Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

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Welcome to the "Seedy side of the tracks!"
Warning: You entered on your own and have no one else to blame for your questionable choices in life, including gaining access to the Seedy side of the tracks.

This is the "speakeasy" section of Cornpone.net.
Feel free to let your hair down and share tasteless, dirty jokes and conversation.
Personal attacks against others will not be tolerated.
Illegal content will be reported to the proper authorities.

Other than that, we'll have to play it by ear.
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#41

Post by Bubbathegimp »

An old farmer drove to a neighbor's and knocked at the door. A boy, about 9, opened the door.

The farmer asked, "Is your Dad home?"

The boy replied, "No sir, he isn't; he went to town."

The farmer said, "Well, is your Mother here?"

The boy said, "No sir, she went to town with Dad."

The farmer said, "How about your brother, Bubba? Is he here?"

The boy said, "No sir, He went with Mom and Dad."

The rancher stood there for a few minutes, shifting from one foot to the other, and mumbling to himself.

The boy said, "Is there anything I can do for you? I know where all the tools are, if you want to borrow one, or I can give dad a message."

"Well," said the rancher uncomfortably, "I really wanted to talk to your Dad. It's about your brother Bubba getting my daughter, Suzie, pregnant."

The boy thought for a moment, "You would have to talk to Dad about that. I know he charges $500 for the bull and $50 for the hog, but I don't know how much he charges for Bubba."
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#42

Post by Bubbathegimp »

A man walks into his bedroom and sees his wife packing a suitcase.

He asks. "What are you doing?"

She replies, "I'm off to New York. I read that Prostitutes there get paid $400
for doing what I do for you for free."

Later, On her way out, the wife walks into the bedroom,and sees her husband packing his suitcase.

"Where are you going?" She asks.

"I'm coming with you. I want to see how you live on $800 a Year."
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#43

Post by W9FTV »

A man was shaving in the bathroom when all of a sudden Bubba, the boy he paid to mow his lawn comes in to take a piss.
Well, the man can’t help but look over his shoulder be surprised by what’s hanging there, “Bubba, what’s your secret?”
Bubba says”well, every night before I go to get in bed with a woman I whack my dick on the bedpost three times.” So the man decides to try it that very night.
So he got to bed and whacked his dick on the bedpost three times when the wife wakes up and says “Bubba, is that you?”
Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. --Winston Churchill
Endeavor to persevere -- Chief Dan George
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#44

Post by Bubbathegimp »

THE SALESMAN

This guy just started at his new job, working at a porno shop. His boss comes out and tells him that he has to leave for a while, and "can you handle it? "
The new employee is somewhat reluctant, but with the boss's positive comments he finally agrees.

So, the guy is there by himself for a little while and a white woman comes in.
She asks, "How much for the white dildo?"

He answers, "$35."

She: "How much for the black one?"

He: "$35 for the black one, $35 for the white one."

She: "I think I'll take the black one. I've never had a black one before. "She pays him, and off she goes.

A little bit later a black woman comes in and asks "How much for the black dildo?
He: "$35."

She: "How much for the white one?"

He: "$35 for the white one, $35 for the black one."

She: "Hmmm...I think I'll take the white one. I've never had a white one before..."She pays him, and off she goes.

About an hour later a young blonde woman comes in and asks, "How much are your dildos?"

He: "$35 for the white, $35 for the black."

She: "Hmmmmm....how much is that plaid one on the shelf?"

He: "Well, that's a very special dildo...it'll cost you $165." She thinks for a moment and answers, "I'll take the plaid one, I've never had a plaid one before...." She pays him, and off she goes.

Finally, the guy's boss returns and asks, "How did you do while I was gone?"

To which the salesman says, "I think I did good, I sold one white dildo, one black dildo, and I sold your thermos for $165!"
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#45

Post by W9FTV »

LAST RIDE ON MY HARLEY

While riding my Harley, I swerved to avoid hitting a deer, lost control and landed in a ditch, severely banging my head.
Dazed and confused I crawled out of the ditch to the edge of the road when a shiny new convertible pulled up with a very beautiful woman who asked, "Are you okay?"
As I looked up, I noticed she was wearing a low cut blouse with cleavage to die for..

"I'm okay I think," I replied as I pulled myself up to the side of the car to get a closer look.
She said, “Get in and I’ll take you home so I can clean and bandage that nasty scrape on your head.”

"That's nice of you," I answered, "but I don't think my wife will like me doing that!"

"Oh, come now, I’m a nurse," she insisted. "I need to see if you have any more scrapes and then treat them properly."

Well, she was really pretty and very persuasive. Being sort of shaken and weak, I agreed, but repeated, "I'm sure my wife won't like this."

