Funny works

[Anonymous No.6324441]

Getting tired of "non-fiction hurr durr" shit and "please r8 my deep as fuck poem". Let's get a thread with funny, random, absurd things that you all wrote.
Spanish and English are welcome.

[Anonymous No.6324449]

I shit all over myself while going through withdrawals and having a seizure

you had to be there

[Anonymous No.6324452]

>>6324441
>A poem I made entirely out of buzzfeed article titles for shit and giggles

Do you show empathy for others?

Have you been having a hard time

Waking up?

Does it sometimes feel

Like you are brain-stuck,

vaporous

Rapidly expanding

Pushing out the indents in your skull?

Is your head occasionally

Plotting against you?

Do you suddenly want to

Kill yourself at

Three in the morning?

Where do you go

When you get stir-

crazy?

How many cigarettes are you

Smoking

To numb the buzzing behind

Your eyes?

Who are you letting

Fuck you until you bruise?

When was the last time

You called home?

*

Now,

pick the romance movie

that best describes

You.

[Anonymous No.6324453]

>>6324441
"Mary Jane saw the funny small squirrel down the tree. “What a little shit it is to be a squirrel” she thought. But she forgot one things about the DAMN squirrel. It had mental powers, it could read her mind. “I am the squirrel, knee before me or prepare to die” mentally talked the squirrel, with Adam Sandler voice. Mary Jane kneeled, but, before the squirrel got triumphant, she took out a glove out of her pocket and said “Let’s make a duel, for God’s sake!” and beat the squirrel with the hard glove. The squirrel was all like “What man? Did you just got that reference from the Simpsons?” so it mentally destroyed Mary Jane with some illuminati shit. Dayum! That is a hell of a squirrel."

I wrote that while being high

[Anonymous No.6324455]

Funny stuff?

Nah, lets get a anti-john green thread going
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=niuTZAKntC0
President Obama literally loves fault in our stars and all of America and soon of the world is becoming cuck

[Anonymous No.6324457]

>>6324453
not bad anon

[Anonymous No.6324458]

>>6324452
Original. I like it.

[Anonymous No.6324462]

Puto el que lee.

[Anonymous No.6324474]

>>6324457
I have a little more. The rest is just gibberish.

"Well, so the squirrel got fed up with all that shit and tried to claim Mount Rushmore for it. But Abraham, the jew, stopped in the middle of Montana or Oregon and said “Oh thou squirrel, go fuck yourself, for It is written!”. “Lel, what a pleb shit taste reading OT faggot cuck” said the squirrel, squirting like Squirtle. Abraham did not understand. The squirrel climbed the mount while he was sort of distracted. “I win” it said. And Abraham killed his son finally and anally."

[Anonymous No.6324484]

>>6324462

[Anonymous No.6324487]

In this town, you don't mean shit unless you have a special talent. That's how it goes.

It just so happens that my talent is really useful for the kind of business I do. I suppose a lot of people would brand it as illegal. It's very illegal. Bounty on my head, dad doesn't return my calls kind of illegal. But that's how it goes.

When you're completely, totally, and irrevocably silent on your feet like I am, you can get places that others can't. Whether or not you're allowed there is a different matter, but that's how I go. You can't tell me what to do. I'm a grown ass man. That's how it goes.

I'm Butters. Hector P. "Killed A Bitch With His Shoes" "Blob Boner" "Butters" "Alexis" Rodriguez. But that's not my real name. I don't want to tell it to you, because the internet exists and the last thing I want is some dipshit kid looking me up and thinking he's so fucking smart for selling my info to the computer illiterate shmucks running the Cartel, so the old name goes, and I get to don the mexican "John Doe" with my own spicy flair on top.

And I'm not telling you how I got my nicknames. That shit is private. You're reading this for the public exploits; no personal or secret stuff. I can explain the stuff I'm doing and about to do, since that's not going to affect my personal life too much.

