Did you hear about the prostitute who failed her driver’s test three times?
She couldn’t learn to sit up in a car.
The young Australian sailor couldn’t wait for shore leave in the Big Apple. He lost no time picking up a hooker and bringing her back to his hotel room. Asking her to undress, he proceeded to lean the bed up against the wall and toss every other article of furniture out the window, down the air shaft.
“What on earth are you planning to do with me?” asked the hooker nervously.
“I’m not exactly sure, Ma’am,” answered the Australian, “but if it’s anything like it is with a kangaroo, we’ll need all the room we can get.”
Nussbaum the peddler was busted for selling woolen hats without a license, and he was hauled into court along with three prostitutes who had been arraigned on the same day.
“It’s all a case of mistaken identity,” protested the first streetwalker to be summoned before the bench. “I’m mindin’ my own business when this car pulls up—”
“Drop it,” interrupted the judge. “I’ve seen you in this courthouse at least a dozen times before. That’ll be a hundred and fifty dollars, and it’ll be twice that if I set eyes on you again. Next!”
The second hooker whined, “I was just on my way to night school, Judge, to learn how to make an honest dollar, when—”
“Cut the crap,” the magistrate broke in. “Two hundred and fifty bucks or ten days in jail—you choose. Next!”
The third woman came forward and declared, “Your Honor, I plead guilty: I’m a prostitute. It’s not the living I’d choose, but it’s the only way I can make enough to feed and clothe my family, so it’s what I do.”
The judge smiled. “Finally, someone who realizes a courtroom is a place to tell the truth. To reward your honesty, young woman, I’m dismissing your case. In fact, Mr. O’Brien”—he turned and summoned the bailiff—“make sure Miss Cardoza gets seventy-five dollars from the Policemen’s Benevolent Fund. Next?”
Up stepped Nussbaum the peddler, who had been paying close attention. “Your Honor,” he said frankly, “I’m not gonna lie to you either. I’m a prostitute.”
What do you get when you cross an elephant and a prostitute?
A hooker who does it for peanuts and won’t ever forget you.
Harry and his wife are having hard times, so they decide she’ll become a hooker. She’s not sure what to do, so Harry says, “Stand in front of that bar and pick up a guy. Tell him a hundred bucks. If you’ve got a question, I’ll be parked around the corner.”
She’s not in front of the bar for five minutes when a guy pulls up in a car and says, “How much?”
She says, “A hundred dollars.”
He says, “Shit. All I’ve got is thirty.”
She says, “Hold on.”
She runs back to Harry and says, “What can he get for thirty dollars?”
Harry says, “A hand job.”
She runs back and tells the guy all he gets for thirty dollars is a hand job. He says okay, she gets in the car, he unzips his pants, and out pops a huge cock.
She stares at it for a minute, and then says, “I’ll be right back.”
She runs back around the corner and says, “Harry, can you loan this guy seventy bucks?”
A young hillbilly goes into a whorehouse and says, “I want a woman, but I’ve always been scared, because my momma told me a woman has teeth between her legs.”
The whore says, “Don’t be silly. I’ll take care of you.” She takes him up to a room, gets undressed, lies on the bed, and spreads her legs. “See,” she says, “there’s no teeth between my legs.”
The kid says, “Of course you ain’t got no teeth down there. Look at the shape your gums are in.”
I broke into show business the hard way; I played piano in a whorehouse.
—RED BUTTONS
Psychiatrists and Psychiatry
A psychiatrist is a fellow who asks you a lot of expensive questions your wife asks you for nothing.
—JOEY ADAMS
The well-meaning social worker was seeing if Mrs. Englehardt qualified for admission to the local nursing home, and part of the standard procedure was a test for senility. “And what’s this?” she asked sweetly of the old German woman, who was sitting at the dinner table.
“Dot? Dot’s a spoon,” answered Mrs. Englehardt.
“Very good,” said the social worker. “And this?”
“Dot’s a fork,” answered the old woman.
“Very good. And this?” asked the social worker, holding up a knife.
“Dot’s a phallic symbol.”
An assembly-line worker became increasingly obsessed with his desire to stick his penis into the pickle slicer. Finally, worried that he’d be unable to control the desire, he sought the advice of a psychiatrist.
“You know, I had a case not unlike this one a few months ago,” said Dr. Bernstein, thoughtfully rubbing his beard, “a man who kept wanting to put his hand on a hot stove.”
“So what happened?” asked the factory worker.
“He went ahead and did it,” confessed the doctor, “and he burned himself, but he never had the desire again. So my advice is to go ahead and follow your impulse in order to free yourself.”
“Okay, Doc.” And the patient left.
At his next appointment, the doctor asked what had happened.
“I took your advice,” said the man, “and stuck my penis into the pickle slicer.”
“So then what happened?” asked the psychiatrist, leaning forward eagerly.
“We both got fired.”
My superiority complex turned out to be an inferiority complex. I said, “Great, that makes me the least of my problems.”
