<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616</id><updated>2011-12-14T20:59:47.668-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Steven's Humor Pit</title><subtitle type='html'>The humor here comes from my collection that has been growing over years. A few may be borderline questionable or offensive, and will be so marked.  I found everything in here funny.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>40</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113301560932494415</id><published>2005-11-26T08:33:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-26T08:33:29.323-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Three Old Men</title><content type='html'>Ever have one of those mornings?&lt;br /&gt;================================&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three old men are talking about their aches, pains and bodily functions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One seventy year old man says, "I have this problem. I wake up every morning at seven and it takes me twenty minutes to pee."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;An eighty year old man says, "My case is worse. I get up at eight and I sit there and grunt and groan for half an hour before I finally have a bowel movement."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ninety year old man says, "At seven I pee like a horse, at eight I crap like a cow."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So what's your problem?" asked the others.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't wake up until nine."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113301560932494415?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113301560932494415/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113301560932494415' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301560932494415'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301560932494415'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/three-old-men.html' title='Three Old Men'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113301554609400043</id><published>2005-11-26T08:31:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-26T08:32:26.093-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Camouflage</title><content type='html'>Excerpted from&lt;br /&gt;"Masquerade: The Amazing Camouflage Deceptions of World War II" by Seymour Reit (Signet, 1980):&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;An enemy decoy, built in occupied Holland, led to a tale that has been told and retold ever since by veteran Allied pilots.  The German "airfield," constructed with meticulous care, was made almost entirely of wood.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were wooden hangars, oil tanks, gun emplacements, trucks, and aircraft.  The Germans took so long in building their wooden decoy that Allied photo experts had more than enough time to observe and report it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The day finally came when the decoy was finished, down to the last wooden plank.  And early the following morning, a lone RAF plane crossed the Channel, came in low, circled the field once, and dropped a large wooden bomb.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113301554609400043?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113301554609400043/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113301554609400043' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301554609400043'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301554609400043'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/camouflage.html' title='Camouflage'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113301544328280355</id><published>2005-11-26T08:30:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-26T08:30:43.283-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Joining the Church [mildly racy]</title><content type='html'>Three married couples, aged 20, 30, and 40 years old, want to join the Orthodox Church of Sexual Repression. Near the end of the interview, the priest informs them that before they can be accepted they will have to pass one small test. They will have to abstain from all sex for a month.&lt;br /&gt;They all agree to try.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A month later they are having their final interview with the cleric. He asks the 40 year old couple how they did. "Well, it wasn't too hard. I spent a lot of time in the workshop and she has a garden so we had plenty of other things to do. We did OK." the husband said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Very good, my children. You are welcome in the Church. And how well did you manage?" he asked the 30 year old couple.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It was pretty difficult," the husband answered. "We thought about it all the time. We had to sleep in different beds and we prayed a lot. But we were celibate for the entire month."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Very good, my children. You are welcome in the Church. And how about you?" he asked the 20 year old couple.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Not too good, I'm afraid, Father. We did OK for the first week.," he said sheepishly. "By the second week we were going crazy with lust. Then one day during the third week my wife dropped a head of lettuce, and when she bent over to pick it up, I... I weakened and took her right there."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm sorry my son, you are not welcome in the Church"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, and we're not too welcome in the A&amp;P anymore, either."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113301544328280355?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113301544328280355/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113301544328280355' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301544328280355'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301544328280355'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/joining-church-mildly-racy.html' title='Joining the Church [mildly racy]'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113301536021576987</id><published>2005-11-26T08:25:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-26T08:29:20.233-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Of Spoons and Dangling Threads</title><content type='html'>I took some clients out to dinner last week, and I noticed a spoon in the shirt pocket of our waiter as he handed us the menus. It seemed a little odd, but I dismissed it as a random thing. Until our busboy came with water &amp; tableware; he, too, sported a spoon in his breast-pocket. I looked around the room, and all the waiters, waitresses, busboys, etc. had spoons in their pockets.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When our waiter returned to take our order, I just had to ask, "Why the spoons?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well," he explained, "our parent company recently hired some efficiency experts (also referred to as IEs) to review all our procedures, and after months of statistical analyses, they concluded that our patrons drop spoons on the floor 73% more often than any other utensil at a frequency of 3 spoons per hour per workstation. By preparing all our workers for this contingency in advance, we can cut our trips to the kitchen down and save time... nearly 1.5 extra man hours per shift."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just as he concluded, a "ch-ching" came from the table behind him, and he quickly replaced a fallen spoon with the one from his pocket. "I'll grab another spoon the next time I'm in the kitchen instead of making a special trip," he proudly explained.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was impressed. "Thanks. I had to ask."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No problem," he answered, then he continued to take our orders.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As the members of my dinner party took their turns, my eyes darted back &amp; forth from each person ordering and my menu. That's when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a thin, black thread protruding from our waiter's fly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Again, I dismissed it; yet I had to scan the room and, sure enough, there were other waiters &amp; busboys with strings hanging out of their trousers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My curiosity overrode discretion at this point, so before he could leave I had to ask. "Excuse me, but...uh...why, or what...about that string?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, yeah" he began in a quieter tone."Not many people are that observant. That same efficiency group found we could save time in the Men's room, too."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How's that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You see, by tying a string to the end of our, eh, SELVES, we can pull it out at the urinals literally hands-free and thereby eliminate the need to wash our hands, cutting time spent in the restroom by over 93%!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, that makes sense," I said, thinking thru the process. "Hey, wait-a-minute. If the string helps you pull it out, how to you get it back in?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well," he whispered, "I don't know about the other guys; but I use my spoon."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113301536021576987?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113301536021576987/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113301536021576987' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301536021576987'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113301536021576987'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/of-spoons-and-dangling-threads.html' title='Of Spoons and Dangling Threads'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113089007008208937</id><published>2005-11-01T18:06:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-01T18:07:50.083-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Cigarettes</title><content type='html'>Man's wife asks him to go to the store to buy some cigarettes. So he walks down to the store only to find it closed. So he goes into a nearby bar to  use the vending machine. At the bar he sees a beautiful woman and starts  talking to her. They have a couple of beers and one thing leads to another  and they end up in her apartment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After they've had their fun, he realizes its 3AM and says, "Oh no, its so late, my wife's going to kill me. Have you got any talcum powder?" She  gives him some talcum powder, which he proceeds to rub on his hands and  then he goes home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His wife is waiting for him in the doorway and she is pretty pissed. "Where the hell have you been?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, honey, its like this. I went to the store like you asked, but they were closed. So I went to the bar to use the vending machine. I saw this  great looking chick there and we had a few drinks and one thing led to  another and I ended up in bed with her."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh yeah? Let me see your hands!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She sees his hands are covered with powder and... "You damned liar!!!  You went bowling again!!!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113089007008208937?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113089007008208937/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113089007008208937' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113089007008208937'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113089007008208937'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/cigarettes.html' title='Cigarettes'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113088991862239154</id><published>2005-11-01T18:05:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-11-01T18:05:18.633-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Beethoven</title><content type='html'>A tourist in Vienna is going through a graveyard and all of a sudden he hears some music.  No one is around and he starts searching for the  source.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He finally locates the origin and finds it is coming from a grave with a headstone that reads: Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827.  Then he   realizes that the music is the Ninth Symphony and it is being played  backward!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Puzzled, he leaves the graveyard and persuades a friend to return with him.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By the time they arrive back at the grave, the music has changed. This time it was the Seventh Symphony, but like the previous piece, it  was being played backward.  Curious, the men agreed to consult a music  scholar.  When they returned with the expert, the Fifth Symphony was  playing.  Again it was backward.  By the next day the word had spread  and there was quite a crowd around the grave.  They were all listening to the Second Symphony being played backward.  Just then the  graveyard's caretaker ambled up to the group.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someone in the crowd asked him if he had an explanation for the music. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Don't you get it?" the caretaker said incredulously; "He's decomposing!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113088991862239154?