8 points.
Not what I would consider a joke.
But if I were rating similes, I’d give it an 8.
Must I?
Ah, OK…7.
[quote=“Gary “Wombat” Robson, post:698, topic:523865”]
A little poem from my college chem days:
Poor little Willie
He was, but is no more
For what he thought was H[sub]2[/sub]O
Was H[sub]2[/sub]SO[sub]4[/sub]
[/QUOTE]
Zero points, ya nerd, ya.
7 points.
6 points.
Which kind of M & M’s do they serve on Fantasy Island?
“Dee plaaaaiiin! Dee plaaaaiiin!”
The French President is sitting in his office at the Elysee Palace when his telephone rings.
‘Hallo, Mr. Sarkozy!’ a heavily accented voice said. ‘This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare , Ireland. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you. We voted to reject the Lisbon Treaty.’
‘Well, Paddy,’ Sarkozy replied, chuckling, ‘this is indeed important news. How big is your army?’
‘Right now,’ says Paddy, after a moment’s calculation, ‘there is myself, me Cousin Sean, me next door neighbour Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eleven.’
Sarkozy paused. ‘I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command.’
‘Begoorah!’ says Paddy. ‘I’ll have to ring you back.’
Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. ‘Mr. Sarkozy, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!’
‘And what equipment would that be, Paddy?’ Sarkozy asks, amused.
‘Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer, and Murphy’s farm tractor.’
Sarkozy sighs. ‘I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armored personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke.’
‘Saints preserve us!’ says Paddy. ‘Uh, I’ll have to get back to you.’
Sure enough, Paddy rings again the next day. ‘Mr. Sarkozy, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We’ve modified Jackie McLaughlin’s ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well!’
Sarkozy was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. ‘I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes. My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites. And since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000.’
‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ says Paddy. ‘Well, then, I’ll have to ring you back.’
Sure enough, Paddy calls again the next day. ‘Top o’ the mornin’, Mr. Sarkozy. I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war.’
‘Really? I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Sarkozy, smiling to himself. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’
‘Well,’ says Paddy, ‘no offense, mind you, but we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness and packets of crisps, and we decided there is no fookin’ way we can feed 200,000 prisoners.’
Yiddish humor. It never goes out of style. 
Zero points.
8 points.
(More of a visual joke, so bear with me)
What’s foreplay for clams?
(Hold your arms horizontally in front of your face one on top of the other and slowly open them until it’s showing)
“Want to fuck?”
In Heaven, the Germans build the cars, the Italians are the lovers, and the British run the police force.
In Hell, the Italians build the cars, the British are the lovers, and the Germans run the police force.
7 points.
6 points.
An elderly couple fall in love and are to be married, in a final health check up before their honeymoon the bride to be is told some terrible news.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to consummate your marriage” The doctor tells her “Your heart simply won’t take it”.
The wedding day comes and as the day draws to a close the newlyweds find themselves beginning to undress, the wife turns her husband as she removes her bra, “Darling, I have some news…. I have acute angina”
The husband replies “Well thank God for that, because your tits are awful!”
A travelling salesman turns up on the doorstep of dairy farmer selling some very potent insect repellent. The farmer is dubious about his claims but agrees to buy a case of it provided he can tie the salesman up, completely naked in the most mosquito infested paddock of his farm overnight with no protection but his repellant. The salesman agrees knowing how good his product is and how much he’ll make on the case.
The farmer ties him up at dusk and returns a dawn to the salesman. He looks 20 years older, with deep circles under his eyes and seems to be shaking all over.
“Doesn’t look like your repellant works at all!” Proclaimed the farmer triumphantly.
“Oh it works” the salesman croaked “But don’t any of your calves have mothers?”
[obligatory correction from the right side of the pond]
In Euro Heaven, the French are the cooks, the Italians are the lovers, the Germans build the cars, the English are the police, and everything is organised by the Swiss.
In Euro Hell, the English are the cooks, the Swiss are the lovers, the French build the cars, the Germans are the police, and everything is organised by the Italians.
[/ocftrsotp]
That’s how I always heard it as well, and I’m not a Euro. (Though, I think I originally heard it from my girlfriend, who has a spent a lot of time in Europe, including bartending under the table in Ireland while she was doing study abroad.)
There are a lot of variations- my favorite one says that Hell has English chefs and French waiters.
A Cajun who died went to hell.
The devil assigned him the usual punishment…put him in the mass pit where the heat was melting others. The devil came back sometime later surprised to find the Cajun just sitting around, not even misting, much less sweating. “How come you’re not so much as sweating here where everyone else is screaming for relief from the heat?”
The Cajun laughed and said, “Man, I was raised in the bayous of Sout Looziana. Dis ain’t nothin’ but May in Morgan City to me!”
The devil decided to really put the Cajun through it. He put him in a sealed off cave in the pit with open blazes and four extra furnaces blasting. When he came back, days later, the Cajun was sitting pretty, had barely begun to bead up with sweat. The devil was outraged.
“How is this possible!? You should be melted to a shrieking puddle in these conditions!.”
The Cajun laughed even harder than before. “Hey, man! I done tole you. I was raised in Sout Looziana. You tink dis is heat?! Dis ain’t nothin’ but August in Cow Island !”
So the devil thought, ‘Alright, a little reverse ought to do the trick.’ He put the Cajun into a corner of hell where no heat ever reached. It was freezing and to add to the Cajun’s misery, he added massive icebergs and blasting frozen air. When he returned, the Cajun was shivering, ice hung from every part of him but he was grinning like it was Christmas.
Exasperated, the devil asked “HOW!? How is it possible?! You’re impervious to heat and here you sit in conditions you can’t be used to…freezing cold and yet you’re happier than if you were in heaven. WHY?!”
The Cajun kept grinning and asked, “Don’t dis mean de Saints won da Super Bowl?”