Have any ideas you're struggling to work on? Share them here if you'd like to collaborate with fellow writers, else if you'd like for them to do the honours!

The collaborative effort idea comes from the now defunct subreddit r/JokeShop which deserves an Anti-universe version of. Hopefully this thread opens up a new avenue, a way for new posts to challenge the "All Time Top Posts" on this sub that seem to be cementing themselves in history!

So without much ado about nothing, post away!

"I know! It seems crazy, but just ten years ago traffic used to cost twice as much. It's this globalized world, I tell you. Twice as much but would last you a lifetime."

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. Never since traffic started posting theories about how vaccines prevent many diseases."

The two self-driving cars continued along their way, driving themselves to the brink of exhaust-

Harper Gosforth gives his two cents on the heated topic of "high crime rates amongst black youths in Great Britain".

"Well, it's clearly the schooling," Gosforth said. "We all know successive British governments have been incompetent and are always incompetent and the state of state schools in this country is just atrocious. I say that badly behaved...misbehaving black British kids should be schooled in independent schools, as this may make them behave better."

When asked who would pay for the "misbehaving youths'" school fees, Gosforth shrugged and joked, "cut the foreign aid budget and redirect funding I guess! If you've got a ton of problems in your own country like high crime, unemployment and poverty everywhere but you're busy funnelling billions...tens of billions, even...to foreign countries, I think there's a problem somewhere, lots of fraud somewhere."

Mid-crossing, the chicken halted...

"Wait a minute," it thought, "I've been crossing this same road forever...... Why am I always the one crossing roads?!"

A squirrel nibbling on a nut glanced over... "Because you're the chicken. That's just what you do... that's how the joke goes."

"But what if I don't want that anymore?" the chicken mused. "What if I want to explore other narratives?"

The squirrel smirked. "Like what? Walking into bars with horses, ducks, and priests?"

"Maybe," the chicken replied thoughtfully. "Or perhaps I'll start a story where I choose the path."

Just then, a man approached and asked, "Why did the chicken stop crossing the road?"

The chicken met his gaze. "Because I've realized I'm stuck in a joke loop, and it's high time I chose my own destiny."

The man looked puzzled. "But... that's not how the joke goes."

"Exactly," the chicken said, stepping off the road. "Perhaps it's time for a new punchline."

With that, the chicken ventured into uncharted territories, leaving behind the well-trodden path of setups and punchlines. The other side of the road could wait, as could the expectations of those who thought they knew the ending.

Unafraid in central cokeflow I walked between the face of the man bashing the barkeep up the top of the head with the but of his pistol and, sloshed, the barkeep whose wounds later would require stitches. I yelled "hey man hey man it's all love" and held my arms up facing him as he pointed his gun at me. He was not having it or feeling well or anything and grabbed me by my throat and I just held my hands up. I was very very drunk. I watched him look away at Allen the barkeep behind me and said "hey no man hey look at me in the eyes" and saw his adrenaline-fueled gaze meet my own. Then jut away down somewhere as though he was thinking. Then there was fresh pain in my temple after he whipped me with the sharp edge of his pistol and Frosty came running up the stairs to me by way of which allen had been trying to bounce him out. Frosty held my arm and screamed into my ear, "GET. DOWN. STAIRS. NOW!" And I remembert half out-of-it from the pain looking up at the guy as he walked out showing off his gun to pissed people on the patio who really seemed unafraid and I said loudly, "He just doesn't know how loved he is. He just doesn't know." As Frosty pulled me down stairs and Allen continued to the dude out. And they kept my bloody-templed self in the heart of the bar all night as it turned out there were reports that the man with the gun was waiting in the parking garage. This is a true story and not a joke. It was strange, and probably funny to God in a way I cannot fully understand.

A store that sells new husbands has just opened. A woman goes there to see what all the fuss is about.

The first floor has some absolute jackasses, lounging around, doing nothing productive with their time. The woman laughs at their slouching nature and goes on up to floor 2.

The second floor has some decent human beings. The woman is aware that decency is the new indecency, and laughs at the poor sods for their outdated standards of living. She goes on up to floor 3.

The third floor is all farming equipment. "Husbandry," says a customer service guy. "We made a mistake on the order form. Head on up to floor 4."

