French Friday joke

Q: What do you call a French man wearing plastic sandals?
A: Phillippe Philloppe.

4 Responses to “ French Friday joke ”

Comment by Bruce

Jenine:

This bloke with Tourette’s Syndrome walks into the most exclusive restaurant in town.

‘Where’s the p*ssing, mother fu*kin manager, you c*cksucking arsewipe?’ he inquires of one of the waiters.

The waiter is 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*kin manager of this b*stard place?’

‘Yes sir I am,’ replies the manager,’but 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*kin piano?’

‘Pardon?’ says the manager.

‘Fu*kin deaf as well, are we? You sniveling little piece of sh*t, show me your b*stard piano’

‘Ah,’ replies the manager,’you’ve come about the pianists job’ and shows the bloke to the piano. ‘Can you play any blues?’

‘Of course I can,’ and the bloke proceeds to play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky-tonk blues that the manager has ever heard.

‘That’s superb. What’s it called?’
‘I love you so m uch I’ve just shit myself’ replies the bloke.

The manager is a bit disturbed and asks if the bloke knows any jazz. The bloke proceeds, playing the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.

‘Magnificent.’ Cries the manager. ‘What’s it called?’
‘I wanted a wank over the washing machine but I got my balls 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 the manager has ever heard,
‘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 does not introduce any of his songs or talks 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 eyes on. She is wearing an almost see through dress, her breasts are almost falling out of the top of her black lace bra, and the skimpy little ‘G’ string she’s wearing is doing very little to conceal her ample charms. She’s sitting there with her legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus shoots as the butter is dripping down her chin.

This is too much for the bloke and he scurries off to the Gents to furiously masturbate. He’s tugging away furiously when he hears the manager’s voice. ‘Where’s that b*stard pianist?’ He just has time to relieve himself, and in a fluster he runs back to the piano having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts 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 bollocks are hanging out of your trousers and spunk’s dripping on your shoes?’

The bloke replies. ‘Know it? I fu*kin wrote it!’

Comment by Romantic Poem

A very romantic blog and I found your blog on google and read a few of your other posts. I just added you to my Google News Reader. Keep up the good work. Look forward to reading more from you in the future.