Funny Stories

Freaky Sex Friday: Planet Earth’s Sex Life Leads To Savage Homosexual Attack

It used to be just them…

Now, they’re coming after us…

Amorous bull damages deputy’s patrol car

“…According to the report, a deputy arrived at the home and noticed a man slapping the bull on the head and leading him across the yard.

The report says the bull then mounted the man and “tried to mate with him,” pinning him between the patrol unit and causing minor damage to the vehicle.

The bull then left the yard and began following a truck down the road.

The man said that he was not injured and did not give the officer time to get his information for a report.”

Article found at The Cabin. h/t Boing Boing

If My Anus Could Talk…

Don’t ask me how I happened upon this (I have some strange friends), but damn I needed the laugh so bad…

Submitted by Butt then again:

If my anus could talk… it would thank posters here for the following home remedy, after narrowly avoiding painful surgery.

For YEARS I’d suffered an olive-sized growth at my anus. It was an ugly not-so-little secret that undermined my self image, as it made its presence known damn near every time I crossed my legs, went running and during lovemaking, as it tended to “dangle.” At the same time, an anal fissure, which the tag seemed to stand guard over like a sentry, would often bleed and swell. Together they made life miserable. So I made an appointment with a proctologist, tho I’ve always been leery of these professionals. After all, what kind of person jumps thru so many hoops in order to have a career looking at aging butt holes? Still, I was hurting, so I made the crucial appointment.

In the presence of his nurse, the proctologist told me to drop my pants and then took some metal probes–reminiscent of dental hygiene tools—and after some excruciating poking and prying, had me to tidy up, and then held a conference. He drew a picture of my ass hole. It featured a huge anal tag—like a sentry (his words)–guarding a fissure—or ragged little tear–in the anal sphincter. He proposed surgically removing the tag and then cutting out an arc-shaped piece of my anal sphincter to get rid of the fissure. The surgery would be painful, I would be laid up for two weeks and there was a 1 to 3 percent chance that my anus would not work properly after the operation. I signed on, out of desperation, as I’d been debilitated off and on for years, and I’m a busy man, who makes his living five ways–writing, publishing, teaching, consulting and real estate.

Fortunately for me—tho not him–the surgeon burned both hands in a grilling accident before my surgery could take place. Too much accelerant, according to his secretary. When she asked if I’d like to reschedule, I told her “I’ll call you,” and started Googling. One thing I learned was that the hemorrhoid surgery I’d signed on for would be the worst pain I’d ever experienced, would be incredibly disruptive of my life—at a busy time–and might leave me with a leaky anus, not to mention a possible addiction to pain meds. Added to this was my newfound distrust of a surgeon who’d used bad judgment operating a grill. I didn’t want him near my privates.

So I started looking for home remedies and came across your website. Here and elsewhere I read that lots of people had removed all sorts of tags from their bodies with thread or dental floss, and so I put it on my list of things to at least attempt.

Late one night when no one else was about, I contrived to loop dental floss around my anal olive. Positioning a boss flashlight to shine into that shadowy nether region, I cocked my right leg up on my lavatory, bent over and, peering round with great effort into my large bathroom mirror, looped a dental floss noose around my tag, and pulled the draw string. Hurt like hell. I’d tied it on crooked, so that the string cut across the middle of my tag, dividing it into two bulges scored by a painful groove in which the dental floss cut.

For weeks afterward, squirming in pain, I kept hoping for it to shrivel, so I could deliver the coup de grace with nose hair scissors or carpet knife or something. I waited in vain. It stayed plump and full. What’s worse, it felt like a constant toothache in my anus. Through trial and error I learned that Neosporin—the kind that contains aspirin–would relieve the pain temporarily. It also seemed to have a healing effect on my anal fissure. Still, the lumps in my tag stayed round and plump. After about two weeks of on and off pain, I decided to cut the string.

No go. It was sunk inside the flesh of my swollen tag. At this moment of discovery, I had serious regrets about trying the home remedy. The only thing that kept me from giving up and throwing myself on the mercy of my doctor—literally bowing before him–was the prospect of complete and abject humiliation. What might he tell friends or family in our close-knit community, where my work in the media had made me well-known?

So, late at night, forming another tiny noose, bending over, slipping it over and pulling tight, I tried again. This time I managed to tie the dental floss snugly around the base and waited several days. Was it my imagination or was the tag shrinking? Maybe I could snip it off entirely before long. Three days before I was supposed to drive 150 miles to the wedding of a beautiful niece—a drive I knew would be excruciating–I went into the bathroom to apply Neosporin-with-aspirin. Imagine my surprise and delight, when the entire anal tag–rogue floss, groove and all–slipped its mooring and adhered to my tissue. Could this be true? I drew the tissue up and looked at my tormentor, nestled there–a tiny shriveled olive, crisscrossed with grooves. It was a bloodless coup in my nether realm. I’d hung the tyrant.

It’s been three months now and I can’t believe I succeeded in thwarting the surgeon, saving my insurance thousands, and improving my self-image. My tag had been there so long that now it feels novel to have a smooth butt crack, and I never feel the tag hanging there during sex, or while running, or when I cross my legs wrong. It’s truly the gift that keeps on giving.

A final note: I don’t know if the antibiotic Neosporin would work for everyone’s anal fissure. Just four days ago I had grave doubts after I felt the old rawness and swollenness return. So I applied Neosporin several times over the period of a couple of days. Voila, the anus healed again. OK, take it for what it’s worth. Anecdotal, but I think I cured myself, and avoided expensive surgery, debility and possible pain med dependency in the duration.

So, to all who posted testimony here:

My wife thanks you, I thank you, and my anus thanks you.

