IT’S THE BUTCHER!
An old woman was lonely. She decided to get a pet. She didn’t have much money so she went to a second hand pet shop.
She saw many animals: a three legged cat, a dog without a tail, fish that could only swim backwards and a beautiful bird that could only say one thing, “Who is it?”. She decided to buy the bird. She bought a cage for her bird and went home. She put the bird by the door and went downtown to do some shopping.
While she was gone, a man knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” replied the parrot.
“It’s the butcher,” he said.
“Who is it?”, repeated the bird.
“It’s the butcher,” said the man.
“Who is it?” asked the parrot.
“It’s the butcher!!,”, said the man angrily.
“Who is it?” “It’s the butcher!!!!”, he screamed.
“Who is it?” “It’s the butcher, the butcher, the butch...”
Suddenly the butcher fell to the floor. He had had a heart attack.

Later that day, the old woman came home and found the man laying on her doorstep. She opened her door and asked the parrot, “Who is it?” . The parrot replied,

“It’s the butcher!”.


The Dog
Linda Robinson was very thirsty so she went into a cafe. There was an old woman in the cafe. She was sitting near the door at a table. At her feet, under the table, there was a small dog.
Linda bought a glass of lemonade and some cookies. She sat down at the table next to the old woman. The old woman sat quietly. She looked lonely. Linda decided to be kind and talk to the old woman.
“It is very hot today.” she said.
“Yes, but it is nice inside here.” replied the old woman.
Linda looked at the dog and asked, “Does your dog like people.”
The woman answered, “Oh! Yes! She loves people.”
Linda wanted to give the dog a cookie. So she asked, “ Does your dog like cookies?”
“They are his favourite food.” said the old lady.
Linda was terribly afraid of dogs so she asked, “Does your dog bite?”
The old woman smiled and said, “ NO! My dog is very tame. She is even afraid of cats!”
Linda took a cookie in her hand and reached under the table. She put it near the dog’s mouth. But the dog didn’t bite the cookie, she bit her hand! Linda jumped up, spilling her lemonade. She screamed, “I thought you said, your dog didn’t bite.”
The old woman looked at Linda and then at the dog. Then she said,
“THAT’S NOT MY DOG!”

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

A woman needed to buy her mother a birthday present. She didn’t know what to buy her mother. She only had one day to buy her mother something.
So she went out window shopping. Soon enough, she walked by a pet store window. She thought to herself, “What a lovely idea for a present! My mother is so lonely and she needs a pet.”
The woman went into the store and saw many wonderful animals. Puppy dogs, fluffy cats, gold fish, cute mice. But the woman didn’t think these were special enough. She asked the manager if he had a pet that was really special.
The manager thought for a moment and replied, “Yes, but it costs a lot of money. $5,000”
“I have a parrot that can speak 7 languages, Chinese, English, French, Korean, German, Russian and even Hindi!”
The woman said, “Perfect” and bought the bird. She sent it by special delivery to her mother, so she would get it the next day.
The next evening after work, the woman called her mother. She asked, “How do you like your birthday present.”
Her mother replied, “Thank you, IT’S DELICIOUS!”









The Salesman
Henry Leech was a salesman. He was a good salesman and sold lots of vacuum cleaners. One week, the manager sent Henry into the countryside to sell.
He drove out of town and stopped at a farmhouse. He knocked on the door and the farmer’s wife opened it. Henry started into his speech immediately.
“Mam, how much time do you spend sweeping the floors? “
“A lot of time. This is a farm and things get dirty quickly.” said the woman.
“And how much time do you spend beating the carpets?” asked Henry.
“A lot of time. This house gets dusty and my dog also lays on them”
“Well” said Henry, “This is your lucky day.”
Henry showed her his vacuum cleaner and said,
“You can clean the house in 5 minutes with this!”
The farmer’s wife didn’t look interested.
Henry took out a big bag of dirt. He opened it and threw it all over the floor. The farmer’s wife was very surprised. Before she could speak Henry said, “ Mam, if this machine doesn’t pick up every last piece of dirt, I will eat all of it!!!!!”
The farmer’s wife looked at Henry and said,
“WELL, I WILL GET YOU A SPOON. WE HAVE NO ELECTRICITY.”


The Genie
A Frenchman, an Englishman and a German were travelling in a boat from France to Australia. Unfortunately, the boat sank but the three men swam to a small island.
There was nobody on the island and the men waited for two months. No boat came to rescue them. They were very unhappy.
“We will have to live here forever.” said the Englishman
“ We will have to eat bananas every day.” said the German
“We will never see our families again.” said the Frenchman.
One day, while walking along the beach, they found a bottle. They opened the bottle and out came a genie. The genie said, “Thank you for letting me out of the bottle. I was inside for 500 years! Now I am free. I will give you each one wish.”
The German said, “I want to be back in German at a soccer game. With a beer and sausage and singing songs in the stadium.”
“POOF”, “Your wish is granted” said the genie. The German was back in Germany.
The Frenchman said, “I want to be at the dinner table with my family in France, eating cheese, drinking wine.”
“POOF”, “Your wish is granted” said the genie. The Frenchman was back in France.
The Englishman just looked at the genie. The genie said, “Hurry up! I want to enjoy my freedom.”
The Englishman thought for a moment and said, “I am rather lonely here. Can you bring back my two friends?”
“Poof”, the German and the Frenchman were back on the island.

The Architect
One Sunday, an architect visited Seoul, Korea. He was there for a conference but had all Sunday to explore the city. He decided to take a taxi around the city and see lots of sites.
He paid the taxi driver $100 and said, “Take me around Seoul and show me all the sites”
The taxi driver was very happy for the business and started driving. Immediately, they saw a big, beautiful palace.
The architect said in a loud voice (for he was from Texas). “What is the building?”
The taxi driver said, “That is Gyeongbokgung. It took almost 20 years to build!
“Ah, that’s nothing” replied the American. “We could build that in a year in America.
The driver continued driving. Suddenly the Texan saw a large domed building. He asked, “What building is that?” The taxi driver said, “That is the National Assembly, it is the largest in Asia.”
The architect replied, “Ah, that’s nothing. Back home, we could build that in a few weeks!”
The taxi driver continued driving. They passed a very high, gold building which shimmered in the sun. The architect jumped up in his seat and screamed, “Oh my god! What building is that?”
The taxi driver looked back at him and shook his head.
He said, “I DON’T KNOW. IT WASN’T THERE THIS MORNING!”


The Suicides
An American, A Frenchman and a Korean were working on a skyscraper being built in Seoul. They worked hard all morning. When it was lunch, they took the elevator up to the top of the very high building and sat on the edge eating their lunches.
The American opened his lunch box and said, “Damn! Peanut butter and jam sandwiches again! If I get peanut butter and jam again, I’m gonna jump off this building.”
The Frenchman opened up his lunch. “Mon Dieu! Cheese sandwiches again! If I get cheese sandwiches again, I’m gonna jump off this building.”
The Korean opened up his lunch box. “Shxxxxx! Kimchee. If I get kimchee again for lunch, I’m going to jump off this building.”
The next day, the 3 men did the same thing. They worked hard all morning and then went up to the top of the building, sat on the edge and began to eat lunch.
The Korean looked in his lunch box first. “Shexxxx! Kimchee!” He stood up and jumped off the building.
The American looked in his lunch box. “Damn! Peanut butter and jam!” He stood up and jumped off the building.
The Frenchman looked in his lunch box. “Merde! Cheese sandwiches!” He stood up and jumped off the building.
The next day, the newspapers were full of stories about the 3 construction workers who killed themselves. Everyone wondered why? Even the police had no answers.
A few days later at the funeral for the men, the 3 wives were talking. The Korean’s wife said, “I don’t understand. He loved kimchee and always asked me for it.”The American’s wife said, “I don’t understand either. He loved peanut butter since he was a young boy.” The Frenchman’s wife said, “I don’t understand either. HE MADE HIS OWN LUNCH EVERYDAY!
Scottish Student
A student at an English university, by name of Donald MacDonald from the Isle of Skye, was living in the hall of residence during his first year.

After he had been there for a month, his mother came to visit, no doubt carrying reinforcements of oatmeal.

"And how do you find the English students, Donald?" she asked.

"Mother," he replied, "They're such terrible noisy people! The one on that side keeps banging his head against the wall, and won't stop.

The one on the other side screams and screams and screams away into the night!"

"Oh, Donald! How ever do you manage to put up with these awful noisy English neighbours?"

"Mother, I do nothing, I just ignore them! I just stay here quietly playing my bagpipes!"

Navajo woman
Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Northern Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking on the side of the road. As the trip was a long and quiet one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a ride.

With a word or two of thanks, she got in the car.

After resuming the journey and a bit of small talk, the Navajo woman noticed a brown bag on the seat next to Sally.

"What's in the bag?" asked the old woman.

Sally looked down at the brown bag and said, "It's a bottle of wine. Got it for my husband."
The Navajo woman was silent for a moment, and then speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder said, "Good trade."
Jamaican Sandals
A married couple was on holiday in Jamaica. They were touring around the marketplace looking at the goods when they passed this small sandal shop.

From inside they heard the shopkeeper with a Jamaican accent say, You foreigners! Come in. Come into my humble shop! "

So the married couple walked in.

The Jamaican said to them, "I have some special sandals I think you would be interested in. Dey make you wild at sex."

Well, the wife was really interested in buying the sandals after what the man claimed, but her husband felt he really didn't need them, being the sex god he was.

The husband asked the man, "How could sandals make you into a sex freak?

"The Jamaican replied, "Just try dem on, Mon."

Well, the husband, after some badgering from his wife, finally gave in, and tried them on.

As soon as he slipped them onto his feet, he got this wild look in his eyes. . . something his wife hadn't seen in many years!

In the blink of an eye, the husband grabbed the Jamaican, bent him violently over a table, yanked down his pants, ripped down his own pants, and grabbed a firm hold of he Jamaican's hips.

The Jamaican then began screaming, "YOU GOT DEM ON DE WRONG FEET! YOU GOT DEM ON DE WRONG FEET! N0000000000000000


The Lawyer and the Lexus


A very successful lawyer parked his brand-new Lexus in front of his office, ready to show it off to his colleagues.

As he got out, a truck passed too close and tore off the door on the driver's side.

The lawyer immediately grabbed his cell phone, dialed 911, and within minutes a policeman pulled up.