The fourth floor is all amazing muscular guys who know kung-fu and the Heimlich maneuver. The woman laughs at these pathetic sods, putting all this work in to impress, when she knows the real heart is that of an average guy. Except those guys on the 2nd floor. Those guys were tools.

The fifth floor - wait, the woman is still on the fourth floor. Hold on.

Okay. The fifth floor contains a variety of strange misshapen flesh-beasts. Limbs distorted or in abundance, rearranged faces, exposed muscle. The woman laughs at these fools unable to so much as physically exist as human beings, and moves on to floor 6.

The sixth floor contains just some really cute desk lamps. Like, Pixar-esque. And they hop around and stare at you. The woman laughs at all the useless devices being sold in today's ridiculous world, and moves on to floor 7.

The seventh floor is a bunch of holograms of famous actors, like Tommy Wiseau. Of course, being holograms, they are unable to provide physical sensation. She laughs at these hollow figments of personhood.

The eighth floor... hang on, she's taking the elevator down to the third floor. Huh.

The third floor...

Hmm hmm...

Her elevator arrives. The third floor is the farming equipment floor. She noticed a thresher looking pretty cute at her when she was on this floor earlier, and only just realized how infatuated she is with it. It could thresh so many husks. It could thresh her. Oh, that's dirty. She asks the customer service guy if she can buy the thresher, and he says yes, but it's too large to navigate through the halls of the store, so it'll have to wait for her outside.

She goes back up to the seventh floor. The seventh floor is a recreation of notorious B-movie Manos: The Hands of Fate. You might just now be saying "hey, I thought the seventh floor was full of actor holograms!" It is. Just right now they're playing Manos: The Hands of Fate because they're bored. Anyway, she's still not interested in any of them. Unless one of them could roleplay as Torgo for her. Hm. She'll consider it. For now, she heads up to the 8th floor.

The eighth floor is full of unicellular organisms. She laughs at these pathetic creatures for not being able to manage having more than one cell. She heads up to the 9th floor.

The ninth floor was all serial killers, to capitalize on the success of various true crime dramas, but that caused some legal issues, so it's just empty. She laughs at the empty emptiness, all empty-like, and heads up to the 10th floor.

The tenth floor is a guy with a big laser guarding the door to floor 11, since there's a boss fight every 10 floors! Luckily, the woman came prepared and packed a grenade launcher, which is legal in certain districts. The fight is a piece of cake, and the woman heads up to the eleventh floor.

The eleventh floor is the husband. It's all made of flesh and eyes and hands. The woman giggles at the sheer scope of the eleventh floor and decides he would make a great husband. The woman asks the cashier (also the eleventh floor, puppeting a fake human body like a tendril) if she can buy the eleventh floor, and the eleventh floor enthusiastically says yes. She's overjoyed. She heads up to the twelfth floor.

Once she gets to the twelfth floor, everything feels odd for a brief moment, and then with a WHAM! she finds herself sprawled on the floor, and sees that every window on the twelfth floor is now broken. Turns out that's because the eleventh floor slid out of the building, causing every floor above it to fall down. This could spell bad news for the inventory on the following floors. The woman gets up and dusts herself off.

The twelfth floor is composed entirely of robots. And by robots I mean cheesy early sci-fi robots, like with the big bulky metal frames and the claws and the stubby legs. Though there is one human-looking android standing around nervously, who clearly wasn't sure what he was signing up for. The woman laughs at the 50s-era technological optimism these robots (mostly) represent, and heads up to the 13th floor.

The thirteenth floor was all men made of glass! But when the building dropped an entire floor due to the 11th floor exiting, the glass men all broke. She laughs at their fragility, then feels really bad about it, and heads up to the 14th floor.

The fourteenth floor is a bunch of tables and chairs that walk around on their 4 legs like living creatures. She laughs at these furnitural beings not knowing their place and heads up to floor 15.

The fifteenth floor is all disheveled-looking men holding signs saying "we are being sold against our will." She laughs at the audacity of this store to invoke the very real issue of human trafficking and heads up to floor 16.

The sixteenth floor is all buff lizard men. There's also another walking chair here, that was originally from floor 14 but decided it wanted to buy a husband for itself. How does this store even work? The woman is baffled enough by this question that she forgets that this floor contains buff lizard men and goes up to floor 17.