Rufus Hussey: Bad Summitch

Carolina Camera: The Sling Shot Man

McMinnville, TN: Where Drunks Drink and Teach Their Dogs To Drive

A laughing morning of simple reflections

Now– as I scrolled through the cartoons… I came across one that not only made me laugh, but I laughed out loud from personal experience! !The ‘I’ll have what he’s having’ actually happened to me when I first met Gishelle Diva Gish. I was working alone one morning almost a year ago. In walks a 6′ 7″ fuzzy wig wearing, white go-go- boot wearing, tight hot pink mini dress wearing — huge breast leading the way ‘woman’. Of course I knew at first sight this person was different [dah] and special. I introduced myself and so did Gishelle. Being the person I am, [Social Worker til' death]– I ended up in a deep conversation and then out of seemingly no where, Gishelle rips open the hot pink top and announced…” I just had these babies put in!”. And there they were, no bra, nothing… just huge, and I mean huge breasts on a hairy chest.[Gishelle has since had electrolysis]. I just stood there amazed. Since then we have become friends at my job, and Gishelle knows I struggle with the words ” he and she” when it comes to speaking with “her/him”. Not out of anything negative, but just being old. lol. I have learned much in speaking with Gishelle… especially about the effects of Agent Orange, medical struggles… and emotional pain being unique to individuals. I like the fact that Gishelle is comfortable enough with me to flip her/his voice from Gishelle to Clay when we speak. Anyway– this is where my head went this morning just from a cartoon from a Scotish friend. Isn’t life a trip?!! lol lol. http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2007/sep/02/life-after-brother-clay/

 “…….Sitting with Gishelle Gish, there’s a sense of what is and what has been. In the dining room of her West Knoxville home, Gish is surrounded by gold records, signed plaques and posters from Rod Stewart, Barbra Streisand and other music stars, all thanking her for her help with their careers and the success of certain records. Yet all of the thanks are for “Brother Clay” Gish. Brother Clay Gish was an athlete, a Vietnam veteran, a father who married four times and a star in the radio world. He was known in Atlanta, Houston, Miami and Knoxville as a popular radio personality, a programmer who could help take a station to the top and could always tell a future hit.Clay Gish began living as Gishelle Diva Gish in January and has since undergone breast augmentation surgery and a legal name change. She hopes to have sex-reassignment surgery in the near future. “People who knew me didn’t really know me,” says Gish. “Now my skin is reflecting who I am inside.”…….”

B’Man’s Redneck Watch: $13 Barbie rod lands record catfish (no charters, no guides)

McClatchy reports on a cool grandpa redneck who seems to have done the impossible: catch a 21# catfish on a Barbee fishing rod.

$13 Barbie rod lands record catfish (no charters, no guides)

By Bruce Henderson

David Hayes knew from earlier catches that lunker catfish patrolled the acre pond a few feet behind his rural Wilkes County home.

But he never suspected it held a state-record channel cat. Or that he would land it with a hot-pink Barbie rod and reel 2 inches shorter than the fish.

How that happened is a whale of a fish story, which says something about a 3-year-old girl’s bond with her grandpa.

Hayes told it this way:

It was 7:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, Aug. 5. Hayes was home in the Shoaly Branch community after work running the dye house for a local textile-maker. Granddaughter Alyssa Hayes, who lives nearby, helped Hayes pick tomatoes. Then she decided she wanted to go fishing.

Fishing and riding four-wheelers together are what Alyssa loves best with her Papa.

Hayes, who’s 56, caught a few crickets and baited the hook on her 2 1/2-foot Barbie rod and reel combo — $13 at Wal Mart. Alyssa caught a couple of bluegills.

Then she had to go to the bathroom and thrust the tackle in Hayes’ hands as she turned for the house.

“They hadn’t no more than closed the door than the cat hit the cricket and took off,” he said. “He turned the water over and I saw his tail was about as wide as my two hands.

“I knew I was in trouble.

“By the time she got back out there, she said, ‘Papa, you’re going to break my rod,’ because it was bent double.”

After 25 minutes, pink plastic and 6-pound-test line prevailed.

Hayes netted the exhausted fish. Alyssa “squealed and her eyes got as big as silver dollars.”

Scales at a local grocery said the 32-inch fish weighed 21 pounds, 1 ounce. A state fisheries biologist certified the record, nearly three pounds over the previous mark.

The fish will go on the wall, along with Alyssa’s Barbie rod.

“It looks like a toy,” Hayes said, “but it’s a functioning toy.”

Having A Talk With Jesus

It was a rough day today. A lot of stress (Thank God its Friday)!

It doesn’t happen very often, but today I grabbed a beer and stepped out in the back yard, sat down on the swing, took a long drag off the brew and thought, “what better chance than now to ‘have a little talk’ with Jesus.”

I said, “Jesus, I’m tired. Why do I drive myself to work so hard?

Jesus said, “Many men work hard to show their family how much they love them and care for them. You work hard to provide a safe, beautiful place for your friends and family to get together and enjoy.”

I thought about that for a second and ask, “But isn’t money the root of all evil?”

Jesus said, “No. The LOVE of money is the root of all evil. Money is but a tool… a tool that can be used for good or for bad.”

I suddenly felt much better and began to think of all the other issues I needed to get off my chest… the questions I needed to know the answer to, to be whole in my life.

I ask Jesus, “What is the meaning of life? Why am I here? Is this all there is?”

He said, “Many men have asked those soul searching questions and the answer is inside. In your heart. But it is different for everyone.”

“Now, as much as I would love to chat with you some more, Senor, I really need to finish mowing your yard.”