There was a 3 car accident in Mexico yesterday, 84 people were found dead.
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My dad was a complicated man.
He was a huge racist, my dad, but he still tried to be a good father, you know?
Like, he would tell me that Santa Claus was black — that way, when I found out he didn't exist, it wouldn't be that big a let down.
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Q: How does every black joke start?
A: With the white guy looking over his shoulder.
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How do you know Charles Sweeney was dyslexic?
He wanted to order the flaming saganagi, but he accidentally ordered a flaming Nagasaki.
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How are a lawyer and a prostitute different?
The prostitute stops fucking you after you’re dead.
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Q: What is the point of Jewish football?
A: To get the quarter back
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Q: What's the best thing about ISIS jokes?
A: The execution.
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A beautiful young girl is about to undergo a minor operation.
She’s laid on a hospital trolley bed with nothing on, except a sheet over her.
The nurse pushes the trolley down the corridor towards the operating theatre, where she leaves the girl on the trolley outside, while she goes in to check whether everything is ready.
A young man wearing a white coat approaches, lifts the sheet up and starts examining her naked body.
He puts the sheet back and then walks away and talks to another man in a white coat.
The second man comes over, lifts the sheet and does the same examinations.
When a third man does the same thing, but more closely, she grows impatient and says: “All these examinations are fine and appreciated, but when are you going to start the operation?”
The man in the white coat shrugged his shoulders: “I have no idea. We’re just painting the corridor.”
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What's the good part of there being no blacks on the Jetsons?
It means the future will be great!
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An artist asked the gallery owner if there had been any interest in his paintings on display at that time.
"I have good news and bad news," the owner replied. "The good news is that a gentleman inquired about your work and wondered if it would appreciate in value after your death. When I told him it would, he bought all 15 of your paintings."
"That's wonderful," the artist exclaimed. "What's the bad news?"
"The guy was your doctor..."
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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?"
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