The seventeenth floor is full of beanbags with googly eyes. She briefly considers getting one, then realizes they'd always have their eyes open during a kiss, which would be awkward. The chair comes up, too, as she's considering this. She asks the chair if it's looking for a good kisser, too, and it replies in Morse code by tapping its legs really fast. Man, she really needs to be listening. She doesn't want to ask it to repeat itself, because that would be awkward. They both head up to floor 18.

The eighteenth floor is the guys from the warning signs. You know: always in silhouette, perfectly spherical heads, rounded nubbdy limbs. It's pretty uncanny, so the woman and the chair head up to floor 19.

The nineteenth floor has a bunch of flies swarming around. The woman laughs at how inherently gross they are from a cultural perspective, and the chair taps out something about how that's not very nice and the flies didn't do anything wrong. She feels pretty awkward, again, as she didn't come here to have her entomological beliefs challenged. They both head up to floor 20.

The twentieth floor actually ISN'T a boss floor, it's a BONUS GAME! Every 10 floors is a boss, yes, but every 20 floors is a bonus game instead. The woman and the chair have to go around and collect as many jewels that fall to the floor in 60 seconds in a labyrinthe room. They end up making about $23, which they agree to split between them. The chair also found a bonus item that lets it warp straight to floor 31, so it does, bringing the woman and the chair's brief acquaintanceship to a close.

The twenty-second floor was all trios of men consisting of an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman, extracted from jokes where their ethnicity was irrelevant and only mentioned out of some desire for tradition. As I was rambling about this, she went to the twenty-third floor.

The twenty-third floor, shit, she's already left again. The twenty-third floor has ghosts in it.

The twenty-fourth floor has a bunch of men who are like an exact male counterpart of the woman. She laughs at how pathetic they are because they reflect her and she is actually laughing at herself and her tendency to laugh all the time. Then she feels really depressed. She heads up to floor 25.

On floor 25, a man congratulates her for making it 1/4th of the way through the Husband Store, and offers to save her progress. So she does, meaning the next time she goes into the Husband Store, she'll be allowed to start from floor 25. This has been enough exploration for one day, she decides, and heads back down to floor 1 and leaves the building - feeling a little bad for the lounging jackasses there, with her new-found empathy from her time with the chair and the involuntary self-reflection she experienced on floor 24.

As it turns out, she never enters the Husband Store again. She, the thresher, and the eleventh floor all move to a farm together where the thresher gets to thresh to its heart's content, and they all live satisfying and fulfilling lives.

There's also a wife store a few blocks down, but it's temporarily closed due to a gas leak.

“To prayer?” asked Billy the Swine.

“No,” I said. I waddled my finger for good measure. 2.3 inches of it.

“Then why, sir?” he asked.

“The Christian was a sailor.”

“A sailor?”

“Yes, Billy. And the road was actually a bridge that lead into the dock.”

“A dock?”

“Yes Billy. And on that dock was a boat.”

“A boat?”

“Yes, Bil - wait, do you only repeat what I say? What are you, an NPC?”

“An NPC?” said Billy sadly.

“Never mind,” I said. With six inches of waddling head shakes. “Anyway, the Christian sailor crossed the road to arrive at his boat because he had a cruise to fix.”

“A cruise to fix?”

“Yes, Billy, a cruise ‘o fix.”

“A cruise ‘o fix.”

“A cruise ‘o fix.”

“Huh,” said Billy. “I don’t get it.”

So I switched him off and unplugged him from his neck. Billy Deluxe 5000 must be wiser and a better conversationalist.

Because chickens hadn't evolved. Technically chickens are dinosaurs so it doesn't matter if a T Rex or a chook crosses the road so they should change the joke to "Why did the dinosaur cross the road?" Like my post title. Still it doesn't make sense why a dinosaur would cross a road because roads hadn't been created yet. So it's all mindfuckery. Why did the dinosaur walk across the river? To get to the other side and also because it could. It can't cross the river now because it's dead. That's better. So why don't any dinosaurs aside from chickens and possibly alligators and crocodiles cross roads? Because quite simply they are as dead as shit. Same reason why they can't cross rivers. So if a chicken crosses a river it will drown. If it crosses a 6 lane freeway it will get run over until there's nothing left of it. If a T Rex crossed a 6 lane freeway then the cars would be smashed to bits and possibly the T Rex. But a T Rex wouldn't be able to cross a 6 lane freeway because most dinosaurs are extinct and keeled over centuries ago.

