If anybody suffers from excessive political correctness, then best turn away now. This still makes me weep with laughter.
A guy with Tourette’s syndrome walks into the poshest restaurant in town.
“Where’s the pissing, motherfucking manager, you cock-sucking arse-wipe?” he enquires of one of the waiters. The waiter is taken aback and replies: “Excuse me sir but could you please refrain from using that sort of language in here. I will get the manager as soon as I can.”
The manager comes over and the bloke asks: “Are you the chicken-fucking manager of this bastard place?”
“Yes sir, I am,” replies the manager, “but I would prefer it if you could refrain from speaking such profanities in this, a private restaurant”.
“Fuck off” replies the bloke. “Where’s the fucking piano?”
“Pardon?” says the manager.
“Fucking deaf as well, are we? You snivelling little piece of shit, show me your cunting piano.”
“Ah,” replies the manager, “you’ve come about the pianist job” and shows the bloke to the piano.
“Can you play any blues?”
“Of course I fucking can,” and the bloke proceeds to play the most inspiring and beautiful sounding honky-tonk blues that the manager has ever heard. “That’s superb. What’s it called?”
“I tried to shag yer missus on the sofa but the springs kept hurting my dick,” replies the bloke. The manager becomes anxious and asks if the bloke knows any jazz.
The guy proceeds, playing the most melancholy jazz solo the manager has ever heard.
“Magnificent,” cries the manager. “What’s it called?”
“Wanted a wank over the washing machine but I got my balls caught in the soap drawer.” The manager is a tad embarrassed and asks if he knows any romantic ballads.
The bloke then plays the most heartbreaking melody the manager has ever heard. “And what’s this called?” asks the manager.
“As I fuck you under the stars with the moonlight shining off your hairy ring-piece,” replies the bloke. The manager is highly upset by this language but the man’s skills are so sublime that he offers him the job on condition that he doesn’t introduce any of his songs or talk to any of the customers.
This arrangement works well for a couple of months until one night, sitting opposite him, is the most gorgeous woman he has ever laid his eyes on. She is wearing a very transparent dress, silhouetting her breasts, and sitting with her legs slightly open, sucking suggestively on asparagus shoots as butter drips down her chin. It is all too much for the bloke and he sprints off to the toilets to release his tension. He is tugging away furiously when he hears the manager’s voice. “Where’s that bastard pianist?”
He just has time to finish off, and in a fluster he runs back to the piano having not bothered to adjust himself properly, sits down and starts playing some more tunes. The woman steps up and walks over to the piano, leans over and whispers in his ear. “Do you know your knob and bollocks are hanging out your trousers and dripping spunk on your shoes?”
The bloke replies “Know it? I fucking wrote it.”