Chapter 1

A man is walking the strip in Vegas when a fantastic looking hooker catches his eye.

He strikes up a conversation and eventually asks, “How Much?”

The hooker replies, “I start at $500 for a hand job.”

The man says, “$500 for a hand job? Holy crap, no hand job is worth that kind of money.”

The hooker says, “You see that KFC on the corner?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see the McDonald’s in the next block?”

“Yes.”

“And do you see the Wendy’s across the street?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said the hooker, smiling invitingly, “I own all those, and I own them because I give a hand job that’s worth $500...”

So the guy says, “What the hell? You only live once. I’ll give it a try.”

They go to a nearby motel. A short time later, the guy is sitting on the bed realizing that he has just had the hand job of a lifetime, worth every bit of $500.

He’s so amazed, he says, “I suppose a blow job is $1000.”

The hooker says, “No, $1500.”

“I wouldn’t pay that for a blow job!”

The hooker replies, “Step over to the window. Do you see those two casinos across the street? Well, I own those, and I own them because I give blow jobs that are worth every cent of $1500.”

The guy, still reeling from the terrific hand job, decides to put off buying a new car for another year or so, and says, “Sign me up.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, more amazed than before. He can hardly believe it, but he feels he truly got his money’s worth.

Deciding to go for broke, he asks, “So, how much for some pussy?”

The hooker says, “Come back over to the window. Do you see how the whole city of Las Vegas is laid out before us? All those casinos, with the beautiful lights, the gaming, the showgirls?”

Damn!” says the guy in awe. “You own the whole city?”

The hooker says, “No. But I would ... If I had a pussy!”

This one is compliments of R. McFee

Joke Island:

There was this fellow, who had decided to drop out of the rat trace and travel the country. He wandered, in his small RV, from town to town, stopping now and then, taking in the sights.

In one small town, deep in the mountains, he stopped for the evening, and decided to eat at the town bar. As he ate, from time to time, one or the other of the locals would sit up, clear his throat, and announce something like “Number 34!”, at which point, the rest of the crowd would start to laugh.

Sometime would pass, another would contribute, “Number 67!”, and laughter would follow

Then a third chimed in, “Number 73!”, and folks fell out laughing.

The traveler tuned to the guy next to him, and asked, “What’s that all about?”

His neighbor explained, “Well, when the farming is all done, we all gather, and tell jokes. As you can imagine, we have heard everybody’s entire joke collection, so after that, just to save time, we’ve numbered them all, and simply refer them by number. This is a small town, but we get around, and every so often, a new joke arrives. We assign it a number, and move along.”

The traveler fancied himself a fellow of education and sophistication, and thought he’d try his hand. He stood up, said, “Excuse me, everybody! Number 127!”, and sat down to a deafening silence.

Long, embarrassed moments passed. The traveler leaned over to his neighbor, and asked, “How come nobody laughed?”

The townie regarded him for a moment, and responded, “I think it’s all in your delivery.”