Victor Jokes

Mother: Come on, Victor, you have to get out of bed or you'll be late for school.
Victor: Aw, Mom do I have to? All the teachers hate me, and all the students hate me too.
Mother: Yes you do.
Victor: Give me a good reason
Mother: You're 34 and you're the Principal!

Knock Knock
Who's there!
Victor!
Victor who?
Victor his jeans getting here!

Victor, after a long, hard days work, decides he needs some relaxation, so he goes to his local brothel. He enters and finds the Madame. As it's the busiest time of the day, there is only one girl left, who is Chinese and doesn't know a word of English. "I'll take her," He says desperately, as he is also in a hurry. So they proceed upstairs and get down to business. As Victor is going full whack the girl begins to shout out, "Sung wa! Sung wa!" To which Victor assumes that this means, great, fantastic, etc, so he continues unperturbed.
The following day he is at a golf meeting with a wealthy, prospective Chinese client, and is trying to impress him in any way he can. Just then the client T's off and gets a hole in one. This gives Victor the opportunity to use his newly found Chinese phrase... "Sung wa! Sung wa!" He yells out. To
which the client replies, "Wrong hole? What do you mean wrong hole?"

After WWII, two Poles returned to their destroyed village to locate the first one's wife. Going through the rubble, Victor came across a dismembered arm and called over, "Hey, Stanley, wasn't this Anya's arm? I think this is the wristwatch you gave her." "I dunno, Victor," said Stanley, and they continued the search. A little while later, Victor came across a severed leg." Stanley, couldn't this be part of Anya? She had great legs." Stanley shrugged and they walked on. Finally the energetic Victor came across a woman's head, which he held out at arm's length for his friend's inspection." Nope," said Stanley at last. "Anya was a lot taller."

I was living in the mountains above Denver when my college buddy, Gary, arrived in his ancient Maserati sports car. He had just driven it from Ohio, and as he pulled into my driveway, the car broke down.
Calls to auto-supply houses and garages in search of replacement parts proved futile. The 1962 model was simply too rare. Responses ranged from "Mas-a-what?" to "You've got to be kidding." One guy just laughed.
I was at the end of the listings in the Yellow Pages when I dialed Victor's Garage. "Vic," I said, "you're my last hope. Do you carry any parts for a 1962 Maserati?"
There was a long pause. Finally, Victor cleared his throat. "Yes," he replied. "Oil."