Last night I was lying in bed, looking up at the stars and I thought, "Holy shit! My roof's gone!". But once I'd realised I'd gone to bed wearing my trusty x-ray specs, my mind wondered to other things, like the new Austin Powers movie, 'The Spy Who Shagged Me'. I got to thinkin' and realised that pretty much all of the James Bond movie titles could be 'shagged up' to suit an Austin Powers movie title. So here they are (to varying success but oft hilarity). This is a Mac original so when this gets forwarded back to you from a friend via e-mail in 6 months, (like all joke e-mails invariably do!) you'll be able to quote the actual source for a change!

And whilst we're on the subject of movies, with all this new Star Wars stuff coming out, has nobody considerred the REALLY important issue? Like, does this mean we're going to get a SPACEBALLS prequel, too?

A blonde decides to try horseback riding, even though she has had no lessons or prior experience. She mounts the horse unassisted and the horse immediately springs into motion. It gallops along at a steady and rhythmic pace, but the blonde begins to slip from the saddle. In terror, she grabs for the horse's mane, but cannot seem to get a firm grip. She tries to throw her arms around the horse's neck, but she slides down the side of the horse anyway. The horse gallops along, seemingly impervious to its slipping rider. Finally, giving up her frail grip, she leaps away from the horse to try and throw herself to safety. Unfortunately, her foot has become entangled in the stirrup and she is now at the mercy of the horse's pounding hooves as her head is struck against the ground again and again. As her head is battered against the ground, she is mere moments away from unconsciousness when........the Wal-Mart manager runs out to shut off the horse.

If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes to big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do no, infact come off during the course of you date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "Barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: early."

I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process than can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to introduce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka - zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which features chan saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless God of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Be afraid,. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy near Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveways you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

A new priest at his first mass was so nervous he couldn't stand still. He asked the elder Father Murphy for some advice. Father Murphy replied, "When I'm worried about gettin' nervous on the pulpit, I take a wee bit o' whiskey, just to calm my nerves."

So the next Sunday he took the older priest's advice. Before the mass, he got nervous and took a drink. He then proceeded to talk up a storm. Upon return to his office after mass, he found the following note from the elder priest on his door:

(Mournful funeral music plays and the march begins) It is a gray Saturday afternoon and a throng of Marymount students has gathered around on Fifth Avenue to say "good bye" and "fuck off" to those exams. The crowd waits with anticipation of this glorious event. Four Friends by the names of Alex, Jana, Amy-Lauren, and Ying linger about waiting for the dead bodies of the exams. "Wow! A REAL LIVE FUNERAL!! So, I can't wait to see the maggot infested bodies decomposing right in front of our eyes!" Ying exclaims. "Ying, dear, the exams were dead for only a few days. I doubt that they would be infested with insects right now," Alex notes. On that note, Ying slumps into depression. After a few moments, mahogany caskets can be seen. Everyone looked as the exams, dead as a doornail, process through Fifth Avenue. Ying cheers. Alex looks at Ying with a concerned expression on her face. Jana cries and Amy-Lauren looks seductively to a tall, blond pallbearer carrying the tiny casket holding the Social Justice Exam. As the exams pass, there were "boos" and vituperation from the irate Marymount students and admiration and grief-stricken silence from the teachers. A number of teachers were crying hysterically for not being able to make their students' lives as depressing as they had been during exam week.

After a few hours, all the exams were shown. The last batch of exams was the history exams. Amy-Lauren, Jana, and Alex looked grimly at the giant AP European History exam and groaned in relief in having conquered the obstacle and fright in their soon-to-be-known results. Ying gives a demented smile and points to the right where a puny casket was holding a little, kinda cute exam labeled European History GENERAL. Her next remark ("little pipsqueak") got her a punch on the arm from an irritated Jana.

After the event was over, Alex asks, "so, guys. What do you think of that funeral procession?"

Jana shrugs. Ying stares back in mental stupor and Amy-Lauren sings, "I'm in love with a man nearly twice my age". With that the four friends left and walked off into the Second Semester.