You just can't help certain things in this line of work. Like telling a bitch that she's hot when you're ordering fast food. I ain't ever met her yet or even seen her, but you can tell through the intercom while you're ordering your food that she's a cutie. Something about the voice. Part of it is guessing if she's fat or not; if her voice is super high or squeezed, then she's fat enough that her neck is compressed. You get those bitches in that line of work, and it's hard to hit on a girl face to face when you don't start flirty and expect some sort of sex favor from her once you reach the window. Numbers game, baby.

[Anonymous No.6324491]

>>6324487


So I told her she was hot. She said I was a bad boy and told me to pull up. Make risks, get messy, make mistakes. You learn a lot from Miss Frizzle, so that philosophy of taking extreme chances was just a part of my day.

Turns out I was pretty fucked. Not only was she fat, but she had a face you could set on fire from all the grease. She looked like a rhino that got its horn surgically removed at birth, then had vaseline and french fry particulate smeared all over her stupid mug. I had made a horrible mistake, which is ok, because at least it's just some broad at a fast food joint and not me getting shot in the fucking face. That's happened.

Now, in these situations you can't just tell a fair lady to piss off then bail. You have to be diplomatic. You have to smile, be friendly, kiss her misshapen blobby hands, tell her how lovely she is, tip your hat, all that. Eat some food and tuck a doller bill into the tumor she calls a boob. She's a friend now, somebody you see every once in a while. Maybe she'll be useful later; you never know when a dame is going to need your help in exchange for favors, and while I was never one to slam out blueberry girls, you have to sometimes perform in order to get a paycheck. My phone has at least forty fatties constantly calling me up for me to fuck them, and I oblidge them all. Kept me alive in some cases though the hospital bill for my dick is starting to get more expensive than life insurance. Despite that, you learn that safehouses and a fuckload of preservable food are what you need when the occupational hazards get too occupational and hazardous, and you just need a friendly shack to retreat to.

It ain't about porking porkies. I swear.

Her name was Uh Net, or something like that. She had tiny little black oreo crumbs for eyes. I think they were different sizes. She called me a sailor and handed me my four customary bags labelled with the logo of that one fast food place that I go to often and has a very distinct symbol. I'm not allowed to tell you because I don't get paid enough in my commissions to fend off multibillion dollar corporations with lawyers.

[Anonymous No.6324496]

>>6324491
When I got to the parking lot with my chow I dug in the way you're supposed to; with fists. There's no time to be dainty with your meal. You gotta consume it because it's fuel, and it just so happens that my body is a jet engine. You know how planes have giant tanks for all the gas they put in there? I have those tanks too, and even though they kinda droop and puff out a bit I still know that I'm a sexy man, and sexy men need to be maintained with a strict diet of proteins and healthy fats, and I'm pretty sure I got an avocado on my burger, maybe.

This is the spot where I meet the gal that gives me a job. You don't feed yourself with bacon avocado burgers on the salary that a bachelors in economics gives you. I only got a year into that program before they kicked me out on some bullshit grounds that I "harrassed the teaching staff" or that my "hygiene was unacceptable for the dorm buildings". I mean, who cares, right? Didn't look too bad to me. Mushrooms are natural.

Soon the gal came up to me. She was smart looking. Wore glasses. I really don't know what smart people look like other than that they wear glasses. According to my system of sexual acquaintances, I gathered my thoughts and considered a slick line to lay down to get her juices going.

"Hey Bitch." I didn't mean to say that.

"Here." She handed me a folder.

"What do you want me to do with this shit, read it?" Didn't mean to say that either, though knowing my luck she's probably into that. I squeezed my eyes to get analytical about her response.

Unfortunately, the gal wasn't too smart looking then. Smart people don't turn green and throw up in their mouths. "Oh god." She saw the back seat I guess. Nobody like that spot. "Mushrooms."

I took the folder from her since she was too busy puking on the asphalt. I'd read it later I guess. Girls like her ain't too hot when they hurl, and I had already fucked up the delivery of my smoothest lines. First priority was to get out of here before she died, which wasn't an exaggeration because she had collapsed into a little pile, just squirting vomit everywhere. It wasn't a good moment. Driving into the sunset doesn't look as cool when somebody's excretions are running down the side of your car.

