The owner of a golf course in Montana was confused about paying an invoice, so he decided to ask his very attractive secretary for some mathematical help. He called her into his office and said, “You graduated from the University of Montana and I need some help. If I was to give you $20,000, minus 14%, how much would you take off?”
The secretary thought a moment, and then replied, “Everything but my earrings.”
Humor
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DYohn
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Re: Humor
A guy looks at a female coworker and says, "Your hair smells nice today." She immediately storms into the HR office and screams that she wants to file a sexual harassment complaint against the guy. "Why? All he did was say your hair smelled nice?" asks the HR rep. "He's a fucking DRAWF!" screams the woman.
“Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.” - David Lynch
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DYohn
- Posts: 157
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2025 7:19 pm
- Location: Valley of the Sun
- Has thanked: 93 times
- Been thanked: 78 times
Re: Humor
"Hey Bill! Haven't seen you in a while. How's the family?"
"Hi Charles. We are all fine, but all three of my sons still live at home."
"Still at home? Didn't they go to college?"
Yea, the oldest has a PhD, the middle son is a chemical engineer, and the youngest is a thief."
"A thief? And you let him live at home?"
"Of course. He's the only one with an income."
"Hi Charles. We are all fine, but all three of my sons still live at home."
"Still at home? Didn't they go to college?"
Yea, the oldest has a PhD, the middle son is a chemical engineer, and the youngest is a thief."
"A thief? And you let him live at home?"
"Of course. He's the only one with an income."
“Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.” - David Lynch
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DYohn
- Posts: 157
- Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2025 7:19 pm
- Location: Valley of the Sun
- Has thanked: 93 times
- Been thanked: 78 times
Re: Humor
Driving in Arizona
You’re approaching a 3-way Freeway split and have about 0.3 seconds to decide: Los Angeles, Tucson, Phoenix… or a lane that technically looked right a few seconds ago before the heat haze rewrote reality.
The sign says, “EXIT RIGHT.” What it really means: “Choose now or prepare to die.”
The speed limit sign says 65. Traffic is moving 80. Except the one 1988 sedan doing 55 in the center lane like it’s melting in real time. A lifted truck zooms up into your mirror like a mirage with attitude, menacingly close, then shakes your car as it blows by on the right. A Charger flies past you on the left doing 95 like the speed limit is just a suggestion printed for decoration. And a dual-trailer semi is parked in the exact lane you need like it has a personal vendetta against everyone. A Highway Patrolman lurks like a Gila Monster behind a cactus with a semi-melted radar gun from 1993, looking for the next punch on his quota card.
Try to merge? Bold. Because your lane suddenly becomes exit-only. — The next lane is boxed in. — The one you need is moving at the speed of sound. The road is straight. Endlessly straight. And somehow still stressful. No shade. No mercy. Just sun making the poorly defined lane lines fade before your eyes.
Construction barrels pop up out of nowhere, baking in 110° heat like they live there. No workers. Just cones and one sign that says: “EXPECT DELAYS” like time itself isn’t already suffering.
Google Maps: “Keep right.” Right: instantly commits you to Tucson whether you emotionally prepared or not.
Waze: “Recalculating…” Your passenger: “Was that it?” Yes. It absolutely was.
Heat waves rise off the pavement like the road is breathing, blocking your depth perception. Your AC is fighting for its life. Your steering wheel is legally a branding iron. You grip tightly through the sweat.
A car blows past you, windows down, marijuana smoke billowing out, pure desert energy.
You question everything. And just when you think you’ve got it figured out, BAM! A pothole. Not just any pothole. A sunbaked crater. A heat-forged monument to utter disregard. A pothole that’s been expanding since June of 2020.
You hit it. Your suspension evaporates. You can feel your front-end alignment destroyed. You hope the steering still works. You try the brakes, but just a little because another truck with its front bumper at your roof height is on your tail. You force your way left into a slot between cars that is just large enough to hold yours. You wish you could wipe the sweat out of your eyes, but you are too afraid to ease your steering wheel grip. Maybe this will work, you think...
Welcome to driving in Arizona, where the sun is undefeated, the lanes are temporary, mirages are believable, and if you miss your exit don't worry, there will be another one in 37 miles.
You’re approaching a 3-way Freeway split and have about 0.3 seconds to decide: Los Angeles, Tucson, Phoenix… or a lane that technically looked right a few seconds ago before the heat haze rewrote reality.
The sign says, “EXIT RIGHT.” What it really means: “Choose now or prepare to die.”
The speed limit sign says 65. Traffic is moving 80. Except the one 1988 sedan doing 55 in the center lane like it’s melting in real time. A lifted truck zooms up into your mirror like a mirage with attitude, menacingly close, then shakes your car as it blows by on the right. A Charger flies past you on the left doing 95 like the speed limit is just a suggestion printed for decoration. And a dual-trailer semi is parked in the exact lane you need like it has a personal vendetta against everyone. A Highway Patrolman lurks like a Gila Monster behind a cactus with a semi-melted radar gun from 1993, looking for the next punch on his quota card.
Try to merge? Bold. Because your lane suddenly becomes exit-only. — The next lane is boxed in. — The one you need is moving at the speed of sound. The road is straight. Endlessly straight. And somehow still stressful. No shade. No mercy. Just sun making the poorly defined lane lines fade before your eyes.
Construction barrels pop up out of nowhere, baking in 110° heat like they live there. No workers. Just cones and one sign that says: “EXPECT DELAYS” like time itself isn’t already suffering.
Google Maps: “Keep right.” Right: instantly commits you to Tucson whether you emotionally prepared or not.
Waze: “Recalculating…” Your passenger: “Was that it?” Yes. It absolutely was.
Heat waves rise off the pavement like the road is breathing, blocking your depth perception. Your AC is fighting for its life. Your steering wheel is legally a branding iron. You grip tightly through the sweat.
A car blows past you, windows down, marijuana smoke billowing out, pure desert energy.
You question everything. And just when you think you’ve got it figured out, BAM! A pothole. Not just any pothole. A sunbaked crater. A heat-forged monument to utter disregard. A pothole that’s been expanding since June of 2020.
You hit it. Your suspension evaporates. You can feel your front-end alignment destroyed. You hope the steering still works. You try the brakes, but just a little because another truck with its front bumper at your roof height is on your tail. You force your way left into a slot between cars that is just large enough to hold yours. You wish you could wipe the sweat out of your eyes, but you are too afraid to ease your steering wheel grip. Maybe this will work, you think...
Welcome to driving in Arizona, where the sun is undefeated, the lanes are temporary, mirages are believable, and if you miss your exit don't worry, there will be another one in 37 miles.
“Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.” - David Lynch