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Daggers

The joke thread

By Daggers, in General Chat

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cambridgefox

cambridgefox

Posted
Posted

*******SICK*******

As i blew my daughter a kiss at the school gates,one of the other fathers looked at me in disgust"are you fooking your own daughter?" he asked.

"Erm.....no"i said,looking very sheepish."is it wrong for a father to blow a kiss to his daughter?"

"no" he replied."but it is wrong for her to catch that kiss and then rub it in her minge"

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MikeyT

MikeyT

Posted
Posted

Tried erotic suffocation on the wife the other night while we were having sex.

She obviously didnt like it,shes been lying there for 5 days now giving me the silent treatment!!

lol

*******SICK*******

As i blew my daughter a kiss at the school gates,one of the other fathers looked at me in disgust"are you fooking your own daughter?" he asked.

"Erm.....no"i said,looking very sheepish."is it wrong for a father to blow a kiss to his daughter?"

"no" he replied."but it is wrong for her to catch that kiss and then rub it in her minge"

:nono:
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Wycombe Fox

Wycombe Fox

Posted
Posted (edited)

A woman goes to the Doctor, with bruises on her face.

The Doctor asks: "What happened?"

The woman says: "Doctor, I don't know what to do. Every time my husband comes home drunk, he slaps me around."

The Doctor says: "I have a real good cure for that. When your husband comes home drunk, just take a glass of water and start swishing it in your mouth. Just swish and swish but don't swallow it until he goes to bed and is asleep."

Two weeks later the woman comes back to the doctor looking fresh and rejuvenated.

The woman says: "Doctor that was a brilliant idea! Every time my husband came home drunk, I swished with water. I swished and swished, and he didn't touch me! How does the water do that?"

The Doctor says: "The water does feck all...it's keeping your mouth shut that does the trick"

Dalglish, Wenger, Redknapp, Boas and Fergie all sitting in a pub. Wenger goes up to the bar and buys the first round, Boas buys the second, Redknapp buys the third (via his accountant), Fergie buys the fourth and Kenny buys the fifth but does not return with a drink for Fergie.

"Where's mine?" Fergie asks.

"Sorry" says Kenny, "this is the fifth round and you're not in it."

Edited by Isle of Wight Fox
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Tielemans63

Tielemans63

Posted
Posted

Was out in Lestah last night with some old friends and one was trying the following chat-up line with little success. It was fcuking funny though!

My mate: "I hope you've got pet insurance love.."

Random victim: "Why??"

My mate: "Coz I'm going to destroy your pussy later on."

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Webbo

Webbo

Posted
Posted (edited)

My nephew does A-Team impressions, I told him they were utterly brilliant.

You should have seen his face!

I just bought an invisible cricket bat from ebay

I can't wait for it to arrive

The wife won't know what hit her.

Edited by Webbo
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Bilo

Bilo

Posted
Posted

They're as old as the hills, but these Kris Akabusi sex stories are still utterly genius.

It was a dreary October morning in the living room of the Busi when the rain-soaked letter landed on the front door mat. Regis remained semi-conscious on the blood-stained couch, drooling slightly and struggling to breathe as he regretted donating both kidneys to a backstreet surgeon in exchange for 50 quid the night before. Kris opened the envelope to reveal a dampened sheet of paper headed “BBC – Ready, Steady, Cook!” This was the second TV appearance Kris would be making in the last 12 months, previously appearing in a Crimewatch reconstruction with Linford as CCTV criminals wanted in Slough for armed robbery and the buggery of a goat.

It got better for Kris: he would be cooking alongside the elegant, horn-inducing Nigella Lawson and her oversized baps and he was looking forward to assisting her in stuffing beef sandwich. Delighted, and with his boxers already getting moistened, he darted for the front door and jumped into the Corsa, bound for Pinewood Studios.

It was time for filming, the hot studio lights came on, the cameras rolled and Busi was introduced by Ainsley. But it started off badly; Kris tipped the contents of his plastic bag onto the marble table top to reveal a misshapen carrot, two turnips, two sweet potatoes and a packet of Tesco value clotted cream. The most important aspect – meat – had not been presented so far, as producers had managed to convince Busi ten minutes before recording that his own blood-filled aubergine did not constitute edible meat and could not be served on primetime TV. Kris begged to differ on both counts.

But before he could start argue to the rolling cameras, Nigella gracefully entered onto the stage, her jugs almost bursting through her tight, silk top. Nigella walked over to the kitchen table top where Kris would soon be working (with) her, biting down gently on her index finger and raising a suggestive eyebrow.

That was all that was needed. Busi’s kecks dropped to the floor quicker than Pavarotti after a heart attack, and with the same vibration, as his inflating jackhammer and engorged chestnuts twanged into the Zanussi oven door. Blood rushed to his pulsing helmet quicker than Michael Barrymore getting to the lost child tent in Disneyland and by now, the swollen python, with its head throbbing more than the eye of a man called Hashimoto with conjunctivitis, eyed up the beaver under the stone-washed denim skirt.

