Q: What's a terrorists favorite American football team? A: The New York Jets.
Q: What do you call a flying Jew? A: Ashes.
Q: What kind of file do you need to turn a 15mm hole into a 40mm hole? A: A pedophile.
"Did you hear about the undertaker who buried someone in the wrong place?" "He was sacked for making a grave mistake."
One day, Muhammad's wife called him a pedophile. In response, Muhammad asked his wife, "So, how does a 9-year-old know such a big word like that?"
Three gay men died, and were going to be cremated. Their lovers happened to be at the funeral home at the same time, and were discussing what they planned to do with the ashes. The first man said, "My Ryan loved to fly, so I'm going up in a plane and scatter his ashes in the sky." The second man said, "My Ross was a good fisherman, so I'm going to scatter his ashes in our favorite lake." The third man said, "My Jack was such a good lover, I think I'm going to dump his ashes in a pot of chili, so he can tear my ass up just one more time."
The best thing after an intensive argument is the peace-sex. But I hate when I argue with my father-in-law.
The worst place to have a heart attack is during a gama of cherades. ...Especially if the people you are playing with, are really bad guessers.
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?"
So it's the weekend, and I'm on my back patio when I get this idea to call up my coroner friend Bob. "Bob's not here," his wife says, "he's at work." "Sheesh!" I think. "Poor guy doing autopsies on a Sunday." So I call him on his cell. "What gives, bro,?" I ask. "Homicide," he says. "The higher-ups need a report ASAP. I'll be starting in just a few minutes." I Josh Bob a little. "I'll be thinking of you, buddy. Right now, I'm basting barbecue sauce on a rack of baby-backs and I'm getting ready to open a frosty beer." "Not much different here," he says. "I'm about ready to crack open a cold one myself."