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113088991862239154/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113088991862239154' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113088991862239154'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113088991862239154'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/11/beethoven.html' title='Beethoven'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113050162417176665</id><published>2005-10-28T07:12:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-28T08:41:43.806-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Who's On First for the Next Generation</title><content type='html'>&lt;center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img src="http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/1275000/images/_1275281_010413eeuu_analisis300.jpg" border=1&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;font face=verdana,tahoma,helvetica,times size=+1&gt;Who's On First for the Next Generation&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/center&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;font face=verdana,tahoma,helvetica,times&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Condi! Nice to see you. What's happening?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Sir, I have the report here about the new leader of China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Great. Lay it on me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu is the new leader of China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: That's what I want to know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: That's what I'm telling you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: That's what I'm asking you. Who is the new leader of China?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: I mean the fellow's name.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: The guy in China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: The new leader of China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: The Chinaman!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu is leading China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Now whaddya' asking me for?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: I'm telling you Hu is leading China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Well, I'm asking you. Who is leading China?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: That's the man's name.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: That's who's name?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Will you or will you not tell me the name of the new leader of China?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Yassir? Yassir Arafat is in China? I thought he was in the&lt;br /&gt;Middle East.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: That's correct.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Then who is in China?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Yassir is in China?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: No, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Then who is?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Yassir?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: No, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Look, Condi. I need to know the name of the new leader of China.&lt;br /&gt;Get me the Secretary General of the U.N. on the phone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Kofi?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: No, thanks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: You want Kofi?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: No.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: You don't want Kofi.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: No. But now that you mention it, I could use a glass of milk.&lt;br /&gt;And then get me the U.N.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Not Yassir! The guy at the U.N.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Kofi?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Milk! Will you please make the call?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: And call who?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Who is the guy at the U.N?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Hu is the guy in China.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: Will you stay out of China?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Yes, sir.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: And stay out of the Middle East! Just get me the guy at the&lt;br /&gt;U.N.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condi: Kofi.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George: All right! With cream and two sugars. Now get on the phone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[Found at &lt;a href="http://www.freewebs.com/lfriedma/funny.html"&gt;http://www.freewebs.com/lfriedma/funny.html&lt;/a&gt;]&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113050162417176665?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113050162417176665/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113050162417176665' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113050162417176665'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113050162417176665'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/whos-on-first-for-next-generation.html' title='Who&apos;s On First for the Next Generation'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113049755638423433</id><published>2005-10-28T06:05:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-28T06:05:56.383-05:00</updated><title type='text'>3 nuns</title><content type='html'>Three nuns were talking to each other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first nun asked, "Did you see the condoms in the priest's desk drawer?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The second nun replied,"Yes, and I took a pin out and poked holes in all of them!!!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The third nun fainted.....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113049755638423433?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113049755638423433/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113049755638423433' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049755638423433'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049755638423433'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/3-nuns.html' title='3 nuns'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113049746867402581</id><published>2005-10-28T06:01:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-28T06:04:28.676-05:00</updated><title type='text'>About men... [slightly off-color]</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What's the difference between government bonds and men?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bonds mature.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What's the difference between a man and E.T.?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;E.T. phoned home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;How are men like noodles?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They're always in hot water, they lack taste, and they need dough.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why do men like BMWs?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They can spell it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What do an anniversary and a toilet have in common?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Men always miss them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why are men like popcorn?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They satisfy you, but only for a little while.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why are men and spray paint alike?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One squeeze and they're all over you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why are men like blenders?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You need one, but you're not quite sure why.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why is food better than men?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because you don't have to wait an hour for seconds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why do so many women fake orgasm?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because so many men fake foreplay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why are women so bad at mathematics?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because men keep telling them that this |&lt;----------------------&gt;| is 12 inches.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why do men like frozen microwave dinners so much?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They like being able to both eat and make love in under 5 minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why would women be better off if men treated them like cars?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At least then they would get a little attention every 6 months or 50,000 miles, whichever came first.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What do you call a man who expects to have sex on the second date?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Slow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One, men will screw anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;Why do men have a hole in their penis?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So oxygen can get to their brains.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What is the difference between men and pigs?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pigs don't turn into men when they drink.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What do ceramic tile and men have in common?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you lay them right the first time, you can walk on them for life!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;What is the insensitive bit at the base of the penis called?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The man.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113049746867402581?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113049746867402581/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113049746867402581' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049746867402581'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049746867402581'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/about-men-slightly-off-color.html' title='About men... [slightly off-color]'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113049728256615640</id><published>2005-10-28T06:01:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-28T06:01:22.566-05:00</updated><title type='text'>A little help...</title><content type='html'>A young executive was leaving the office at 6 p.m. when he found the CEO standing in front of a shredder with a piece of paper in his hand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Listen," said the CEO, "this is important, and my secretary has left. Can you make this thing work?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Certainly," said the young executive.   He turned the machine on, inserted the paper, and pressed the start button.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Excellent, excellent!" said the CEO as his paper disappeared inside the machine.  "I just need one copy."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113049728256615640?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113049728256615640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113049728256615640' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049728256615640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049728256615640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/little-help.html' title='A little help...'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113049723240922408</id><published>2005-10-28T06:00:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-28T06:00:32.413-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The Trunk</title><content type='html'>One day, a recently married man goes to the attic of his new home to put a few things in storage. While he is there, he notices a large steamer trunk sitting in the corner. When he tries to open it, he finds it is locked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Puzzled and curious, he calls his new bride up to the attic and asks her about the trunk. She tells him that it is hers and that it only contains some personal things. He accepts her answer and eventually forgets all about the matter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three years later when he is cleaning out the attic, he runs across the trunk and again asks his wife what's in it. She again tells him that it contains only personal things, but this time he is more persistent. So she sits him down and reminds him that she makes him happy when he's feeling down, that she keeps the house meticulously clean, that she cooks him fantastic meals 7 days a week, and that she gives him all the sex he wants, anytime he wants it. Then she tells him if he is happy with all of those things, that he should forget about the trunk because she will not talk about it. "Fair enough," says the husband, and he finishes cleaning out the attic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On their 25th wedding anniversary, he pulls the trunk down the stairs, into the middle of the living room floor, and calls to his wife. "Honey," he says, "we've been married for 25 years and I think it's time we had a heart-to-heart talk. What the hell is in that trunk?" The wife immediately protests, reminding him once again about the clean house, the good food and the great sex.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't care," he tells her. "After 25 years we ought to be able to talk about anything. Now open this goddamn trunk!" So, she takes a key from a chain hanging around her neck and opens the trunk. Inside is three ears of corn and 25 thousand dollars in cash.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Jesus Christ!" shouts the surprised husband. "What's going on here? Where did all of this come from?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, sweetie," replies the wife, "you said we could talk, so I'll tell you what you want to know. Over the years, I tried to stay faithful to you, but I wasn't always successful. Every time that I cheated on you, I put an ear of corn into the trunk."