Ainsley shouted “Get cooking”. Perhaps Kris had misheard; within a split-second the Buse-meister was behind Nigella’s buns aiming his interc*ntinental missile at her vulval fishmongers with the same devastation as a US rocket in an Afghan market. Before the on-screen clock even read 0:03, denim fibres were forcefully parted as Busi’s hairless womb ferret burrowed through the layers of clothing like a tarmac drill through warm butter. His sheer ramming speed meant it was only on the 4th thrust that Nigella noticed her vestibule had been violated and a quick look to the sauces shelf showed that it wasn’t the mayonnaise that had been spilt at her feet.

Meat was back on the menu as Kris stuffed Nigella’s turkey curtains like it was imminently Christmas dinner with the Klumps.

The audience reaction was a sight to behold; a mixture of emotions ranging from disgust, from the 60 year old women in their cardigans, to sheer delight, from their husbands. An elderly man in his eighties suffered a fatal stroke 6 minutes in whilst one thirteen year old boy, present on media studies work experience, got into the spirit of things, hand fapping away in the trouser department as the tits dropped out.

It was Ainsley’s non-plussed reaction which was most surprising; this was nothing new when he presented the show, and he was actually more upset that Kris was the man to get in there first with the, now streaming, Nigella. He regularly enjoyed entertaining the guest chefs, except last Monday, when Ainsley’s guest chef was Anthony Worrall-Thompson and that encounter left his eyes watering more than if he rubbed extra strong chilli powder right into them.

The countdown had begun, and Kris stepped up a gear, determined to serve the crème de la crème before time was up. Ainsley encouraged the crowd…“10…9…8…” but Busi had not reached that stage yet “…7…” He knew he had to perform the goods now otherwise the vote would go to green peppers. “…6…5…” He knew he couldn’t rely on the vote of the 13 year old – he had temporary left his seat to wash out his pants in a back stage sink. With the nation’s eyes on him the move had to happen now. Busi girded his loins and grabbed forth, milking Nigella’s udders as if to squeeze any final drops out. The crowd counted louder and with a split-second to go he ploughed his way forward for the final time.

The crowd roared and held up red tomato cards as the Buse returned his simmering aubergine into the dungarees from whence they came. Ainsley came over to admire the astronomical effort, noting how the now-comatosed Nigella’s streaming goo-pouch looked non-functional for at least a fortnight. It had been a week since Kris sowed his seed. This meant 2 and a half litres on this occasion. He leant forward to admire the piece de resistance, and to the standing ovation and applause, whispered “awooga” in her ear, and patted her on the fanny.

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Jackirius

Jackirius

Posted
Posted (edited)

Busi and The Bomb

Akabusi was trapped. In the storeroom. Of a JJB just outside of Luton. And he had just farted. The fragrance of his arse bomb was stronger than a Glaswegian Ramp Assistant and the smell would have pulled the skin back on his plonker if he hadn't already pulled it back. To pass the time.

Harvey Goldenblum, Busi's agent and confidante, had always told him that he was a potential target for extremists. People were jealous of a man who unzipped his dungs and instantly broke paving stones. So when a copper had burst into the grand opening of this palace of tracksuit bottoms and Gola trainers and announced that a suspect package was outside, Busi hadn't been surprised. He had always known this day would come.

The last few weeks had been omnious. Regis had spent exactly 5678 minutes building Krisstopher a Busi size FleshLight out of a stainless steel bin and some stolen ballistics gel. Regis had modelled the clunge piece on Mick Jagger singing Gimme Shelter and the clit had been fashioned from a mould of Judi Oakes in competition mode. All in all it was a ****ing mess but Busi didn't want to disappoint poor OCD riddled Regis so he got some blood into it and within in seconds he was sweating like a doorman at Tiger Tiger.

Of course the ballistics gel was shitter than a Concert for Diana and Busi was stuck solid. For three long and hard hours he looked like he was attacking Oscar the Grouch with a cock like five brown babies' arms wrapped together in angry veins. Eventually Roger Black had pulled out his ivory handled Yarborough and slashed through the gel quicker than Vanessa Fletz goes through men of colour.

Busi had been laid up for a week in his £127,874 one bedroom mansion as his ebony pussy pestle had recovered. In the meantime he had to lay off the clunge suds and his balls had gotten so huge that he was sure the Branson and Per Lindstrand would try to fly one of them across the Atlantic unsuccessfully. To pass the time and to keep the blood resolutely in his brain and not in his slumbering onyx sauce bottle he wrote 18 motivational books, recorded two videos on how not to piss or shit yourself in public and poked Tanni Grey Thompson on Facebook so hard he burst her tyres. And her bubble.