We arrived at her place which was just few miles away and, after a couple of cold beers and the bandaging, I thanked her and said, "I feel a lot better but I know my wife is going to be really upset so I'd better go now."

"Don't be silly!" she said with a smile. "Stay for a while. She won't know anything. By the way, where is she?"
...

"Still in the ditch with the Harley, I guess."
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#46

Post by Bubbathegimp »

Do you fart in bed ?
If this story doesn't make you cry for laughing so hard, let me know and I’ll pray for you. This is a story about a couple who had been happily married for years, the only friction in their marriage was the husband’s habit of farting loudly every morning when he awoke the noise would wake his wife and the smell would make her eyes water and make her gasp for air.

Every morning she would plead with him to stop ripping them off because it was making her sick. He told her he couldn't stop it and that it was perfectly natural. She told him to see a doctor, she was concerned that one day he would blow his guts out.

The years went by and he continued to rip them out. Then one Christmas day morning, as she was preparing the turkey for dinner and he was upstairs sound asleep, she looked at the innards, neck, gizzard, liver and all the spare parts, and a malicious thought came to her. She took the bowl and went upstairs where her husband was sound asleep and, gently pulling the bed covers back, she pulled back the elastic waistband of his underpants and emptied the bowl of turkey guts into his shorts.

Sometime later she heard her husband waken with his usual trumpeting which was followed by a blood curdling scream and the sound of frantic footsteps as he ran into the bath room. The wife could hardly control herself as she rolled on the floor laughing, tears in her eyes! After years of torture she reckoned she had got him back pretty good.

About twenty minutes later, her husband came downstairs in his blood stained underpants with a look of horror on his face. She bit her lip as she asked him what was the matter.

He said, “Honey you were right… all these years you have warned me and I didn't listen to you.” “What do you mean?” asked his wife. “Well, you always told me that one day I would end up farting my guts out, and today it finally happened, but by the grace of god, some Vaseline and two fingers. I think I got most of them back in…….............…..”
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#47

Post by WZ7U »

Wait, fucking what?? :Rolling:
:Worthless:

That's what I get for reading this in bed, first thing in the morning.
de Eric, WZ7U, CN86jc
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#48

Post by W9FTV »

This is a story I first encountered when the Internet was young and a hell of a lot more fun. It's quite graphic, extremely gross and hysterically funny. It's also a bit long. You have been warned.

The Steakhouse Incident (Author unknown)
Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivalling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. --Winston Churchill
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#49

Post by Bubbathegimp »

You are my arch nemesis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.

I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-Ass producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, fucker.

I give you my icy grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily ASS JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no common sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid shit attack you subjugate them too.

But I got you this time. Yeah fucker I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed broccoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperoni and cheese. A Chocolate Pop tart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's quarter pounder with cheese.

I never eat this shit, it's all greasy and fucking nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almost die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, ass clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.

Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphincter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death Ass Arena.

You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the fucking sinks. You stupid, socially retarded fuck. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern Ass Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preparation of the upcoming battle.

Your opening salvo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.

The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.

You do not disappoint me.

With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of ass juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots disappear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.

"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".

Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ass, as I push the monster log from the Shit Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian Ass Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly ripening in the hot, tropical sun. I catch my breath and wipe my brow, and start to pat myself on the back. I should have known the battle was not over.

The only thing I can think of is that you must has completely unzipped your ass to your elbow. That's the only way I could begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashes falling out of your ass into the toilet. It sounds like you are pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries in it into the shitter. I see the hairs on my arms start to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shudder and sway on my throne, unsure if I will survive.

I have no choice. I must employ the Deal Breaker. I hunker down and clench my hands together. My fingers twitch and entwine like a nest of snakes, almost like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. My feet lift up onto the toes and my legs start to shake.

"You want to play??" I growls. A low moaning comes from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summon the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot magma-like shit rockets out of my ass, releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly rectal perfume. I hear you gag and see your feet shuffle around, but you can't get away, can you? No. You can't.

Veins throb on my neck and temples as the turd monster tears itself from my bowels. My lips skin back from my now clenched teeth and I try not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper rolls into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot". Too late. MUCH too late!

Oder's pound you with merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken assholes. Hammered shit-logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnel's rancid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy Middle Eastern armpits.

Your stall door bangs open and you stagger out. You take three unsteady steps to the door and can barely open it wide enough to slip out. I laugh at you before you leave. "Yeah! RUN, Fucker!" I yell, and laugh again. You say nothing.

It's all over except for the clean up. Fuck with me again, you shit filled Anal Terrorist. Me and my ass will be waiting.
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Re: Truely Tasteless Jokes Rides Again

#50

Post by W9FTV »

Well played, Bubba. :Rolling:
Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. --Winston Churchill
Endeavor to persevere -- Chief Dan George
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