Extended Pianist Joke
While you're waiting for the next dollop of fat blogging content from yours truly you may enjoy this joke sent in by an old college drinking buddy by the name of Mick. The deletion of the swear words are his not mine, but I couldn't be @rsed to put all the offending letters back in.
'This bloke walks into the poshest restaurant in town and says, "Where's the goddam, mother fu©king Manager you co©k sucking @rse wipe." The waiter is naturally 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 fu©king manager of this b@stard joint?". "Yes, sir, I am," replies the manager, "and I would prefer it if you could refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant". "Fu©k off!" replies the bloke. "And where's the fu©king piano?" "Pardon?" says the manager. "Fu©king deaf as well are we? You little piece of sniveling sh¡t, show us your p¡ssing piano."
"Ahhhh," replies the manager. "You've come about the pianist's job," and shows the bloke to the piano. "Can you play any blues?" "Of course I fu©king can," and the bloke proceeds to play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky tonk blues that the manager has ever heard.
"Why, that's superb, what's it called?"
"I want to fu©k your missus on the sofa but the springs keep hurting my knob," replies the pianist.
The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The bloke proceeds to play the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard. "Magnificent!" cries the manager. "What's it called?" "I wanted a wank over the washin' machine but my bollo©ks got 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. "And what's this called?" asks the manager. "As I fu©k 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 t¡ts are almost falling out the top and the skimpy little 'G' string she's wearing is riding up the crack of her @rse. She is 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 'wrestle with his bald headed champ'. He's pulling away furiously when he hears the manager's voice... "Where's that bloody pianist?" He just has time to shoot his bolt and in a fluster he runs back to the piano, not having 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 balls are hanging out your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?".
"Know it," the pianist replies, "I fu©king wrote it!"'
It's the way he tells 'em, so it is. Normal service soon.
While you're waiting for the next dollop of fat blogging content from yours truly you may enjoy this joke sent in by an old college drinking buddy by the name of Mick. The deletion of the swear words are his not mine, but I couldn't be @rsed to put all the offending letters back in.
'This bloke walks into the poshest restaurant in town and says, "Where's the goddam, mother fu©king Manager you co©k sucking @rse wipe." The waiter is naturally 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 fu©king manager of this b@stard joint?". "Yes, sir, I am," replies the manager, "and I would prefer it if you could refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant". "Fu©k off!" replies the bloke. "And where's the fu©king piano?" "Pardon?" says the manager. "Fu©king deaf as well are we? You little piece of sniveling sh¡t, show us your p¡ssing piano."
"Ahhhh," replies the manager. "You've come about the pianist's job," and shows the bloke to the piano. "Can you play any blues?" "Of course I fu©king can," and the bloke proceeds to play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky tonk blues that the manager has ever heard.
"Why, that's superb, what's it called?"
"I want to fu©k your missus on the sofa but the springs keep hurting my knob," replies the pianist.
The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The bloke proceeds to play the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard. "Magnificent!" cries the manager. "What's it called?" "I wanted a wank over the washin' machine but my bollo©ks got 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. "And what's this called?" asks the manager. "As I fu©k 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 t¡ts are almost falling out the top and the skimpy little 'G' string she's wearing is riding up the crack of her @rse. She is 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 'wrestle with his bald headed champ'. He's pulling away furiously when he hears the manager's voice... "Where's that bloody pianist?" He just has time to shoot his bolt and in a fluster he runs back to the piano, not having 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 balls are hanging out your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?".
"Know it," the pianist replies, "I fu©king wrote it!"'
It's the way he tells 'em, so it is. Normal service soon.
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