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rat-o-rist's "O'Reilly's Act" Aristocrats Joke

A family walks into a talent agency. It's a father, mother, son, daughter and dog. The father says to the talent agent, "We have a really amazing act. You should represent us."

The agent says, "Sorry, I don't represent family acts. They're a little too cute."

The mother says, "Sir, if you just see our act, we know you would want to represent us."

The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

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The father says, we come out on the stage. It is dimly lit, there is a table in the center of the stage, behind it is a kitchen sink and a gas hob. It suggests a Dublin tenement.

The family sits on wooden chairs. The lights come up on the stage and I enter. I bellow "Had a fine bit o' Guinness with me mates, if'n my name ain't O'Reilly." Then I look at the daughter and say "Where have you been, you little whore?"

The son and I come over to her and I pull her dress, which has Velcro strips, off of her and she is naked underneath.

"Fine," I bellow, "You little whore. I told you to take a bath before I came home. Let's see how clean you are."

The mother grabs her arms and pulls her over the table. The son grabs one leg and I the other. I lean over into her crotch and begin licking her crack.

"Tastes like that Jamaican sambo who lives downstairs," I declare, then I go in again for another big slurp, "Or that filthy Jew bastard as runs the pawn shop on the corner, the one with the numbers tattooed on his forearm," I scream.

"Well," I declare, "I'll fix that for sure or my name ain't O'Reilly!"

Then, my "wife" grabs a hold of her arms and pins her down on the table while I and my son spread her legs. I pull out a speculum and I thrust it into her cunt, saying, "Let's let the people in the audience see what a filthy little whore you are."

Then, with her legs spread to the audience, I administer my punishment. My daughter has had three labrets. I take a rusty carpet needle and proceed to sew her cunt shut. The labret holes are already there, but for the audience she screams bloody murder.

We show her innards to the audience. Then my son comes forward and declares, "She didna fuck the sambo downstairs. It was me!"

"You filthy bastard!" I scream and I demand he place his penis on the table top (He's had a Prince Albert piercing, you see).

I pull open a drawer in the table and pull out a larding needle. I do an overhand jab in through his penis. It's all an act, but he screams.

I declare, "It's time for my Rusty Trombone." That's when my "wife" comes in. (She's not really my wife: she's a homeless woman we hired her for a 40-ounce of malt liquor -- filthy feet, bloated ankles, great, thick veins up and down her cottage-cheese legs, a huge appendectomy scar across her sagging belly, teats like soggy loaves of bread inside cellophane bags.)

For the longest time, the agent just sits in silence. Finally, he manages, "That's a hell of an act. What do you call it?"

And the father says, "The Aristocrats!"

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