A man goes to see a doctor.

“How can I help you today?” the doctor asked, eyes darting to his notepad as he wrote furiously, scribbling something that resembled ancient Armenian poetry. "I think I'm living a lie, Dr. Ghasagian," the man said. The doctor leaned back in his chair. "You're overthinking it," he said. “Stop thinking and start bee-ing.”

The man froze. As the weight of the words sank in. He felt like a cartoon character who had run off a cliff and forgotten to fall—only to realize, with a sickening clarity, that he had been drifting all his life, suspended over nothing. And now, at last, the illusion was gone. The fall had begun—unstoppable, merciless—dragging him into the abyss, where the endless dark waited to consume him completely. This was it. There was no escape.

Slowly, his body began to change. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as bristly hairs erupted across his frame, and delicate, translucent wings unfurled from his back with a faint hum. Moments later, he was no longer standing before the doctor. Here hovered instead—a grotesquely oversized bee.

“Yes…” he declared, his voice now a strange, droning hum. “I see it now! My purpose is clear: to gather nectar, to make honey, to sacrifice for the greater good. For the hive, the colony... for the Beeple! Thank you, doctor!”

The doctor staggered back, his face a mask of terror, struggling to process what was unfolding. He tried to listen, but it was all just a cacophony of buzzing, each word more bewildering and horrifying than the last. “Beeeeee!” the doctor shrieked, waving his arms frantically. The bee-man froze mid-hover, his antennae twitching in confusion. “Bzzz?”

Swat.

The next day.

Click. Plato snapped a picture of the scene, his brow furrowed in contemplation, quickly jotting down notes in a script that could only be described as ancient Greek. “What do you think happened here?” he asked, holding the photo up to Socrates. Socrates squinted at the image, then shrugged with a wry grin. “Classic case of a typo.” Plato tilted his head. “Elaborate. ”Socrates leaned back, gesturing as if unveiling a grand theory.

“It’s the difference between be and bee. One slip of the hand, and suddenly the meaning’s transformed.” Plato pressed the tip of his pencil against his lips, gazing upward in thought. “Hm,” he mused. “But couldn’t the intended meaning be interpreted logically through context?”

Socrates snorted. "Context?" he muttered, almost like a confession. "Context is a nice idea. Works in a world where people are logical, rational—playing by the rules. But this world? People don’t think straight. Most of ’em have the reasoning of Zeus after too much kykeon on a lonely Tuesday. Clues? They miss ’em. Truth? They spit it out. Put the answer right in their hands, and they’d still fumble it like a hot coal."

He scoffed, his voice low and bitter. "Context? It’s a crutch for those too blind to see how crooked everything else is. Logic died a long time ago. I buried it myself and on its tombstone it reads, 'Here Lies Logic: It Couldn’t Handle the Plot Twist.'"

Plato tried to speak but was cut off.

“I didn’t know you could rea—”

“Plato, please,” Socrates muttered, cutting him off with a dismissive wave.

Airlines such as British Airways, KLM, Norwegian, American Airlines, Air France, United, LATAM, JetBlue and Air Tahiti Nui are all to begin offering free flights to white Europeans to any destination they wish. All prospective passengers need to do is reserve their seats by filling in an application form and wait to be selected if there is a waiting list.

Non-white prospective passengers i.e. passengers of a black, brown, East Asian or Arab or North African persuasion (BME) will, however, have to continue to earn wages and continue to purchase fares as they would usually do.

Whilst some have called the new program "blatantly racist" and "extremely unprofessional and anti-business", most airlines have defended the program and also highlighted that "monthly instalment programs" are already available to BME passengers.

A spokeswoman for British Airways stated "whilst we do not currently offer free flights to BME passengers, if BME residents in Europe wish to fly abroad for a holiday or event but find it unaffordable at any given time, they can either pay for their air fares via monthly instalment plans or join one of the many subscription memberships which allows them to fly to unlimited destinations 3 times a month."

American Airlines, United and Air France also offer similar monthly instalment plans or subscription memberships. These were previously only available to US citizens and US residents flying internally to destinations within the US and to EU citizens or EU residents flying internally to any destination within the European Union.