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The husband cannot believe the shocking confession that he has just heard, but after mulling it over in his mind for a few moments he says to his wife, "All right, I admit I'm not too thrilled about this, but I did say we should be honest with each other, and I guess I can live with three times of infidelity in 25 years.  But where did all the money come from?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well," she replies, "whenever the trunk got full, I sold the corn."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113049723240922408?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113049723240922408/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113049723240922408' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049723240922408'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113049723240922408'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/trunk.html' title='The Trunk'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113007753482960273</id><published>2005-10-23T09:24:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-23T09:25:34.830-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Camel Ride</title><content type='html'>There is a new commander of a base of the French Foreign Legion, and the captain is showing him around all the buildings.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After he has made the rounds the commander looks at the captain and says, "Wait a minute.  You haven't shown me that small blue building over there.  What's that used for?" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The captain says, "Well sir, you see that there are no women around. Whenever the men feel the need of a woman, they go there and use the camel."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Enough!" says the commander in disgust.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, two weeks later, the commander himself starts to feel in need of a woman.  He goes to the captain and says, "Tell me something, Captain." Lowering his voice and glancing furtively around, he asks, "Is the camel free anytime soon?" The captain says, "Well, let me see." He opens up his book. "Why, yes, sir, the camel is free tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock." The commander says, "Put me down for two o'clock then."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the next day at two o'clock the commander goes to the little blue building and opens the door. There inside he finds the cutest camel he's ever seen. Right next to the camel is a little step stool, so he closes the door behind him and puts the step stool directly behind the camel.  He stands on the stool, drops his pants, and begins to have sex with the camel. A minute later the captain walks in.  "Ahem, begging your pardon, sir," says the captain, "but wouldn't it be wiser to ride the camel into town and find a woman like all the other men?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113007753482960273?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113007753482960273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113007753482960273' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007753482960273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007753482960273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/camel-ride.html' title='Camel Ride'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113007740753998691</id><published>2005-10-23T09:21:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-23T09:23:27.540-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Rules for women... from MEN</title><content type='html'>25 Rules for Women:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. SportsCenter starts at 11:30 PM and runs an hour.  This is a great time to pay bills, put laundry in the dryer or talk to your sister.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Two hot dogs and a beer at a baseball game do, in fact, constitute going out to dinner.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Unlike you, we essentially want to dress just exactly like all our friends.  Thus, you need not go much further than the Gap, J. Crew or the local Patagonia store.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. If we see you in the morning and at night, why call us at work?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. Butthead is the smart one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. Is it too much to ask to have the bra match the underwear?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. You probably don't want to know what we're thinking about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Silence does not need to be filled with discussions about "us" and "the relationship."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Things you can help with: the Sunday crossword, yard work, the dishes, cleaning, and grocery shopping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. Things you should let us do alone: figuring out where we are, watching anything on ESPN, playing cards, smoking cigars and picking out the beer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Socks never constitute a gift.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. Department stores and malls were designed so that when you want to look at bed linen, shower curtains or handbags, there are always some speakers, tires or sporting equipment nearby.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13. We don't know anything about handbags.  Don't even ask.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14. We did water the plants.  They died anyway.  Nobody knows why this happens.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15. Even if you think he's cute, Kevin Costner can't act.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16. Of course, neither can Elle McPherson, but she had the good sense to do "Sirens" rather than "Waterworld."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17. Curley is the bald one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;18. Compromise does not mean that we abandon our position in favor of yours.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;19. Sports Illustrated is a better magazine than Cosmopolitan.  Just accept that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;20. It's in neither your interest nor ours to take the Quiz together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;21. Unless you are willing to follow the careers of Mo Vaughn, Cal Ripken, David Robinson, Michael Jordan, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Chris Farley, don't expect us to know what Helen Gurley Brown, Hilary Clinton, Naomi Wolf or your mother are up to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;22. Sex on a weeknight is generally welcome.  Three hours of post-coital conversation is not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23. Dinner out is a pretty good birthday present.  Two tickets to a ball game are even better.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;24. No, you can't have the remote control.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;25. If you must take us with you into Victoria's Secret, never, ever leave us alone.  All the old fat ladies make mean faces at us and only add to our discomfort.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113007740753998691?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113007740753998691/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113007740753998691' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007740753998691'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007740753998691'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/rules-for-women-from-men.html' title='Rules for women... from MEN'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113007720553915686</id><published>2005-10-23T09:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-23T09:20:05.540-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Admission to Heaven</title><content type='html'>A guy is at the pearly gates, waiting to be admitted, while St. Pete is leafin' through this Big Book to see if the guy is worthy of entering.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saint Peter goes through the books several times, furrows  his brow, and says to the guy, "You know, I can't see that you did anything really good in your life but, you never did anything bad either.  Tell you what, if you can tell me of one REALLY good deed that you did in your life, you're in."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The guy thinks for a moment and says,  "Yeah, there was this one time when I was drivin' down the highway and I saw a giant group of KKK Biker Gang Rapists assaulting this poor girl.  I slowed down my car to see what was going on, and sure enough, there they were, about 50 of 'em torturing this chick."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Infuriated, I get out my car, grabbed a tire iron out of my trunk, and walked straight up to the leader of the gang, a huge guy  with a studded leather jacket and a chain running from his nose to his ear."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"As I walked up to the leader, the KKK Biker Gang Rapists formed a circle around me."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So, I rip the leader's chain off his face and smash him over the head with the tire iron.  Then I turn around and yell to the rest of them, 'Leave this poor, innocent girl alone!  You're all a bunch of sick, deranged animals! Go home before I teach you all a lesson in pain!'"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;St. Peter, impressed, says "Really?  When did this happen?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, about two minutes ago."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113007720553915686?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113007720553915686/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113007720553915686' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007720553915686'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007720553915686'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/admission-to-heaven.html' title='Admission to Heaven'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-113007712797187856</id><published>2005-10-23T09:17:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-23T09:18:47.976-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Timmy</title><content type='html'>Every time Timmy's mom had her boyfriend over, she put Timmy in the closet with his teddy bear.  One day, hearing her husband coming up the stairs, she quickly shoved her boyfriend in with Timmy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Gee, it's mighty dark in here," Timmy said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, it sure is," replied the boyfriend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You wanna buy my teddy bear for fifty bucks?" asked Timmy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No way, kid.  You're crazy," said the boyfriend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'll scream," said Timmy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the boyfriend forked over the money.  The next time Timmy's grandmother came to visit, she noticed that her grandson was buying candy, ice cream and comic books.  "Where did you get the money for all those things?" she asked, but Timmy wouldn't tell her.  "Well, if you won't tell me, you'll have to go to confession and tell the priest," said Grandma, and dragged Timmy off to the church.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As he entered the gloomy confession booth, Timmy said, "Gee, it's mighty dark in here."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Are you going to start that shit again?" the priest replied.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-113007712797187856?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/113007712797187856/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=113007712797187856' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007712797187856'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/113007712797187856'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/timmy.html' title='Timmy'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112993355477182830</id><published>2005-10-21T17:25:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-21T17:25:54.773-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Watchtower</title><content type='html'>A man and his wife had been stranded on a deserted island for many years.  The morning following a bad storm, a new guy washes up on the shore. The new guy and the wife are very attracted to each other right away, but realize certain protocols will have to be observed. The husband, however, is very glad to see the second man there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Now we will be able to have three people doing 8-hour shifts in the watchtower, rather than two people doing 12-hour shifts."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The second man is only too happy to help and in fact volunteers to do the first shift. He climbs up the tower and stands watch, observing the ocean horizon for any ships. Soon the husband and wife start placing stones in a circle in order to make a fire to cook supper. The second man yells down: "Hey, no screwing!" They  look at each other and yell back:  "We're not screwing!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A few minutes later they start to put driftwood into the stone circle. Again the second man yells down: "Heeey, no screwing!" Again they yell back, "We're not screwing!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Later they are putting palm leaves on the roof to their shack to patch leaks. Once again the second man yells down from high above: "Hey, I said no screwing!!"  They yell back "We said we're not screwing!!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally the shift is over and the second man climbs down from the tower and the husband starts to climb up. He's only half-way up and the wife and the second man are screwing their brains out. Once there, the husband looks out from the tower and says: "Son-of-a-gun. From up here it DOES look like they're screwing."