Got a pair of boxers with the London
Underground map on for my birthday.
Already had to change twice.

A mate asked me if I'd shag Keira Knightley.

I told him I'd be happy with once a month!

I told my wife I like Eminem and she told me she prefers Skittles. I told her I meant the rapper.

She asked me why I would eat the wrapper.

I asked my son what he learned at school today. He said, “Gay men like Sony, lesbians favor Yamaha, and transgender people prefer Bose.”

Kneeling down I put my hand on his shoulder and replied, “Son, those are just stereo types.”

 

 

One evening, a rather large woman in a sleeveless sundress walked into a lively bar. She strode confidently to the center of the room, raised her right arm—revealing an impressively hairy armpit—and scanned the patrons.

In a booming voice, she asked, “Which man here will buy a lady a drink?”

The bar fell silent. Patrons exchanged nervous glances, trying to avoid her gaze. The awkward tension hung thick in the air.

Then, from the far end of the bar, a bleary-eyed drunk slapped his hand on the counter and shouted, “Give the ballerina a drink!”

The bartender shrugged, poured her a drink, and slid it over. The woman grabbed the glass, downed it in one swift gulp, and slammed it back on the bar.

A few moments later, she raised her arm again, showing off her hairy armpit, and asked the crowd once more, “Which man here will buy a lady a drink?”

Once again, the same drunk slammed his hand on the bar and hollered, “Give the ballerina another drink!”

The bartender, now more curious than ever, poured the drink and leaned over to the drunk. “Hey, buddy, it’s your money, and you can spend it how you like, but I’ve got to ask—why do you keep calling her a ballerina?”

The drunk gave a lopsided grin, pointed to her raised arm, and slurred, “Any woman who can lift her leg that high has got to be a ballerina!”