To Be Continued, in the next installment of "Butters The Burglar"

[Anonymous No.6324502]

>>6324496
>>6324491
>>6324487
How is this even funny? It made me wanna sleep, jeez.

[Anonymous No.6324884]

im sure this isnt exactly knee slapping funny but meh

“Bjorne, if you come any closer than that painting there,” and Benny pointed the pistol at the abstract on the granite wall roughly fifteen feet from either of them, “I’m going to have to shoot your other foot. I don’t want to,” which was true. Benny was roughly a pacifist.

“Fuck you, Benny,” shouted Bjorne, and he limped on. “I’m gonna fucking kill you, man. You’re dead.” Bjorne looked like he had thyroid problems and slowly waddled down the hall like a shit was sliding down his leg.

“Bjorne, come on man, I’m really not for this nonsense.” He meant it. Accidentally shooting Bjorne’s sixth and seventh left toes off hurt Benny more than it hurt Bjorne, in a manner of speaking. It was self-defense. Bjorne was after the key to Benny’s safety deposit box. More accurately, a safety deposit box left to Benny by his father.

“Fuck you, Benny,” Bjorne repeated, and Benny was hurt. He’d been hearing that a lot lately. He wondered why. “Why do people always say that to me, Bjorne?”

“Fuck you, Benny,” once again echoed through the hallway, and Bjorne’s hand was now touching the painting. Just then, the elevator dinged and the door whispered open.

“Well, third time’s the charm, as they say. So long Bjorne, good luck with the toes,” and Benny stepped on the elevator, pressing LOBBY.
As the door closed, Benny heard Bjorne shout, “Fuck you, Benny,” a fourth time.
“Hmm, that doesn’t bode well,” Benny thought out loud. “Four is death,” quoting roughly from Wikipedia. The page was titled, “Japanese superstitions,” had a section titled, “Numbers,” reading thus: “Four is sometimes pronounced shi, which is also the word for death.” Benny looked at the elevator’s button panel. The fourth and thirteenth floors were missing. Multiculturalism was alive and well, even in elevator design.

On second thought, though, Benny realized this was a little counterintuitive. The floor designated the fifth was still the fourth. It was equally deadly. The same regression applied to the alleged fifteenth floor, which was really the thirteenth. Benny figured it made more sense to just call a duck a duck, label the floors as they are. If you were truly superstitious, and fate forced you into the fourth floor, wouldn’t you want to know it? You would. You’d want to take the same precautions as someone who just crossed a black cat. Hearing the receptionist, “Your room is on the fifth floor,” would probably be a death sentence for the mystically inclined; no way of protecting themselves against the evils that lurked on what was in reality the fourth floor, whereas privy to their staying on that fatal story, they could safeguard their rooms with blessed charms and talismans for warding off misfortune.

[Anonymous No.6324887]

>>6324884
Benny lit up a joint produced from his jacket and he saw the efficient conspiracy of corporatism at work. It was like this: in some halcyon age, all hotels had correctly labeled floors, and concerned travelers just packed the proper protections, and everything got along just fine for awhile, concerned neophytes ritualistically protecting themselves and their kin, the rest sleeping soundly after a day’s work. One day, though, when war and disease receded stopped being public concerns, guests on the third and fifth floors, and maybe even the less-faithful guests on the fourth, began that morose practice symptomatic of chronic, postindustrial boredom: complaint. The atheists and the heretics complained about the noisy but auspicious percussive devotionals; about the god- and death-fearing ululations; about the foul smell of incense and mushroom and animal bone that wafted through the ventilation system when the moon was high and the clock struck thirteen. First they complained, and then they left, and then they stopped coming back. When things failed to improve, the remainder committed the worst sin of all: they demanded refunds. This was too much, the transgression too brusque. This demanded attention; tradition had to be struck out. Management stepped in, and the fourth floor was forever Sharpie’d out of all future blueprints.

[Anonymous No.6324909]

>>6324887
strike "receded" fourth line. my bad

[Anonymous No.6324923]

Mr Doggle had a wonderful penis. A scrandtacular, pendiferous penis. If you asked it a question, it would always know the answer. If you patted it on the head three times, it would give you a cookie. If you tickled it's chin, it would tell you a bed time story. One of these bedtime stories went like this:

There once was a boy named Neberon. He liked to walk down the street after dark. One day he bumped into a dingdong named whodabby, who was hobnobbin with the jews. But oh no! He stuck his toe in a pot of jam, and all the churches fell down.

