A Nihilist tries to sharpen a pencil

A Nihilist tries to sharpen a pencil.

No punchline because we all die eventually, and in 100 years 99% of us will be forgotten. There is no point to life. Comedy is just a distraction from our eventual deaths in which we turn into a shriveled decomposing lifeless corpse, left to accumulate mould and simply vanish. If there is anything f... read more

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A Nihilist tries to sharpen a pencil.

A Nihilist tries to sharpen a pencil.

unny about life, it is that we think there is a point to it. What if we were never created? Would we be able to feel? What is the point of being alive? Why do we reproduce, only to restart the cycle again? This we will never know.

For those who still want a punchline, here you go:

He eventually decided that after 18 years, that there would be no point.

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The king.

The king.

t no-one went hungry.

He was, unsurprisingly, loved by his tribe, and with the twentieth anniversary of his coronation coming up, they decided to honour him with a magnificent throne, so that even if his hut was small and plain, he would sit on a throne befitting his great stature.

So, without him knowing, they set about making the throne. They got the finest carpenter in the land to build an intricate frame, covered in beautiful carvings. Next, came the blacksmith. He wrought beautiful inlays of silver and copper, a furrier selected the finest pelts for the seats, and the jeweller set in an array of stones, the likes of which you could barely imagine. The throne was truly a masterpiece.

Now, obviously, they couldn't have the king see his present, so after it was done, they hid it in a hut in the edge of the village until the day of the celebtation. Eventually, the big day arrived. Calves were slaughtered, and a mighty feast was prepared. The whole village was beautifully decorated, and the people were having a wonderful time.

As the end of the feast approached, some men were dispatched to the hut to retrieve the king's gift. But, as they opened the door to the hut, they spotted a scene of devastation. The throne was ruined! The wood was rotten and full of termites, the beautiful fur was covered in mould. All the stones had fallen from their mountings, and the metals were all tarnished. All their beautiful work was wasted.

And the moral of the story?

People who live in grass houses shouldn't stow thrones.

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About 6 months ago I got a promotion.

About 6 months ago I got a promotion.

just hung around anyways), but I noticed he looked a little pale. We had been drinking a lot so I thought nothing of it. When I got home from work later that day, I was shocked at what I saw. Frank hadn't moved at all, and he looked worse. All the color had drained from his usually pinkish cheeks and his body was droopy and lifeless. I panicked!

I didn't know what to do, I tried splashing water on his face but that didn't work. I tried sitting him up but he kept falling back down. I had to come to terms eventually, I had suspected it since I walked through the door. Frank was dead, and it was all my fault.

What if no one believed when I told them what had happened? What if they think I did this to Frank? I just got the dream job I've been working for and this mess could screw it all up. I had to get rid of the body. I waited until my neighbors lights went out for the night, then I grabbed my shovel.

Hurriedly I dug a shallow grave next to my shed in the back yard. Eyes full of tears I dragged Frank's lifeless body through the house until we made his last stop in the hole I had sloppily dug. I rushed to cover his body, hiding the only evidence that he had ever been here. Then it began to rain.

I thought it only fitting that the weather would match the somber occasion. I finished my gruesome task while the rain drops hid my tears. A month had passed and I had gotten away with it, no one came asking, didn't seem like anyone even noticed. Then I saw it, a small, bright pink flower growing next to my shed. Right. Above. Frank's. Body.

I couldn't believe it, my mind raced, what do I do? Once again I grabbed my shovel and began digging, I was bewildered at what I saw. Frank was still alive! I dug him out of the makeshift grave, cleaned him off and repotted him immediately in the finest compost I had available. He is still hanging out at my house today, and I still have my job as Botanist Supreme.

Moral of the story being, don't pour captain and coke all over your hanging fuchsia plant. Even if it's your only friend.

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Harry Houdini's pet bunny.