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112993355477182830?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112993355477182830/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112993355477182830' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993355477182830'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993355477182830'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/watchtower.html' title='Watchtower'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112993346957447009</id><published>2005-10-21T17:23:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-21T17:24:29.576-05:00</updated><title type='text'>You've gotta love engineers</title><content type='html'>An engineer dies and reports to the pearly gates.  St. Peter checks his dossier and says, "Ah, you're an engineer -- you're in the wrong place."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the engineer reports to the gates of hell and is let in. Pretty soon, the engineer gets dissatisfied with the level of comfort in hell, and starts designing and building improvements.  After a while, they've got air conditioning and flush toilets and escalators, and the engineer is a pretty popular guy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day God calls Satan up on the telephone and says with a sneer, "So, how's it going down there in hell?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Satan replies, "Hey, things are going great.  We've got air conditioning and flush toilets and escalators, and there's no telling what this engineer is going to come up with next."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God replies, "What???  You've got an engineer?  That's a mistake -- he should never have gotten down there; send him up here."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Satan says, "No way.  I like having an engineer on the staff, and I'm keeping him."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God says, "Send him back up here or I'll sue."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Satan laughs uproariously and answers, "Yeah, right.  And just where are YOU going to get a lawyer?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112993346957447009?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112993346957447009/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112993346957447009' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993346957447009'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993346957447009'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/youve-gotta-love-engineers.html' title='You&apos;ve gotta love engineers'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112993320505032728</id><published>2005-10-21T17:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-21T17:20:05.056-05:00</updated><title type='text'>A bird story</title><content type='html'>Once upon a time, there was a guy sunbathing in the nude. He saw a little girl coming towards him, so he covered himself with the newspaper he was reading. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The girl came up to him and asked "What do you have under the newspaper, mister?" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"A bird," the guy replied.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The little girl walked away and the guy fell asleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When next he woke up, he was in a hospital in tremendous pain.  When the Police asked him what happened, the guy replied, "I don't know. I was lying on the beach, this girl asked me about my privates, and the next thing I know is I'm here." &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Police went back to the beach, found the girl, and asked her "What did you do to that naked fellow?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After a little pause, the girl replied, "To him? Nothing. I was playing with the bird and it spit on me, so I broke its neck, cracked its eggs, and set its nest on fire."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112993320505032728?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112993320505032728/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112993320505032728' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993320505032728'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112993320505032728'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/bird-story.html' title='A bird story'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112972613906012389</id><published>2005-10-19T07:48:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-19T07:48:59.060-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Little Tommy's weight loss plan</title><content type='html'>Little Tommy heard strange noises from his parents room and decided to peek in the door to see what was going on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next morning he asks his mother why she was bouncing up and down on daddy's stomach?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To his mother's surprise she quickly answers, "I was trying to flatten his belly so daddy can be skinny."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Little Tommy replies, "Well it won't work because every morning after you leave the lady next door comes over and blows him back up again."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112972613906012389?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112972613906012389/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112972613906012389' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112972613906012389'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112972613906012389'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/little-tommys-weight-loss-plan.html' title='Little Tommy&apos;s weight loss plan'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112972608642673447</id><published>2005-10-19T07:44:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-19T07:48:06.433-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Politically correct fairy tale</title><content type='html'>There once was a young person named Little Red Riding Hill who lived on the edge of a large forest full of endangered owls and rare plants that would probably provide a cure for cancer if only someone took the time to study them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill lived with a nurture giver whom she sometimes referred to as "mother", although she didn't mean to imply by this term that she would have thought less of the person if a close biological link did not in fact exist. Nor did she intend to denigrate the equal value of nontraditional households, although she was sorry if this was the impression conveyed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day her mother asked her to take a basket of organically grown fruit and mineral water to her grandmother's house. "But mother, won't this be stealing work from the unionized people who have struggled for years to earn the right to carry all packages between various people in the woods?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill's mother assured her that she had called the union boss and gotten a special compassionate mission exemption form.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But mother, aren't you oppressing me by ordering me to do this?" Red Riding Hill's mother pointed out that it was impossible for women to oppress each other, since all women were equally oppressed until all women were free.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But mother, then shouldn't you have my brother carry the basket, since he's an oppressor, and should learn what it's like to be oppressed?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And Red Riding Hill's mother explained that her brother was attending a special rally for animal rights, and besides, this wasn't stereotypical women's work, but an empowering deed that would help engender a feeling of community.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"But won't I be oppressing Grandma, by implying that she's sick and hence unable to independently further her own selfhood?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But Red Riding Hill's mother explained that her grandmother wasn't actually sick or incapacitated or mentally handicapped in any way, although that was not to imply that any of these conditions were inferior to what some people called "health". Thus Red Riding Hill felt that she could get behind the idea of delivering the basket to her grandmother, and so she set off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Many people believed that the forest was a foreboding and dangerous place, but Red Riding Hill knew that this was an irrational fear based on cultural paradigms instilled by a patriarchal society that regarded the natural world as an exploitable resource, and hence believed that natural predators were in fact intolerable competitors.  Other people avoided the woods for fear of thieves and deviants, but Red Riding Hill felt that in a truly classless society all marginalized peoples would be able to "come out" of the woods and be accepted as valid lifestyle role models.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On her way to Grandma's house, Red Riding Hill passed a woodchopper, and wandered off the path, in order to examine some flowers.  She was startled to find herself standing before a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. Red Riding Hill's teacher had warned her never to talk to strangers, but she was confident in taking control of her own budding sexuality, and chose to dialogue with the Wolf.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She replied, "I am taking my Grandmother some healthful snacks in a gesture of solidarity."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Wolf said, "You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill said, "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop an alternative and yet entirely valid worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would prefer to be on my way."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill returned to the main path, and proceeded towards her Grandmother's house.  But because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma's house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He burst into the house and ate Grandma, a course of action affirmative of his nature as a predator.  Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist gender role notions, he put on Grandma's nightclothes, crawled under the bedclothes, and awaited developments.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill entered the cottage and said, "Grandma, I have brought you some cruelty free snacks to salute you in your role of wise and nurturing matriarch."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Wolf said softly "Come closer, child, so that I might see you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Red Riding Hill said, "Goddess!  Grandma, what big eyes you have!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You forget that I am optically challenged."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And Grandma, what an enormous, what a fine nose you have."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Naturally, I could have had it fixed to help my acting career, but I didn't give in to such societal pressures, my child."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And Grandma, what very big, sharp teeth you have!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Wolf could not take any more of these specist slurs, and, in a reaction appropriate for his accustomed milieu, he leaped out of bed, grabbed Little Red Riding Hill, and opened his jaws so wide that she could see her poor Grandmother cowering in his belly. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Red Riding Hill bravely shouted. "You must request my permission before proceeding to a new level of intimacy!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Wolf was so startled by this statement that he loosened his grasp on her. At the same time, the woodchopper burst into the cottage, brandishing an ax.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Hands off!" cried the woodchopper.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"And what do you think you're doing?" cried Little Red Riding Hill. "If I let you help me now, I would be expressing a lack of confidence in my own abilities, which would lead to poor self esteem and lower achievement scores on college entrance exams."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Last chance, sister!  Get your hands off that endangered species! This is an FBI sting!" screamed the woodchopper, and when Little Red Riding Hill nonetheless made a sudden motion, he sliced off her head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Thank goodness you got here in time," said the Wolf.  "The brat and her grandmother lured me in here.  I thought I was a goner."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No, I think I'm the real victim, here," said the woodchopper. "I've been dealing with my anger ever since I saw her picking those protected flowers earlier.  And now I'm going to have such a trauma.  Do you have any aspirin?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sure," said the Wolf.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Thanks."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I feel your pain," said the Wolf, and he patted the woodchopper on his firm, well padded back, gave a little belch, and said "Do you have any Maalox?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112972608642673447?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112972608642673447/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112972608642673447' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112972608642673447'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112972608642673447'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/politically-correct-fairy-tale.html' title='Politically correct fairy tale'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112929692472661829</id><published>2005-10-14T08:34:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-14T08:35:24.726-05:00</updated><title type='text'>More engineers</title><content type='html'>Three engineering students were gathered together discussing the possible designers of the human body.