—SARA B. SIRIUS
A man was attacked and left bleeding in a ditch. Two psychiatrists passed by and one said to the other, “We must find the man who did this—he needs help.”
Why did the Siamese twins go to a shrink?
They were co-dependent.
The man came into the psychiatrist’s office, lay down on the couch, and told the doctor he needed help ridding his mind of an obsession. “All I can think of, day and night, is making love to a horse. It’s driving me nuts.”
“I see,” said the shrink, rubbing his goatee. “Now, would that be to a stallion or to a mare?”
“A mare, of course,” retorted the patient, pulling himself upright indignantly. “What do you think I am, a pervert or something?”
Nerve is going to a psychiatrist because of a split personality and asking for a group rate.
The seriously disturbed man slunk into the office of an eminent psychiatrist.
“Doctor, you have to help me, it’s gotten really bad,” he pleaded. “I feel like nobody ever listens to me.”
The psychiatrist looked up and said, “Next!”
How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?
One. But the lightbulb has to really want to change.
I was in analysis. I was suicidal. As a matter of fact, I would have killed myself, but I was in analysis with a strict Freudian and if you kill yourself, they make you pay for the sessions you miss.
—WOODY ALLEN
Summoning the patient into his office, the psychiatrist shot her a radiant smile. “You know, Claudia, in this profession one rarely uses the word ‘cure,’ but after five years of therapy, it is my pleasure to pronounce you one hundred percent cured!” he announced proudly.
To his surprise, an unhappy look came over the woman’s face. “What’s wrong?” asked the doctor. “This is a success for me and a triumph for you—I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“Oh, it’s fine for you,” she finally snapped, “but look at it from my point of view. Three years ago I was Joan of Arc. Now I’m nobody.”
“I wouldn’t worry about your son playing with dolls,” the doctor told the middle-aged matron.
She said, “I’m not worried, but his wife is very upset.”
—JOEY ADAMS
I finally had an orgasm and my doctor told me it was the wrong kind.
—WOODY ALLEN AND MARSHALL BRICKMAN
Aunt Jean was rattling along in her Oldsmobile when she got a flat tire. Being an independent sort, she jacked up the car and undid the nuts and bolts, but as she was pulling the tire off, she lost her balance and fell backward onto the hubcap holding the hardware. And it rolled right down into a storm sewer.
This entire incident occurred outside the state insane asylum and happened to be observed by an inmate watching carefully through an open but barred window.
“Listen, lady,” he called out, “just use one bolt from each of the other three tires. They’ll be plenty strong enough to get you to the gas station.”
“Quick thinking,” said Aunt Jean admiringly. “Now why on earth is a bright boy like you stuck in that place?”
“Lady, I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”
You know how everyone wants a second opinion these days? Well, this lady had been going to a psychiatrist for years and finally she decided she’d had enough of it. “Doctor,” she announced, walking into his office, “I’ve been seeing you every week for five years now. I don’t feel any better, I don’t feel any worse. What’s the story? I want you to level with me. What’s wrong with me?”
“All right,” said the doctor, “I’ll tell you. You’re crazy.” “Now wait just a minute,” she protested. “I think I’m entitled to a second opinion.”
“Fine,” he responded. “You’re ugly, too.”
—MEL CALMAN
I had to give up masochism—I was enjoying it too much.
Two women were comparing notes on their psychotherapists. “Frankly, mine drives me crazy,” said Eileen. “Three years I’ve been going to her now and she never says a single word to me. Just sits there and nods.”
“That’s nothing,” responded Ruthie. “After six years I finally get three words out of mine.”
“Oh yeah? What’d he say?”
“‘No hablo ingles.’”
I went to this conference for bulemics and anorexics. It was a nightmare. The bulemics ate the anorexics. It’s okay—they were back again ten minutes later.
—MONICA PIPER
After the woman seated herself in the psychiatrist’s office, the doctor asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“Well, I, uh,” she stammered. “I think I, uh, might be a nymphomaniac.”
“I see,” he said. “I can help you, but I must advise you that my fee is eighty dollars an hour.”
“That’s not bad,” she replied. “How much for all night?”
A man goes to a psychiatrist and tells him, “Doc, I think I’m obsessed with sex.”
“Well, let’s do a few tests,” the doctor says. He draws a square on a piece of paper and asks the man to identify it.
The man immediately says, “Sex.”
Next the doctor draws a circle, which the man again identifies as sex.
Then the doctor draws a triangle, which, of course, the patient identifies as sex.
The doctor puts the drawings away and says to the patient, “Yes, I do believe you have an obsession with sex.”
To which the man replies, “I’m not the one with the obsession! You’re the one drawing all the dirty pictures!”
A writer from Better Homes and Gardens goes to an insane asylum to interview Horace Schmeeley, an inmate who is reported to be an amazing landscape gardener. As Horace shows the interviewer around the grounds, she is flabbergasted. Everything is immaculate. The flowers are beautiful, the grass is perfectly manicured, and the trees are expertly pruned. And his running commentary on each shrub and bush is equally impressive. She can’t believe it. Here’s this guy in an insane asylum, and he’s probably the most talented gardener and landscape designer she’s ever met, with an inexhaustable knowledge of every aspect of gardening.
