My favourite joke of ALL time:
A bloke with Tourette's Syndrome walks into the poshest restaurant in town.
'Where's the p*ssing, motherf*cking manager, you c*cksucking @rsewipe?' he inquires of one of the waiters. The waiter is taken aback and replies, 'Excuse me sir but could you please refrain from using that sort of language in here. I will get the manager as soon as I can'.
The manager comes over and the bloke asks, 'Are you the chicken f*cking manager
of this b@stard place?'
'Yes sir, I am,' replies the manager, 'but I would prefer it if you could refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant'.
'F*ck off' replies the bloke 'and where's the f*cking piano?'
'Pardon?' says the manager.
'F*cking deaf as well, are we? You snivelling little piece of sh*t, show me your c*nting piano.'
'Ah,' replies the manager, 'you've come about the pianist job' and shows the bloke to the piano. 'Can you play any blues?'
'Of course I f*cking can,' and the bloke proceeds to play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky tonk blues that the manager has ever heard.
'That's superb. What's it called?'
'I tried to sh@g yer missus on the sofa but the springs kept hurting my dick,' replies the bloke. The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The bloke proceeds, playing the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
'Magnificent,' cries the manager. 'What's it called?'
'Wanted a w@nk over the washing machine but I got my balls caught in the soap drawer'.
The manager is a tad embarrassed and asks if he knows any romantic ballads. The bloke then plays the most heartbreaking melody the manager has ever heard.
'And what's this called?' asks the manager.
'As I f*ck you under the stars with the moonlight shining off your hairy ring piece,' replies the bloke. The manager is highly upset by the bloke's language but offers him the job on condition that he doesn't introduce any of his songs or talk to any of the customers.
This arrangement works well for a couple of months until one night, sitting opposite him, is the most gorgeous blonde he has ever laid his eyes on. She's wearing an almost see through dress, her tits are almost falling out the top of her black lace bra, and the skimpy little 'G' string she's wearing is riding up the crack of her @rse. She's sitting there with her legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus shoots and the butter is dripping down her chin. It's too much for the bloke and he runs off to the bogs to bash the bishop. He's tugging away furiously when he hears the manager's voice: 'Where's that b@stard pianist?'
He just has time to chuck his muck, and in a fluster he runs back to the piano having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts playing some more tunes. The blonde steps up and walks over to the piano, leans over and whispers in his ear, 'Do you know your knob and b*llocks are hanging out of your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?'
The bloke replies, 'Know it? I f*cking wrote it!'
Those who give up their freedoms for temporary security deserve neither and will lose both.