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One said, "it was a mechanical engineer. Just look at all the joints."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another said, "no, it was an electrical engineer. The nervous system has many thousands of electrical connections."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last said, "actually it was a process engineer. Who else would run a toxic waste pipeline through a recreational area?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112929692472661829?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112929692472661829/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112929692472661829' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929692472661829'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929692472661829'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/more-engineers.html' title='More engineers'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112929685831676975</id><published>2005-10-14T08:33:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-14T08:34:18.316-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Trick or Treating</title><content type='html'>Top Ten Reasons Why Trick or Treating is Better than Sex: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. You’re guaranteed to get at least a little something in the sack. &lt;br /&gt;9.  If you get tired, you can wait ten minutes and go at it again. &lt;br /&gt;8.  The uglier you look, the easier it is to get some.&lt;br /&gt;7.  You don’t have to compliment the person who gave you candy.&lt;br /&gt;6.  It’s okay when the person you’re with fantasizes you’re someone else, because you ARE someone else.&lt;br /&gt;5.  40 years from now, you’ll still enjoy candy.&lt;br /&gt;4.  If you don’t get what you want, you can always go next door. &lt;br /&gt;3.  It doesn’t matter if the kids hear you moaning and groaning. &lt;br /&gt;2.  Less guilt the next morning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.  You can do the whole neighborhood ! ! !&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112929685831676975?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112929685831676975/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112929685831676975' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929685831676975'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929685831676975'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/trick-or-treating.html' title='Trick or Treating'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112929677543517196</id><published>2005-10-14T08:32:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-14T08:32:55.436-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Things you learn from children</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;Things you learn from Children &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For those with No children---this is totally hysterical! &lt;br /&gt;For those who already have children past this age---this is hilarious. &lt;br /&gt;For those who have children this age---this is not funny. &lt;br /&gt;For those who have children nearing this age---this is a warning. &lt;br /&gt;For those who have not yet had children---this is birth control. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following came from an anonymous mother in Austin, Texas: &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things I've learned from my children (honest and no kidding): &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2000-sq. ft. house four inches deep. &lt;br /&gt;2. If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite. &lt;br /&gt;3. A 3-year old's voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant. &lt;br /&gt;4. If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42-pound boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20x20 ft. room. &lt;br /&gt;5. You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way. &lt;br /&gt;6. The glass in windows (even double-pane) doesn't stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan. &lt;br /&gt;7. When you hear the toilet flush and the words "uh oh," it's already too late. (No matter how old the child!) &lt;br /&gt;8. Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it. &lt;br /&gt;9. A six-year old can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old man says they can only do it in the movies. &lt;br /&gt;10. Certain Legos will pass through the digestive tract of a 4-year old. &lt;br /&gt;11. Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence. &lt;br /&gt;12. Super glue is forever. &lt;br /&gt;13. No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool you still can't walk on water. &lt;br /&gt;14. Pool filters do not like Jell-O. &lt;br /&gt;15. VCRs do not eject PB&amp;J sandwiches even thoug! h TV com mercials show they do. &lt;br /&gt;16. Garbage bags do not make good parachutes. &lt;br /&gt;17. Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving. &lt;br /&gt;18. You probably do not want to know what that odor is. &lt;br /&gt;19. Always look in the oven before you turn it on. Plastic toys do not like ovens. &lt;br /&gt;20. The fire department in Austin, TX, has a 5-minute response time. &lt;br /&gt;21. The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy. &lt;br /&gt;22. It will, however, make cats dizzy. &lt;br /&gt;23. Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy. &lt;br /&gt;24. The mind of a 6-year old is wonderful. &lt;br /&gt;First grade... true story: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day the first grade teacher was reading the story of the Three Little Pigs to her class. She came to the part of the story where the first pig was trying to accumulate the building materials for his home. She read, "..And so the pig went up to the man with the wheelbarrow full of straw and said, "Pardon me sir, but may I have some of that straw to build my house?'" The teacher paused then asked the class, "And what do you think that man said?" One little boy raised his hand and said, "I think he said...'Holy crap! A talking pig!' The teacher was unable to teach for the next 10 minutes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;25. 60% of men who read this will try mixing the Clorox and brake fluid&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112929677543517196?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112929677543517196/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112929677543517196' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929677543517196'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929677543517196'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/things-you-learn-from-children.html' title='Things you learn from children'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112929668604497601</id><published>2005-10-14T08:30:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-14T08:31:26.050-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The power behind the throne</title><content type='html'>Hillary and Bill were on vacation one weekend, and decided to go for a drive to see the beautiful countryside.  After awhile, they needed to stop for gas.  They pulled into the tiny gas station, and out walked a man to help them.  Hillary looked up and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Oh my God! Charley?  Is that you?  I can't believe it!" &lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;She leapt out of the car and gave the man a big hug, and proceeded to talk with the man for a long time.  After they were finished talking, they hugged again, and Hillary got back in the car...&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;As they were driving away, Bill turned to Hillary and asked "Honey, who was that?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"That was Charley, an old boyfriend of mine," she responded.  "We dated for a long time, and almost got married." &lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Oh." said Bill.  "Well I guess you're glad you married me instead."  &lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Why do you say that?" asked Hillary.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Because he's only a gas station attendant, and I'm the President of the United States." exclaimed Bill.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"I don't see how that has anything to do with anything." said Hillary.  "If I would have married Charley, he would be the President."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112929668604497601?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112929668604497601/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112929668604497601' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929668604497601'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112929668604497601'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/power-behind-throne.html' title='The power behind the throne'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112915235799113008</id><published>2005-10-12T16:25:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-12T16:25:57.993-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Penguin in the desert</title><content type='html'>A penguin was driving through the desert when his car broke down.  He waddled to the nearest phone to call AAA.  His car was quickly towed to the nearest garage where the mechanic told him he would need a couple of hours to check out the car.  The penguin, being a good natured bird, didn't complain but wondered off to find the closest supermarket.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He proceeded to the frozen foods section and hung out near the fish sticks.  After an hour he got in the freezer next to the vanilla ice cream and ate several gallons.  Then he saw the time and went back to the garage covered in ice cream.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The mechanic walked over to him wiping his hands and shaking his head saying, "It looks like you blew a seal."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Blushing, the penguin said, "Oh no! It's just vanilla ice cream."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112915235799113008?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112915235799113008/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112915235799113008' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915235799113008'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915235799113008'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/penguin-in-desert.html' title='Penguin in the desert'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112915226950899841</id><published>2005-10-12T16:24:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-12T16:24:29.510-05:00</updated><title type='text'>To prevent disease</title><content type='html'>It seems there was a priest who went into the country to pay a visit to a 92 year old church member.  She welcomed him into the parlor.  While she made tea, he looked around and saw a beautiful oak pump organ with a cut glass bowl sitting on top of it. The bowl was half filled with water and a condom was floating on top of it.  He dared not say anything!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But after tea, curiosity got the best of him and he asked her about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She said "While in town I found a little foil package on the sidewalk and took it home."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"The directions on the back said, 'Keep wet and put on your organ to prevent disease,' and you know I think it works, I haven't had a cold all winter."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112915226950899841?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112915226950899841/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112915226950899841' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915226950899841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915226950899841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/to-prevent-disease.html' title='To prevent disease'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112915221866892451</id><published>2005-10-12T16:23:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-12T16:23:38.676-05:00</updated><title type='text'>What are you thinking?</title><content type='html'>The question this time, from the men's side of the table: what should you do when the woman you're with asks you: "What are you thinking?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Every male in the world has had to deal with this question, which is more often than not uncorked at entirely inappropriate times, such as when you are watching sports, locked in a passionate embrace, or reeling in a feisty marlin from the Gulf of Mexico.  Regardless of what you're doing, you must come up with a complete and satisfactory answer, or stand accused of Hiding Your True Feelings.  Which means, of course, you'll spend the next week pretending to be sorry.  So you've got to come up with something.  And it had better be good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, the obvious question here is: WHY do women want to know what we're thinking?  Simple: they assume we're thinking in the first place. Hard to believe, but there it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why on earth would they think that?  Well, go up to a woman and ask her what she is thinking.  I have just done so with my wife, and this is what she is thinking about:&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Off the top of my head, I'm thinking about the party we're having Saturday, and how I'm going to fix that chandelier in the front room so that people can walk around without hitting their heads. Underneath that I'm thinking about my work schedule this week and whether or not I'm going to have time to do some of the things I need to do at home as well. And under that I'm wondering if it's too late to get tickets on a plane to Ohio for Christmas.  