Divorce really de-vow-ues marriage.
During my time as an executioner, I made sure to be head of the game, by acquiring a unique skull set, from the time I was a guillotiney bopper. I got gallowing reviews which was always excellent noose. Even though I hung my clients out to dry (though sometimes I got them stoned) I never faced the firing line. Of course, the work is no longer shocking; these days the business won’t survive without capital injections, which makes me sigh at night. My goal nonetheless is to fill every day with poisonable experiences.
Hear about the female student of interpretation theory, who rejected her boyfriend because he had fleas?
Yes, her man knew tics.
If you want to get the nurse’s attention after a urine test, you better pee cup.
I want to sell my ears. Somebody offered me aural for them, but I won’t take any lobal offers. I’m gonna play the cartilage I was dealt. I gotta drum up some cash. The deal’s gonna be done tinnitus. Ring it through: I bid my ears, ‘audios‘.
The ancient Greek phallus o’ furs never shaved.
Priests recently gained the right to vote, after finally being recognized as legal parsons — despite vicarous opposition.
Hear about the paleontologist who got the Holocene mixed up with the Pleistocene? Two words: Epoch Fail.
As a medical doctor, I will never refuse treatment, except to a drunken Kanye West: that’s my hiphop erratic oath.
When I lent some Robert Smith CDs to my friend the soprano, it was as though I’d found The Cure for cantor.

(3 votes, average: 4.33 out of 5)
(2 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)