Antarctica:
Some animals in the zoo were being interviewed and asked where they think they belong and where they would like to go to.
First of was the polar bear: "to Antarctica, because my mother had a fur coat, my son has a fur coat, ..."
Then they asked the elephant: "To India, because I got a big trunk, and my father has a big trunk, my sister had a big trunk and my grandma!"
The crocodile: "I want to go to germany, because my great grandfather had a big mouth, I have a big mouth, my mother in law has a big mouth, ..."
House:
There is a man in a restaurant and he orders escargots.
-Waiter: Would you like the French ones or the illegal?
-Man: French or illegal? What's the difference?
-Waiter: In the French ones there is only one snail in the house, in the illegal ones there are ten.
Oh yea, btw, they aren't meant to insult anyone, but thanks to a mistake (something about a french translater), this is the kinda jokes we get on the calendar these days.
i like bavaria some what, not much else to drink in holland when im there so much! (Have a girl friend in Holland, will be there in just over a week ... for about the millionth time!).
There was a young fellow from Sparta,
A really magnificent farter,
On the strength of one bean
He'd fart God Save the Queen
And Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
He could vary, with proper persation.
His fart to sit any occasion.
He cold fart like a flute,
like a lark, like a lute
This higly fartastic Caucasian
This sparkling young farter from Sparta
His fart for no money would barte.
He cold roar from his rear
Any seen from Shakespeare,
Or Gilbert and Sullivan's Mikader.
He fart a gavotte for a starter,
And fizzle a fine serenata
He could play from his anus
The Corilanus
Oof, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum ta-dah.
He was a great in the Christmas Cantata,
He wold double-stop fart to Toccata,
He's boom from his ass
Bach's B-Minor Mass
And in counterpoint, La Traviata.
Spurred on by a very high wager
By an envious German named Bager,
He proceeded to fart
The complete oboe part
Of a Hayden Octet in B-major
His range went from classic to jazz
On the tonic solpha of his azz,
With a good dose of salts
He cold whistle a waltz
Or swing it in razzamatazz.
His basso profundo was rare
For he had very little to spare,
But his great work of art,
His fortissimo fart,
He saved for the March Militaire.
On day he was dared to perform
The William Tell Overture storm.
But naught wold dishearten
Our talented Spartan,
For his fart was in wonderful form.
It went off in capital style,
As he farted along with a smile,
Then feeling quite jolly
He tried the finale
Blowing double stop farts all the while.
This section was tough, i admit,
But it did not dismay him one bit.
Then with his ass thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed ....
And fell in a shower of shit.
His bunghole was flown back to Sparta,
Where they buried the rest of our farter
With a gravestone of turds
Inscribed the words:
"to the Fine Art of Farting, Or Martyr."