Whilst Kriss was out of action the gang resembled a fanny that had just been kicked. Busi had sent Regis to buy some tartan paint from Homebase and he hadn't come back. It had been three days. Black had been asked to head up the new Justice Ministry in ol' glass eyes new cabinet. Of course he was too busy to take the job - he had 18 Maplins stores and one Cotswold Outdoor to open. In a week. Roger had left only one directive - have Derek Redmond shot or stabbed. Or both. As long as he was harmed.

Black had eventually found Regis in Dunfermline mixing paints in a B&Q and for awhile the gang played Bean Flicker on Busi's Wii and sank Jagerbombs until the sun scraped over the horizon near Hemel. The doctor, who for some reason had a mask over his face and C4 strapped to his chest, had given him the all clear. The news sent a bullet train of blood into Busi's sleeping hymen humper and it twitched like a burning man. Krisstopher Akabusi was back.

As they had entered the JJB near Luton Akabusi's pussy levels were instantly raised to clitical and a jet black crack attack was imminent. The musty rarified air of the discount sports store crept into his silk dungs like Shrek into an apartment in La Luz and caressed his giant genitals with all the vigour of Argus speed reading the new Argos catalogue. As was the protocal at official openings Busi let slip his dungarees and proceeded to the cutting of the ribbon his meat Brabantia swinging like Benoit from a multigym. But the numptys who ran this new store had forgotten the Liz Duke scissors that only Busi could use. So Busi went backstage to find them.

And that is where he found himself now. Naked, hornier than Paul Gadd in a fringe production of Bugsy Malone and hotter than a couple of fellas pulling up to Glasgow Departures. Busi peeked out into the store. A robot that looked like a cross between Tanni Grey and Ultra Magnus was approaching his Corsa. On closer inspection it was actually Stephen Hawkings who the Bomb Disposal team used on occasion to diffuse bombs or open fetes. Or diffuse fetes.

Hawkwind was great at sums and theories but he was shit at opening things. So Regis washed his hands 26 times with carbolic and opened the boot. The suspect package was a mangled pile of steel and a congealed spunk. It was Regis' FleshLight. The police reopened the street and released the grip around some Asian's necks. Busi composed himself and strode out onto the shopfloor as proud and upstanding as Venus William's micro penis.

"The only controlled explosion in here will be in her face!" roared Busi with all the might and passion of Thor ****ing Odin and not giving a reach around. "Her" was the smokin' hot chief of Luton Bomb Disposal who was trying on some steel cap Green Flash. Busi knew beneath the crisp white flak jacket were a pair of bristols like two Bruce Willis's fighting and tucked into those crisp black combats was a clunge that would detain you for up to 90 days without charge.

Busi instantly became thicker than a wrestler's neck and his giant ebony pears lifted into the attack position. His retractable cum roof revealed a jap's eye as large and steely as Gordon Brown's glass golf ball. Kriss stood there looking like an overweight chocolate Pinocchio lying his arse off.

The chief pulled at her heavy clothes and whipped off her kevlar G with aplomb. She was wetter than coke near Cork and her fanny glistened in the strip lighting of the JJB. She had a clit like Keith Allen's penis. Busi stalked her like a black cat playing with a mouse. With tits. He wanted to get in her box and cut the red wire. Or the brown one.

Krisstopher lept on her like the McCanns on a plane and before she could take a breath, Busi was up to his nuts in the law. His hands were all over her and she wasn't shy either. He felt a thumb slip up his bum disposal unit and he knew this was going to a heavy one.

Within hours he was on his violent extremist vinegars and let fly with such a gush of ball broil that several newsagents in South Yorkshire got the sandbags out again. The store was ruined but his empty knackers echoed their approval and as he pulled his dying mickey out and slipped on his dungs Busi knew that this JJB was well and truly opened.

The emergency was over. Busi had gotten his oats and the chief was busily scoffing up the remnants. Black honked her horn in the Corsa. Regis has pissed and shit himself. He'd not watched the video. And he was a borderline flid. But he was family. And he made Busi look good.

Kriss looked down on the pile of flapping spermazota, matted fuzz, mobile phone detonaters, hazard tape and a clunge that looked like a boxer's ear, bent down on his powerful black knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.

Edited by Jackirius
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UpTheLeagueFox

UpTheLeagueFox

Posted
Posted

My ex once said she wanted a Brazilian downstairs.

We ended up with Pele as a lodger.

***

A damaged 18th century vase has sold for £80,000.

Blimey, if that’s second hand imagine what a new one would cost.

***

An 84-year-old great-grandmother has been arrested for streaking at The Chelsea Flower Show.

On the bright side, however, she won first prize for her dried arrangement.

( more daft stuff at www.randomsillynonsense.com )

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