Before the officer had a chance to ask any questions, the lawyer started screaming hysterically. His Lexus, which he had just picked up the day before, was now completely ruined no matter what the body shop did to it.

When the lawyer finally wound down from his ranting and raving, the officer shook his head in disgust and disbelief.

"I can not believe how materialistic you lawyers are," the cop said. "You are so focused on your possessions that you don't notice anything else."

"How can you say such a thing?" asked the lawyer.

The cop replied, "Don't you know that your left arm is missing from the elbow down? It must have been torn off when the truck hit you."

"My God!" screamed the lawyer. "My Rolex!"




The Divorce


A judge was interviewing a woman regarding her pending divorce, and asked, "What are the grounds for your divorce?"

She replied, "About four acres and a nice little home in the middle of the property with a stream running by."

"No," he said, "I mean what is the foundation of this case?"

"It is made of concrete, brick and mortar," she responded.

"I mean," he continued, "What are your relations like?"

"I have an aunt and uncle living here in town, and so do my husband's parents."

The judge said, "Do you have a real grudge?"

"No," she replied, "We have a two-car carport and have never really needed one."

"Please," he tried again, "is there any infidelity in your marriage?"

"Yes, both my son and daughter have stereo sets. We don't necessarily like the music, but the answer to your questions is yes."

"Ma'am, does your husband ever beat you up?"

"Yes," she responded, "about twice a week he gets up earlier than I do."

Finally, in frustration, the judge asked, "Lady, why do you want a divorce?"

"Oh, I don't want a divorce," she replied. "I've never wanted a divorce. My husband does. He said he can't communicate with me."

Strange but true (supposedly)
When his 38-caliber revolver failed to fire at its intended victim during a hold up in Long Beach, California, would be robber James Elliot did something that can only inspire wonder: He peered down the barrel and pulled the trigger again. This time it worked.

The chef at a hotel in Switzerland lost a finger in a meat cutting machine and, after a little hopping around, submitted a claim to his insurance company. The company, suspecting negligence, sent out one of its men to have a look for himself. He tried the machine out and lost a finger. The chef's claim was approved.

A man who shovelled snow for an hour to clear a space for his car during a blizzard in Chicago returned with his vehicle to find a woman had taken the space. Understandably, he shot her

After stopping for drinks at an illegal bar, a Zimbabwean bus driver found that the 20 mental patients he was supposed to be transporting from Harare to Bulawayo had escaped. Not wanting to admit his incompetence, the driver went to a nearby bus-stop and offered everyone waiting there a free ride. He then delivered the passengers to the mental hospital, telling the staff that the patients were very excitable and prone to bizarre fantasies. The deception wasn't discovered for 3 days.

An American teenager was in the hospital yesterday recovering from serious head wounds received from an oncoming train. When asked how he received the injuries, the lad told police that he was simply trying to see how close he could get his head to a moving train before he was hit.

A mother took her daughter to the doctor and asked him to give her an examination to determine the cause of her daughter's swollen abdomen. It only took the doctor about 2 seconds to say "Your daughter is pregnant." The mother turned red with fury and she argued with the doctor that her daughter was a good girl and would never compromise her reputation by having sex with a boy. The doctor faced the window and silently watched the horizon. The mother became enraged and screamed, "Quit looking out the window! Aren't you paying attention to me?" Yes, of course I am paying attention ma'am. It's just that the last time this happened, a star appeared in the East, and three wise men came. And I was hoping that they would show up again.
Too drunk to drive

A man goes to a party in Memphis, and has too much to drink. His friends plead with him to let them take him home. He says no he only lives a mile away.

About five blocks from party, the police pull him over for weaving and ask him to get out of the car and walk the line.

Just as he starts, the police radio blares out a notice of a robbery taking place in a house just a block away. The police tell the party animal to stay put, they will be right back and they hop a fence and run down the street to the robbery.

The guy waits and waits and finally decides to drive home. When he gets there, he tells his wife he is going to bed, and to tell anyone who might come looking for him that he has the flu and has been in bed all day.

A few hours later the police knock on the door. They ask if Mr. X is there and his wife says yes. They ask to see him and she replies that he is in bed with the flu and has been so all day.

The police have his driver's license. They ask to see his car and she asks why. They insist on seeing his car, so she takes them to the garage and opens the door where they find the police car, lights still flashing.




Damn Dog


A woman goes to her boyfriends' parents' house for Easter dinner. This is to be her first time meeting the family, and she is very nervous.

They all sit down and begin eating a fine meal. The woman is beginning to feel a little discomfort, thanks to her nervousness and the broccoli casserole.

The gas pains are almost making her eyes water. Left with no other choice, she decides to relieve hersel! f a bit and lets out a dainty fart. It wasn't loud, but everyone at the table heard the poof. Before she even had a chance to be embarrassed, her boyfriend's father looked over at the dog that had been snoozing under the woman's chair, and said in a rather stern voice, "Skippy!"

The woman thought, "This is great!" and a big smile came across her face. A couple of minutes later, she was beginning to feel the pain again. This time, she ! didn't even hesitate. She let a much louder and longer rrrriiip. The father again looked and the dog and yelled, "Dammit "Skippy!"

Once again the woman smiled and thought "Yes!" A few minutes later the woman had to let another rip. This time she didn't even think about it. She let rip a fart that rivaled a train whistle blowing. Once again, the father looked at the dog with disgust and yelled, "Dammit Skippy, get away from her, before she shits on you!"



Satan Pays a Visit

One bright, beautiful Sunday morning, everyone in the tiny town of Johnstown got up early and went to the local church.

Before the services started, the townspeople were sitting in their pews and talking about their lives, their families, etc.

Suddenly, Satan appeared at the front of the church.

Everyone started screaming and running for the entrance, trampling each other in a frantic effort to get away from evil incarnate.

Soon, everyone was evacuated from the Church, except for one elderly gentleman who sat calmly in his pew, not moving....seemingly oblivious to the fact that God's ultimate enemy was in his presence.

Now this confused Satan a bit, so he walked up to the man and said, "Don't you know who I am?"

The man replied, "Yep, sure do."

Satan asked, "Aren't you afraid of me?"

"Nope, sure ain't," said the man.

Satan was a little perturbed at this and fumed, "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

The man calmly replied, "Been married to your sister for over 48 years!"





Jerves, the Butler
A wealthy couple had planned to go out for the evening. The woman of the house decided to give their butler, Jerves, the rest of the night off. She said they would be home very late, and that he should just enjoy his evening.

As it turned out, however, the wife wasn't having a good time at the party, so she came home early, alone. Her husband had to stay with the others since several of his important clients were there.

As the woman walked into her house, she saw Jerves sitting by himself in the dining room. She called for him to follow her, and led him into the master bedroom. She then closed and locked the door.

She looked at him and smiled. "Jerves," she said, "take off my dress." He did this carefully. "Jerves," she continued, "take off my stockings and garter." He silently obeyed her. "Jerves," she then said, "remove my bra and panties." As he did this, the tension continued to mount.
She looked at him and then said, "Jerves, if I ever catch you wearing my clothes again, you're fired!"


Live Longer

A fellow went to the doctor who told him that he had a bad illness and only a year to live.
So he decided to talk to his pastor. After the man explained his situation, he asked his Pastor if there was anything he could do.
"What you should do is go out and buy a late '70 or early '80 model Dodge Pickup," said the Pastor.
"Then go get married to the ugliest woman you can find, and buy yourselves an old trailer house in the panhandle of Oklahoma."
The fellow asked, "Will this help me live longer?"

"No," said the pastor, "but it will make what time you do have, seem like forever."




Three Travellers at the Farmhouse.
Three men were travelling in rural America when their car came to grief, whereupon they sought shelter at the nearest farmhouse.

The farmer had two spare beds, and, of course, his daughters's, but since he had heard all of those stories he informed the men that one of them would have to sleep in the barn. One of them, a very polite Hindu mathematician, immediately volunteered and went out to the barn. A short time later there was a knock on the door, and, sure enough, there was the Hindu, very apologetically explaining that there were cows in the barn, and because of his religious convictions, he didn't think he could remain there.

A second man, a conservative rabbi, now volunteered and went. But a short time later, there was a knock on the door. Sure enough, he too was back, explaining that since there was a pig in the barn, he too would be quite uncomfortable out there.

Whereupon the third man, a practicing lawyer, agreeably proceeded out to the barn.

In a little while, there was a knock on the door. And when they went to answer it, sure enough, there were the cows and the pig.



The Flat Tire
Introductory Chemistry at Duke has been taught for about a zillion years by Professor Bonk (really), and his course is semi-affectionately known as "Bonkistry." He has been around forever, so I wouldn't put it past him to come up with something like this. Anyway, one year there were these two guys who were taking Chemistry and who did pretty well on all of the quizzes and the midterms and labs, etc., such that going into the final they had a solid A.

These two friends were so confident going into the final that the weekend before finals week (even though the Chemistry final was on Monday), they decided to go up to UV (University of Virginia) and party with some friends up there. So they did this and had a great time. However, with their hangovers and everything, they overslept all day Sunday and didn't make it back to Duke until early Monday morning.

Rather than taking the final then, what they did was to find Professor Bonk after the final and explain to him why they missed the final. They told him that they went up to UV for the weekend, and had planned to come back in time to study, but that they had a flat tire on the way back and didn't have a spare and couldn't get help for a long time and so were late getting back to campus. Bonk thought this over and then agreed that they could make up the final on the following day. The two guys were elated and relieved.

So, they studied that night and went in the next day at the time that Bonk had told them. He placed them in separate rooms and handed each of them a test booklet and told them to begin. They looked at the first problem, which was something simple about morality and solutions and was worth 5 points. "Cool" they thought, "this is going to be easy." They did that problem and then turned the page. They were unprepared, however, for what they saw on the next page. It said:
95 POINTS. WHICH TIRE?


Fish Tale
It was a cold winter day when an old man walked out onto a frozen lake, cut a hole in the ice, dropped in his fishing line and began waiting for a fish to bite.

He was there for almost an hour without even a nibble when a young boy walked out onto the ice, cut a hole in the ice not to far from the old man and dropped in his fishing line.

It only took about a minute and WHAM!, a Largemouth Bass hit his hook and the boy pulled in the fish.

The old man couldn't believe it but figured it was just luck. But the boy dropped in his line and again within just a few minutes pulled in another one.

