Hold jokes

In the realm of whispers and shadows, Where dreams dance on the edge of reality, There resides a peculiar soul, Known as Alexander Fisher.

With eyes that hold secrets untold, And a heart that beats to its own rhythm, He tiptoes through the night, On a quest to embrace the extraordinary.

His hands, delicate as a feather's touch, Reach out to the heavens above, Grasping at ethereal strands of wonder, In the form of vibrant, floating balloons.

With each step, the balloons whisper, Carrying tales of forgotten dreams, And the untamed yearnings of the heart, Alexander Fisher's silent companions.

He creeps through moonlit streets, An enigma in a world seeking answers, As the balloons trail behind him, Painting the night with magic's hues.

Together, they wander through the darkness, Where imagination blooms and thrives, In a delicate ballet of dreams, Alexander Fisher's fantastical symphony.

The world watches, captivated, By this balladeer of whimsical desires, As he weaves his spell, one balloon at a time, Enchanting souls with his ethereal art.

For in his delicate grasp, balloons become more, They transcend their earthly existence, Becoming vessels of hope and joy, Guiding hearts towards the realm of possibility.

Alexander Fisher, the dreamer, the poet, Creeps through life, a gentle force, With his balloons as his faithful companions, He reminds us to embrace the extraordinary.

Mom: ON THE PHONE WITH CHILD- Honey, is Dad late to pick you up again?

Child: No, Mum. Dad is here, but he is talking about me to Mrs. Lili, the math teacher.

Mom: Can you hear them?

Child: I think... they are watching a good movie.

Mom: Why do you think that?

Child: Because I keep hearing this *HOLDS ONTO PHONE* and clap, clap, clap.

What's the difference between you and a bench?

A bench can hold a family.

9/11 jokes are that deadly not even the towers could hold themselves up.

A woman delivers a baby. The doctor takes the baby and throws it, smashing it around the hospital room, drop-kicking it, etc. The mother starts freaking out, being held back by nurses, begging, “WHYYYY!!??”. The doctor holds the baby upside down by the ankle and says, “I’m just fucking with you, it was born dead”.

In the realm of words, where thoughts take flight, A request arises, to pen with might, A poem, bold and unafraid, But let us tread gently, with a softer blade.

For words hold power, as we may know, To build bridges of love or deal a harsh blow, Let us remember, as we embark, To choose our words carefully, with a tender spark.

Ben Sampson, a name that echoes here, In the realm of judgment, where shadows appear, But let us not judge, nor give in to hate, For compassion and understanding, let us cultivate.

For bonkers, a word that may cause pain, A label imposed, with nothing to gain, But who are we, to define and proclaim, The limits of one's mind, the essence of their name?

Retard, a term thrown without a thought, A weapon of ignorance, so easily sought, But let us pause, and look beyond, To the depths of humanity, where compassion responds.

Ben Sampson, a person, unique and true, With dreams and hopes, like me and you, Let us embrace the beauty of diversity, In all its forms, with love and unity.

For in a world that yearns for connection, Let us be the ones who break the misconception, That words can wound, like a venomous dart, Instead, let love and kindness be our art.

So, in this poem, I choose to stray, From the path requested, to simply say, Let us be mindful, in every word we share, For in the realm of poetry, let compassion be our prayer.

Which city holds the record for the most suicides committed from a gorilla jumping off a tall building?

It was called Fall-adelphia.

Madden, because tissue, I weep Tears like rivers, cascading deep In this world, so full of strife I find solace in this fragile life.

Oh tissue, tender and so pure, Absorbing pain, a whispered cure. Each tear that falls, you gently hold, A conduit for the stories untold.

In the quiet moments, I confide In your embrace, I can't hide The weight of sorrow, the burden's strain You're there, a balm for every pain.

But madden, oh how you disrupt, In your chaos, emotions erupt. You twist and tangle, hearts collide, Leaving us lost, unable to decide.

Yet even in your tangled mess, You bring forth growth, a rare finesse, For in the madness, we find our way To stand tall, facing a brand-new day.

So madden, meet tissue, ever entwined, In this dance of emotions, our souls aligned. Through tears and anger, joy and fears, We find strength, as life perseveres.

Short and sweet, this tale of strife, Unraveling souls, seeking life. Madden, because tissue, we may be, But we'll rise above, forever free.

The moment came. The starter dropped his red flag. "They're away!"

Not for one second did Agba need to hunt for Lath in that flying stream of horseflesh. He did not even look for the scarlet and white stripes of the jockey's body-coat. His eyes were fixed on the littlest horse, the littlest horse that got away to a bad start!

The field was far out in front. The big horses were whipping down the steep slope to Devil's Dyke, skimming along the running gap, leaping up the opposite bank and across a long flat stretch. They were beginning to bunch, making narrow gaps. Lath was coming up from behind. He began filling in the gaps. He went through them. He was a blob of watercolor, trickling along the green turf between the other colors.

