Jokes, your best your worse and all the rubbish on the internet between

[Buckster]

[Buckster]

@boboneleg's favourite tipple.

[Renegade]

A Jewish daughter says to her mother..

..... "I'm divorcing Nathan."

All he wants is sex, sex and more sex.

My vagina is now the size of a 50-cent piece when it used to be the size of a 5 cent piece."

Her mother says .....

"You're married to a multi-millionaire businessman,

You live in an 8 bedroom mansion

You drive a $250,000 Ferrari,

You get $2,000 a week allowance,

You take 6 vacations a year and

You want to throw all that away...

Over 45 cents..?"

[Renegade]

[Renegade]

[Renegade]

[Renegade]

[boboneleg]

[Renegade]

I tell you what, buying a fucking coffee has become unnecessarily complicated.

There was a time when you walked into a café and asked for a coffee.

That was it.

"Coffee please."

Somebody put coffee in a cup, you gave them some money, and everybody got on with their fucking day.

Not anymore.

Now you walk into somewhere like Costa and ordering a coffee feels like you're filling out a mortgage application.

"What would you like?"

Coffee.

"Americano, latte, cappuccino, flat white, cortado, mocha, macchiato, espresso, double espresso, iced latte, iced Americano, frappe?"

Fucking hell.

I don't know.

The brown one that wakes me up.

Then comes the size.

Small, medium, large, regular, tall, grande, massive, fucking oil drum.

I'll have a large.

Excellent.

Surely we're finished.

Oh no.

"What milk would you like?"

Milk.

"Whole, semi skimmed, skimmed, oat, almond, coconut, soya?"

Cow.

Just whatever normally comes out of a fucking cow.

Then they start offering you syrups.

Vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, salted caramel, gingerbread, cinnamon, chocolate, white chocolate, pumpkin spice, sugar free vanilla, sugar free caramel.

No.

I wanted a coffee.

I didn't come in to design a fucking Yankee Candle.

But we're still nowhere near finished.

Would I like an extra shot?

Decaf?

Half caf?

An extra hot one?

Skinny?

Whipped cream?

Cold foam?

Chocolate sprinkles?

Cinnamon dust?

Caramel drizzle?

Chocolate drizzle?

Ice?

Crushed ice?

Less ice?

More ice?

At this point I'm expecting them to ask whether I'd like fucking underfloor heating installed.

And there's always somebody in front of you who knows this system intimately.

"Can I have a large iced skinny oat milk caramel latte, half sweet, extra hot, two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut, no foam, extra shot, light ice, whipped cream, caramel drizzle?"

Fucking hell, Barbara.

You're not ordering a drink.

You're giving the launch sequence for a fucking nuclear submarine.

Meanwhile I'm standing behind her thinking, "Coffee. Milk. Two sugars. Please let me go home."

Then comes the price.

"That'll be five pounds eighty please."

FIVE POUNDS EIGHTY?

For a fucking coffee?

For that money I want to keep the mug.

In fact, I want shares in the fucking building.

And because you've already stood there answering twenty seven questions about milk and syrup, you just tap your card like you've developed Stockholm syndrome.

Then they finally hand it over.

And I've ordered the biggest fucking size they've got because, naturally, I'm thinking bigger cup means more coffee.

Silly me.

The cup's the size of a fucking paint tin, but about fourteen percent of it appears to be coffee.

The rest is milk, foam, whipped cream, syrup, ice, chocolate dust, caramel drizzle and whatever other fucking building materials they've used to construct it.

You've basically ordered a coffee and they've built a fucking extension on top of it.

If you've gone for one of the cold ones it's even worse.

You pick up this enormous plastic cup thinking you've got enough caffeine to see you through until Thursday, then realise three quarters of the bastard is ice.

Six quid for twelve ice cubes, a splash of milk and a frightened little espresso hiding at the bottom.

Take the ice out and your "large" coffee would fit in a fucking egg cup.

And then there's the whipped cream.

Fucking mountains of it.

You've got to eat your way through half of the Alps before you even reach the beverage you actually ordered.

By the time you finally locate the coffee, you've consumed eight hundred calories and you've got cream on your nose.

At that point it's not a drink anymore.

It's a fucking dessert with a caffeine problem.

And somehow we've all just accepted this.

We've gone from putting the kettle on and spooning Nescafé into a mug to standing in a queue while somebody called Tyler asks what fucking personality we'd like our milk to have.

I don't need my coffee to be an experience.

I don't need it handcrafted.

I don't need it drizzled.

I don't need it dusted.

I don't need it topped with something that looks like insulation foam.

I just want it hot, strong and capable of making me slightly less likely to tell everyone to fuck off before nine o'clock in the morning.

It's coffee.

Put it in a cup.

Give it to me.

And stop making me take a fucking GCSE before I'm allowed to drink it.

[YamaHead]

3 hours ago, Renegade said:

I tell you what, buying a fucking coffee has become unnecessarily complicated.

There was a time when you walked into a café and asked for a coffee.

That was it.

"Coffee please."

Somebody put coffee in a cup, you gave them some money, and everybody got on with their fucking day.

Not anymore.

Now you walk into somewhere like Costa and ordering a coffee feels like you're filling out a mortgage application.

