Some more jokes

A young and pretty lady posted this on a popular forum: 
Title: What should I do to marry a rich guy? 

I’m going to be honest of what I’m going to say here. I’m 25 this year. 
I’m very pretty, have style and good taste. I wish to marry a guy with 
$500k annual salary or above. You might say that I’m greedy, but an 
annual salary of $1M is considered only as middle class in New York. My 
requirement is not high. Is there anyone in this forum who has an income 
of $500k annual salary? Are you all married? I wanted to ask: what 
should I do to marry rich persons like you? Among those I’ve dated, the 
richest is $250k annual income, and it seems that this is my upper 
limit. If someone is going to move into high cost residential area on 
the west of New York City Garden, $250k annual income is not enough. 

I’m here humbly to ask a few questions: 
1) Where do most rich bachelors hang out? (Please list down the 
names and addresses of bars, restaurant, gym) 
2) Which age group should I target? 
3) Why most wives of the riches is only average-looking? I’ve 
met a few girls who doesn’t have looks and are not interesting, but they 
are able to marry rich guys 
4) How do you decide who can be your wife, and who can only be 
your girlfriend? (my target now is to get married) 

Ms. Pretty 

Here’s a reply from a Wall Street Financial guy: 

Dear Ms. Pretty, 

I have read your post with great interest. Guess there are lots of girls 
out there who have similar questions like yours. Please allow me to 
analyze your situation as a professional investor. My annual income is 
more than $500k, which meets your requirement, so I hope everyone 
believes that I’m not wasting time here. From the standpoint of a 
business person, it is a bad decision to marry you. The answer is very 
simple, so let me explain. Put the details aside, what you’re trying to 
do is an exchange of “beauty” and “money”: Person A provides beauty, and 
Person B pays for it, fair and square. However, there’s a deadly 
problem here, your beauty will fade, but my money will not be gone 
without any good reason. The fact is, my income might increase from 
year to year, but you can’t be prettier year after year. Hence from the 
viewpoint of economics, I am an appreciation asset, and you are a 
depreciation asset. It’s not just normal depreciation, but exponential 
depreciation. If that is your only asset, your value will be much 
worried 10 years later 

By the terms we use in Wall Street, every trading has a position, dating 
with you is also a “trading position”. If the trade value dropped we 
will sell it and it is not a good idea to keep it for long term – same 
goes with the marriage that you wanted. It might be cruel to say this, 
but in order to make a wiser decision any assets with great depreciation 
value will be sold or “leased”. Anyone with over $500k annual income 
is not a fool; we would only date you, but will not marry you. I would 
advice that you forget looking for any clues to marry a rich guy. And by 
the way, you could make yourself to become a rich person with $500k 
annual income. This has better chance than finding a rich fool. 

Hope this reply helps. If you are interested in “leasing” services, do 

contact me…

Economics 101: Models explained – with Cows 

SOCIALISM: You have 2 cows, so you give one to your neighbour. 

COMMUNISM: You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk. 

FASCISM: You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk. 

NAZISM: You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you. 

TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income. 

MALAYSIAN BUMIPUTRAISM: You have two cows, the State takes one and gives it to your bumiputra neighbour. From the milk you sell from the remaining cow you buy a bull and mulitply your herd. The State take 30 per cent of your herd as it grows and give them to your bumiputra neigbour. Your bumiputra neighbour has a kenduri each time they receive a cow. 

UMNOPUTRAISM : The State takes 30 per cent of your herd and parks them in Switzerland in the name of some UMNO official or close relatives, friends and sons-in-law. 

MALAYSIAN GOVERNMENT LINKED OR BUMIPUTRA CORPORATION : You have two cows. You employ mainly bumiputras to milk them. But both cows have been sent to the kenduri, so the State gives you more cows and write off the losses of the first two. After several kenduris later, you invite an American or German Corporation to turnaround the losses. The Japanese have however already taken their two original cows back home to Japan. 

AN AMERICAN CORPORATION: You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead. 

ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. Sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public buys your bull. 

A FRENCH CORPORATION: You have two cows. You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows. 

A JAPANESE CORPORATION: You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called ‘Cowkimon’ and market it worldwide. 

A GERMAN CORPORATION: You have two cows. You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves. 

