I watched the man playing with his dog. Not in a creepy way, you understand, but just because he was near the bench I was sitting on, and I was bored.
"Who's a good boy?" He asked cheerily.
I watched as he happily hugged the dog, then threw a stick for it to fetch.
"Who is it?" He asked again, this time more aggressively. I watched, unsure if he expected the dog to answer. Then, slowly, he turned to me:
"Who... is... a... good... BOY?"
I looked at him sadly. I don't know who, in today's valueless society, we could call 'good', but it certainly wasn't me. I kill mimes, you see.
They never complain...

It has been said...

That this blog doesn't contain enough jokes about bodily functions.
(This hasn't been said at all, I'm just trying to help you enjoy this joke/story/midden heap by making it something you can relate to. In other words, I am lying to you.)
To this end, I'm asking all of you dear readers to submit you best crude joke, be it about farting, misusing a toilet, or vomiting on a tramp.
To enter, just leave a comment with your name, joke, shoe size and home address. The person who submits the funniest joke, as judged by me, shall receive a swift, painless death. To those of you unlucky enough not to be chosen, I shall send angry scorpions.

I am trying to be a ghost. Right now, I am completely white and scary. I'm waiting outside your window to scare you, before running around your house going "wooooo".
Sadly, I think I used lead-based paint to colour myself. I will probably die.
It seems worth it...

It was certainly a nice party. Looking around, I noticed that the party - which was going on around me - was certainly nice. A group of children, laughing and smiling and other happy thinging, were beating a pinata with a butter-knife. To my left, another group of children were doing the same to a clown. Yup, it was certainly a nice party. Nice would be the word.
Taking another mouthful of wine - not so nice, pretty cheap - I approached the host.
"Hey... Hey Timmy! This is... this is a nice party. For certain!"
Timmy looked at me, wide-eyed in terror. Several of his friends began to back off in fear.
"Yea, certainly a nice party you've got here. Pity... pity you didn't invite me! You... you BASTARD!"
Joining his friends, Timmy began to back off, seeking cover behind his recently appeared parents.
"Who?" Mr Timmy's father asked, "Who are you?"
"Paul." I replied, "And your bastard of a son didn't invite me to his bastard party."
"Sir, my son is seven." Mr Father replied, "He clearly doesn't know you. Can you stop swearing?"
"No... And this wine? AWFUL!" I continued.
"You... You brought that with you. Please, take what you want and leave." Replied Mrs Timmy's mother fearfully.
She had the right idea. Bundling up the clown in a rather nice Persian rug, I headed home.

"Yes, but Wilde said that 'Charity creates a multitude of sins', did he not?"
I looked sadly at Max, pondering my reply.
"Well, yes." I started - best to start simple, I find - "But he didn't mean to encourage this"
"Ow" The tramp replied sadly.
Max pondered this briefly - it's a pondering kinda day - before swiftly kicking the hobo in the gut again.
"Ow," He continued. Then, looking up hopefully and bloodily in equal measures, "You know, tourists usually pay for this."
He raised his eyebrows hopefully several times. With a sigh, I dragged Max away. I'm not going back to jail - not again.

I fell on the bus today, and the scissors are now embedded in my head. I'm unsure if the right action is to pull them out or leave them in. Right now, they seem to be stopping the bleeding, but look bloody stupid. Perhaps I should invest in a hat.
Or a wig. With accompanying fake moustache... This'll keep me busy for days!
One thing's for certain - I'm not going to a doctor. They'll just ask why I ran with the scissors, like they know better.
Fascists.

My dangerous life

Flaunting social norms, I have taken to running with scissors. I run everywhere with them - to the bus, off the bus, around the bus. In fact, I have now done many things involving scissors and buses. I don't know why, I just seem drawn to them.
The bus drivers don't seem to like me. Probably because I tend to cut their customers accidentally. Running with scissors is no exact science.
Yet...

I have recently entered the illegal drugs market. I imagine you, gentle reader, recoiling in terror at such an ethical decline, so I ask you: why, with your superior moral sensibilities, were you not outraged by my frequent references to bears murdering people?
Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Appearing at sporting events, I offer colourful placebos to gullible athletes, claiming they're new, performance-enhancing drugs. After their inevitable win, I tell them there were no drugs, and all I gave them was confidence!
Most people demand a refund, and since they threaten me with legal action otherwise, I usually comply. Given the lack of money to be made, I have to conclude that it drugs truly are for losers.

Apologies for my absence. Recently, I have been finding life somewhat tedious. In fact, I think the spark had gone out of it. I have spent several weeks being dead. I have decomposed slightly - a more difficult process than one imagines - and have sampled the wears of both Heaven and Hell. Neither of these places were as one imagines either, but both are populated entirely by midgets. Recently, I have risen from the grave and terrorised teenagers with my shambling form.

I am in a flat...

And I am stealing the Internet. Yet, I somehow still feel unfulfilled...

I have a friend, let's call him Jack, who is very important to me. This importance is not due, I'm afraid, to his qualities as a friend and human being, but in his use. This isn't quiet as bad as it seems - you see, keeping him well is beneficial to all of us, not just me.
Some years ago, a group of scientists and philosophers discovered that reality - as Descartes suggests hypothetically early in his Meditations - exists solely in the individual. While it is true that we think, therefore we are, it only appears to be true for Jack. The rest of us are simply figments of Jack's imagination. When he can't see us, we don't exist. This, however, is a small detail compared to the troubling fact that when he dies, we will most likely vanish.
To this end, I've dedicated my life to keeping "Jack" safe from any danger, as well as any sources likely to made his imagination run riot.
The last thing we need is more dragons.

I was not permanently dead, I have been reincarnated. I never believed in reincarnation, but that doesn't seem to matter. Reincarnation believes in me.
Strangely, I have been reborn as myself. It appears I am destined to live out my life over and over again, like Groundhog Day.
I look forward to the popularization of the Internet, so I can buy an actual groundhog.