Curiously, someone chimed in with three jokes concering Hamid Karzai with the punchline “Poppy Cock”.
Did you hear those Afganies have gone off their heads. sounds like a load of poppy cock to me.
Judging by that photo if he says he is not off his head I would say it is a load of poppy cock
Maybe he has just being playing with his poppy…
I doubt I’d come up with anything decent if someone tossed a punchline at me and asked me to come up with a set-up.
Perhaps you have seen the following on another blog or website. Or perhaps in your email box. Anyways… Names are easily changed to fit any other politico.
While walking down the street one day, George W. Bush is shot and killed by a disgruntled NRA member. His soul arrives in heaven and he is met by St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.
“Welcome to Heaven,” says St. Peter. “Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem: We seldom know what to do with a Republican in these parts, and this goes double for you.”
“No problem – just let me in. I’m a believer,” says Gee Dubya.
“I’d like to just let you in, but I have orders from the Man Himself: He says you have to spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven, then you can choose where you’ll live for eternity.”
“But, I’ve already made up my mind; I want to be in Heaven.”
“I’m sorry, but we have our rules.” So Peter escorts George to an elevator and he goes down, down, down, all the way to Hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush golf course, the sun is shining in a cloudless sky, and the temperature is a perfect 72 degrees. In the distance is a beautiful clubhouse. Standing in front of it is his dad, and thousands of other Republicans who had helped him out over the years:…Richard Perle, Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, Jerry Falwell … the whole of the “Right” was there …everyone laughing … happy … casually but expensively dressed. They run to greet him, hug him, and reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at expense of the “suckers and peasants.” They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar. The Devil himself comes up to Bush with a frosty drink, “Have a margarita and relax, George!”
“Uh no, I can’t drink no more, I took the pledge,” says Junior dejectedly.
“This is Hell, son — you can drink and eat all you want and not worry, and it just gets better from there!”
Dubya takes the drink and finds himself liking the Devil, who he thinks is a really very friendly guy who tells funny jokes and pulls hilarious nasty pranks, kind of like a Yale Skull and Bones brother with real horns. They are having such a great time that, before he realizes it, it’s time to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves as Georgie steps on the elevator and heads upward. When the elevator door reopens, he is in Heaven again and St. Peter is waiting for him. “Now it’s time to visit Heaven,” the old man says, opening the gate.
So for 24 hours George Bush is made to hang out with a bunch of honest, good-natured people who enjoy each other’s company, talk about things other than money, and treat each other decently. Not a nasty prank or frat-boy joke among them; no fancy country clubs and, while the food tastes great, it’s not caviar or lobster. These people are all poor, he doesn’t see anybody he knows, and he isn’ t even treated like someone special. Worst of all, to Dubya, Jesus turns out to be some kind of Jewish hippie with his endless “peace” and “do unto others” jive.
“Whoa,” he says uncomfortably to himself, “Pat Robertson never prepared me for this!” The day done, St. Peter returns and says, “Well, then, you’ve spent a day in Hell and a day in Heaven. Now you must choose where you want to live for eternity.”
With the ‘Jeopardy’ theme playing softly in the background, Dubya reflects for a minute, then answers: “Well, I would never have thought I’d say this-I mean, Heaven has been delightful and all, but I really think I belong in Hell with my friends.”
So Saint Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down, all the way to Hell. The doors of the elevator open and he is in the middle of a barren scorched earth covered with garbage and toxic industrial waste … kind of like Houston. He is horrified to see all of his friends, dressed in rags and chained together, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags. They are groaning and moaning in pain, faces and hands black with grime. The Devil comes over to Dubya and puts an arm around his shoulder.
“I don’t understand,” stammers a shocked Dubya, “Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and a clubhouse and we drank and ate caviar… I drank booze. We screwed around and had a great time. Now there’s just a wasteland, full of garbage and everybody looks miserable!”
The Devil looks at him, smiles slyly, and purrs, “Yesterday we were campaigning; today you voted for us.”