AND I'm thinking about getting a snack."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not only is she thinking about something, she's thinking about four separate things.  If I check back in five minutes, she'll still be thinking.  Women are always thinking, and often about practical things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Men, on the other hand, are actively thinking for about five minutes out of every hour (usually not in sequence).  So, at best, you have a one in 12 chance of catching a man actually having a thought.  What are we thinking about?&lt;br /&gt;1. Sex&lt;br /&gt;2. Food&lt;br /&gt;3. Steve Miller tunes&lt;br /&gt;4. Sports&lt;br /&gt;5. "Beavis and Butthead"&lt;br /&gt;6. Sex&lt;br /&gt;7. Work&lt;br /&gt;8. The black unknowable nothingness that frames our existence, and whether a benevolent and omnipotent higher power can possibly exist within it (or Beer)&lt;br /&gt;9. Sleep&lt;br /&gt;10. Sex&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;In summary, randomly asking a man what he's thinking has precisely a 8.83% chance of turning up a real, verifiable, honest-to-God thought. You might as well bet on the New York Jets.  Sound harsh, guys?  Fine.  Quick-what are you thinking?  Had to think about it, didn't you.  You lose.  Sit down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite the overwhelming evidence that men, in fact, are almost never thinking, women will still demand to know their innermost thoughts.  In a way, it's touching; women are expressing faith that, if prodded long enough and frequently enough, they may yet boost the number of times we think in an hour.  And they will.  Unfortunately, most of what we'll be thinking is "stop asking me what I'm thinking."  And that's just going to get us in trouble.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The best way to keep a woman from constantly asking you what you are thinking is to have a ready, pre-memorized answer for the times that she does.  Here are some tried and true responses, with the pros and cons of each:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm thinking that tonight it'd be nice to stay at home and sit by the fire together."&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Pros: Romantic; Sounds as if you're spontaneous.&lt;br /&gt;Cons: Requires fireplace (or a cement floor and ventilation); &lt;br /&gt;Romantic moments often prompt even more "What are you thinking" &lt;br /&gt;queries.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"I'm thinking how much I love you."&lt;br /&gt;Pros: Generally provokes a positive response that short circuits any need for further conversation; Is often also true.&lt;br /&gt;Cons: If you use it too much, she'll know it's a line, and then you're really in trouble.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"I was wondering if there is actually life on other planets."&lt;br /&gt;Pros: Cosmic; Shows you are a deep thinker.&lt;br /&gt;Cons: Woman may wonder if this is an intro to the same sort of "alien sigmoidoscopy" story that ruined her last relationship.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"I was imagining, if I were an animal, what sort of animal I'd be."     &lt;br /&gt;Pros: Imaginative; Allows woman to spend many happy minutes trying to establish your place in the animal kingdom.&lt;br /&gt;Cons: She might think you resemble a marmoset or skink; She may forego the animal world altogether and go straight to yeasts.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"I'm just thinking about how true the lyrics to 'Dust in the Wind' really are."&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Pros: Shows depth of musical knowledge; As last resort to forestall conversation, you may break out into song.&lt;br /&gt;Cons: If she's a connoisseur of 70s melodic rock, you may find yourself in a bitter, divisive quarrel about which is deeper, "Dust" or Aerosmith's "Dream On".&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Keep in mind that these responses are not to supersede an actual thought. If you find yourself having one at the moment she asks,  go ahead and share it, as long as it's not something along the  lines of "This relationship blows" or "I really like margarine".  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With a little practice, you should come out okay.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112915221866892451?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112915221866892451/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112915221866892451' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915221866892451'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112915221866892451'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/what-are-you-thinking.html' title='What are you thinking?'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112903618485636960</id><published>2005-10-11T08:09:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-11T08:09:44.860-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Scientific Facts</title><content type='html'>The beguiling ideas about science quoted here were gleaned from essays, exams, and classroom discussions. Most were from 5th and 6th  graders. They illustrate Mark Twain's contention that the 'most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they  know and then stop.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Question: What is one horsepower? &lt;br /&gt;*Answer:  One horsepower is  the amount of energy it takes to drag a  horse 500 feet in one second.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*You can listen to thunder after lightning and tell how close you came to getting hit.  If you don't hear it you got hit, so never mind. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Talc is found on rocks and on babies. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*The law of gravity says no fair jumping up without coming back down. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*When they broke open molecules, they found they were only stuffed with atoms.  But when they broke open atoms, they found them stuffed  with explosions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*When people run around and around in circles we say they are crazy. When planets do it we say they are orbiting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Rainbows are just to look at, not to really understand. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*While the earth seems to be knowingly keeping its distance from the sun, it is really only centrificating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Someday we may discover how to make magnets that can point in any direction.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*South America has cold summers and hot winters, but somehow they still manage.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Most books now say our sun is a star. But it still knows how to change back into a sun in the daytime.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Water freezes at 32 degrees and boils at 212 degrees.  There are 180 degrees between freezing and boiling because there are 180 degrees between north and south.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*A vibration is a motion that cannot make up its mind which way it wants to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*There are 26 vitamins in all, but some of the letters are yet to be discovered. Finding them all means living forever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*There is a tremendous weight pushing down on the center of the Earth because of so much population stomping around up there these days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Lime is a green-tasting rock.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Many dead animals in the past changed to fossils while others preferred to be oil.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Genetics explain why you look like your father and if you don't why you should.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Vacuums are nothings. We only mention them to let them know we know they're there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Some oxygen molecules help fires burn while others help make water, so sometimes it's brother against brother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Some people can tell what time it is by looking at the sun. But I have never been able to make out the numbers.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*We say the cause of perfume disappearing is evaporation. Evaporation gets blamed for a lot of things people forget to put the top on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*To most people solutions mean finding the answers.  But to chemists solutions are things that are still all mixed up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*In looking at a drop of water under a microscope, we find there are twice as many H's as O's.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Clouds are high flying fogs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*I am not sure how clouds get formed. But the clouds know how to do it, and that is the important thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Clouds just keep circling the earth around and around and around. There is not much else to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Water vapor gets together in a cloud. When it is big enough to be called a drop, it does.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Humidity is the experience of looking for air and finding water. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*We keep track of the humidity in the air so we won't drown when we breathe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Rain is often known as soft water, oppositely known as hail. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Rain is saved up in cloud banks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*In some rocks you can find the fossil footprints of fishes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Cyanide is so poisonous that one drop of it on a dogs tongue will kill the strongest man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*A blizzard is when it snows sideways. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*A hurricane is a breeze of a bigly size. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*A monsoon is a French gentleman.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Thunder is a rich source of loudness. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Isotherms and isobars are even more important than their names sound.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112903618485636960?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112903618485636960/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112903618485636960' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112903618485636960'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112903618485636960'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/scientific-facts.html' title='Scientific Facts'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112903609729788146</id><published>2005-10-11T08:08:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-11T08:08:17.303-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Pig Breeding</title><content type='html'>A farmer buys several pigs, hoping to breed them for ham, bacon, etc....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After several weeks, he notices that none of the pigs are getting pregnant, and calls a vet for help. The vet tells the farmer that he should try artificial insemination.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The farmer doesn't have the slightest idea what this means but, not wanting to display his ignorance, he only asks the vet how he will know when the pigs are pregnant.  The vet tells him that they will stop standing around and will, instead, lay down and wallow in the mud when they are pregnant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The farmer hangs up and gives it some thought.  He comes to the conclusion that artificial insemination means HE has to impregnate the pigs.  So, he loads the pigs into his truck, drives them out into the woods, has sex with them all, brings them back and goes to bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next morning, he wakes and looks out at the pigs. Seeing that they are all still standing around, he concludes that the first try didn't take, and loads them in the truck again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He drives them out to the woods, bangs each pig twice for good measure, brings them back and goes to bed. Next morning, he wakes to find the pigs still just standing around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more try, he tells himself, and proceeds to load them up and drive them out to the woods.  He spends all day shagging the pigs and, upon returning home, falls listlessly into bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next morning, he cannot even raise himself from the bed to look at the pigs.  He asks his wife to look out and tell him if the pigs are laying in the mud.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No," she says, "they're all in the truck and one of them's honking the horn."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112903609729788146?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112903609729788146/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112903609729788146' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112903609729788146'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112903609729788146'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/pig-breeding.html' title='Pig Breeding'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112898608637227169</id><published>2005-10-10T18:14:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-10T18:14:46.373-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Vocations</title><content type='html'>Four expectant fathers were in Minneapolis hospital waiting room, while their wives were in labor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The nurse comes in and tells the first man, Congratulations!  