At the end of the tour, she says to Horace, “I am enormously impressed with your work. Not only am I going to write a feature article about you and your work, but I’m going to petition my congressman to have you released from here, so you can get a good job on the outside. Your considerable talents shouldn’t go to waste.”
She turns and walks away. “When she gets about twenty feet away from him, a huge brick flies into the back of her head and Horace yells, “You won’t forget about me, will you?”
A man who had been in a mental institution for some years finally seemed to have improved to the point where it was thought he might be released. The psychiatrist who headed the institution, with commendable caution, decided, however, to interview him first.
“Tell me,” said he, “if we release you, as we are considering doing, what do you intend to do with your life?”
The inmate said, “It would be wonderful to get back to real life and, if I do, I will certainly refrain from making my former mistake. I was a nuclear physicist, you know, and it was the stress of my work in weapons research that helped to put me here. If I am released, I shall confine myself to work in pure theory, where I trust the situation will be less difficult and stressful.”
“Marvelous,” said the psychiatrist.
“Or else,” ruminated the inmate, “I might teach. There is something to be said for spending one’s life in developing a new generation of scientists.”
“Absolutely,” said the psychiatrist.
“Then again, I might write. There is considerable need for books on science for the general public. Or I might even write a novel based on my experiences in this fine institution.”
“An interesting possibility,” said the psychiatrist.
“And finally, if none of these things appeals to me, I can always continue to be a teakettle.”
How many psychoanalysts does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
How many do you think it takes?
Why is psychoanalysis a lot quicker for men than for women?
When it’s time to go back to their childhood, men are already there.
R
Religion
Why is it when we talk to God, we’re said to be praying, but when God talks to us, we’re schizophrenic?
—LILY TOMLIN
If God’s got anything better than sex to offer, he’s certainly keeping it to himself.
—STING
A church is a place in which gentlemen who have never been to heaven brag about it to persons who will never get there.
—H. L. MENCKEN
And we are told in the Scriptures that at the beginning of time the Lord said, “Let there be light.” But I’ve checked with a number of eminent Biblical scholars and they say the Lord’s complete statement was as follows: “Let there be light. Well, maybe not all day.”
—STEVE ALLEN
I’d like to come back as an oyster. Then I’d only have to be good from September until April.
—GRACIE ALLEN
When one of the angels asked God where he’s going on holiday this year, God replied, “Certainly not to Earth again. I went there about two millennia ago, got a little Jewish girl pregnant—and they haven’t stopped talking about it since!”
Hear about the New Age church in California?
It has three commandments and seven suggestions.
So . . . after Adam was created, there he was in the Garden of Eden. Of course, it wasn’t good for him to be all by himself, so the Lord came down to visit.
“Adam,” He said, “I have a plan to make you much, much happier. I’m going to give you a companion, a helpmate for you—someone who will fulfill your every need and desire. Someone who will be faithful, loving, and obedient. Someone who will make you feel wonderful every day of your life.”
Adam was stunned. “That sounds incredible!”
“Well, it is,” replied the Lord. “But it doesn’t come for free. In fact, this is someone so special that it’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.”
“That’s a pretty high price to pay,” said Ad
am. “What can I get for a rib?”
Jesus was walking in the rain one day, and he passed the shop of Samson, who made clothes. Samson called out to Jesus and gave him a cloak he had just made. Jesus’s cloak was admired by everyone. Everywhere he preached, people exclaimed about the workmanship of the cloak.
When Samson met Jesus six months from the day that he had given him the cloak, he said, “Jesus, we’ve got a great thing going here. Since people have seen you wearing your cloak, I have had so many orders for others like it. I think we should go into business together. The only problem I’m having is trying to decide what to call the business. Should it be called ‘Samson and Jesus’ or ‘Jesus and Samson’?”
“How about Lord and Taylor?” Jesus responded.
If God dwells inside us like some people say, I sure hope He likes enchiladas, because that’s what He’s getting.
—JACK HANDEY
Going to war over religion is basically killing each other to see who’s got the better imaginary friend.
—RICHARD JENI
I was talking to Jesus, and I said, “Jesus, I feel like no one will ever accept me.” And Jesus looked at me and said, “You know what my theory is? Accept me or go to hell.”
—GILBERT GOTTFRIED
Freaks everywhere. I went to a church in Chicago. Church had six commandments and four do-the-best-you-cans.
—GEORGE WALLACE
Catholicism
A priest and a businessman were playing golf. After playing several holes, the businessman’s game takes a turn for the worse.
“Damn! I missed!” he swears, as his ball lands in a sand bunker.
The priest is understandably shocked and admonishes the businessman, “Do not swear, my son. You will incur God’s wrath.”
The next time the businessman fails, however, he exclaims again, “Damn! I missed!”
Friar's Club Encyclopedia of Jokes Page 33
