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who's egg is this?
 
 
There was once a Scotsman and an Englishman who lived next door to each other. The Scotsman owned a hen and each morning would look in his garden and pick up one of his hen's eggs for breakfast. One day he looked into his garden and saw that the hen had laid an egg in the Englishman's garden. He was about to go next door when he saw the Englishman pick up the egg. The Scotsman ran up to the Englishman and told him that the egg belonged to him because he owned the hen. The Englishman disagreed because the egg was laid on his property.
"In my family," the Scotsman said, "we normally solve disputes by the following actions: I kick you in the balls and time how long it takes you to get back up. Then you kick me in the balls and time how long it takes for me to get up. Whoever gets up quicker wins the egg." The Englishman agreed to this and so the Scotsman found his heaviest pair of boots kicked the Englishman as hard as he could in the balls. The Englishman fell to the floor clutching his nuts and howled in agony for 30 minutes. Eventually the Englishman stood up and said, "Now it's my turn to kick you."
"Keep the goddamn egg."
one side of a phone call between james bond...
 
 
Hallo? Is this Giganta? Giganta Crotchetta?

Oh, grand! It's Bond.

James Bond? O07?

Shaken not stirred? Tuxedo? The trunk-sized jet pack? We had a run in with an Austrian terrorist with the overdeveloped reptilian brain and a predilection for man-eating octopi launching bazookas?

Well, contacting you took quite a bit of doing actually. You see, first I tried Giganta Crotchetta. I must have looked in every phone directory that MI-6 could hack into. Then I figured out that Giganta might be a code name. I mean, who has the name Giganta Crotchetta? Rather silly, when you think about it?

Yes, yes I suppose you do like it. Anyway, I recalled that I kept one of your garments your knickers actually. And there it was. "Honey Rider" is a much prettier and commonplace name. You should use that.

Ah, yes. The, uh... point. Well, it seems that... well, there's no delicate way to put this. I have a rather nasty case of syphilis. And, um, I'm calling all my sexual partners to let them know that they should go get tested.

Uh-huh. Right. I know it was ten years ago. But the syphilis is rather unusual.

Well, it has gonorrhea.

Yes, my syphilis has gonorrhea.

And the gonorrhea has lice. And the lice have some undiscovered disease that's kind of between hemorrhagic fever and the mumps. It's a virulent mutant strand developed by Dr. No-Means-Yes during Mission: "The Russian Spy Who Loved To Thunderball Me."

Yes, I know I said I had a condom. But you see all the condoms I had were made by Q, and apparently, the condoms weren't meant to be condoms -- they were designed to be used as a pocket parachute. Good man. If you need to have your stapler work as a gun, he's your boy. Anyway, you didn't notice because while we were passionately embraced, your tongue accidentally trigged my knockout gas tooth and you, um, drifted off to sleep. But trust me, you enjoyed yourself. They all do.

Anyway, with all the rather bizarre ailments my, um, bizarre ailments have, the doctors have advised me to contact everyone in my sexual history about my condition. No small feat, I assure you. If you saw the list, you'd think I'd been having sex with my fellow spies for 50 years!

Well, this is what the doctors suggest. Right now, I am in a remote island facility. Actually there's no facility. Just an island. And me. But they'e building one as soon as they can find enough hazmat suits. Anyway, a helicopter is going to pick you up and bring you to the island where we can be treated in isolation.

Chin up! Look at it this way: it'll give us a chance to get caught up. And maybe once some of the redness goes down, along with some of the greenness and the larvae, we can do some REAL reminiscing.

"Oh, James." What's that supposed to mean?
scot got naught
 
 
A Scottish wife, an English wife, and an Irish wife were all talking about how they never had enough money to go shopping. All of a sudden, the English wife had an idea.

"I know! We can take off our underwear, and then when our husbands notice, we can say we don't have enough money even for knickers!"

Everybody thought this was a good idea, so they went home to try it. When the English wife's husband noticed, he gave her 200 pounds to go shopping with. When the Irish wife's husband noticed, he gave her his credit card. The next day, they all three met up to discuss how it went. The Irish wife and the English wife were all dressed up in their new clothes, but the Scottish wife was still in rags. The other two demanded to know what had happened.

"Well," said the Scottish wife. "As I was gardening, I bent over to show him I wasn't wearing any undies. But when he saw, he gave 40p to get a comb!"

i'm a photographer, not a...
 
 
A photographer for a national magazine was assigned to take pictures of a great forest fire. He was advised that a small plane would be waiting to fly him over the fire.

The photographer arrived at the airstrip just an hour before sundown. Sure enough, a small Cessna airplane was waiting. He jumped in with his equipment and shouted, "Let's go!" The tense man sitting in the pilot's seat swung the plane into the wind and soon they were in the air, though flying erratically.

"Fly over the north side of the fire," said the photographer, "And make several low-level passes."

"Why?" asked the nervous pilot.

"Because I'm going to take pictures!" yelled the photographer. "I'm a photographer, and photographers take pictures!"

The pilot replied, "You mean you're not the flight instructor?"


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