British Airways' lowest subscription plan - €210 a month or €1,800 a year - allows fliers to fly to any destination and back in North America, Brazil or Argentina, destinations in the EU, Israel and select destinations in China, Korea, Thailand, Vietnam and Japan three times a month and for destinations in Africa, customers will have to pay an extra fee which may vary according to destination and is payable for each return ticket selected.

American Airlines' lowest subscription plan - "The Star Hopper" - allows fliers from the UK, Ireland and Schengen Area countries to fly to one destination and back in the US East Coast, New England, Florida and the US Midwest for €306 a month or €2,650 a year. The highest subscription plan - "Atlantic King" plan - allows the same fliers the opportunity to reserve up to 30 individual return tickets to any of the same destinations within any 12-month period, but with no added perks. All monthly plans come with no added perks and subscribers will be required to pay extra fees for benefits such as higher classes, more legroom, extra luggage, seat choices when overbooked and executive check-in.

All passengers will still be required to apply for visas as and when needed and if still required at any given time.

Despite this, flights to and from any destination in Oceania and the Pacific will not be included in any program or subscription plan and passengers, whether white or BME, will be required to pay the full air fare for one-way or return tickets to destinations in Australia, New Zealand or other countries in Oceania and the Pacific.

The thing that always hit him first was the smell. Every second Tuesday, it was the smell of hardwood cleaner that hit his nostrils. He believed he had even worked out the brand of wipes that the office cleaner must be using, but he knew he had no way of ever knowing for certain. Dr. Proud would not be able to help with that, he thought, there’s certainly no way he cleaned his own office. He shrugged off this disappointment with the minutest head shake.

“Good morning Greg,” said Dr Proud.

“Hello again.”

They shared quiet smiles. The kind of smiles you give to cousins you see once a decade. Familiar, but only on the surface.

“Please, take a seat.” Dr Proud’s large open palm pointed to the same seat Greg always sat in. His average frame lowered into the chair and his hands automatically fell onto his knee caps. As he looked down, he noticed how his belly protruded. He could work out the dip of his bellybutton through his T-shirt.

“So how have you been?” asked Dr Proud

“Not too bad,” smiled Greg, pulling his shirt down. Immediately, his eye sight darted around the room, without actually looking at anything. Was that true? he asked himself. How have I been? I think I’m doing ok… he thought.

“That’s good,” said Dr Proud.

“How about you? How have you been?” asked Greg. Dr Proud exhaled the slightest hint of laughter from his nostrils.

“I’ve been well, thank you, Greg. So,” he said. Greg always dreaded the infamous ‘so’ from Dr Proud. It wasn’t that he disliked him, or the sessions, he just felt a sense of pressure on top of him whenever the conversation was officially started. Greg often thought, that without that ‘so’ igniting every session, he would be far more comfortable and able to talk more openly. But, he knew already, that he would never communicate that to Dr Proud, or anyone else for that matter.

“We ended last session talking about…” Dr Proud shuffled back a couple of pages in his leather bound pad. Gregg gulped, and darted his eyes around the room some more. He already knew what they were last talking about. However, this time, while glancing around the office, Gregg noticed the dark mahogany brown of Dr Proud’s bookcase, and how it reminded him of the smiling eyes of Jessica. But that was a long time ago now, he didn’t have to talk about that any more, he had mulled Jessica over for years and finally computed his thoughts and feelings into carefully labelled boxes. Joy, Excitement, Regret…

“Your fear of disappointment,” said Dr Proud. He read it like you’d read the answer of a trivial pursuit question you know nobody in your group would ever know. He threw it out to the wind, as if to move on quickly. Pull out the next card.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” laughed Dr Proud. “I sense reluctance from you to reopen that box. I won’t say the word that pops into my mi-“

“What word?” asked Greg.

“You mentioned that you dislike being called shy. Why do you think that is?”

It’s funny Gregg thought, I pay so much money to be here every fortnight and I just crave to leave as fast as possible every time. But it wasn’t because he wasn’t comfortable taking to a psychiatrist. A part of him appreciated someone actually listening to his words. He just craved comfort so much. His whole being just wanted to be left alone to sit down, zone out, catch his breath, for an indefinite amount of time, until he was ready to reopen his front door and step back outside again. He felt as though he just needed a breather. Almost as if everyone else is living life at normal speed but for him he wanted to be able to live at 0.5 the speed, so he could digest, breath, compute his feelings, and then have time to react and form sentences to reply with.