Mr Doggle loved his penis, as did all of the townsfolk. But there was one townsfolk who was jealous of Mr Doggles penis: this man's name was Butt Henry. Butt Henry would always tell jokes, but no one ever paid attention to his jokes, because they were too busy patting Mr Doggles penis on the head. So one day, Butt Henry took a knife, and STABBED Mr Doggle's penis. It bled and bled, and the townsfolk were quite afraid: what if Mr Doggle's penis died? Who would tell their children bed time stories, or answer their questions, or give them wonderful delicous cookies? Who they asked, who?

[Anonymous No.6324924]

>>6324884
Hilarious
>>6324887
Wordy and nowhere near as smooth as the last post, but great analysis on older corporate culture.

4/5 gud jab

[Anonymous No.6324932]

>>6324487
>It just so happens that my talent is really useful for the kind of business I do. I suppose a lot of people would brand it as illegal. It's very illegal.

this is so cliched it hurts to read.

[Anonymous No.6324939]

>>6324923
>>6324923
The answer, it turned out, was nobody. Mr Doggle's penis died, three days later. The townsfolk were quite upset. Without the bedtime stories of Mr Doggle's penis, the children became rambunctious. They began having sex with goats, and sheep, and elephants, and all different kinds of animals. In a tough situation like this, the townsfolk would normally ask Mr Doggle's penis what to do, but without his penises sage words of wisdom, the townsfolk were too stupid to come to a decision on any course of action, so they simply allowed their children to continue having sex with animals. It was strange and disturbing at first, but over time became routine, and eventually it became abnormal for children NOT to engage in sexual relations with members of another species.

Meanwhile, Butt Henry suddenly found that he had an audience for his jokes. So he would tell his jokes, and people would listen. But they still didn't laugh. This made Butt Henry very sad, so he decided to shove a pinecone up his ass. It felt fine going in, almost enjoyable, but then when Butt Henry finally got bored with having a pinecone up his ass and decided to pull it out, the pain was excruciating, and he was unable to pull it more than an inch before it's scales became completely embedded into the flesh of his sphincter. He called an ambulance, which whisked him away, but only blocks away from the hospital the driver of the ambulance cried in alarm: there was a child having sex with a rooster, right in the middle of the road! The ambulance swerved and slammed into a tree. Another ambulance eventually arrived to carry everyone from the first ambulance to the hospital, but by the time Butt Henry was finally brought to the ER, it was too late; his ass had to be amputated. Butt Henry was quite upset at first, but he decided to make the best of the situation, and had his ass stuffed by the local taxidermist. He mounted his own ass above the mantle, where it remains to this day.

And they all lived happily ever after.

[Anonymous No.6324950]

>>6324932
>this is so cliched it hurts to read

rly man

[Anonymous No.6325013]

>>6324950
ya. everyone talks about wetwork in that vague sense of "heh, my work is illegal ;) ;) ;)"

[Anonymous No.6325050]

>>6324452
Pretty great

[Anonymous No.6325062]

>>6325013
Did it ever occur to you, that maybe, just possibly, that the trope of illegal work *wink wink* might have been used as a joke?

It probably didn't, but that's okay. You're considering it now. That's progress.

[Anonymous No.6325078]

El dón de don Dondé da de donde donar.

[LooRy Leafson No.6325084]

>>6324441
I loved to read
but in the end
i still just had to beat it
and when i beat it
i couldn't read it
cause when i beat it
i cannot read it
so i just kept
beating at it
and when i stopped
i cried in shame
for i am male
and all the same
i cannot change
nor can i be
more then man
who all but beat it
and never read it

[Anonymous No.6325128]

>>6324939
I actually enjoyed that more than I felt I should.
Also Butt Henry upon losing his ass should have changed his name to just Henry.

[Anonymous No.6325156]

>>6324452
excellent