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[halfdan.o.halfdanars 30525@xyz.molar.is: Pskaspaug]

From: Bessi Adalsteinsson (
Date: Wed 16 Apr 2003 - 11:59:31 GMT

  • Nsta brf: Skli H. Sklason: "Njar myndir Kra"

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    A professor of mathematics sent a fax to his wife:

    Dear Wife:
    You must realize that you are 54 years old, and I have certain needs which
    you are no longer able to satisfy. I am otherwise happy with you as a wife,
    and I sincerely hope you will not be hurt or offended to learn that by the
    time you receive this letter, I will be at the Grand Hotel with my 18-year
    old teaching assistant. I'll be home before midnight.
    Your Husband

    When he arrived at the hotel, there was a faxed letter waiting for him that
    read as follows:

    Dear Husband:
    You, too, are 54 years old and by the time you receive this letter, I will
    be at the Breakwater Hotel with the 18-year old pool boy. Since you are a
    mathematician, you will appreciate that 18 goes into 54 more times than 54
    goes into 18. Therefore don't wait up.
    Your Wife

    There is a plane crash in between several Caribbean islands. There are only
    15 survivors who manage to make it to a small deserted island.
    The survivors are:
    3 Italians (two men and a woman), 3 French (two men and a woman), 3 Germans
    (two men and a woman), 3 Greeks (two men and a woman), 3 Brits (two men
    and a woman).

    Six months later....

    One Italian man had killed the other, and was living with the woman.

    The French had a delightful menage a trois.

    The Germans had a system of strict rotation. Hans on odd days, Franz on

    The Greek men were living together and had the woman doing the housework.

    And the Brits were still waiting to be introduced to each other.


    renn hjn, gmul, mialdra og ngift, fru kalsku kirkjuna og vildu
    ganga sfnuinn. Presturinn segir vi au a til ess urfi au a lifa
    skrlfi tvr vikur. Hjnin ganga a essu og koma aftur eftir tvr
    Presturinn segir vi gmlu hjnin: "Gtu i lifa n kynlfs tvr
    vikur?". Gamli maurinn svarar strax: "Ekkert ml, fair".
    "Til hamingju!", segir presturinn. "Velkomin sfnuinn!".
    Hann snr sr a mialdra hjnunum og segir: "Gtu i lifa n kynlfs
    tvr vikur?".
    Maurinn svarar: "Fyrsta vikan var lagi en seinni vikuna urfti g a
    sofa sfanum nokkur kvld. Vi hfum a samt".
    "Til hamingju!", segir presturinn. "Velkomin sfnuinn".
    A lokum segir hann vi ngifta pari: "Jja, gtu i veri n kynlfs
    tvr vikur?".
    "Nei", sagi ungi maurinn dapur bragi. "Vi gtum ekki veri kynlfs
    tvr vikur".
    "Hva gerist?", spyr presturinn.
    "Konan mn missti mjlkurfernu glfi. egar hn beygi sig niur til a
    taka hana upp, stst g ekki mti og tk hana aftan fr."
    "i skilji", segir presturinn, "a etta ir a i eru ekki velkomin
    "Vi skiljum a", segir ungi maurinn. "Vi erum heldur ekki velkomin

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