The patient’s family gathered to hear what the specialists had to say. "Things don’t look good. The only chance is a brain transplant. This is an experimental procedure. It might work, but the bad news is that brains are very expensive, and you will have to pay the costs yourselves." "Well, how much does a brain cost?" asked the relatives. "For a male brain, $500,000. For a female brain, $200,000." Some of the younger male relatives tried to look shocked, but all the men nodded because they thought they understood. A few actually smirked. But the patient’s daughter was unsatisfied and asked, "Why the difference in price between male brains and female brains?" "A standard pricing practice," said the head of the team. "Women’s brains have to be marked down because they have actually been used."
What does tightrope walking and getting a blowjob from Grandma have in common? You don't look down.
Yo' Mama is so old, she went to an antique shop, and they kept her.
Yo momma's so old if she were a car it would be time to roll back her odometer.
Yo' Mama is so old, she dreams in black and white.
You are so old, the candles on your birthday cake raised earths temperature by 3 degrees.
Q: What 80's rock band is banned from New Orleans and why? A: The Scorpions. Every time they're in town, they rock you like a hurricane.
My 3-year-old granddaughter, Sydney, told my husband, Ted, and me that she was going fishing with her dad. Ted asked if she was going to use worms. "No," she said. "I'm going to use a fishing pole."
An old man and a young man work together in an office. The old man always has a jar of peanuts on his desk, and the young man really loves peanuts. One day, while the old man is away from his desk, the young man yields to temptation and scarfs down over half of the contents of the jar. When the old man returns, the young man feels guilty and confesses to his crime. "Don't worry, son. I never eat the peanuts anyway," the old man replies. "Since I lost my teeth, all I can do is gum chocolate off the M&M's."
Two Middle East mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a plate of tabouli and a pint of goat’s milk. The older of the mothers pulls a bag out of her purse and starts flipping through photos. And they start reminiscing. "This is my oldest son Mohammed. He would be 24 years old now." "Yes, I remember him as a baby" says the other mother cheerfully. "He’s a martyr now though" mum confides. "Oh, so sad, dear" says the other. "And this is my second son Kalid. He would be 21." "Oh, I remember him," says the other happily, "he had such curly hair when he was born." "He’s a martyr too" says mum quietly. "Oh, gracious me…" says the other. "And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He would be 18," she whispers. "Yes" says the friend enthusiastically, "I remember when he first started school." "He’s a martyr also," says mum, with tears in her eyes. After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says, "They blow up so fast, don’t they?"