AN ITALIAN CORPORATION: You have two cows, but you don’t know where they are. You decide to have lunch. 

A RUSSIAN CORPORATION: You have two cows. You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows because you’re sobering up and open another bottle of vodka. 

A SWISS CORPORATION: You have 5,000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them. 

A CHINA CORPORATION: You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity, and arrest the newsman who reported the real situation. 

AN INDIAN CORPORATION: You have two cows. You worship them 

A BRITISH CORPORATION: You have two cows. Both are mad. 

IRAQI CORPORATION: Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. No-one believes you, so they bomb you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of a Democracy…. 

IRISH CORPORATION: You have two cows…or is it three? What matters? Aren’t you well off to have even one 

ISLAMIC SHARIAH CORPORATION: You have 2 cows. You slit their throats and celebrate. Then you tell the people that the infidels have stolen your cows, and that fighting the infidel will earn a reward of 72 Golden Calves in heaven.

ISRAELI CORPORATION: You have 2 cows. You kill 2 cows and claim that was a holocost and genocide against jewish cows. So, you steal 3 palistinian cows.

The KERALA COW: You have 2 cows. You can’t milk them yourself. You must employ a member of All India Cow Milker’s Union (CITU) to milk them. Of course you have the option to milk them yourself after you pay the wages to the union. 

You must keep paying even when the cows are not producing, or even after they are dead. 

You can’t buy another cow, or replace the present cow with an increased productivity one, because that is going to increase the workload of the labour. If you try, the state will shut down in a hartal. 

You can’t sell off the cows and stop the business, because it will result in loss of employment to the labour. If you try, the state will shut down in a hartal. 

Your neighbour can’t open a milk booth, because that is going to assist the multinational monopolies and result in loss of employment to the labour. If he tries, the state will shut down in a hartal. 

The local store can’t sell milk powder because that is going to assist the multinational monopolies and result in loss of employment to the labour. If he tries, the state will shut down in a hartal. 

You must pay bonus at the statutory maximum of 20% every year. If you don’t, you will be gheraoed till you die of dehydration. 

When one milker leaves you, you must pay gratuity and severance pay, even if he is leaving you for the next door cow-owner. 

There is unwritten quotas of milk produced per cow per milking. The milking will be stopped after achieving the quota. The quotas do not appear in any document, and the union will deny their existence. Since they do not exist, they can’t be negotiated.

A Bengali Poem

Through the jongole I am went 
On shooting Tiger I am bent 
Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife 
No doubt I will avenge poor darling’s life 
Too much quiet, snakes and leeches 
But I not fear these sons of beeches 
Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start 
But noise is coming from damn fool’s heart 
Taking care not to be fright 
I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight 
Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down 
Then like hero return to native town 
Then through trees I am espying one cave 
I am telling self – “Bannerjee be brave” 
I am now proceeding with too much care 
From far I smell this Tiger’s lair 
My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start to pray 
I think I will shoot Tiger some other day 
Turning round I am going to flee 
But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting this Bengalee 
He bounding from cave like football player Pele 
I run shouting 
“Kali Ma tumi kothay gele” 
Through the jongole I am running 
With Tiger on my tail closer looming 
I am a telling that never in life 
I will risk again for my damn fool wife!!!!

There’s Nothing Rajni Can’t 

* Outer space exists because it’s afraid to be on the same planet with Rajnikant. 

* Rajnikant has counted to infinity — twice. 

* When Rajnikant does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing earth down. 

* Rajnikant is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head. 

* Rajnikant doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is. 

* Rajnikant gave Mona Lisa that smile. 

* Rajnikant can slam a revolving door. 

* Rajnikant’s house has no doors, only walls that he walks through. 

* Rajnikant grinds his coffee with his teeth and boils the water with his own rage. 

* If you Google search ‘Rajnikant getting kicked’, you will generate zero results. It just doesn’t happen. [At the time of posting this, Google generated 18 results for me. How many does it generate for you?] 

* It takes Rajnikant 20 minutes to watch 60 Minutes. 

* The Bermuda Triangle used to be the Bermuda Square, until Rajnikant kicked one of the corners off. 

* There are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq; Rajnikant lives in Chennai. 

