“Now just why the fuck did I buy this artichoke juice?”

While standing in the baron desert where all men go when their life is over, Death approached me and told me that he was going to escort me to hell.

I asked him what I had done to deserve such a thing and he said he didn’t know, I said I didn’t either and furthermore, I didn’t remember anything about my life at all.

Death shrugged his shoulders and tried to take hold of my hand. I moved backwards quickly and then kicked him in the stomach. He doubled up in pain and wheezed something about coming back for me later…as he walked off I smiled faintly.

I’d stolen his house keys.

Oh, Christ. My back hurts.

Most people who are exposed to large doses of radiation do briefly obtain some form of superpower before promptly dying.

I man walks into a Bar Mitzvah and says “Ouch Mitzvah!”

Do you know those soul-ish covers of popular songs that stretch every word out to about eighteen syllables? Why do artists get praised for doing these, they got it wrong?!

An actor and a screenwriter were living together in Los Angeles, both unemployed. One night the screenwriter slammed his laptop shut and cried “Finished!”

The actor looked up from his copy of ‘getting into characters (and the studio executive if at all possible)' and said “What is?”

“My masterpiece!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! This is it! This is the script that’s gonna make my career!”

The actor had heard this speech before but thought the writers enthusiasm seemed especially evident this time; 'maybe it is as good as he says it is' he thought

“So what part am I playing then?” said the actor; in a tone that he hoped sounded like he was making a casual, off-hand semi-joke.

“Oh, I don’t think there are any character’s right for you.” Said the writer as he put the laptop back in it’s bag.

“Um…sorry?” said the actor; in a tone that he hoped sounded like he genuinely hadn’t heard what his flatmate of seven years had just said to him.

“It’s not really a film you’d work in.” said the writer, looking a little nervous. He hadn’t expected his friend to react so badly.

“I’m very versatile, you know.” The actor snarled “It’s not like I can only fucking play roles tailor made to be my exact personality.”

“Oh, no. It’s not that.” The writer said “You’re just more of a…TV type of actor is all…”

The next day, their landlord came up intending to inquire as to the whereabouts of the last two months of rent and found the two dead bodies lying on the floor, the writer had strange marks on his neck which you can only get someone strangling you with their bare hands. The actor had a strange mark on his forehead which you can only get by putting a bullet in between your eyes.

Before calling this police, the landlord decided to check the writer’s laptop, just on a whim.

He easily guessed the security password after looking through some family albums and finding out the name of the writer’s dog and after some searching found the screenplay that the writer had finished only a few hours previously.

After safely hiding the bodies; the landlord took the script down to the screenwriters guild and copyrighted it in his own name, a studio bought the script off him for one million dollars and the film which was released two years later, enjoyed a fair amount of success at the box office and immense critical acclaim as reviewers everywhere celebrated the landlords return to screenwriting.

Of course, it became obvious very quickly to the studio executives what had really been going on but no-one really seemed to mind. Hey, that’s Hollywood for you.

A fly found himself in a compromising position

“Please don’t eat me, Mr. Spider!” He cried “I’ll do anything!”

Silence was his reply; Spiders can’t talk.