Touch jokes
A little boy and a little girl are taking a bath together. The little girl looks down at the boy and says, "Can I touch it?" The little boy looks back at her and says, "Hell no, you already broke yours off!"
You remind me of a snowflake, beautiful and unique. One touch and you're wet.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to smoke some marijuana. Jack got high and touched Jill's thigh and said, "I know you wanna." Jill said yes, took off her dress, and then they had some fun. But silly Jill forgot her pills, and now they have a son.
One day a boy asks his grandfather for some money, and the grandpa says, “Well, can your dick touch your asshole?” To which the boy replied, “No.” So the grandpa says, “Okay,” and leaves it at that and walks off.
A few years later, the boy asks his grandfather for some money again, and his grandfather once again asks, “Can your dick touch your asshole?” To which the boy proudly says, “Yes, it can.” To which the grandpa says, “Good, now go fuck yourself.”
A Blonde walks into a hospital claiming that everywhere she touches hurts. So she goes into the examination room and the doctor says, "Okay, I'd like you to point to wherever it hurts." So the Blonde pokes her cheek and says, "Here. Ow." She then pokes her arm and says, "Here. Ow." She then repeats this with different parts of her body until the doctor finally says that she should stop.
The doctor says, "I know what's happened to you." "What's happened to me?" The Blonde says, concerned. The doctor simply replies, "You have a broken finger."
An Englishman, a Frenchman, a ravishing blonde, and an old lady are sharing a compartment on a train as it winds its way through the Alps. Every now and then the train passes through a tunnel, during which time the compartment is plunged into complete darkness. On one such occasion, a ringing slap is heard, and as the train passes back into daylight, the Frenchman is rubbing his sore, red cheek.
The old lady thinks, "I bet that dirty Frenchman fondled the blonde, and she struck the pervert."
The blonde thinks, "I bet that filthy Frenchman was looking to grope me in the dark, mistook the old lady for me, and she slapped him."
The Frenchman thinks, "I bet that perfidious Englishman touched up the blonde in the dark, and she slapped me by mistake."
The Englishman thinks, "I can't wait for another tunnel so I can slap that French twat again."
A little girl being Girl: "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Priest: "What did you do, child?"
Girl: "I called a man a son of a bitch."
Priest: "Why did you call him a son of a bitch?"
Girl: "Because he touched my hand."
Priest: "Like this?" (as he touches her hand)
Girl: "Yes, Father."
Priest: "That's no reason to call a man a son of a bitch."
Girl: "Then he touched my breast."
Priest: "Like this?" (as he touched her breast)
Girl: "Yes, Father."
Priest: "That's no reason to call him a son of a bitch."
Girl: "Then he took off my clothes, Father."
Priest: "Like this?" (as he takes off her clothes)
Girl: "Yes, Father."
Priest: "That's no reason to call him a son of a bitch."
Girl: "Then he stuck his you know what into my you know where."
Priest: "Like this?" (as he stuck his you know what into her you know where)
Girl: "YES FATHER, YES FATHER, YES FATHER!!!"
Priest: (after a few minutes): "That's no reason to call him a son of a bitch."
Girl: "But, Father, he had AIDS!"
Priest: "THAT SON OF A BITCH!!!"
I got in touch with my inner self today, it's the last time I use 1-ply toilet roll.
Roses are red, don’t touch the toys, these are what the priests use to lure in the boys.
Don't touch my pickles - they are very picklish.
Fork pierces the flesh. Guided by hunger's demand, Savoury feast waits.
Tines dig deep within, Seeking the sustenance craved, A mealtime delight.
Belly grumbles loud, Yearning for nourishment's touch, Fork answers the call.
Food on the platter, Fork dances with anticipation, To satiate hunger's plea.
Digestion begins, Fork's journey now complete, Nourishing the soul.
Why does the fork go? To bring joy to empty hearts, Satiating needs.
In the stomach's depths, Fork finds purpose and solace, A culinary bond.
With each mealtime tale, The fork carves memories deep, In stomachs it rests.
Don't touch my bot.
How do baseballs communicate?
They touch base!
My dog got mad at me for touching his toy. He said, "Get your paws off my toy!"
*WARNING* THIS WILL NEVER GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD - READ IF YOU DARE.....
What came first? The chicken or the egg?
Which came first? The color orange or the fruit?
Who taught the first ever teacher?
If you expect the unexpected, doesn't that make the unexpected expected?
If you describe something as 'indescribable', then haven't you already described it?
In the word 'scent', is the silent letter the 's' or the 'ce'?
Why do your lips touch when they say the word 'separate', but don't touch when you say the word 'together'?
How many photos do you think you could be in the background of?
The guy who discovered cow milk, what was he doing with that cow?
Do regular dogs see police dogs and think, "Oh no, it's a cop"?
Is it possible to cry underwater?
If two left handers have an argument, who is right?
I warned you!! You just didn't listen.... :O
How do inmates keep in touch?
They have cell phones.
Why do orphans play baseball?
So they can touch home.
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.
A slag is like the first piece of bread in a loaf. Everyone touches it, but nobody wants it.
The department of touch yourself is coming to the UK near you. I hope Scotland gets freedom. I can't wait to leave England and live in Scotland.