* Rajnikant once at an entire bottle of sleeping pills. They made him blink. 

* The only things that run faster and longer than Rajnikant are his films. 

* Rajnikant’s every step creates a mini whirlwind. Hurricane Katrina was the result of a morning jog. 

* Where there is a will, there is a way. Where there is Rajnikant, there is no other way. 

There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Rajnikant has allowed to live. 

There are no races, only countries of people Rajnikant has beaten to different shades of black and blue. 

Rajnikant can divide by zero. 

Newton’s Third Law is wrong: Although it states that for each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, there is no force equal in reaction to a Rajnikant turnaround kick. 

When taking the GRE, write “Rajnikant” for every answer. You will score over 1600. 

Rajnikant has 12 moons. One of those moons is the Earth. 

An old English dictionary dating back to 1236. It defined “victim” as “one who has encountered Rajnikant”. 

Rajnikant can drink an entire gallon of milk in thirty-seven seconds. 

Rajnikant doesn’t bowl strikes, he just knocks down one pin and the other nine faint. 

James Cameron wanted Rajnikant to play the Terminator. However, upon reflection, he realized that would have turned his movie into a documentary, so he went with Arnold Schwarzenegger. 

Thousands of years ago Rajnikant came across a bear. It was so terrified that it fled north into the arctic. It was also so terrified that all of its descendants now have white hair.

Top 10 Weird laws of the world

Number 10: Most Middle Eastern countries recognize the following Islamic law: “After having sexual relations with a lamb, it is a mortal sin to eat its flesh.” (umm OK, I’m sure the lamb appreciates that one) 

Number 9: In Lebanon, men are legally allowed to have sex with animals, but the animals must be female. Having sexual relations with a male animal is punishable by death. (OK, like THAT makes sense…) 

Number 8: In Bahrain, a male doctor may legally examine a woman’s genitals, but is forbidden from looking directly at them during the examination. He may only see their reflection in a mirror. (Ouch!) 

Number 7: Muslims are banned from looking at the genitals of a corpse. This also applies to undertakers; the sex organs of the deceased must be covered with a brick or a piece of wood at all times. (…a brick?) 

Number 6: The penalty for masturbation in Indonesia is capitation. (Wonder how they enforce that one?) 

Number 5: There are men in Guam whose full-time job is to travel the countryside and deflower young virgins, who pay them for the privilege of having sex for the first time. Reason: under Guam law, it is expressly forbidden for virgins to marry. (Now let’s just think for a minute…is there any job anywhere else in the world that even comes close to this?) 

Number 4: In Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her adulterous husband, but may only do so with her bare hands. (The husband’s lover, on the other hand, may be killed in any manner desired. COOL) 

Number 3: Topless saleswomen are legal in Liverpool, England, but only in tropical fish stores. (Of course!) 

Number 2: In Santa Cruz, Bolivia it is illegal for a man to have sex with a woman and her daughter at the same time. (We have to presume this was a big enough problem that they had to pass this law…) 

And the wierdest law in the world is… 

In Cali, Colombia, a woman may only have sex with her husband, and the first time this happens her mother must be in the room to witness the act. (I shudder at the thought. How many of us would be virgins today?)

Top 10 Facts About Top 10 Facts

1. Most of the times at least one fact is made up to make sure there are really ten facts. 

2. Regardless of how stupid these Top 10 are, those posts quickly rise to the top of Reddit, Digg, Mixx, StumpleUpon, Delicious and other social bookmarking sites. Just because it’s Top 10. 

3. Most of the Top 10 articles are written when there is nothing else to write about or when a person has no clue about the subject he or she is writing about. 

4. Only items 1 through 3 really matter. The other 7 can go in any order and nothing will change. 

5. The more Top 10 is used, the more shallow and pseudointellectual that particular niche is. Don’t believe me? Try finding a Top 10 list in a nuclear physics textbook and then compare it with Cool Magazine or MTV. 

