Jokes

[Craig Muhonen]

We all know who these guys are;

Sphincter checking2.jpg (20.72 KiB) Viewed 3387 times

But this is the guy we should be paying attention to.

2 who is this guy .png (210.26 KiB) Viewed 3387 times

He's no joke.

[Bob Kuczewski]

A friend sent this to me:

[Craig Muhonen]

I asked my "Britannica" assistant, GROK-3 to help me elaborate on a joke that I heard years ago, and here it is, intertwined with my own words here and there. The premise of the joke I heard is, a crowded bar, a bartender, a drunk man, a bet, and two guys in the back.
I bet that you can't pick out the words and sentences I added.

The Barstool Bet: A Political Parody

The dimly lit bar smelled of stale beer and regret, a perfect haunt for the weary and the wild. Behind the counter stood Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez—bartender extraordinaire, her signature hoop earrings glinting under the neon Budweiser sign. She wiped down the sticky bar top with a rag and a smirk, her years of slinging drinks in the Bronx giving her an edge over the rowdy clientele. Tonight, though, things were about to get messy.

In swaggered Elon Musk, tech titan turned barfly, his Tesla jacket slung over one shoulder and a mischievous glint in his eye. He plopped onto a stool, slapped a crumpled $20 on the counter, and barked, “Gimme a scotch, AOC. Neat. Like my rockets.”

AOC raised an eyebrow, poured the amber liquid with a flourish, and slid it over. “Don’t crash this one, Elon,” she quipped. He downed it in one gulp, grinning like a man who’d just dodged a tax audit.

Time passed, and the scotch flowed. Elon’s cheeks flushed redder than a SpaceX launch flare. He leaned forward, his voice slurring with bravado. “Hey, AOC, I’ll bet you fifty bucks—right here, bam!—that I can stand on this bar and piss into that glass over there without missing a drop.” He pointed at a smudged tumbler a few feet away, wobbling slightly.

AOC crossed her arms, sizing him up. She’d seen drunk billionaires pull dumber stunts than this, and physics wasn’t on his side. “You’re on, Musk. Fifty says you can’t.” She fished two twenties and a ten from her apron and slapped them down next to his crumpled bill.

Elon clambered onto the bar, boots scuffing the wood, and steadied himself like a man about to colonize Mars. The bar went quiet—except for the snickers from the back corner, where Donald and RFK Jr. nursed their smoothies, watching the chaos unfold. Elon unzipped, aimed, and… well, let’s just say the trajectory was less Starship and more sprinkler system. Urine splattered the bar, the stools, and a bowl of stale peanuts. AOC dodged a stray splash, her jaw tight but her eyes gleaming with victory.

She scooped up the $100 pile with a triumphant grin. “Nice try, Elon. Stick to electric cars.”

He flopped back onto his stool, unbothered, wiping his hands on his jeans. AOC mopped up the mess, muttering about “entitled tech bros” under her breath. The night wore on, the jukebox blaring Springsteen, until Elon piped up again, louder this time.

“Double or nothing, AOC! Hundred bucks says I can nail it now!” He waved a crisp Benjamin Franklin like a flag.

AOC paused mid-wipe, her smile sharpening. “You’re drunker than a lobbyist at a fundraiser. Fine, I’ll take your money again.” She tossed her $100 onto the bar, and the crowd leaned in.

Up went Elon, swaying like a SpaceX prototype in high winds. He took aim—and unleashed a sequel worse than the original. The bar turned into a Jackson Pollock painting, and AOC’s apron took a hit. She snatched the cash, shaking her head as she grabbed a mop. “You knew you couldn’t do it, Musk. What’s your game?”

Elon stumbled down, pulled her close—close enough that she could smell the scotch and hubris—and whispered with a sly wink, “See those two geezers in the back? I bet them five hundred bucks I could piss all over your bar, and you’d clean it up with a smile on your face.”

AOC froze, then glanced at the corner. Robert was cackling into his IPA, his wild hair bouncing, while Donald adjusted his suit, nodding. She looked back at Elon, her fake grin widening despite herself. “You’re a bastard, Musk,” she said, “But I’ll give you this—you’ve got balls bigger than your rockets.”

From the back, Donald hollered, “That’s capitalism for ya, folks!” Robert just raised his glass. And AOC? She stood there, lips twitching into a smile that barely masked her fury, cheeks burning from the humiliation of it all. That smug bastard Musk had played her, and now she clutched a wad of winnings—counterfeit bills, no less, as fake as our narrative. She glared at the soggy cash, already imagining the gall of flashing it around—maybe she’d shove it in Elon’s face and demand real money from USAID or better yet, use it to form an NGO. I cringe at those sanctimonious old coots who’d laughed through the whole debacle. “Enjoy your cut, Bobby” she’d sneer, knowing their five-hundred-dollar bet had turned her bar into a urinal and her night into a joke. She wiped the counter harder than necessary, her smile now a razor’s edge of condescension. “You think you’re clever, Musk"? I'll some day slide into Congress and pay you back with my own version of word salad.

HA !

[Craig Muhonen]

This fits perfectly with the dems in Congress, and the UN-NATO alliance, an International Crepitation Contest. The Battle at Thunderblow.This is funny and the names have been changed to protect the "plotures".

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPplyQWf-u4


A PLOTURE.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3V3e-oYbqY&t=19s

[Bob Kuczewski]

The Barstool Bet: A Political Parody
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Creative update on your 2020 post Craig!!

[Craig Muhonen]

I just couldn't help myself.