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Some really BAD jokes (I'm so sorry guys)

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Some really BAD jokes (I'm so sorry guys) Empty Some really BAD jokes (I'm so sorry guys)

Post  LyxisMorgan Tue 21 Jul 2015 - 1:12

A hungry African lion came across two men. One was sitting under a tree and reading a book; the other was typing away on his typewriter. The lion pounced on the man reading the book and devoured him. Even the king of the jungle knows that readers digest and writers cramp.

Who writes ghost stories?
A ghost writer

What's the difference between publishers and terrorists?
You can negotiate with terrorists.

A male romance novelist was hiking in the mountains, and he came upon a shepherd who was tending a large herd of sheep that were grazing in the alpine meadow. The writer took a fancy to the sheep, and asked the shepherd: "If I can guess how many sheep you have, can I have one?"
The shepherd thought this was an odd request, but thought that there was little chance that the man would guess the exact number of sheep, so he said, "Sure."
The writer guessed, "You have 297 sheep," to the shepherd's astonishment, since this was exactly how many sheep he had.
The writer got excited and asked "Can I pick out my sheep now?" and the shepherd grudgingly gave his permission. The writer selected his sheep, bent over, and swung the sheep over his shoulders, to carry home with him.
The shepherd then asked, "If I guess what your occupation is, can I have my sheep back?"
The novelist was a bit surprised by this, but figured that it was unlikely that the shepherd would be able to guess his occupation, and went along with the deal.
The shepherd then guessed "You're a romance novelist, aren't you?"
The writer was very surprised and asked, "How did you know?"
The shepherd responded, "Just put the dog down and we'll talk about it."

There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed a desire to become a great writer.
Years later, an angel scouring backwater bars for good deeds to do, came across the poor man rambling on about his unachieved desire.
“How do you define great,” asked the angel.
“I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!”
The angel took pity on the man and granted his wish. Today he works for Microsoft writing error messages.

So this writer walks into a bar. No, make that a writer walks into a dark, smoky bar. No, let’s try a writer, looking furtively around the bar, walks into it. That doesn’t work, how about a lanky, tanned writer with a prominent chin walks into . . . nope. The bar beckoned to the writer and finally he . . . not that either. OK, the writer, a blank look on his gaunt face, stumbles into . . .
Let me get back to you, this may take a while.

A screenwriter returns home after a long evening’s work of waiting tables, only to find his house a pile of smoldering rubble. Policemen and firemen poke grimly through the remains. The writer leaps out of his car and runs over to a detective.
“Oh God! My house! What happened? Where are my wife and children?”
The cop says, “I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid your agent came to your house, slaughtered your
family, burned your home to the ground, and then danced on the rubble in hobnailed boots.”
The writer looks at the detective, eyes wide, excited, and says, “Really? My agent came to my house?”

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