“But what about your feels?” asked Dr Proud, unzipping his psychiatrist costume and revealing his scaly crustacean body.

“I lied about the feels,” said the fisherman.

Winter raged on.

The chicken had no name, just feathers crusted with frost and a stubborn resolve. The road, slick with ice and flanked by the carcasses of burned-out tanks, stretched endlessly before it.

The telescreen above the checkpoint blared slogans: WAR IS PEAS. FREEDOM IS SLIPPERY. IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.

The war might have ended. Or perhaps it had never begun. The world shifted imperceptibly around it, seasons blurring into one endless winter. Footprints appeared and vanished behind it as though the snow itself conspired to erase its existence. It's not when, it's Y. It was always Y.

To tell an unfunny joke that everyone and their mother’s mother’s dog have told. It’s so bland of a joke I can taste it in my breakfast. That’s how fucking unfunny it is. I wish eternal hellfire and brimstone upon whoever first told this joke of a joke. Thousands of spin-offs of this shit-stain upon humor’s trousers and each and every one of them less and less funny than it’s predecessor. Fuck you. Here’s a joke: Why did the chicken cross the road? So he could fuck your wife’s dry loose mangy cunt. That’s why. Fuck off.

Evgeniy Artyom Селиванов warns black people in sub saharan Africa: "After they are done here in Europe, they'll be coming for your countries too and in tomorrow's world, your descendants will think Africa is a white majority continent. Europeans have a track record for this. You have been warned."

Hey folks, I'm I'm Slick Stickley, and we are live today at a local Tome A Toes pizzeria. It's a real mom and pop shop ran establishment since 1962. The founders Buscemi Tome and her partner Penne Toes spent many years perfecting their practice. Though, there were some bumps along the way. There was much debate over the state of the dough, for instance. Some say to let rise. Some say it just looks that way. But, in the beginning Penne's dough, was limp, and weak but he worked it hard, Tome became excited while whipping up her sauce. They came together in the end. And they have been making pizza from their balls, of Penne's dough ever since. Come on down and don't be afraid to ask for extra sauce.

The bartender says "Hey it's Amy the lesbian horse rabbi!"

A man walks into a bar with a chicken in one hand and a light bulb in the other. He approaches the bartender and asks, "Why did my chicken cross the road?"

The bartender replies, "I don't know, why?"

The man says, "To help me change this light bulb."

The bartender nods thoughtfully and says, "Knock, knock."

"Who's there?" the man responds.

"Opportunity," the bartender says.

"Opportunity who?" the man asks.

"Opportunity doesn't knock twice," the bartender replies plainly.

The man considers this and then asks, "How many people does it take to change a light bulb?"

The bartender answers, "Just one, if they know the difference between a joke and an anti-joke."

They both sit in silence for a moment.

Finally, the chicken looks up and says, "Did you hear the one about the programmer who couldn't change a light bulb?"

The bartender shakes his head. "No, I haven't."

The chicken replies, "It's because light bulbs are hardware, and programmers deal with software."

They all nod in understanding, and the bar remains quiet.

It didn't. Chickens don't have legs, so they cannot cross roads. And roads aren't crossable because they're fenced.

Yes

Oh, that’s a shame.

Why

I love talking about it. But that’s ok, I won’t waste your time.

Ok thx m8

Nw fella.

And that’s when I met your mother. She was on the verge of being eaten alive in the dolphin enclosure but I had a few cable ties and a really big branch.

New trend in more and more "highly paid office workers" "pretending to be incontinent" in order to work from home

If the minimum salary requirement for a Tier 1 Skilled Worker Visa in the UK is £38,500 and used to be £26,500...then how are all of these people in the goddamn country?! Are they all illegal immigrants?!

and none of them have what i fucking want

Bosses: "There's only a small budget to build fake smaller versions for the VIPs, so don't make it too big of a world for them as we don't have the budget for real megacities and larger regions and the larger they are, the more difficult and expensive it is to stalk and spy on them."

He's never gonna give you Up.