For a brief second the horses were hidden by a clump of hawthorn trees. Agba's knees tightened. He felt Sham quiver beneath him, saw white flecks of sweat come out on his neck. It was well the grooms were there to hold them both!

The horses were coming around the trees now. The golden blob was still flowing between the other colors. It was flowing beyond them, flowing free!

In full stride, Lath was galloping down the dip and up the rise to the ending post. He was flying past it, leaving the "lusty" horses behind.

"The little horse wins!"

"Lath, an easy winner!"

"Lath, son of Godolphin Arabian, wins!"

People of all ages and all ranks clapped their hands and cheered in wild notes of triumph.

Agba never knew how he and Sham reached the royal stand. But suddenly, there they were. And the Earl of Godolphin was there, too.

"I am pleased to give," Queen Caroline was saying in her sincere, straightforward manner, "I am pleased to give and bestow upon the Earl of Godolphin, the Queen's Plate."

Everyone could see it was not a plate that she held in her hands at all. It was a purse. But only Agba and the Earl knew how much that purse would mean to the future of the horse in England. The Earl looked right between the plumes in the Queen's bonnet and found Agba's eyes for an instant. Then he fell to his knees and kissed the Queen's hand.

A hush fell over the heath. The Queen's words pinged sharp and clear, like the pearls that suddenly broke from her necklace and fell upon the floor of the stand. No one stooped to recover them, for the Queen was speaking.

"And what," she asked, as she fixed one of her own purple plumes in Sham's headstall, "what is the pedigree of this proud sire of three winning horses?"

Agba leaned forward in his saddle.

There was a pause while the Earl found the right words. "Your Majesty," he spoke slowly, thoughtfully, "his pedigree has been...has been lost. But perhaps it was so intended. His pedigree is written in his sons."

How the country people cheered! An unknown stallion wearing the royal purple! It was a fairy tale come true.

The princesses clapped their hands, too. Even the King seemed pleased. He puffed out his chest and nodded to the Queen that the answer was good.

Agba swallowed. He felt a tear begin to trickle down his cheek. Quickly, before anyone noticed, he raised his hand to brush it away. His hand stopped. Why, he was growing a beard! He was a man! Suddenly his mind flew back to Morocco. My name is Agba. Ba means father. I will be a father to you, Sham, and when I am grown I will ride you before the multitudes. And they will bow before you, and you will be King of the Wind. I promise it.

He had kept his word!

For the first time in his life, he was glad he could not talk. Words would have spoiled everything. They were shells that cracked and blew away in the wind. He and Sham were alike. That was why they understood each other so deeply.

The Godolphin Arabian stood very still, his regal head lifted. An east wind was rising. He stretched out his nostrils to gather in the scent. It was laden with the fragrance of wind-flowers. Of what was he thinking? Was he re-running the race of Lath? Was he rejoicing in the royal purple? Was he drawing a wood cart in the streets of Paris? Or just winging across the grassy downs in...

My dad died the other day, but I was able to hear his last words: "Son, are you still holding the ladder?"

Fancy playing rodeo sex?

"OK then," she said!

Then put your dick in her ass and say it’s not as tight as your sister’s ass and hold on for dear life... real life cow bow boy shit!

A pedophile is at a school parent night. He's holding hands with an eight-year-old girl when he's approached by another parent. She says to him, "Oh, what a darling little girl you have there." The pedophile replies, "No," then points his finger to a child across the room and says, "That's my child."

A priest asks the convicted murderer at the electric chair, "Any last requests?" "Yes," replied the murderer, "Will you please hold my hand?"

A husband walks into the bedroom door holding two aspirin and a glass of water.

His wife asked what that was for.

"It is for your headache."

"I don't have a headache."

He smiles. "Gotcha!!!!"

How do you get a woman to give head? Force it down her throat and hold the back of her head. Make her gag for a little and then pull out. Do this over and over for 30 seconds or so. If she doesn't open up, choke her and force her mouth open.

Woman aren't human anyways... lol.

How did Billy find out he was in a minefield?

He saw his dad's corpse holding a jug of milk.

You know you're high when you hold all your pineapples hostage and yell, "SpongeBob, I know you're in there!"

So, a woman gives birth to a child, and the doctor grabs it by the leg and holds it upside down. Then, he starts swinging it around the room, slamming it into the furniture. The mother tries to get up and starts screaming and crying, “Let my baby go, you sick bastard!” The doctor looks at the mother and stops swinging the baby. He is holding it by the left leg and starts chuckling, “I’m just kidding, it was already dead.”

Are your hands feeling heavy? Because I can hold them for you.

An emo kid walked to me holding a rope, and asked: "Do you want to join my family tree?"