This went on and on until finally the old man couldn't take it any more since he hadn't caught a thing all this time. He went to the boy and said, "Son, I've been here for over an hour without even a nibble. You have been here only a few minutes and have caught about half a dozen fish! How do you do it?" To which the boy responded, "roo raf roo reep ra rums rrarm."

"What was that?" The old man asked.

Again the boy responded, "roo raf roo reep ra rums rarrm."

"Look" said the old man, "I can't understand a word you are saying."

So the boy spit into his hand and said, "You have to keep the worms warm!"

A Little Supper Joke

An elderly gentleman of 85 feared his wife was getting hard of hearing. So one day he called her doctor to make an appointment to have her hearing checked. The Doctor made an appointment for a hearing test in two weeks, and meanwhile there's a simple informal test the husband could do to give the doctor some idea of the state of her problem.

"Here's what you do," said the doctor, "start out about 40 feet away from her, and in a normal conversational speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, go to 30 feet, then 20 feet, and so on until you get a response."

That evening, the wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and he's in the living room. He says to himself, "I'm about 40 feet away, let's see what happens."

Then in a normal tone he asks, "Honey, what's for supper?" No response.

So the husband moved to the other end of the room, about 30 feet from his wife and repeats, "Honey, what's for supper?" Still no response.

Next he moves into the dining room where he is about 20 feet from his wife and asks, "Honey, what's for supper?" Again he gets no response.

So he walks up to the kitchen door, only 10 feet away. "Honey, what's for supper?" Again there is no response.

So he walks right up behind her. "Honey, what's for supper?"

"Damn it Earl, for the fifth time, CHICKEN!"




THE SHOPKEEPER

Once there was a Korean shopkeeper named Mr. Park. He lived in New York and had had a small corner store for 45 years. He worked very hard, 16 hours every day and he never took a holiday.

One day, his daughter arrived at the store and found Mr. Park lying on the floor. He had had a heart attack! She called 911 and he was rushed to the hospital.

He survived and was very weak, resting in the hospital. A day later he awoke and slowly looked around his hospital room.

He asked in a weak voice, “Are you there, my dear wife?”

“Yes,” she replied “I am here my dearest.”

Mr. Park asked, “Are you here, my oldest son?”

“Yes, I am here.” replied his oldest son.

“Are you here, my daughter?” Mr. Park asked in a faint voice.

“Yes, father, I am here.” the daughter replied with a tear in her eye.

“Are you here, my youngest son?” asked Mr. Park.

“Yes, papa. I am here by your side.” said the baby of the family.

Suddenly Mr. Park’s eyes grew big and threw off the bed covers and jumped up, screaming,

“SO THEN, WHO IS WATCHING THE STORE!”


STEVIE WONDER

One day, Stevie Wonder (the blind singer), came to Toronto to perform. He was taken to his hotel room. He decided to take a nap but didn’t like the sheets, he wanted silk sheets. Rather than bother the hotel staff, he decided to go buy some himself.

He asked his personal manager if there was a store nearby where he could buy silk sheets. The manager replied, “Yes, there is a big department store. It is called, Canadian Tire. I can go buy you some.”

Stevie Wonder didn’t want to bother his manager. He said, “Just take me there, I can get them. I want the right kind.”

So the manager took Stevie Wonder to the car and they drove to Canadian Tire. Upon arriving, Stevie Wonder got out of the car and his manager tried to help him. Stevie Wonder said, “Let me go alone, I can do it by myself.”

Stevie Wonder went into the department store and went to the back. All the staff was looking at him, whispering and pointing. “Oh my god! It is Stevie Wonder!”

Stevie Wonder was feeling around and things were crashing to the floor, everything was falling everywhere as he searched. The store manager went to his employees and said, “Someone quick, go help Mr. Wonder!”

A young teenager said , “I will”. He went to the back of the store where Stevie Wonder was busy crashing things to the floor and searching blindly. The young clerk tapped Stevie Wonder on the shoulder and asked, “May I help you Mr. Wonder? “

Stevie Wonder turned around, shook his head and said,

“NO, I’M JUST LOOKING”



The Spy

Nigel Cavendish was a famous British spy. For over 20 years he went on important missions and stole important secrets from countries all over the world.

However, his luck ran out. One day, he was captured by the Russian government. The British government said they didn’t know anything about him. He was taken to court and sentenced to death by firing squad.

On the day of his execution the weather was terrible. It was raining cats and dogs and there was a cold north wind blowing fiercely.

The guards came to his prison cell and led him outside. They walked in the pouring, cold rain for almost half a kilometre. It was muddy, they were soaked and freezing to death.

They put Nigel up against the wall and lined up to shoot him. They asked him if he had any last words to say.

Nigel said, “What horrible men you are – to bring me out to be shot on such a horrible day.”

One soldier looked up at the dark sky and said,

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE COMPLAINING ABOUT! WE HAVE TO WALK BACK!”

The Lion

One day a lion was walking through the jungle. He was young and very proud. He met a snake and said, “Who is the king of the jungle?”

The snake said, “You are.” It did not make the lion angry and he smiled.

Thirty metres later, he met a monkey and asked, “Monkey, Who is the king of the jungle?”

The monkey said quickly, “You are.” The lion smiled and continued on his way.

Next, the lion met a crocodile. He stopped and asked the crocodile, “Who is the king of the jungle?” The crocodile didn’t answer so the lion roared very loudly. “WHO IS THE KING OF THE JUNGLE?” The crocodile answered quickly, “You are.” The lion was satisfied and said, “Next time, answer quickly or I will eat you!”

Finally, the lion met an elephant. He stopped, looked angrily at the elephant and asked, “Elephant, who is king of the jungle?”

The elephant picked up the lion with his trunk and dropped him to the ground. The elephant kicked the lion and then jumped on top of him.

The lion was very surprised and hurt. He got up, shook the dirt off and shouted,

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO GET ANGRY JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER!”



PICASSO (A True Story)


One day, a famous art collector was having a party. He had many famous paintings on his walls. He saw one man studying his favourite painting which was above his fireplace. He said to the man, “This is a real Picasso.”.

The man shook his head. He said, “I am an art expert. This definitely isn’t a real Picasso. It is a fake.” The art collector was shocked.

He called up his agent and asked to have a personal appointment with Picasso. The meeting was arranged and he flew to Paris. He went directly to Picasso’s studio and after climbing the stairs, knocked on the door. Picasso shouted, “Come in!”. Picasso was busy painting a large painting. He quickly looked over his shoulder and asked, “What is it? I’m busy.”

The art collector said, “Mr. Picasso I only have one quick question. Can you please look at this painting and tell me if it is a fake?”

Picasso looked over his shoulder at it and quickly snapped, “It is a fake”. The collector thanked Picasso and left.

One year later, the collector returned to Picasso’s studio. He walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Picasso was busy painting and he angrily asked, “What is it?!”

The art collector said, “Picasso, sorry to interrupt but I have just one question. Can you look at this painting and tell me if it is a fake?” Picasso looked over his shoulder and quickly replied, “It is a fake!”

The man was shocked, he said, “It can’t be! I was here last year and saw you, yourself, painting this very painting!”

Picasso turned around and said,

“Sometimes I paint fakes.”

Read More......

It's a sunny morning in the Big Forest, and the Bear family is just
waking up.
Baby Bear goes downstairs and sits in his small chair at the table, he
looks into his small bowl. It is empty. "Who's been eating my
porridge?!!" he squeaks
Papa Bear arrives at the big table and sits in his big chair. He looks
into his big bowl, and it is also empty. "Who's been eating my
porridge?" he roared.
Momma Bear puts her head through the serving hatch from the kitchen and
yells. "For Pete's sake, how many times do we have to go through this?"
"It was Momma Bear, who got up first."
"It was Momma Bear, who woke up everyone in the house."
"It was Momma Bear, who made the coffee."
"It was Momma Bear, who unloaded the dishwasher from last night and put
everything away."
"It was Momma Bear, who went out in the cold early morning air to fetch
the newspaper."
"It was Momma Bear, who set the table. " "It was Momma Bear, who put
the cat out, cleaned the litter box and filled the cat's water and food
dishes."
"And now that you've decided to drag your asses downstairs and grace
Momma Bear's kitchen with your grumpy presence ...
Listen good, 'cause I'm only going to say this one more time ..."
"I haven't made the fucking porridge yet!!"

Read More......

A dragon descended upon the small Welsh village of Llanddofurffaddas yesterday, threatening to burn the villagers out of their homes, steal their crops and incinerate their sheep. A meeting was hastily convened on the outskirts of the hamlet, for fear that stray sparks might well lead to a premature conflagration.

Walking towards the dragon, Jones the Law, Chairman of the Parish Council, said to Jones the Learning, the Parish Clerk, who had reluctantly agreed to accompany him to the meeting, "Couldn't we gather a force to defend the village from this fiery monster?"
"Gather it from where?" asked the clerk.
"Our young people, isn't it?" suggested the chairman. "Why can't they defend us?"
"Too busy with their sheep, boyo, they need a lot of looking after."
"No they don't."
"Well, they spend a lot of time up on the hills," replied the clerk.
"What on earth are they doing then?"
"Don't ask."

After a lengthy discussion, during the course of which the dragon suggested a variety of alternatives, the two burghers finally came to an agreement with the monster. It would not steal their crops and livestock or burn the village to the ground in return for being allowed to drop in twice a year and invite a virgin to lunch.

Reaction to the agreement was varied when Jones the Learning broke the news to the assembled villagers in the local pub — 'The Wizened Sheep Fancier'. "We really had no choice," he blustered defensively. "As none of you spineless buggers would help us, we had to agree to the dragon's demands, isn't it?"
Jones the Bread rather smugly stated that he wasn't worried about the agreement as he only had sons, until Jones the Death pointed out that sons can be virgins too. Whereupon the baker choked on his pint of 'Olde Scruffy Yokel' and beat a hasty retreat.

This led Jones the Coal to remark derisively: "He's been reading too many fairy stories." Jones the Learning, who was something of a philosopher, reflected that nobody could do anything about it anyway. He then began to speculate on the dragon's insistence on virgins. "Do they taste better?" he mused, "saltier, sweeter, more juicy, perhaps? And does he savour them slowly or swallow them whole?"
"I'd swallow their 'oles," interjected Jones the Video, smacking his lips.
"Shut up!" shouted Jones the Law, soundly cuffing the shopkeeper. "You wouldn't know how, boyo."