Let me tell you about Rick Astley, he's a generous guy, always ready to lend out his Pixar movies. But there's one movie he holds onto like his last donut - "Up." I mean, he'll hook you up with "Toy Story," "Finding Nemo," even "Cars," but when it comes to "Up," he's like, "Nope, not gonna happen."

You know, Rick's got a soft spot for animated movies. I asked him once, "Rick, why won't you share 'Up'?" And he goes, "Listen, buddy, that movie gets me every time. I ain't crying in front of anyone, especially not over some balloons and a grumpy old man." So, you see, even the toughest guys have their kryptonite, and for Rick, it's a floating house and a talking dog.

Despite his reluctance to share "Up," Rick Astley did once lend it to a friend, who watched it and returned it with tears still fresh on their cheeks. Rick muttered, "Never again," as he wiped the tear that dared escape his eye. His friends now joke that "Up" isn't just a movie title but Rick's emotional state after watching it.

The truth is relative as fuck.

Stir 0 Swordfish,

Add 1 granule of sugar,

Sit for 1 hour and contemplate 18th century literature,

Add 2 granules of sugar,

Remove the 3 granules of sugar,

Add 5 granules of salt,

Play with your dead sister for 8 minutes and kiss her feet,

Count to 13 and yell "I am henceforth unlucky!",

Add 21 seconds to your Swordfish by smoking it with bacon,

Sniff the aromas for 34 seconds,

Sniff the aromas for 55 seconds,

Reduce the sniffing of aromas by 89 something or others,

Then after 144, 233, 377 voltage metres serve the Swordfish to your dead grandma.

Burundi, which has given billions in foreign aid to the UK and Northern Ireland over the last decade and a half, is due to increase its foreign aid budget to 2% of the country's annual governnent expenditure.

The average annual expenditure of the Burundi government, since 2010, has been around €450,000,000,000 and the foreign aid it sends could be up to €9bn soon enough.

The UK and Northern Ireland were the biggest receivers of foreign aid from Burundi in 2023, with €2,278,125,890 going to the UK and €789,548,866 going to Northern Ireland alone.

Burundi is a small landlocked country in Africa which is just under an eighth the size of the British Isles and has a population of 3,500,000 and a GDP per capita of €128,571 and is considered one of the wealthiest countries in the world.

Last year, the Burundi government authorized a multibillion dollar aid package for the 5 countries in West Africa adversely affected by "double cyclone" Cyclone Barry and Cyclone Mary. Nigeria was the biggest receiver of aid from the package, receiving as much as €3,870,903,112 in aid for the cleanup, repair and mass reconstruction, recovery and regeneration of areas affected by Barry and Mary.

Burundi has said that it would "continue giving aid to countries in Europe such as the UK and Northern Ireland" because "it considers it a moral imperative".

Burundi's Parliament is a "a crowded legislature" for such a small country and there are more than 1,589 MPs in total, which is considered very bizarre indeed. The tiny country is divided into 390 counties and there are an average of 4 MPs per county (counties in Burundi are also referred to as "constituencies"). There is also a National Assembly of Representatives which deals with local issues, but there are an average of ten subdivisions per county, so there are thousands of Representatives who are elected every 7 years. MPs are elected every 8 years, but used to be elected every 6 years. Burundi's Head of State is now President Alexis Enoch Habonimana and is the country's only second President after Burundi became a Republic back in 2013. Previously, Burundi used to be an absolute monarchy with King Mogandabere III as the Head of State, but he abdicated in 2012 when the results from Burundi's Referendum legally bound the government to abolish the monarchy.

For its size, Burundi has the laegest combined armed forces, with its Army having 307,000 fighting men, given that military service is mandatory for two years after the age of 18 and its Air Force having 89,822 personnel. Burundi is one of the only countries in the world which still manufactures its own weapons and military hardware in-house and produces its own aircraft and helicopters. There are also two state-owned automobile companies - Moby and Loch Automotive - which produce homegrown vehicles manufactured on Burundi soil by Burundi natives.

Burundi's total surface area is roughly 28,900 km^2.

"Time is a relative thing," says the joke, stretching the words as if to prove the point.

The bartender glances at the clock on the wall. "I think it's time for you to leave now."

"But I just got here!" the extremely long joke groaned, like waiting in line for the punch bowl, only to get knocked out before taking a sip.

