Sometimes, when you’re sitting around with the fellas, you tell jokes. You know how it works. One guy tells a joke, then another guy tells a joke, then another guy tells a joke and eventually, you tell all the funny jokes you have and you run out, and you’re left with the really bad jokes from your repertoire. And then you’re forced to have an actual conversation or at least find a girl to hit on.

Last night, before I drove home to watch the All Star game (screw the American league by the way… Junior Circuit Motherf—ers), I was in a pretty good joke session with two guys from Long Island, a guy from New Jersey and a guy from Plant City, Florida (home of the Strawberry Festival). And because I’m supposed to be writing comedy but I can’t remember the last time I wrote an actual joke, I think I’ll try to get some of these joke-session-samples on the cyber page.

Me: [holding up hand]: Why Can’t you masturbate with this hand?
Guy from Long Island1: Why?
Me: ‘Cause it’s mine.

Guy from Long Island2: What’s the definition of fierce persistence?
Me: What?
Guy from Long Island2: Coming in First and Third in a jack-off competition.

Guy from Plant City: So a guy walks into a sex shop and says he wants a blow up doll. The guy behind the counter says, ‘we have two kinds: Muslim or Christian. The Muslim’s more expensive.’ So the guy looking for the doll asks, ‘why is the Muslim kind more expensive?’ And the guy behind the counter says, ‘it blows itself up.’

Me: What’s the difference between a ’57 Cadillac and a pile of dead babies?
Guy from Long Island2: What?
Me: I don’t have a ’57 Cadillac in my garage.

Me: So this woman’s giving birth. The doctor and the father are in the operating room. The doctor sees the head, takes out the salad tongs, and yanks the baby out super fast. He starts swinging the baby over his head by the umbilical chord; he takes the baby and pounds it up against the wall, against the ceiling, the floor, the operating table, everything. He beats the baby into a bloody pulp and then he hook shots it into the trashcan and yells, ‘two points.’ The mother is crying; the father is screaming his head off; I mean he’s ready to kill the doctor. And the doctor looks over at the parents and says, ‘Psych. I’m just messing with you. It died like three hours ago.’
Guy from Long Island1: That is wrong on so many different levels.
Guy from Long Island2: Seriously, you kiss your mother with that mouth?
Me: I didn’t write the thing.
Guy from Plant City: Sure you didn’t. Sick bastard.

And after that, as you can imagine, the conversation kind of died down. I believe the next line spoken was something along the lines of, “Did Jeter make the All Star game?” I’m talking conversation tumbleweeds. And I’m serious when I say, I didn’t write that last joke. A bartender named Brad told me it in 2001. I did once e-mail it to my friend Doug’s entire e-mail list (accidentally; I hit ‘reply all’ instead of ‘reply’). Two minutes after I sent it, I received the following phone call:

Me: This is Nathan.
Doug: You sick F—. I got like twenty people in my office asking me who in the hell this Nathan DeGraaf character is and where they can find him.
Me: Why?
Doug: You sent that joke to my entire list. I got mother and fathers on this list, you bastard.
Me: Sorry, Doug. My bad. It was funny though, huh?
Doug: F—ing hilarious.

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