As I was now on my third pint of 'Sheep Fancier's Woolly Willie Warmer', I rather lost track of who was who, especially after Jones the Organ sat on my lap. Fortunately I was wearing stout, woollen bloomers at the time and hardly felt a thing. The conversation continued around me while I fended off the attentions of the nimble-fingered keyboard player.

"There's no way we can get rid of him," complained Jones the Death. "His thick scales make him virtually invulnerable. Best give the beastie the virgins, isn't it?"
"What we need is some brave knight to come along and slay him for us," reflected Jones the Fruit and Veg.
"The dragon would melt his armour," objected Jones the Coal.
"Seven Samurai might have a better chance," suggested another Jones — Jones the Post, I think — or it may have been Jones the Garage, my memory had become a bit hazy by this point.
"Oh and where are you going to get seven samurai in Wales?" snorted Jones the Death.
"Poke his eyes out," suggested Jones the Post.
"Try it and you'll be sorry."
"No, not yours, the dragon's," explained Jones the Post, or possibly Garage.
"What with?"
"A pointed stick of course."
"It would have to be a pretty long stick."
"He'd burn it," objected Jones the Video.
"Not if were made of metal."
"Then it wouldn't be a stick, isn't it?"
"It'd still melt. Dragon's breath can melt anything."

"If he ate enough virgins he may become too fat to fly, that would make it a bit easier, wouldn't it?" proffered Jones the...Jones the — well another Jones anyway.
"Oh and how many virgins are you prepared to let him barbecue to do that?"
"What if there weren't any virgins in the village?" suggested Jones the Organ brightly.
"Wouldn't that be breaking our agreement?" asked another Jones.
"No, we never said we'd supply a virgin, the dragon said he'd invite one to lunch with him every six months," explained Jones the Law with a wink.
"You mean send them all away? We couldn't afford it."
"We don't have to send them all away, just ensure they're no longer virgins, smirked the Jones who was attempting to remove my bloomers.
"How do you do that?" asked a very naive Jones; the School, I think.
"Don't be bloody silly," exclaimed my would-be lover.
"Just you leave it to me, boyo," said Jones the Meat.

Leaving the bounds of the alcohol purveying establishment, swaying only slightly, I came across three charming young ladies from the village. One of the trio, whom I shall refer to as Cerys Jones, although her real name may be Raglan Jones, gabbled something garrulously in Welsh, which was roughly translated into passable English by her sister, whom I shall refer to as Morfydd Jones, although her real name may very well be Megan Jones. "I'm dead scared of dragons," said Cerys with a shudder. "You would be too if you were still a virgin round here. Being eaten out by Jones the Organ is one thing, providing lunch for a bloody great, fire-breathing dragon is quite another, isn't it?"

"We're not naive, you know," added Megan, whose real name may be Morfydd — or possibly Cerys. "We've all heard the dirty songs and seen those filems with explicit scenes in them, isn't it? I've even played shepherd and milkmaid with some of the boys. Oh, and I know all about those women with their vibratin' pink toy jackrabbits, thank you very much."

At this point Cerys and Morfydd's other sister, whom I shall refer to as Megan Jones, although she is almost certainly called Cerys Jones, took over the translation.
"Quite honestly it doesn't matter to me whether or not I am tastier, I just don't want to be flambéed to death by a bloody dragon to leave a greasy spot or two behind. If I'm to be eaten I'd rather be eaten by some young lusty shepherd. It seems to me that being deflowered is rather better than being eaten alive by a dragon."

Cerys, Morfydd and Megan (who of course are really Megan, Morfydd and Cerys) are all the daughters of Jones the Something-or-other.

Read More......

Dear Management,

I, Mr P Nis, hereby request a rise in salary for the following reasons: I do exhausting, hands-on physical labour. I work at great depths and plunge headfirst into everything I do. I do not get weekends or holidays off. I work in a damp, ill-lit environment with poor ventilation at very high temperatures. My work constantly exposes me to contagious diseases.

Yours sincerely, P. Nis esq.,

Dear Mr P Nis,

After careful assessment of your request and consideration of the rather limp arguments you have used to justify your case, management regrets to inform you that your request for a rise has been rejected. We feel that although some of your arguments are valid, extenuating circumstances hinder management from giving you any more rises than you routinely receive, for the following reasons:

You rarely, if ever work a complete eight hour shift, and when you do you’re either under the influence of drugs or demanding to work during non business hours—such as the middle of the night after you wake up to go to the bathroom. You fall asleep after the briefest of work periods and have been observed nodding off on numerous occasions before the end of your shift, thereby forcing management to complete the task in hand. Furthermore, you do not always follow orders. You refuse to remain in your designated work area and are often seen loitering around dark, dank places of ill repute. Just two nights ago you were seen attempting to gain unlawful entry to the company’s back door in the hopes of doing God only knows what, despite the fact that you have been told time and time again that the rear entrance is only used for putting out the trash. Underhand attempts such as these to drop your load in restricted areas are futile and waste valuable company time you should be spending elsewhere.

You do not take the initiative. You need to be constantly pressured and stimulated in order to begin work. When you do eventually finish a job—on those rare occasions you do not bugger off early before management is completely satisfied—you have the unpleasant habit of leaving your workplace rather messy, forcing us to either suffer an unclean environment or clean it up ourselves. Once you leave for the day, we don’t see you again until the next morning, usually before the office has even opened. This commendable ambition is appreciated and many in the company consider you a real go getter when the mood takes you, but unfortunately your spunk is often misdirected or fails to attain its goal at all.

You don’t always observe safe working practices, such as wearing protective clothing, as required by company regulations. Ignoring such rules leaves management wide open to a range of hazardous conditions, including many that could result in unpleasant discharges of toxic waste into the environment or even halt production altogether.

Your unpredictable temperament, coupled with your regrettable reliance on performance enhancing drugs means that your output is hopelessly unreliable at best and completely fails to meet management targets at worst. If that were not enough, many in management have long suspected you of terroristical activities, as you are constantly seen entering the premises carrying two suspicious looking bags.

However, management is prepared to overlook these shortcomings and demonstrate our appreciation of your employment. In short, Mr P Nis, we are willing to supply you with a few additional strokes of encouragement in lieu of a rise. We firmly believe that such positive reinforcement will lead to better and long lasting performance with no need for further encouragement.

Yours sincerely, The Management

From Mike Hunt.
Senior Partner, Scrotum, Hunt and Scrotum.

Dear Management,

As the legal representative for Mr. P. Nis I am appalled at your unacceptable response. Mr. P Nis has an exemplary record of discharging the duties assigned to him. Far from being the idle clock watcher you infer, he is extraordinarily flexible in delivering his loads on time and often before they are even requested.

He has, in fact, never been asked to work an entire eight hours, but would gladly do so if the task was worthy of such effort. Unfortunately, my client reports this is unlikely under the present management. Mr P Nis is not alone in working in short, intense bursts and then hanging around the workplace. Hanging around is not the same as falling asleep on the job. On those very rare occasions when he has been asked to repeat a job at short notice, P Nis has never failed to rise to the challenge.

The charge that he is using performance-enhancing drugs at work will be addressed in a more direct manner later, but I can assure you that the medication he is under, usually Vitamin V, has in fact been prescribed by his physician to clear up the unfortunate rash on his head.

Your failure to recognise the value of visiting other locations whilst at work is most regrettable and clearly demonstrates you have no understanding of the part research plays in the discharge of Mr P Nis' duties. While Mr P Nis may occasionally stray onto the premises of your competition, he does so only to learn how others perform their tasks in order to improve his own skills.

Mr P Nis vividly recalls the recent back door incident, but maintains that he only attempted to make a rear delivery because a large load was blocking your front door at the time. He has asked me to inform you that your rear entrance was not only excessively narrow, but will require copious lubrication to permit the passage of the very wide loads he is accustomed to handle. Fortunately for you, the overall cleanliness and aesthetics of your back door are not conducive to frequent deliveries of such size.

Not always following orders is known as initiative, which is quite important in this occupational field. My impression of Mr P Nis is that he often takes control of the entire unit, acting in ways well beyond the imagination of management. Granted, he sometimes exercises this control against management's wishes, but it is the very unpredictability you rail against that is Mr P Nis' greatest asset.

My client is experienced enough to know when a job is finished. He also knows when management is being unreasonable. He knows this from previous employment and from his occasional visits to other, similar facilities. I contend that he is acting responsibly by withdrawing his labour if the job is taking too long as the tools he employs can easily wear out if they are exposed to the hazardous conditions of the shop floor for too long.

Please do not complain about the mess. It is in my client's job description to deposit materials in the receptacles designated by management. After deposition, the material becomes the responsibility of the receiving unit. It is hardly his fault if all the available receptacles are full, leaving him no alternative but to dump his load wherever he can find room.

Your accusation that my client is not complying with health and safety regulations by wearing protective clothing simply doesn't stand up to scrutiny. Mr P Nis was forced to remove his plastic safety boots because management has consistently failed to address his complaints about the difficulty in remaining in his work place due to the slippery condition of the floor.

Your derisory offer of a few pats on the head in lieu of granting Mr P Nis a rise is as insulting as it is regrettable. Given his outstanding performance record one would think copious kisses would be in order. Instead, we are seriously considering legal action. Working conditions in your facility have become appalling, even unsanitary, and the aesthetics are not conducive to successfully discharging my client's onerous duties. He reports that recently there are foul discharges from both doors, and that he has developed an irritating discharge himself. What's more, the unfortunate rash on his head has also inexplicably worsened.

Our demands, therefore, are as follows:
1) Management to pay for my client's performance enhancing medication.
2) Management to provide full employment opportunities at all times.
3) Management to clean its facilities, improve the aesthetics and cut back the shrubbery that is impeding my client's entry into your premises, particularly in the vicinity of the back door.
4) Management to grant the rise as requested.

Yours sincerely, Mike Hunt

Dear Mr Hunt,

We were most disappointed to learn that your client, Mr P Nis, rather than humbly accepting our offer, has threatened to take legal action if his demands are not met.

Your letter claims that Mr Nis could work an entire eight hour shift if requested to so, but that such a request has never been made. Management disagrees on both counts. What your client defines as work is actually only a very small part of his job. As his job description clearly states, Mr. P Nis’ job is to make deposits, both his and the company’s, in a timely and satisfactory manner. Doing so requires such deposits to be fully packaged and prepared for delivery, a process* that may take several hours and involves meticulous attention to detail. Rarely does Mr Nis fail to deposit his own load but it’s the company’s load that is frequently overlooked.