6. You don’t actually have to know most of the facts that are listed in any article that is titled ‘Top 10 facts you need to know about …’ 

7. Google indexes over 35 400 different Top 10 Facts, scientific term for which is “a whole shitload”. 

8. The most popular post on this very blog is 10 Million Dollar Ideas That Shouldn’t Have Worked. 

9. Nobody ever remembers what number 9 in the Top 10 was. 

10. There has never been a Top 10 article called “Top 10 Ways To Rape A Donkey”.

A Terrorists Tale 

By Mohammed Asha, MD Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK 

Ever have “one of those days?” Sure, all of us go through the occasional rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have it in for me. I mean, I know the “Big Guy” is supposed to have a sense of humor, but do I always have to be the punch line? 

Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it’s something we first began discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali said “you know, after graduation, we should get together for something really big.” We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who’s really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy. 

Anyhow, Achmed finally says, “how about packing cars with explosives and killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic fireballs?” And we’re like, ‘******’ A!’ Not only would we be it an awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn promise that we’d target two years after graduation for the big weekend prank blowout. 

I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and starting a family, it’s easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing — [our thing] — was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep in touch and keep the plan going. As luck would have it, we all won Achmedinijad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel. 

So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright and early, everybody’s jazzed about rolling up some kafir carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail cannisters are ready to go. I look at Ali and say, “okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I’ll start loading it up.” He gets this dumbstruck look on his face and says, “my car? I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom.” And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and he’s like, “whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn’t agree to blow up. I thought Achmed was going to do the blowing up.” Then Achmed’s like, “don’t look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car’s in the shop for transmission work.” From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy frickin’ prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom. Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours truly, good old sucker Mohammed, the same guy with a pile of charge card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up having to host two thirds of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house, because his good old college “pals” always have some convenient excuse about “kitchen remodeling” or “MI6 surveillance,” and never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw get pulled by Bilal, and I’m like, oh, great. Now I’ll be banging some celestial virgin with that wanker looking over my shoulder. 

So, I’m like, “okay, whose donating the cars?” And these dicks just look around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because “I still have 28 payments left,” or “it’s due for a tire rotation,” or some other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same ****** car I just paid £129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole deal, and here it comes – [The Look]. Complete with the whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn’t my uncle, I’d be tempted to smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she’s like, “fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries.” 

After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to Picadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let ‘er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all the stupid racist kafirs started giving me the stink eye because apparently they’re freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed to be, and they’re all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots. So I’m like, “WTF? What happened with the detonation?” Get this: Achmed, whose only job it was to call in a simple ****** detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I’m like, “how about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded.” The dopey expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now there’s NO dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I’m out one leased Mercedes with a £12,000 balloon payment. 

So I go, “here’s the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martrydom line, and it was Allah’s will that it didn’t happen. So why don’t we just call it good, and try again in another two years.” Crissakes, you would have thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about “Ummah Pride,” and “giving it all for ol’ Central Jordan U…” 

So I said fine, let’s draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other. 

When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. “I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now,” she said, in that stupid irritating voice. “Change of plans,” I said. “We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport.” Here it came again. [The Look]. “Um, and we need to use the Jeep.” [The Look] X 2. “And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us.” I won’t even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive cannisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death. 

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it’s ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I’m shouting “Allahu Akbar,” and Bilal’s shouting “Allahu Akbar” and “Go Martyrs” just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I’m thinking, “oil up them virgins Allah, ’cause Dr. Mo’s luck is about to change.” BAAAAM! Right into the glass. 

I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn cannisters didn’t explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn’t made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can’t make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. “All wheel traction,” my arse. 

Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming at me. As Allah is my witness, I really can’t explain what happened next; maybe it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and hit the Bic. 

Here’s a handy tip from Doctor Mo: if you ever get a wild urge to start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because (A) it’s not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it. hurts. like. a. ******. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler. 

After that, I really didn’t mind getting bludgeoned by those angry bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge thIng and I figured the worst was over. 

No such luck. Here’s another handy tip from Doctor Mo: if your skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid laying down on any surfaces that aren’t Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren’t. After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and realized that I’ll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because I’m sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers. 

And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed “Little Mohammed” was AWOL. As they were loading me into the the police wagon I glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. A fat lot of good those 72 virgin are going to be for me now. 

Final box score: I’m out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis. Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad your day is going, don’t expect a lot of sympathy. 

Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I’ve got an appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you with one more handy tip from Doctor Mo: no matter how many virgins they promise, don’t ever join a fraternity.

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