The waiter is taken-aback and replies,
'Excuse me sir but could you please refrain from using that sort of language in here. I will get the manager as soon as I can'.
The manager comes over and the bloke asks, 'Are you the chicken-f**king
manager of this bastard place?'
'Yes sir, I am,' replies the manager, 'but I would prefer it if you could
refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant'
'f**k off' replies the bloke 'and where's the f**king piano?' 'Pardon?'
says the manager.
'f**king deaf as well, are we? You snivelling little piece of s**t, show
me your c**t piano.'
'Ah,' replies the manager, 'you've come about the pianist job' and shows
the bloke to the piano.
'Can you play any blues?'
'Of course I f**king can,' and the bloke proceeds to play the most
inspiring and beautiful sounding honky-tonk blues that the manager has
ever heard.
'That's superb. What's it called?'
'I tried to shag yer missus on the sofa but the springs kept hurting my
dick,' replies the bloke.
The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The
bloke proceeds, playing the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
'Magnificent,' cries the manager, 'What's it called?'
'I Wanted a wank over the washing machine but I got my balls caught in the soap drawer'.
The manager is a tad embarrassed and asks if he knows any romantic
ballads.
The bloke then plays the most heartbreaking melody the manager has ever heard, 'And what's this called?' asks the manager. 'As I f**k you under the stars with the moonlight shining off your hairy ring-piece,' replies
the bloke.
The manager is highly upset by the bloke's language but offers him the job on condition that he doesn't introduce any of his songs or talk to any of the customers.
This arrangement works well for a couple of months until one night,
sitting opposite him, is the most gorgeous blonde he has ever laid his
eyes on.
She's wearing an almost see through dress, her breasts are almost falling
out the top of her black lace bra,and the skimpy little 'G' string she's
wearing is doing very little to conceal her ample charms. She's sitting
there with her legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus
shoots as the butter is dripping down her chin. The image is too much for
the bloke and he scurries off to the Gents to furiously masturbate. He's
tugging away furiously when he hears the manager's voice.
'Where's that bastard pianist?'
He just has time to relieve himself, and in a fluster he runs back to the
piano having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts
playing some more tunes. The blonde steps up and walks over to the piano, leans over and whispers in his ear, '
Do you know your knob and bollocks are hanging out your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?'
'Know it' he said, 'Hell I wrote it.'