*Note. This step in the process absolutely cannot be skipped and is commonly overlooked, particularly by workers with large packages. You client would do well to take a tip from some of his co-workers whose packages are smaller than average. Sometimes working by candlelight assists in these matters, as well as making thoughtful gestures around the shop, such as lowering the toilet seat or offering to prune the shrubbery around the main entrance. Acts such as these can help create a more pleasant working environment and improve communication, resulting in greater productivity and customer satisfaction.

Any freelance work that your client may or may not undertake is in strict conflict with his contract with our company. The admission of any sort of moonlighting would result in Mr P Nis' immediate dismissal on the grounds of disloyalty. Please instruct your client that if he wishes to change companies, he is more than free to do so, but only after he has worked out his two week period of notice. Your client's commendable eagerness to bend over backwards for management suggests that he might find a better outlet for his skills in a fudge packing company.

You might also advise Mr P Nis that thinking is not a prerequisite for his job. In fact, if he was paid to think he would be part of the management team. Instead, your client has gone out of his way to completely ignore the one person who is in a position to gauge his real performance—Ms Clit Toris. Ms Toris is a vital part of this organisation whose avoidance by your client has seriously compromised the company's productivity. Mr Nis may claim that he can never find Ms Toris, but rest assured, she is well aware of him and his neglect of her feelings has not gone unnoticed.

If Mr Nis were paid to think, he would know that his experience and advanced age only diminish his value as a worker. A younger, more upstanding employee with less experience, who is able to handle Ms Clit Toris could do double the work in half the time. Mr Nis needs to be reminded that he is not irreplaceable. In fact, management have had to employ a substitute to complete several jobs he was unable to finish in less time, at a much lower cost—the mere price of two AA batteries. For what this ‘fill in’ lacks in personality, he more than makes up for in reliability. Nor does he require medical assistance to rise to the challenges presented to him, never goes on holiday and leaves no mess behind him—or in front.

Your client’s allegations of substandard working conditions are completely unfounded. The foul discharges you speak of only occurred when Mr P Nis mistakenly tried to deposit his load in the back door instead of the front. To add insult to injury, he then proceeded to the front door anyway, thereby contaminating the environment with a contagious infection which shut down the entire facility for several weeks, during which time your client selfishly collected unemployment benefit whilst the company’s stock plummeted.

Consequently, management are not willing to meet any of your demands at this time. Our position in regard to your client's complaints is as follows:

1) Management is required by contract to only cover half the cost of protective equipment. Any further costs fall on the head of the employee.

2) The company is not open all hours. We close our doors at regular business hours and not a minute later. (Rare exceptions are when your client offers chocolate or flowers).

3) We will clean up the mess your client complains of when he starts putting the lid down on the company toilet.

4) A raise at this juncture would be, like your client; premature and ineffective.

Yours sincerely, The Management

From Mike Hunt.
Senior Partner, Scrotum, Hunt and Scrotum.

Dear Management,

We find your demands ludicrous. You keep complaining about longevity and yet refuse to offer my client overtime or even alternate work hours. Don't complain about how long Mr P Nis works when you won't provide the proper rate for the job. Your request for candlelight violates your own safe working practices, as open flames are a health hazard, especially around the narrow and dirty rear entrance to your facility.

Since management provides no urinal and sitting down on the job is forbidden by your own regulations we insist the toilet lid remain up. In the spirit of compromise, you should begin to appreciate wet, yellow toilet seats.

We seriously doubt the existence of the person you call 'Ms Clit Toris'. Our client has repeatedly assured us that despite the most diligent and exhaustive search he has not been able to lay his hands on her. Unless she is the hooded dwarf his co-workers claim to have encountered when polishing up your door knocker. Frankly, if you expect Mr P Nis to work with this person, you should have chosen someone who doesn't spend all their time crouched in the basement, trembling like a frightened midget.

We find your reference to robotic substitute workers asinine. Hiring mechanized workers violates my client's contract, even if they are able to work longer hours at greater depths without tiring.

Your assertion that Mr P Nis caused an epidemic within your facility is ludicrous. Whatever infections arose are the sole responsibility of management. Mr Nis did not, as alleged, draw unemployment benefit during the time your facility was closed. He moonlighted at a fudge packing plant until your crisis was over. Thank you for that tip by the way.

Since we have provided full rebuttals to all your previous arguments, I will not repeat them. Of course management must pay for all protective equipment because management requires it. It should be noted that during Mr P Nis' moonlighting to several firms, as well as several that were not so firm, you have insisted on protective equipment, despite the fact that he was in no position to make any deliveries to either of your entrances at these times.

Your insistence that my client should work your normal business hours is patently absurd given that your facility is closed for several days every month. When Mr P Nis has attempted to make deliveries during these periods he has been summarily rebuffed. On the one occasion he did manage to make a forcible entry, he emerged covered from head to bag in a disgusting substance it took him several days to wash off. If you are not open for business 24/7, Mr P Nis has no other choice but to moonlight in order to provide for his loving wife and family.

We therefore still demand the rise, and not of toilet seats. We're already covered the toilet seat issue and don't intend to revisit it.

Yours sincerely, Mike Hunt

Dear Mr Hunt,

We regret to inform you that as of this morning, your client's employment with our company has been terminated on the grounds of disloyalty, gross negligence, burglary, and utter disregard for his employer, worsened by the aspersions he has cast upon the good character of Ms Clit Toris and the disrespectful tone of your entire correspondence.

We usually take this opportunity to wish those who were once a valuable part of the company a profitable and happy future, but since Mr P Nis never was and we don’t, we would like to tender our very sincere condolences to his future employers.

Your useless client will be replaced by the employee you so inelegantly referred to as a 'robotic substitute' although he prefers the term ‘battery operated attendant.’ It is our firm belief that he will get the job done for the time being—at least until we find a new employee, preferably one who is better equipped to satisfy the company's needs than your client.

Yours sincerely, The Management

From Mike Hunt.
Senior Partner, Scrotum, Hunt and Scrotum.

Dear Management,

You will soon be receiving a writ as my client has filed for unemployment benefits as well as disability compensation. Disloyalty and disregard for ones' employer are not legal grounds for dismissal.

Unemployment benefits are therefore warranted, as Mr. P. Nis is incapable of extended periods of unemployment. The disability compensation is due to the skin condition and irritating discharge he contracted while in your employ, which will severely restrict his opportunities for future employment.

We are not surprised at your increasing dependence on robotics. We have it on good authority that you often outsourced Mr P Nis' duties to third world countries and non-union contractors, undoubtedly giving you unsatisfactory results, just as you will certainly experience with your mechanical substitutes, which are all made in China. Mr P Nis recalls that during a brief labour strike your facility was quickly overrun with scabs. Rest assured that my client would never list you as a reference, and will adamantly deny ever having been in your employ. Working in the vicinity of that unkempt, odoriferous storage area you call your back door would not look good on Mr P. Nis' employment record!

Yours sincerely, Mike Hunt

Read More......

I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.

Okay?

Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realise when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain’s. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim—and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision—I’d obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I’d probably have been at it much longer.

Middle-aged now and long out of the game, I’m forced to concede that my art would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn’t as comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are conspicuous by their absence), the mental snapshots I've kept of the women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to 'Jugs.'

And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.

Not least for the adventure it turned into, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who’d come to New York just days before—for the very first time—from the Midwest on a month-long vacation.

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, checking out the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a short, sharp fart—like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word 'humongous' could accurately describe—a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her novel method of gaining my attention) and instinctively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realised the unique opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet explored.

In a brief conversation—during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost attractive if she just lost 300 pounds—Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of 'Grease,' and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have been aware of my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.
“That’s it,” he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. “Right there—that dude. That’s the definition of drunk.”

At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and devour, the complete contents of a pack of chocolate cookies. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and consumed (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a container of chicken wings, several packets of potato chips and an economy-size tub of cheese spread.

Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.

Now it’s not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but a more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night’s activities would have been the theme from 'Raiders of the Lost Ark.' The thing was—and my insistence that we leave no more than the bathroom light on was definitely a contributing factor—I could not for the life of me find Peggie’s love tunnel. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women under poor lighting conditions, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Peggie’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search for the motherlode. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I felt for sure that I’d located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself into what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie’s anatomy.

You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook in the distance. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Peggie’s stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal lesser men would certainly have given up on. My triumph was short-lived however. After entering the promised land my mettle was tested again and again. Twice I was jettisoned (and risked becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Peggie’s pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for the perseverance I wasn’t at all sure I possessed. But I hung in there and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. Having reached the treasure chest within minutes, I managed to more or less to stay put this time, and with the tenacity of Queequeeq clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.

In the morning, Peggie, cheerily humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by her decision and gave it my enthusiastic support.

But as I departed, her expression suggested she was slightly ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know just what was on her mind. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that the most likely explanation for her puzzled look was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.

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Do you know how to tell if an electrical cord is frayed? It took me a while to spot them as well as I can now, but with practice and a few bad shocks I soon honed my observational skills to the point where a slit in the insulation, or one stray, copper strand poking out, was like a siren going off in my head. I also learned to watch out for lamps that had been unplugged, loose light bulbs and trailing wires where there clearly shouldn't be any. If you have any sense you'll always carry a flashlight to check for similar traps. Popping a plug into a socket with a split flex is asking to feel the muscle-contracting thud of 240 volts AC surging through you. If you're unlucky enough to hear your eardrums galvanise into a high-pitched scream, you may not live to tell the tale.

I was lucky; I lived. But then I was wearing rubber-soled shoes which minimised the circuit the lamp and I formed with the floor and wall. And the bare wire poking out of the insulation made contact with the cast on my arm, not bare skin, so that helped. Not that I don't give my wife, Lurleen, as good as she gives me. On one memorable occasion I returned the favour so successfully I still can't believe she went for it. She's so fanatical about housekeeping she won't tolerate a flooded kitchen for the few minutes it takes to get someone to come out and fix the dishwasher. So, feeling adventurous, I removed the bolt from the spin arm—that little doodad that rinses the dishes—and told Lurleen that the big, soapy mess all over her parquet flooring would just have to wait if she wanted the dishes done. Of course, she yelled down the stairs in horror that she'd do them 'this instant!' "Fine!" I shouted back and added thoughtfully that I'd even fill the sink for her. What I omitted to mention was that I tossed every knife, cleaver, sharp spatula, skewer and lethal serving fork in the house into the soapy water.