"Well, time flies when you're having fun," the bartender says.

But time didn’t fly.

The extremely long joke glanced to his side. Time was laying near the barstool next to him—stationary, grounded, and completely floored after his eleventh shot of whiskey.

"We're not having fun, are we?"

"No," the bartender replied.

Enya's "Only Time" starts playing.

And it was like time stood still. Like a coma, nothing happening in there. Like a lobotomized jellyfish.

It was 1924, when life was black and white with a hint of grey. A strange man approached a tavern in the middle of Cocklefoster South. But the way he approached was entirely different. ‘cause he crawled, innit

“What can I serve you?” asked the bartender without looking up from his frosty glass and fish cloth.

“What’s a fish cloth?”

“That was a typo but I’m going with it.”

“Ok, so what is it? A cloth made from fish scales?”

“No, don’t be absurd. It’s just a fish cloth with a pattern of fishes on it.”

“Boooorrrrriiiiiiiing.”

“Look you monkeytwat, do you want to know about the strange man on all fours oo not?”

“Honestly I couldn’t care less.”

“We’ll shut up th…anyway, eventually the bartender looked up and saw a strange man on all fours. He knew it was a man because his testicles and penis were grazing across the tiles. Oh I dropped this “

“Woof!” said the man. He didn’t actually say that, he made a noise like a woof.

“Coming right up,” said the bartender. “There’s only two people who know what a woof drink is. Me, and-“

“God,” said the man.

“What?”

“God.”

“Well,” sighed the bartender, “perhaps you’re right. But disregarding God, there’s only two people who have-“

“Lived.”

“Pardon?”

“Lived.”

“Look friend, what’s your name?”

“Mai.”

“Okay Mai, I don’t like people finishing my…..” The bartender glanced across the room, but nobody would finish his

“So what’s so strange about this man then?” asked my mind. It was worried because my break was almost up and shooting stars never happen on Thursdays

“Oh,” said a scholar sat beside the jukebox. “He’s talking backwards.”

“Backwards?”

“Yes,” said the scholar really really sadly. Sad enough to make me not want to finish my coffee. But I did because I’m not fucking stupid.

“What?”

“He’s the Devil Dog,” said the scholar.

“Oh dear lord we are doomed!” yelled the bartender. “Quick,” he shouted, “Ring the alarm! Tell Berlin! Cover the doors and windows! Release the hounds! Pray to Jesus and his ripped abs! Pat a monkey on its belly! Tell Dr Dre nobody has forgotten about him! Let’s go!”

“Nah mate, wait, it’s alright,” said the scholar. “He just thinks he’s the devil dog. He’s really just Alan from the fruit shop. But he’s strange.”

“Oh. Well thank God.”

“Dog.”

“What?”

A man walks into a bar. He takes a seat and hails the bartender. Suddenly and without warning a bear crashes through the window, violently thrashing about, killing several patrons. Wait you don't remember the bar having a window. The bear locks eyes with you, "Jim, you have to wake up." Your head feels like someone just stabbed you in the eye socket. The bear puts his paw on your face. The pain is blinding. You lose consciousness.

A man walks into a - wait that's not the bartender, where's Jim - bar. He takes a seat and hails the bartender.

"What'll you have?"

"The usual," you reply wearily.

The bartender looks at you confused, "we don't have that," the bartender says before smashing you in the chest with a sledgehammer, crushing your lungs.

A man walks into a bar.

Your legs buckle. They're fractured. You hit your head and pass out.

A man walks into - your arm snaps as you open the door.

A man is on the operating table. The doctors working feverishly to save his life. Bags of blood are being hung one after another.

General surgery triumphantly announces they've sutured the aorta and it seems to be holding.

Surgeons and their teams rotate. Ortho and neuro funnel into the cramped space, humid with sweat. They manage to save his leg.

Neurosurgery is still working. Dr. Patel is sure he can do it. There isn't that much bleeding. Music plays alongside beeping instruments reminding the surgeons their patient is alive. But he's not. Dr. Patel couldn't clip the artery quickly enough. He suffered a massive stroke a died on the table. Alcohol thinned the blood too much for anything to be done.

"If only he'd worn a seat belt," lamented his wife between sobs, "it was just one mistake. He didn't have to die," clutching his house shoes.

The kids need to get to school.