One. ONE!! And do you know WHY it only takes ONE? Because no one else in this house knows HOW to change a light bulb. They don't even know the bulb is BURNED OUT. They would sit in this house in the dark for THREE DAYS before they figured it OUT. And once they figured it out they wouldn't be able to find the light bulbs despite the fact that they've been in the SAME CUPBOARD for the past SEVENTEEN YEARS.

But if they did, by some miracle, actually find the light bulbs, TWO DAYS LATER the chair that they dragged from two rooms over to stand on to change the STUPID light bulb would STILL BE IN THE SAME SPOT!! AND UNDERNEATH IT WOULD BE THE CRUMPLED WRAPPER THE STUPID @*!#$% LIGHT BULBS CAME IN! WHY?! BECAUSE NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE EVER CARRIES OUT THE GARBAGE!!

IT'S A WONDER WE HAVEN'T ALL SUFFOCATED FROM THE PILES OF GARBAGE THAT ARE 12 FEET DEEP THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE HOUSE!! IT WOULD TAKE AN ARMY TO CLEAN THIS... I'm sorry... what did you ask me?"

WASHINGTON President George W. Bush announced an initiative to develop a faith-based missile defense. "For too long, military planners have been denied the use of the supernatural in attempting to protect American citizens from attack," Bush declared today in a speech to the National Association of Amateur Submarine Captains. "There is no reason why we cannot maintain a healthy separation of church and state while still calling on divine intervention for the Pentagon budget. Faith-based missile defense will be constitutional and fully consistent with the way the Founding Fathers expected this great nation to handle ICBM threats," the president said.

The faith-based defense would be nondenominational and designed to protect Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Wiccans, as well as Christians, officials said. (For technical reasons, it is unclear whether nonbelievers can be protected.) Pentagon sources say the system is code-named Rapture.

Initial plans call for Rapture components to be hidden in the steeples of churches, which are about the size and shape of rockets, and possibly in Catholic cardinals' miters. "If we put a Rapture anti-missile missile in every church steeple in America, even small towns will be defended, and the spending will be distributed to all congressional districts," an informed official said. The schedule for development and construction is uncertain, depending on how quickly cost overruns can begin.

White House officials insisted the system would pose no threat to the religions of other nations and said that leadership at the Vatican, Constantinople, Mecca, Amritsar, and other key world-faith sites would be fully briefed on the project. "However there is some concern about what would happen if this technology fell into the hands of the Lubavitchers," one senior aide said.

While operational details of the system are apparently still being worked out, during an attack by an ICBM launched by a "rogue state" or possibly by Marc Rich, computers for the faith-based system would rapidly activate a "prayer circle" of persons who will register with a database as being willing to pray for national survival. Automated cell phone and instant-messenger messages would instruct the persons in the prayer circle on the altitude, azimuth, velocity, and orbital trajectory of the incoming threat; they would then employ prayer to guide the Rapture defensive missiles to the intercept point. "It's a pretty cool concept technologically, although there is a danger of fire when each missile blasts out of its housing in the steeple," one official said.

Critics said the system could be fooled if incoming warheads were surrounded by a cloud of Torahs, Korans, Upanishads, and Gospels as decoys. In secret tests conducted last month on a remote Pacific Ocean island, a prayer-circle guidance team proved unable to distinguish between a dummy nuclear warhead and a specially reinforced hymnal when both were re-entering the atmosphere at speeds in excess of 8,000 miles per hour.

President Bush also authorized the creation of an Office of Faith-Based Research and Development at the Pentagon and named evangelist James Dobson to head the project. (Lockheed Martin will provide management services.) Dobson told reporters that he envisioned moving the Defense Department beyond tanks, fighters, and aircraft carriers into an entire new generation of faith-based munitions. "Lightning and swords will be the weapons of Armageddon, so America must begin to stockpile the most lethal, technologically advanced blades and energy-bolt projectors that our science can design," Dobson said. "Saddam Hussein isn't working on plutonium, he is trying to develop seven-headed dragons and gigantic armored locusts. We're going to have a little surprise ready when he tries to use them."