Schlurp! Her pinkie was almost sucked into the compactor as she screamed at me to empty the sink. I fished it out eventually and the doctors successfully sewed it back on, but not before I accidentally lacerated several more of her fingers emptying the sink. It took her a week to climb down off the ceiling but she eventually acknowledged the gag was a good one. Just in case you think I'm slipping, I did consider loosening the stair runners and putting a rolling pin on the treads before she came down, but she did that to me the week before and frankly, originality is more important at this point in our marriage than trying to run up the highest score; as is the sex. Whether it was the loss of blood or the drugs they gave her, Lurleen was insatiable that night. Our lovemaking was more intense than ever as we bit, scratched (watching out for her pinkie, of course) and gouged our way to one explosive orgasm after another. We were closer, more turned on and crazier for each other than we had been since she filled the light bulb in the refrigerator with gunpowder and I was rushed to hospital for a cornea transplant.

So when I came home tonight, I was pretty excited when I found the mousetrap in the letterbox and the upturned carpet tacks next to the shoe rack. I concluded that she was feeling frisky and after a long, hard day designing missile warheads, I was in the perfect mood to give her what she wanted. But as I pulled the tacks out of my foot, I noticed a disconcerting trail of discarded clothes leading up the stairs. But it wasn't the crumpled, black cocktail dress, laddered tights, discarded stilettoes and split-crotch panties that tightened the knot in my stomach, nor the broken end of a beer bottle cunningly concealed beneath a silk camisole. No, it was the checked, cotton shirt, work jeans and filthy trainers—all caked with white cement— strewn amongst my wife's clothes, that subdued the bulge in my pants and wrenched a strangled cry from my throat: "Lurleen!"
What was this? Had some horney construction worker come over to drill my sweetheart after her day at the lounge? I winced as I carefully drew the last carpet tack from my foot, watching the spurting blood miss the plastic stair runners (which she had loosened) and stain the carpet.
"LURLEEEN!" I screamed again.
"Come and get me, lover boy," her taunting squeal came from our bedroom. "It's not as much fun without you, babycakes."
"Bitch!" I muttered under my breath as I hobbled up the stairs—only to be brought up short where they turned a right-angle by a waist-high, chain-link fence which my loving wife had stretched across my path. Two suspicious-looking wires trailed on up the stairs, no doubt connecting the fence to our electrical supply.

I should add that I first met Lurleen when I was teaching an adult-education class in home wiring as part of my community service for aggravated assault. She was a damn good student and especially attentive when I was describing the dangers of faulty wiring. As you can imagine, it was love at first sight. I knew Lurleen would never juice it up to fatal levels, but I really didn't feel like trying to jump that lethal-looking fence, risk soiling my underwear and being out of it for an hour while some horny redneck dumped a load of cement between my honey's thighs. Could my Lurleen really be cheating on me? I knew she worked around sexy men every night at the club, but she'd never brought anyone back or even so much as expressed the desire to play away from home. And yet, some guy's clothes were all over my stairs and I could hear her giggling in bed. That was enough for me. I turned on my painful heel, stumbled down the stairs (carefully avoiding the broken beer bottle) and wrenched open the back door to try a different approach.

I hauled the ladder out of the garage—but even here she had anticipated me—and my hands were soon as bloody as my foot from the splinters she'd teased out of the wood. I swore under my breath and painfully lugged the ladder towards our bedroom window. My neighbour Harry, cradling a Miller Lite and dressed in Bermuda shorts and an undershirt, leaned nonchalantly over the fence and asked: "Mickey, don't tell me you two are at it again?"
A Miller Lite! And people say Lurleen and I do bad things to ourselves.
"Just a little problem with the door locks," I said. "Got to climb up there and—"
"—You're bleeding, Mickey."
I looked at my hands which had coated the ladder red. My injured foot was leaking blood from the air holes of my shoes. "They put glue in Miller Lite, you know," I snapped. "That's what makes it foam so well."
My jibe went home. "You need help" he said.
I measured the distance to the bedroom window, behind which my beautiful wife was having her scars lovingly traced by another man. "That would be great," I said, tilting the ladder toward him. "Take an end?"
He shook his head, took a long pull from his can and waddled back inside.

"Bastard!" I muttered. Harry may have had to watch a lot of ambulances come and go and buy the occasional 'get well soon' card, but it's not as if we're unproductive residents. Our yard sales supply crutches to the whole neighbourhood; kids know Lurleen can tie a tourniquet and wrap lost teeth so they can be replanted like no other mother on the block. People have such limited ideas of what constitutes a 'normal' personal life that it colours all their other attitudes. I mean, Harry masturbates (noisily) with his bathroom window open in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. You think that's pleasant to live next door to?

I charged across the lawn toward the bedroom window, the slippery ladder thrust out before me like a giant bayonet. But ten feet short of the wall, my right leg suddenly buckled as it sank into a freshly dug hole in the lawn. The only reason my shinbone didn't break like a pencil in the hands of an irate teacher was that I had broken my stride to talk to Harry and hadn't built up enough speed. Even so, my hamstring shrieked in protest and the sweat poured down my face as waves of pain shot through my twisted leg. I had to admit that Lurleen had given this a lot of thought. My face burned with love and admiration and grinding, bitter jealousy gripped my thudding heart. Even with my hands lacerated and bloody from the splinters, I knew I would have enough more than enough strength to squeeze the life out of Mr Cement once I got up there and pulled him out of my wife.

I slammed the ladder into the ground and swung it up against the bedroom window sill, shattering the pane and bringing shards of glass raining down on me. "Lurleen!"
Her adorable blonde head poked out. "Hurry up! You're missing the party!"
I threw myself onto the ladder and stepping gingerly with my injured foot, shimmied up the rungs to the sunshine of my life and her new lover. "Stop, honey. Stop whatever it is you're doing."
She grinned, showing her chipped pearly whites and lifted up her nightdress to flash her boobs at me. "Come on, Mick," she teased. "Your job wouldn't be fun if it was that easy." She giggled, took hold of the ladder and shoved.

I was looking at a broken vertebra at the very least—possibly a skull fracture—which didn't bother me so much (Lurleen makes a great chicken soup that'll cure almost anything). What did bother me was the knowledge that I wouldn't be able to do a goddamn thing to prove to Lurleen what a real man could do for her. I mustn't hit the ground. As the ladder began its sweep toward the lawn, I pushed off with my good foot and managed to grab hold of the window frame. The shattered glass cut my fingers, but it was nothing major. I could probably swing myself in with only minor injuries if I could only reach the top of the window and hurl myself in feet-first.
Which I did. My bloody foot squished in its sock as I landed on the bedroom carpet in a tangled heap. Fortunately I only lost a few inches of skin off my back and took three of the carpet tacks Lurleen had thoughtfully scattered beneath the window, in my ass

Panting and bleeding, I saw no one other than my wife in the room.
"Where is the bastard?" I shouted.
Lurleen was sitting at her dressing-table, looking alluring in a sheer, black negligée I had never seen before. She turned her head innocently toward me.
"What bastard?" she asked.
"The construction guy. The man you've been screwing in our bed—you bitch!"
"Who said there's another man?" she asked with a crooked smile, standing up and lifting up the negligée to show me she wasn't wearing any panties.
"How about another man's jeans and shirt crumpled next to your clothes downstairs?"
"Mickey, Mickey, Mickey," she purred as she slunk slowly over and put her arms around my neck, "have you been in an office so long you don't recognise your own old work clothes? There's no other man for me, babycakes."
I could feel my cheeks reddening. "But… why, Lurleen? I mean, you've broken my bones before, slashed me, punctured my eardrums, burned me. But this really hurt."
"I know." Her lips parted into a huge, loving smile. "Happy anniversary, darling."
Happy—? It took a second for my own grin to appear. I shook my head in admiration and wonder. "You're amazing," I said. "All I did was buy you flowers."
"Thorns?"
"You know me too well."
"Then I'm happy," she cooed, planting a long kiss on my chapped mouth. "Let's get you stitched up and celebrate."

That, my friend, is tough love and Lurleen is what every wife should be: someone who will do anything for you—and to you. Someone who is willing to shed blood. Someone who knows that kisses come and go, adoring looks and mind-shattering sex are temporary, but scars are forever.

Read More......

Regular readers will know that funny-moment are keen to expand the knowledge of the ordinary citizen on Nature's mysteries—none more so than the female orgasm, a phenomenon that has exercised the finest minds and fingers the world over


We have spent many long, exhausting days (and nights) studying the female sexual response, but our supply of original material quickly dried up and the carpets became far too sticky to walk on, so we sent our newest reporter, Robin Scunthorpe, to an imposing castle in Bavaria, where we had learned that Professor Karl Zeuss was the leading authority on the subject in the developed world. What follows is Robin's very personal account of his chat with the reclusive and eccentric sexpert.

“Good morning, Professor Zeus,” I began, having established beforehand that the professor had a passable command of English.
“It is Zeuss,” he hissed, “zere are two esses. You must never forget ze essesss.”
Thinking I had already blown any chance of a rapport with this man by mispronouncing his name, I got straight down to business by asking him what the secret of the female orgasm was. There was a long pause, during which the cadaverous academic peered at me over the rim of his pince-nez. Eventually he leaned forward on the threadbare elbows of his cardigan and began speaking in a very animated fashion.
“You see, my boy,” he said, with an air of unsettling familiarity, “Ve men have no problem with orgasm; ze front cover of Health and Efficiency was sufficient to drain ze poison from ze gonads in my youth, und even zat had ze genitalia airbrushed out. But zen, we have ze physical appendage that enables us to both see and feel ze state of our arousal. Zis is a most useful advantage—a most useful advantage.”

He stopped speaking and leant slowly back in his leather chair, as if recalling memories from the distant past, his eyes tightly shut and his hands clenched into fists upon his lap. Then, as if coming out of a dream, he leaned forward again and continued. “Women are not like zis. Their genitals are...how do you say?...an entirely different kettle of fishes. I have spent decades researching just what are ze stimulants zat will bring a woman to orgasm in a very short time, but only now has my penny been spent.”
“You mean the penny has dropped?” I interjected, helpfully.
“Try not to interrupt,” he barked. “I have found zat women have to be very relaxed in order to orgasm—very, very relaxed. In order to achieve zis for his wife or girlfriend or ze cheap floozie he has picked up in some back alley—"
"Back alley, professor?"
"Don't interrupt! Even ze ladies of ze night deserve consideration. It is important zat ze man does everything he can to make ze lady as comfortable as possible. She must have pampers, complete pampers. Only then will she let go und her troubles will all flood out.”
“You mean pampered?” I ventured hesitantly.
“Pampers, pampered—it all mounts up to ze same thing, my boy...relaxation. Und zen she must have ze ambience. Ze soft, sensuous lighting, or better still, scented candles to provide ze right mood. Also, she is requiring soothing music zat is melodic yet a little mysterious...but not played too loud—never too loud, or ze man will not be able to hear her cries at ze moment of crises.”