You're the father of twins!" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What a coincidence!" the man exclaims.  "I work for the Minnesota Twins baseball team!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The nurse returns a short while later and tells the second man, "You are the father of triplets!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Wow, what a coincidence!" he replies. "I work for the 3M Corporation!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When the nurse comes again, she tells the third man that his wife has given birth to quadruplets.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Another coincidence!  I work for the Four Seasons Hotel!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At this point, the fourth guy faints.  When he comes to, the others ask what's wrong. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What's wrong?!  I work for Seven-Up!"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112898608637227169?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112898608637227169/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112898608637227169' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898608637227169'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898608637227169'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/vocations.html' title='Vocations'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112898600894736330</id><published>2005-10-10T18:13:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-10T18:13:28.950-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Sex Therapy</title><content type='html'>A woman went to her psychiatrist because she was having severe problems with her sex life.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;The psychiatrist asked her many questions but did not seem to be getting a clear picture of her problems.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;Finally he asked, "Do you ever watch your husband's face while you are having sex?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Well, yes, I did once."&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Well, how did he look?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"Very angry."&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;At this point the psychiatrist felt that he was really getting somewhere and he said, "Well that's very interesting, we must look into  this further. Now tell me, you say that you have only seen your  husband's face once during sex; that seems somewhat unusual; how did it  occur that you saw his face that time?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;"He was looking through the window at us."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112898600894736330?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112898600894736330/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112898600894736330' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898600894736330'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898600894736330'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/sex-therapy.html' title='Sex Therapy'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112898595684762269</id><published>2005-10-10T18:12:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-10T18:12:36.853-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Beer Festival</title><content type='html'>After the Great Britain Beer Festival, in London, all the brewery presidents decided to go out for a beer.  The guy from Corona sits down and says "Hey Senor, I would like the world's best beer, a Corona."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bartender dusts off a bottle from the shelf and gives it to him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The guy from Budweiser says "I'd like the best beer in the world, give me 'The King Of Beers', a Budweiser."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bartender gives him one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The guy from Coors says "I'd like the only beer made with Rocky Mountain spring water, give me a Coors."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He gets it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The guy from Guinness sits down and says "Give me a Coke."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bartender is a little taken aback, but gives him what he ordered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The other brewery presidents look over at him and ask "Why aren't you drinking a Guinness?" and the Guinness president replies&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, if you guys aren't drinking beer, neither will I"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112898595684762269?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112898595684762269/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112898595684762269' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898595684762269'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112898595684762269'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/beer-festival.html' title='Beer Festival'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112851648728800049</id><published>2005-10-05T07:47:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-05T07:48:07.290-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The bet</title><content type='html'>A little old lady walked into the main branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank holding a large paper bag in her hand.  She told the young man at the window that she wished to take the 3 million dollars that she had in the bag and open an account with the bank.  But first, she said,  she wished to meet the president of the bank due to the rather large amount involved.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After looking into the bag and seeing bundles of $1,000 dollar bills which could have amounted to $3 million, he called the president's office and saw to it that the old lady met with him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The lady was escorted upstairs and ushered into the president's office. Introductions were made and she stated that she liked to know the people that she did business with on a more personal level. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The president then asked her how she came into such a large amount of money "was it an inheritance?" he asked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No", she replied.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was quiet for a minute trying to think where she could have come into $3 million.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I bet" she stated. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You bet?" repeated the president. "As in horses?"  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No", she replied, "I bet on people". &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seeing his confusion, she explained that she just bets different things with people.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All of a sudden she said "I'll bet you $25,000.00 that by 10:00 am tomorrow morning your balls will be square."  The bank president figured that she must be off her rocker and decided to take her up on the bet.  He didn't see how he could lose.  For the rest of the day he was very careful.  He decided to stay home that evening and take no chances, there was $25,000.00 at stake. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When he got up in the morning and took his shower, he checked to make sure that everything was okay.  There was no difference, he looked the same as he always had.  He went to work and waited for the little old lady to come in at 10:00, humming as he went.  He knew that this would be a good day. After all, how often do you get handed $25,000.00 for doing nothing? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At 10:00 am sharp, the little old lady was escorted into his office. With her was a younger man.  When the president inquired as to the purpose of his being there, she informed him that he was her lawyer, and that she always took him along when there was a large amount of money involved. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well", she asked, "what about our bet?" &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I don't know how to tell you this", he replied, "but I'm the same as I have always been, only $25,000.00 richer!". &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The lady seemed to accept this, but requested that she be able to see for herself. The president thought that this was reasonable and dropped his  trousers. She instructed him to bend over, then she grabbed hold of him. Sure enough everything was fine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The president then looked up and saw her lawyer banging his head against the wall. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What's wrong with him?", the president asked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh him,' she replied, "I bet him $100,000.00 that by 10:00 this morning that I would have the president of Chase Manhattan Bank by the balls."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112851648728800049?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112851648728800049/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112851648728800049' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851648728800049'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851648728800049'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/bet.html' title='The bet'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112851617776557520</id><published>2005-10-05T07:42:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-05T07:42:57.766-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The beauty of the English language</title><content type='html'>English.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let's face it -- English is a crazy language.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We take English for granted.  But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth? One goose, 2 geese.  So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend, that you comb thru annals of history but not a single annal? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If teachers taught, why didn't preacher praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? If you wrote a letter, perhaps you bote your tongue? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane.  In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell? How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and wise guy are opposites? How can overlook and oversee be opposites, while quite a lot and quite a few are alike? How can the weather be hot as hell one day and cold as hell another.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horseful carriage or a strapful gown? Met a sung hero or experienced requited love? Have you ever run into someone who was combobulated, gruntled, ruly or peccable? And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would ACTUALLY hurt a fly? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm clock goes off by going on.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which, of course, isn't a race at all).  That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I end it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112851617776557520?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112851617776557520/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112851617776557520' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851617776557520'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851617776557520'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/beauty-of-english-language.html' title='The beauty of the English language'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112851593885185980</id><published>2005-10-05T07:38:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-05T07:38:58.856-05:00</updated><title type='text'>How I got into Heaven</title><content type='html'>Three men were standing in line to get into heaven one day. Apparently it had been a pretty busy day, though, so Peter had to tell the first one, "Heaven's getting pretty close to full today, and I've been asked to admit only people who have had particularly horrible deaths. So what's your story?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the first man replies: "Well, for a while I've suspected my wife has been cheating on me, so today I came home early to try to catch her red-handed. As I came into my 25th floor apartment, I could tell something was wrong, but all my searching around didn't reveal where this other guy could have been hiding. Finally, I went out to the balcony, and sure enough, there was this man hanging off the railing, 25 floors above ground! By now I was really mad, so I started beating on him and kicking him, but wouldn't you know it, he wouldn't fall off. So finally I went back into my apartment and got a hammer and starting hammering on his fingers. Of course, he couldn't stand that for long, so he let go and fell -- but even after 25 stories, he fell into the bushes, stunned but okay. I couldn't stand it anymore, so I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the fridge and threw it over the edge where it landed on him, killing him instantly. But all the stress and anger got to me, and I had a heart attack and died there on the balcony."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"That sounds like a pretty bad day to me," said Peter, and let the man in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The second man comes up and Peter explains to him about heaven being full, and again asks for his story.