Dobson displayed a prototype faith-based infantry weapon: a gilded staff that, he said, could hurl a powerful lightning bolt, scorching into powder whatever it was pointed at. He urged onlookers to try the weapon at a hastily arranged demonstration range. But when several reporters attempted to fire the staff, nothing happened. "That's because you're all journalists," Dobson said. "It only works for believers."

Separately, White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said that George W. Bush favored changing the slogan on U.S. coinage and tender from "In God We Trust" to "God Help Us." This phrasing "better reflects the president's feelings about the coming four years," Fleischer said.

A woman is just getting out of the shower when the doorbell rings. Her husband, heading to the shower himself, asks her to see who's at the door, so she wraps herself up in a towel and runs downstairs. When she opens the door, there stands her next-door neighbor, Rob. Before she can say a word, Rob says, "I'll give you $500 dollars to drop that towel you have on." After thinking for a moment, the woman drops her towel and stands naked in front of him. He looks for a few seconds, hands her $500 dollars, and leaves.

Excited about her earnings, the woman puts the towel back on and runs upstairs. Her husband yells out from the shower, "Who was that?"

"Great," the husband says. "Did he say anything about the $500 dollars he owes me?"

One thing that has always bugged me, and I'm sure it does most of you, is to sit down at the dinner table only to be interrupted by a phone call from a telemarketer. I decided, on one such occasion, to try to be as irritating as they were to me. The call was from AT&T and it went something like this:

At this point I put the phone down for a solid 5 minutes thinking that, surely, this person would have hung up the phone. I ate my salad. Much to my surprise, when I picked up the receiver, they were still waiting.

When you are not interested in something, I don't think you can express yourself any plainer than by saying "I'm really not interested", but this lady was persistent.

So now AT&T has me on hold and my supper is getting cold. I begin to eat while I'm waiting for a supervisor. After a wait of a few minutes and while I have a mouth full of food:

I was on hold once again and managed a few more mouthfuls. I needed to end this conversation. Suddenly, there was an aggravated but polite voice at the other end of the phone.

There was a preacher whose wife was expecting a baby. So he went to the congregation and asked for a raise. After much consideration and discussion, they passed a rule that when the preacher's family expanded, so would his paycheck. After 5 or 6 children, this started to get expensive so the congregation decided to hold a meeting again to discuss the preacher's pay situation. As you can imagine, there was much yelling and bickering. Finally, the preacher got up and spoke to the crowd. "Having children is an act of God!", he said.

In the back of the room, a little old man stood up and in his frail voice said, "Reverend, as a point of information, snow and rain are also acts of God, but when we get too much of it, we wear rubbers."

Three Italian nuns die and go to heaven, where they are met at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter. He says, "Ladies, you all led such wonderful lives, that I'm granting you six months to go back to earth and be anyone you want to be."

One night a guy takes his girlfriend home. As they are about to kiss each other goodnight, the guy starts feeling a little horny. With an air of confidence, he leans with his hand against the wall and, smiling, he says to her: "Darling, would you give me a blowjob?"

Out of the blue, the light on the stairs goes on, and the girl's sister shows up in her pajamas, hair disheveled, and in a sleepy voice she says: "Dad says to go ahead and give him a blowjob. Otherwise I can do it. Or if need be, dad says he can come down himself and do it. But for God sake tell him to take his fucking hand off the intercom!"

Kay Martin, a secretary to a New Zealand MP, got the fright of her life a few weeks ago. According to the Auckland Sunday Star, she and a friend were chatting over a drink when they heard a chicken squawking. The bird sounded in some distress, so they went outside to investigate, thinking perhaps that it had escaped from one of the neighbors. But, there were no chickens anywhere.

Then Martin realized with horror that the sound was coming from her own kitchen - coming, in fact, from the oven, where she had put a chicken in to roast half an hour earlier. "It was as if it was shrieking at me from its grave," she says. "It was so bizarre I just froze."

As they approached the oven, the squawking reached a crescendo. They took the tray out, and as the chicken began to cool, the squawking died away.

Martin chopped the neck off and threw it in the sink. She noticed that the vocal chords were intact. "Steam was coming up the neck from the stuffing," says Martin, and this had caused the dead bird to squawk.