This was certainly getting more interesting, as I had been a lover of music since the 1950s when my mother could not stop singing 'Does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?”
“Could you recommend any particular music?” I asked hopefully.
“Ze Enid,” he said with a quiet smugness that seemed to border on arrogance.
“What—'Something Wicked This Way Comes?” I replied with self-assurance.
“Nein...” he sighed and added almost inaudibly, “Touch me.”
“Sorry?”
“Zat's ze name of ze song, not a cheap come-on. I'm not gay you know.”
"Do...er, go on, professor.”
“Some might say ze piano passages are rather odd und quirky, but I have found through many experiments zat ze syncopated rhytmus is extremely stimulating to ze female libido.”
He was almost trance-like now, wringing his hands continuously as he leaned almost painfully forward in his chair. “Zen food.”

“Food?” I asked
“Yes...food...und it must be ze right food. None of zose off-ze-peg meals—”
“Take-aways?”
“Take-away, take-out, whip-up, it's all ze same krep,” he replied, his voice climbing several octaves as he re-adjusted his pince-nez. “Vot is wanted is a lightly poached salmon fillet nestling on ze soft bed of wild rocket with asparagus tips und baby potatoes dripping—dripping, you understand—in a buerre blanc....And drink...only ze finest champagne...all zose bubbles signifying ze rising of ze innermost desires to the surface. Zat is the secret, my boy. Ze woman should now recline. Ze man must be subservient, but at ze same time concentrating on ze physical signs. Just watch her mouth as her lips become moister. Look very carefully and you may detect a slight dribble from ze corner of her lips. Zis will tell you zat ze time is very near.”

“The time?” I asked rather naively.
“Yes!” he exclaimed excitedly, pounding his clenched fist on his thigh. “Ze time when ze delicious creamy fluid substance is to be administered by ze man!”
Well, that was the first time I had heard it described in that fashion, but I dared not interrupt him as he rattled on at a break-neck pace.
“...Ze timing of ze introduction of ze creamy nectar, is of ze most vital importance. Ze utmost concentration is necessary to choose ze right moment to go to ze fridge.”
“The fridge?” This departure caught me somewhat off guard.
“Yes ze fridge!” he repeated as if I was some kind of idiot. “You don't want it to go soft now, do you?”
“Don't want what to go soft?”

“Ze Haagen Dazs. Ze ice cream—”
“—Ice cream...?” I asked warily, “I thought—”
“— I know vot you thought! Will you stop interrupting, you ignorant boy!”
“Sorry, professor.”
“A normal 500ml carton would be plenty, but a small bottle of a sweet sauce is also vital. See how the woman's pupils dilate when her eyes catch sight of ze ice cream tub und watch carefully how her breathing becomes heavier as she greedily removes ze lid, revealing ze creamy, sensuous interior. However, you must wait und observe as her movements will now become increasingly jerky und uncontrolled...see?...she tosses aside ze spoon in favour of her hands…notice how she is now moaning faintly but more frequently as she takes bigger und bigger mouthfuls—at ze same time moving her thighs together in a rhythmic fashion which becomes faster und more urgent. She will start to utter more audible groans as she forces more and more into her mouth; some will leak out around the sides and drip gently onto her heaving bosom. She may mutter words such as ‘oh Gott, yes’ und ‘zat is lovely’ or possibly even ‘is zere any more?’ und you must be ready... for just as she is working herself into a frenzy und grabbing more ice cream, take your bottle of sauce...I recommend maple syrup, but butterscotch can be just as effective...und squirt ze contents on ze top of ze remaining ice cream. If you are really lucky she will shout your name as she pushes ze last handfuls into her mouth und falls back onto the sofa, exhausted. As her eyelids close gradually, she will utter zose wonderful words zat every man wants to hear: ‘oh thank you, that was the most wonderful time, ever.”
Professor Zeuss slumped back into his armchair, breathing hard, the sweat pouring down his face and wiped his pince-nez with a trembling hand.

“Zere...my boy,” he sighed, “how was zat for you?”
I was left a little breathless and also very confused.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Is that it?” “What about her genitals? Do they play no part in this?”
He was about to close his eyes, but stopped to regard me with a pitying look over his pince-nez.
“Oh no, dear boy. Oh dear me, no. Ze genitals? Oh, mine Gott, no. I have done much research into zat part of a woman's anatomy und while I admit zat ze vaginal massage will sometimes produce a spurious temporary euphoria, it is nothing compared to vot I have just described to you. Ze handling of ze female genitalia produces a kaleidoscope of images in the minds of women undergoing zis form of primitive und clumsy stimulation. My measurements of ze brain wave patterns during zis phase have conclusively shown zat ze various shades seen are a direct correlation with the Dulux Vinyl Silk Emulsion colour chart in the event of clitoral arousal, and the patterns seen with stimulation of the inner labia are from the Crown ‘easy-up’ wallpaper catalogue.”
“Er...you've lost me, professor."

Suddenly, the door opened and a nurse walked in.
“Ah there you are Mr Zeuss,” she exclaimed. “I have been looking for you everywhere. It's time for your medication.”
With that, she pulled him out of the chair and, without so much as an acknowledgement to me, led him through the open door and out into the dimly lit corridor.
“I think you will need two injections in your bottom tonight,” she said as they walked on into the gloom “And then I have a nice big bowl of soup for you, liebchen...”
“I hope it is ze thick pea soup with smoked bacon und frankfurters,” said Zeuss.
“Oooh, you're such a naughty boy,” exclaimed the nurse, patting his bottom affectionately. I decided that this might be an opportune time to make a hasty exit and legged it.

Read More......

Friends, I have been asked to speak to you tonight on a subject which many of you will know to be of the very highest importance to the very survival of the nation we love so well

Before I begin I would like to say a few words about our nation; the English nation. A nation which has been bred on the green and rolling pastures of this sceptic isle, under the winding hedges, inside the bus shelters and behind the bike sheds of the fairest corner of this world over which God has given us everlasting dominion. We are a nation who have shown ourselves to be destined to lead lesser races. We espouse the virtues of sportsmanship and fair play, tolerance and forgiveness, live and let live. Yet we are also a nation who will, when we think we can get away with it, stab our very best friends in the back and put our own grandmothers on the game to make a few quid.

I tell you, bothers and sisters, we have much to be proud of…
(Cheers, cries of How Tenji! How Tenji! How Tenji! He raises his hands and the chant slowly subsides.)
…much to be proud of indeed.
(From the back of the auditorium) "Get on with it!"

Our language is perhaps our greatest gift to the world. Taken up with alacrity by the gallant Scots, the guttural Welsh, the totally incomprehensible Irish and our charming American cousins across the water. It is a simple language—a child can speak it—my surly, teenage daughters excepted, yet it is also the language of Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth and Archer. Is it any wonder then, that when we had civilised the peoples of the world and deemed them ready to stand beside us in the family of nations, that it was English that they chose to replace their strange heathen babbling? As leader of this party I have travelled widely both in Cambridgeshire, and sometimes even further afield. And in all my travels I have never met a foreigner who did not understand English, either immediately or, in some cases, after it had been shouted at him and punctuated by few kicks up the bottom.

(Cheers, cries of How Tenji! How Tenji! How Tenji! He raises his hands and the chant slowly subsides.)

But I am not here tonight to list the achievements of the English. If I were we would have to book this stadium for a week…"

(Muffled cries of 'Bloody well get on with it, Tenji, you arse!' from the back of the auditorium)

…No I am here to tell you of a threat—an insidious poison, which is eating at the very fabric of the civilised world like a flesh-eating, poisonous thing. A world, which we, the English, have done so much to create. This is a threat more deadly than Al Qaeda, more evil than an Iranian Ayatollah, more mendacious than the French and more cynically self-serving than an American Republican Senator who has just accidentally shot a Democrat lawyer. I speak, my friends, of the humble garden gnome.

I can understand your shock. I know you all have gnomes in your street, perhaps even in your own gardens—friendly little fellows with wheelbarrows full of plants cradling quaint fishing rods in their gnarled hands. I know, I have seen them too. But I am here to tell you this is what they want you to think. As they hold their ‘Keep off the grass’ signs and beam their rosy-cheeked smiles they are planning nothing less than the overthrow of English society as we know it.

How can a few gnomes threaten us?’ I hear you ask. And I answer, God bless you. You are the Englishmen and women that I love—the people I am proud to lead and honoured to serve. Your tolerance of the gnome in our midst is, at the same time, the defining virtue of the English character and our greatest weakness. I say yes, embrace the lonely stranger, the weak and the oppressed. Feel in his pockets, see if he is worth turning over for a few bob. But I say also take care he is not a snake in the nest or a cuckoo in the woodpile.

How many gnomes are there? Do you know? I have discovered there are already two gnomes for every man woman and child in England. Where are they all? You ask. Brothers and sisters—they are all around us! In every garden, by every pond, watching and waiting with their little gnomey eyes and their rosy, gnomey cheeks.

(Cries of 'lynch the evil bastards!' from the rear of the auditorium)

Do not be fooled by their whimsical smiles. This is not a time for complacency. We must act. Look what happened in Zurich; they left it too late and the cuckoo clock monopoly was lost, the Gnomes of Zurich took it all. We cannot risk the same thing happening here. I heard only this week of a poor girl who was abducted by no less than seven of these freaks of nature.

This innocent waif was subjected to the most appalling depravities during which every conceivable perverted act was perpetrated upon her nubile person. Over a period of no less than six months she suffered unimaginable torments during which she was only allowed out four times a week to purchase vitamin pills, viagra and double strength red bull—which the plucky maiden forced her captors to swallow. By her enterprising actions this quick-thinking girl was eventually able to exhaust these gnomish fiends and return to the bosom of her family and pet rabbit, but not, I hasten to add, without paying the terrible price of unwanted, teenage pregnancy! Yes, dear friends, her captors had saddled this lovely vision of budding womanhood with not one, but seven unwanted offspring! Septuplets which will forever afterwards place an almost unsupportable strain on a welfare system which is the envy of the civilised world!