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's been a very strange day. You see, I live on the 26th floor of my apartment building, and every morning I do my exercises out on my balcony. Well, this morning I must have slipped or something, because I fell over the edge. But I got lucky, and caught the railing of the balcony on the floor below me. I knew I couldn't hang on for very long, when suddenly this man burst out onto the balcony. I thought for sure I was saved, when he started beating on me and kicking me. I held on the best I could until he ran into the apartment and grabbed a hammer and started pounding on my hands. Finally I just let go, but again I got lucky and fell into the bushes below, stunned but all right. Just when I was thinking I was going to be okay, this refrigerator comes falling out of the sky and crushes me instantly, and now I'm here."&lt;br /&gt; Once again, Peter had to concede that that sounded like a pretty horrible death.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The third man came to the front of the line, and again the whole process was repeated. Peter explained that heaven was full and asked for his story.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Picture this," says the third man, "I'm hiding naked inside a refrigerator..."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112851593885185980?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112851593885185980/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112851593885185980' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851593885185980'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112851593885185980'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/how-i-got-into-heaven.html' title='How I got into Heaven'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112838051136135481</id><published>2005-10-03T18:01:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-03T18:01:51.363-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Cabbies</title><content type='html'>A mother, accompanied by her small daughter, was on the corner of Leavenworth and Geary in San Francisco.  The mother was trying to hail a cab, when her daughter noticed several wildly dressed women who were loitering on a nearby street corner.&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;The mother finally hailed her cab and they both climbed in, at which point the daughter asks her mother, "Mummy, what are all those ladies waiting for by that corner?", to which the mother replies, "Those ladies are waiting for their husbands to come home from work."&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;The cabbie, upon hearing this exchange, turns to the mother and says, "Ahhhhhhh, c'mon lady!!!!  Tell your daughter the truth!!!! For crying out loud. They're hookers!"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;A brief period of silence follows, and the daughter then asks, "Mummy, do the ladies have any children?"&lt;br /&gt;     &lt;br /&gt;The mother replies, "Of course dear. Where do you think cabbies come from?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112838051136135481?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112838051136135481/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112838051136135481' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838051136135481'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838051136135481'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/cabbies.html' title='Cabbies'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112838041328337401</id><published>2005-10-03T17:59:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-03T18:00:13.283-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Roses</title><content type='html'>Two old ladies are standing in their backyards gossiping over the back fence. They're back at the fence, talking for hours when the one old lady notices a delivery truck has pulled into the driveway, and the driver is getting out with a dozen red roses. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh great! I know what I'll be doin' all night," says the first old lady.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What?" asks the other one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Every year Elmer sends me a dozen red roses on the same day," says the lady, "so I guess I'll be naked, lying on my back all night with my legs in the air!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The other lady looks confused and replies, "Don't you have a vase?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112838041328337401?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112838041328337401/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112838041328337401' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838041328337401'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838041328337401'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/roses.html' title='Roses'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112838030572348677</id><published>2005-10-03T17:58:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-03T17:58:25.726-05:00</updated><title type='text'>French Cooking</title><content type='html'>An Irishman was in the South of France, and could not understand why his friend Pierre was attracting all the girls at the beach and he wasn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So he asked Pierre, "Why do you get all the girls and I get nothing?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pierre said, "Take a potato, tuck it in your swimming trunks, it drives the women wild."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the Irishman stuffed a potato in his trunks and paraded up and down the beach. Many hours later, still no woman. The Irishman went to see his friend Pierre again and said, "I've tried it, it doesn't work."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pierre looked at him and said, "Have you tried putting the potato in the front?"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112838030572348677?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112838030572348677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112838030572348677' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838030572348677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112838030572348677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/french-cooking.html' title='French Cooking'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112817072874135444</id><published>2005-10-01T07:45:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-01T07:45:28.743-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Silicon Valley, circa 1997</title><content type='html'>Bill Gates, Andy Grove, and Jerry Sanders (CEOs of MicroSoft, Intel, and AMD) were in a high-powered business meeting. During the serious, tense discussion, a beeping noise suddenly is emitted from where Bill is sitting.  Bill says, "Oh, that's my beeper.  Gentlemen, excuse me, I need to take this call." So Bill lifts his wristwatch to his ear and begins talking into the end of his tie. After completing this call, he notices the others are staring at him.  Bill explains,  "Oh, this is my new emergency communication system.  I have an earpiece built into my watch and a microphone sewn into the end of my tie. That way I can take a call anywhere."  The others nod and the meeting continues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Five minutes later, the discussion is again interrupted when Andy starts beeping.  He states,  "Excuse me gentlemen, this must be an important call."  So Andy taps his earlobe and begins talking into thin air.  When he completes his call, he notices the others staring at him and explains,  "I also have an emergency communication system. But my earpiece is actually implanted in my earlobe, and the microphone is actually embedded in this fake tooth."  The others nod, and the meeting continues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Five minutes later, the discussion is again interrupted when Jerry emits a thunderous fart.  He looks up at the others staring at him and says, "Somebody get me a piece of paper... I'm receiving a FAX."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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&lt;/script&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17334616-112817072874135444?l=humorpit.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/feeds/112817072874135444/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17334616&amp;postID=112817072874135444' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112817072874135444'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17334616/posts/default/112817072874135444'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://humorpit.blogspot.com/2005/10/silicon-valley-circa-1997.html' title='Silicon Valley, circa 1997'/><author><name>Steven List</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='21' src='http://www.stevenlist.com/images_steven/IMG_0283_300.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17334616.post-112817053432204968</id><published>2005-10-01T07:40:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2005-10-01T07:42:14.326-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Cat Bathing As A Martial Art</title><content type='html'>Some people say cats never have to be bathed.  They say cats lick themselves clean.  They say cats have a special enzyme of some sort in their saliva that works like new, improved Wisk - dislodging the dirt where it hides and whisking it away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've spent most of my life believing this folklore.  Like most blind believers, I've been able to discount all the facts to the contrary, the kitty odors that lurk in the corners of the garage and dirt smudges that cling to the throw rug by the fireplace.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The time comes, however, when a man must face reality: when he must look squarely in the face of massive public sentiment to the contrary and announce:  "This cat smells like a port-a-potty on a hot day in Juarez."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When that day arrives at your house, as it has in mine, I have some advice you might consider as you place your feline friend under your arm and head for the bathtub:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;Know that although the cat has the advantage of quickness and lack of concern for human life, you have the advantage of strength. Capitalize on that advantage by selecting the battlefield.  Don't try to bathe him in an open area where he can force you to chase him.  Pick a very small bathroom. If your bathroom is more than four feet square, I recommend that you get in the tub with the cat and close the sliding-glass doors as if you were about to take a shower.  (A simple shower curtain will not do.  A berserk cat can shred a three-ply rubber shower curtain quicker than a politician can shift positions.)&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all the skin from your body.  Your advantage here is that you are smart and know how to dress to protect yourself.  I recommend canvas overalls tucked into high-top construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves, an army helmet, a hockey face mask, and a long-sleeved flak jacket.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Prepare everything in advance.  There is no time to go out for a towel when you have a cat digging a hole in your flak jacket.  Draw the water. Make sure the bottle of kitty shampoo is inside the glass enclosure. Make sure the towel can be reached, even if you are lying on your back in the water.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Use the element of surprise.  Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply carry him to his supper dish.  (Cats will not usually notice your strange attire.  They have little or no interest in fashion as a rule. If he does notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking part in a product testing experiment for J.C. Penney.)&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to survival.  In a single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub enclosure, slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and squirt him with shampoo.  You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds of your life.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Cats have no handles.  Add the fact that he now has soapy fur, and the problem is radically compounded.  Do not expect to hold on to him for more than two or three seconds at a time.  When you have him, however, you must remember to give him another squirt of shampoo and rub like crazy. He'll then spring free and fall back into the water, thereby rinsing himself off. (The national record for cats is three latherings, so don't expect too much.)&lt;/li&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;li&gt;Next, the cat must be dried.  Novice cat bathers always assume this part will be the most difficult, for humans generally are worn out at this point and the cat is just getting really determined.  In fact, the drying is simple compared to what you have just been through.  That's because by now the cat is semipermanently affixed to your right leg.  You simply pop the drain plug with your foot, reach for your towel and wait. (Occasionally, however, the cat will end up clinging to the top of your army helmet.  If this happens, the best thing you can do is to shake him loose and to encourage him toward your leg.) After all the water is drained from the tub, it is a simple matter to just reach down and dry the cat.&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In a few days the cat will relax enough to be removed from your leg. He will usually have nothing to say for about three weeks and will spend a lot of time sitting with his back to you.  He might even become psychoceramic and develop the fixed stare of a plaster figurine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You will be tempted to assume he is angry.  This isn't usually the case. As a rule he is simply plotting ways to get through your defenses and injure you for life the next time you decide to give him a bath.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But at least now he smells a lot better.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;script type="text/javascript"&gt;&lt;!--
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