Harry Houdini's pet bunny.

re of him and if they did they would be allowed 100,000 dollars written to them in his will. The lab of course, accepts immediately as they were running out of funds and this was the perfect offer for them. After Houdini's death the lab used Mills in many experiments. One, which was meant to make him run faster, did so. Although, it also eventually made him life sized. In the middle of the night he becomes large enough to shatter his cage. He then escapes the lab and starts a new life. Many years go by. In which, Mills has had a job carrot farming and accumulated enough money to buy a home. He then bought tapes of Houdini's shows and studied them intensely and endlessly. The farmer fires Mills from his job for not showing up because Mills spent all his time studying magic. He starts out with a simple card trick to a neighbor across the street, fortunately enough, it was their card. He soon went on to greater things, like sawing people in half, which unfortunately he failed a few times. R.I.P The Smiths across the street. He decides that for his great first appearance he shall collaborate with another Magician. His name was The General. The General and Mills began practicing their trick, pulling Mills out of his hat. They finally get on stage for their first performance. They setup in front of an audience of thousands. The General opens with the hat trick, out comes Mills. a life sized bunny. He does a jig for the audience and they go wild. The General then saws Mills in half, he comes out unharmed of course. Previously Mills had asked for his own session with the audience, The General accepted because he knew what it was like being on that stage for the first time, thousands gawking in amazement of your skill and trickery. Mills then gets a microphone from The General and says "Ladies and Gentleman, For my first trick I shall- ugh! he then gets tackled by a man from the audience. Everyone gasps and Mills says "What the hell?" the man who tackled him said "Silly rabbit tricks are for kids!"

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The whole spa concept is foreign to me.

The whole spa concept is foreign to me. I don't cleanse my face; I wash it. I don't "release toxins" or parole them or give

them time off for good behavior. Even the word "spa" is strange, like the back end of it got left off. Like someone was writing, "I'm off to the spay and neuter clinic," but they collapsed in midsentence, the dog heaving a sigh of relief. I have set all this aside, however, because I recently got a gift certificate for a local spa and have cajoled my friend Wendy into coming with me for a massage. We are now standing in the room known to ordinary (non-cleansing) people as a locker room. The sign on the door says "Women's Dressing." As though we are salads. Across the hall is the Water Closet. This spa has tried hard to be tony and European, right down to the medical background forms, which request that we "tick"

boxes, rather than check them. The locker room is pristine, and smells like no locker room I've ever been in. The smell turns out to be the lockers themselves: They're lined with cedar. "Check, I mean tick, this out," I tell Wendy. "In case moths attack while we're off getting our massages." A beautiful young attendant arrives to show us how to operate the locks on the lockers. Then she leaves to get us bathrobes and towels. Wendy looks stressed. "Do we have to tip her for this? I

hate these places. I don't know how to behave. What do I tip? Do I take everything off? Do I leave on my underwear?" Wendy is going to need a second massage to relieve the stress that's accumulated while being here for the first one. We are told to wait for our masseuses in the lounge. It's a gorgeous, perfect lounge with expensive cheeses and orchids and pitchers of lemon water. We pour ourselves some water and finish our medical forms. Wendy is reading aloud: "Are you pregnant? Ha! No,

I just look like it!" A different beautiful young attendant comes into the lounge to refill the water pitcher and clear

away the empty glasses. She glances briefly at the flabby, wrinkly things on the sofa, as if giving thought to how she might clear those away too. At last our masseuses arrive to take us to the treatment rooms. I watch Wendy disappear down

the hallway, her voice trailing off: "I left my underwear on. Was that bad? I wasn't sure..." My masseur, Leo, tells me to "disrobe to my level of comfort" and get under the sheet on the massage table. Then he leaves the room. I notice that a

small pink flower is lying on the sheet at the head of the massage table, as though the last person was a shrub. The massage table is outfitted at one end with a small, heavily padded toilet seat. When he returns, Leo tells me to put my face inside the toilet seat, which he calls a "face cradle." Leo says he'll be "opening up my muscles" and "getting blood into the area." This doesn't sound relaxing. It sounds like the tiger scene in Gladiator. I bury my face in the toilet and pray for leniency. Eventually I relax. Things are going swell. Then Leo asks me if I want the "complimentary parafango

treatment." There are so many things I need to learn before I can answer this question. "Fango means volcanic," Leo adds, bringing me no closer to a decision. "Oh," I say. "In what language?" He doesn't answer. He must think I'm testing him. For

the next few minutes, Leo gives me the complimentary silent treatment. This is fine with me. In my experience,

conversations in which one party has her head in the toilet bowl are always trying. I find Wendy waiting for me in the

lounge. She got the parafango treatment on her feet. "And how was that?" I ask her. "Really relaxing," she says in a strangled voice that I have heard her use only once before, when raccoons got into the compost. "Can we go now?" Wendy gets

up and moves toward the door very fast, faster than you would expect for someone whose feet have been dipped in molten magma.

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