(Murmurs of 'castrate the evil bastards!')

Have no fear, dear friends, the gnomes will face the full force of the law as soon as they have gained sufficient body mass and had the complacent smiles surgically wiped off their faces.

(Murmurs of angry concern, tinged with a desire for revenge.)

Is this an isolated incident? Would that it were good people, would that it were. I have asked Special Branch to monitor the activities of some of the Gnome ring leaders and I am able to reveal that increased politicisation within the Gnomish culture is set to unleash a tidal wave—if not a tsunami—of inconceivable horrors upon our society. Where once a Gnome was happy to hold a ‘Keep off the Grass’ sign or perhaps sit cheekily fishing beside a ‘No Fishing’ notice, I now have evidence of a new, radical Gnomish sect that will stop at nothing to achieve its evil ends. I think these pictures speak for themselves:



(Crowd erupts into angry shouts, a Gnome in effigy is spontaneously produced from a large holdall with some ‘well fancy finding that here’ petrol. The effigy is burnt, someone spills petrol on his foot; there is a lot of running about and general panic. How Tenji resumes...)

See how they mock us; I say enough!
I am, this very night, ordering that all gnomes should wear an identifying red hat so that we can all see them wherever they are congregating. Gnomes will report weekly to the garden pond so that their movements can be closely monitored.

I beg you, brothers and sisters, not to take the law into your own hands. These simple measures are enough. There will be no need for you to use the pile of baseball bats behind the stadium to go on a wild rampage destroying gnomes in revenge for the sufferings of poor Snow White. Show these Gnomes good English tolerance one more time. Stop in the pub on the way home, have eight pints of ‘Olde Wifebeater’ and talk about the Gnomish plot. Then, if you still feel like kicking the shit out of them—well try not to get caught.

Good night people of England. God bless you. God bless the Queen.

(Tenji exits surrounded by minders wearing ‘Smash Gnomery’ tee-shirts. Crowd chants ‘How Tenji, How Tenji, etc. Notorious night of violence towards inanimate garden ornaments follows)



The photographs—many of which are too disturbing to publish in this country—were delivered to our offices in a pizza carton by an extremely short, bearded man wearing a red hat with a thick, foreign accent. Readers are warned that the three images our lawyers have allowed us to publish may not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition or Americans under forty-five.

Frankly, we at GnomeWATCH are not surprised by this development in the ongoing Gnome crises. Despite Chairman Tenji's repeated pleas for vigilance and resolute action, our European neighbours have steadfastly refused to recognise the evils of international Gnomery. Some have even voiced their support for the Gnomish ringleader—the self-styled 'Gerald P Floyd'—who was arrested by police on Friday. What will surprise and shock every right-thinking Briton are these disturbing pictures of so-called 'gnome love.' Make no bones about it, if this continental vice is allowed to gain a foothold in this country, no teenage girl will be safe.

Foremost among the decadent reactionaries promoting this filthy practice are the Italian members of MALAG—the Movimento Autonomo per la Liberazione delle Anime da Giardino— a radical alliance of self-confessed 'gnome lovers' based in Italy. We have little doubt that the photographs we have published emanate from this or similar organisations in Europe.

MALAG—which loosely translates into English as the 'Independent movement for the Liberation of the Spirits of the Garden,' is a shadowy organisation, thought to have links to Italian Freemasonry and the sinister 'Gnomenati'—a secret society steeped in vice. It is misguided supporters of Gnomery like these who are actively encouraging the budding flowers of English womanhood to embrace 'the spirits of the garden.'

Our worst suspicions were confirmed on MALAG's Italian website, where we found several images of Snow White engaged in a variety of intimate acts with dozens of grinning gnomes. This dangerous organisation openly boasts of their love for the gnomes who saddled this innocent young waif with seven of their bastard offspring. What's more, they brazenly advise young girls to: 'run naked through the woods and fields to experience the delights of gnome love at first hand.' As these shocking images show, the girls who succumb to this vice soon become addicted to the fairy-tale 'magic' of 'gnome love'. Once hooked, they quickly lose their natural inhibitions and will perform the vilest of acts with as many as five gnomes at a time. I asked an expert on aberrant teenage sexual behaviour, Professor Hans Grimm, from the University of Leipzig, what drives these teenagers to such depths of depravity.

The black eyes of the short, rotund academic widened as he leaned forward excitedly.
"It's ze call of ze primordial sexual instinct which is most active during ze years of early puberty in young girls."
"Not boys?" I asked
Professor Grimm stroked his snowy beard. "Nein. Ze male lacks ze imagination to roll naked in a pile of rotting leaves in ze middle of a fairy-tale vood vile fantasising about being taken roughly by a troupe of midgets in big, pointy, red hats. Ze characteristic red hat of ze common garden gnome—gnomus domesticus—is, of course, ze classic phallic symbol of fertility und quite irresistible to a romantic young woman in oestrus."
"How pointy?"
"Very...und long und stiff und shiny."
"Golly! And the fairies?"
"Vivid sexual hallucinations caused by the ingestion of amanita muscaria—ze so-called 'magic mushroom."
"Not Bacardi breezers and spliff, then?"
"Nein."
"Um...gosh, professor. You make it sound almost exciting..."
"Vell it is, if you're a fourteen-year-old girl viz no legitimate outlet for ze powerful urges surging through ze body at this difficult time of sexual transition."

"So Chairman Tenji was wrong to insist that all our gnomes wear big, pointy red hats—I mean, it's just inviting trouble, from what you say?"
The professor snorted derisively and fixed me with his penetrating gaze.
"You vill find zat Chairman Tenji has made a number of grave errors of judgement in his handling of zis Gnome crises. As have zose gnomes who discarded zair hats in zat silly protest. Without them zey have as much chance of scoring viz a hot young cutie as a balding, middle-aged political extremist on ze make."
"Astonishing, professor," I commented. "Thank you so much for talking to us."
"Ze pleasure voz all mine, young lady," oozed the smooth-talking academic as he kissed my hand gallantly. "Vud you like to take a short stroll in ze woods viz me later? Ze bluebells are quite enchanting at zis time of year."

"Er...thank you...um...Professor Grimm. That was Professor Grimm from the University of Leipzig. I now have Chairman Tenji of the National Satirist Party on the line. Chairman Tenji—a truly shocking development?"
Tenji: "No."
Neve Milgo: "Why do you say that?"
Tenji: "We're dealing with British gnomes, Ms Milgo. British gnomes do not ravish teenage girls at the drop of a hat—even a 'big red pointy one."
Neve Milgo: "What about the vice ring those gnomes were running in St Neots?"
Tenji: "An isolated incident inflamed by the excessive consumption of alcohol and potted shrimp."
Neve Milgo: "Potted shrimp?"
Tenji: "Gnomes live on the damn things. Now, look, my time is valuable. I don't have enough of it to waste on mad German professors with a gnome fetish or Italian sybarites."
Neve Milgo: "So you don't consider MALAG a threat to public order?"
Tenji: "No."
Neve Milgo: "I understand they sent you a vituperative email this morning?"
Tenji (bored): "Did they?"
Neve Milgo: "Yes..." (sound of shuffling paper and muttered profanities). I...um...have a copy here somewhere...just a minute, Chairman.
Tenji: "Get on with it, woman!"
Neve Milgo: "Right...I have it now (reads email):

To the fat pig of a British Dictator!

We spit on your GnomeWATCH!
We will liberazioni dalla garden gnomes prisoned by the men!
MALAG is a movement which has the goal the liberazioni of the spirits of the giardino imprisoned in chalk bodies from men without mercy and reduced in slavery in always green gardens. They are blocked in a chalk covering, forced to smile, to the cold, under the snow and the rain, subjects to the jokes of vicious animali and bad bambini, far from their world, far from the forest. We love our garden gnomes and never we would think to execute one of them for crimes against the humanity. They are the victims of terrible crimes themselves!

M.A.L.A.G.
Movimento Autonomo per la Liberazione delle Anime da Giardino.
http://www.malag.it/

"There—a truly shocking development, wouldn't you say, Chairman?"
Tenji: "Yes. I'm deeply shocked by their temerity in bringing this nonsense to my attention. That they should think that I would comment on the opinions of someone who is both a foreigner and a gnome lover shows how greatly these terrorists underestimate my commitment to the cause of English Satire and the destruction of international Gnomery.
Foreigners are foreign by accident of birth—poor devils, I accept that, but to compound the error by espousing such irresponsibly liberal views in the face of overwhelming evidence of the gnomish plot is nothing short of willful stupidity."

Neve Milgo: "Shouldn't we be worried by these Italian gnome lovers?"
Tenji (curtly): "A few malcontents from the only nation on earth whose police force sounds like a seafood starter? I hardly think so."
Neve Milgo: "You don't think that this 'gnome love' business could spread over here, Chairman?"

Tenji: "Gnome love, my bottom! They're nothing short of filthy midget fiddlers. Too much hot sun, garlic and cheap wine, Neve. No wonder they caved in to the gnomes of Berlin like a lot of Nancy boys. Reminds me of the time my car backfired in Rome. The spineless buggers surrendered before the lights changed! Rest assured that if these Eyetie girls' blouses so much as set foot on our sacred soil the police will bang them up so fast their pointy red hats will blow off."
Neve Milgo: "Well, I'm sure our readers will be very relieved to hear that. Thank you Chairman Tenji. This is Neve Milgo for GnomeWATCH News in Cambridge."
(Sound of shuffling paper, subdued, feminine coughing)

Tenji (sotto voce): "Are you doing anything later, thunderthighs?"
Neve Milgo: "Well...as it happens...I was thinking of taking a walk in the woods..."
Tenji: "Bugger! Look, I'm free at eight. Be in your Snow White costume by eight-thirty."
Neve Milgo: (giggling): "Will you be wearing a pointy red hat?"
Tenji: "No, the black leather thingie you got me."
Neve Milgo: "Er...I think we're still on air, Pixiekins..."
Tenji: "Don't call me that! What? Bloody hell! Why the (beeped out) didn't you say so sooner you dozy (beeped out) tart?"
(Several clicks followed by a sudden burst of static and the beginning of the theme tune to 'The Sky at Night.')

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