"What would you like?"

Coffee.

"Americano, latte, cappuccino, flat white, cortado, mocha, macchiato, espresso, double espresso, iced latte, iced Americano, frappe?"

Fucking hell.

I don't know.

The brown one that wakes me up.

Then comes the size.

Small, medium, large, regular, tall, grande, massive, fucking oil drum.

I'll have a large.

Excellent.

Surely we're finished.

Oh no.

"What milk would you like?"

Milk.

"Whole, semi skimmed, skimmed, oat, almond, coconut, soya?"

Cow.

Just whatever normally comes out of a fucking cow.

Then they start offering you syrups.

Vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, salted caramel, gingerbread, cinnamon, chocolate, white chocolate, pumpkin spice, sugar free vanilla, sugar free caramel.

No.

I wanted a coffee.

I didn't come in to design a fucking Yankee Candle.

But we're still nowhere near finished.

Would I like an extra shot?

Decaf?

Half caf?

An extra hot one?

Skinny?

Whipped cream?

Cold foam?

Chocolate sprinkles?

Cinnamon dust?

Caramel drizzle?

Chocolate drizzle?

Ice?

Crushed ice?

Less ice?

More ice?

At this point I'm expecting them to ask whether I'd like fucking underfloor heating installed.

And there's always somebody in front of you who knows this system intimately.

"Can I have a large iced skinny oat milk caramel latte, half sweet, extra hot, two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut, no foam, extra shot, light ice, whipped cream, caramel drizzle?"

Fucking hell, Barbara.

You're not ordering a drink.

You're giving the launch sequence for a fucking nuclear submarine.

Meanwhile I'm standing behind her thinking, "Coffee. Milk. Two sugars. Please let me go home."

Then comes the price.

"That'll be five pounds eighty please."

FIVE POUNDS EIGHTY?

For a fucking coffee?

For that money I want to keep the mug.

In fact, I want shares in the fucking building.

And because you've already stood there answering twenty seven questions about milk and syrup, you just tap your card like you've developed Stockholm syndrome.

Then they finally hand it over.

And I've ordered the biggest fucking size they've got because, naturally, I'm thinking bigger cup means more coffee.

Silly me.

The cup's the size of a fucking paint tin, but about fourteen percent of it appears to be coffee.

The rest is milk, foam, whipped cream, syrup, ice, chocolate dust, caramel drizzle and whatever other fucking building materials they've used to construct it.

You've basically ordered a coffee and they've built a fucking extension on top of it.

If you've gone for one of the cold ones it's even worse.

You pick up this enormous plastic cup thinking you've got enough caffeine to see you through until Thursday, then realise three quarters of the bastard is ice.

Six quid for twelve ice cubes, a splash of milk and a frightened little espresso hiding at the bottom.

Take the ice out and your "large" coffee would fit in a fucking egg cup.

And then there's the whipped cream.

Fucking mountains of it.

You've got to eat your way through half of the Alps before you even reach the beverage you actually ordered.

By the time you finally locate the coffee, you've consumed eight hundred calories and you've got cream on your nose.

At that point it's not a drink anymore.

It's a fucking dessert with a caffeine problem.

And somehow we've all just accepted this.

We've gone from putting the kettle on and spooning Nescafé into a mug to standing in a queue while somebody called Tyler asks what fucking personality we'd like our milk to have.

I don't need my coffee to be an experience.

I don't need it handcrafted.

I don't need it drizzled.

I don't need it dusted.

I don't need it topped with something that looks like insulation foam.

I just want it hot, strong and capable of making me slightly less likely to tell everyone to fuck off before nine o'clock in the morning.

It's coffee.

Put it in a cup.

Give it to me.

And stop making me take a fucking GCSE before I'm allowed to drink it.

Exactly why I drink coffee at home most of the time....it's a helluva lot easier to go to the pub for just beer!

[Renegade]

APARTMENT for RENT...

So a businessman met a beautiful girl and agreed to spend

the night with her for £500. They did their thing,

and before he left, he told her that he did

not have any cash with him, but he would have his

Secretary write a cheque and mail it to her, calling

the payment 'RENT FOR APARTMENT.'

On the way to the office, he regretted what he had

done, realising that the whole event had not been

worth the price. So he had his secretary send a cheque for £250

and enclose the following typed note:

'Dear Madam:

Enclosed find a cheque for £250 for rent of your

apartment .. I am not sending the amount agreed upon

because when I rented the place, I was under the

Impression that:

#1 - it had never been occupied;

#2 - there was plenty of heat; and

#3 - it was small enough to make me feel cozy and at home.

However, I found out that:

#1 - it had been previously occupied,

#2 - there wasn't any heat, and

#3 - it was entirely too large.'

Upon receipt of the note, the girl immediately

returned the cheque for £250 with the following note:

'Dear Sir:

#1 - I cannot understand how you could expect a

Beautiful apartment to remain unoccupied indefinitely.

#2 - As for the heat, there is plenty of it, if you

Know how to turn it on.

#3 - Regarding the space, the apartment is indeed of

Regular size, but if you don't have enough furniture

to fill it, please do not blame the management.

So, Please send the rent in full or we will be forced

to contact your present landlady!

[YamaHead]