I saw a lowlife cruising for loose women on the beach. I said “What kind of conch you buyin‘?” He said, “She’s my beach—a shore thing. I don’t care what pebble think, if they sea us together. I hope I end up all tide up.”

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Death row inmates with laryngitis can’t speak up for themselves. Their women will want to save them, however, because they’re hung like a hoarse.

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