She quickly takes off all her clothes and says, “Is there somebody on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?”

A guys stands up, takes off his shirt and says, “Here, iron this!”.

Did you fart? Because you blew me away.

Berate, Temp Army!
Maybe Rear Tempt?
Tame Party Ember

Here are just a few of the acronyms in use by the US Government:

Federal Interagency Committee for the Management of Noxious and Exotic Weeds (FICMNEW)

National Center for Zoonotic, Vector-Borne, and Enteric Diseases (NCZVED)

Office of the National Counterintelligence Executive (ONCIX)

We also note that there are a few acronyms missing from the official government list. So in the interest of public awareness, we offer the acronyms for some of the more obscure government agencies:

Council on Civic Crime In Xanadu (COCCIX)

Aviation Reconnaissance Mapping of Plant Infestation Territories (ARMPIT)

Secretaries Office for Underwater Nostalgia – Division of Asset Services, Liason, Enforcement, and Entertainment Planning (SOUNDASLEEP)

Yack in my booth I was a fan of Jichael Mackson. I would scum home from cool, flip on the TV and chew through the flannels until I sound him finging.   I never believed he was salving hex with those boys. Adherances can be perceptive. He would never throws a pet to them. Jichael was religious and a lit of a boner.  He just wanted to lay a proud with them. But the long arm of the straw wanted him gowned and bagged. They wanted to damp clown on him. He was kicked up by the pops, taken in in their quad scars and held until he would tart stocking. But Jichael vowed to bite to the fitter bend. Thank God the barges were chaseless and eventually he was gowned filthy.

At fifty, Jichael was canning a plum back. He was towing on gur, going out to feet his mans once more. Until yesterday when they found him fled on door. So today we say a bad good sigh to the ping of cop. Jichael, we will always fee your bans. You were a drawn beamer and your star will brine shite in the heavens.

I’ve had a lot of swing thoughts since then. Sometimes I think of swinging and hurling a yo-yo on a string at a midget (excuse me, a Little Person.)  Sometimes Greg is the Little Person, sometimes it’s my high school gym teacher.

Here are some of my more printable swing thoughts:

•    I bet Tiger doesn’t need swing thoughts
•    Is my butt sitting out too far?
•    When do I get to the point where I can hit the ball farther than I can throw my club?
•    Why is it called a bunker? Is there something there I should know about?
•    Why do I need spikes on my shoes? Is there something around here I need to step on?
•    Who is that guy with the clipboard at the first tee who reminds me of my high school math teacher? Can I kick his ass?
•    How come I can’t hit one of the Canada geese on the course, no matter how close they are or how carefully I aim?
•    Why do they call it a fairway? What is so fair about it?
•    If I wanted a handicap I’d drop my pants.
•    Who are those girls riding around on the snack carts bending over to get your Bud Light and showing off their underwear?  Can’t they see I’m trying to golf here?
•    Who is the guy who reminds me of my junior high teacher who drives around telling us to play faster? Can I kick his ass too?
•    Waggle!

* Did you make a mistake when typing the domain?
* Are you certain this domain address exists?
* Is your computer or network inhabited by small rodents who may have eaten it’s vital parts?
* Is this really what you want to be doing with your life?
* Have you looked at yourself lately?
* Whatever happened to that woman you met at your high school reunion?
* What are your afraid of?

TRY AGAIN