Friday humour - December 07, 2001

     From Tony at Bluehaze:

    And now that it's really December, it might just be time for one or two
    Christmassy contributions methinks.  There'll be some puzzles too, but
    they're in the pics section this week.

    Anyway, this week's contributors include our Westerly list, Nicki S,
    Mike Horne, QCAT, John at CUB, Mad Mick from Marwick, Steve H, Biggus,
    Paul Fazey, Doc Muscat, and myself.

    First up, after shuffling right down to the *bottom* of the in-tray,
    I discovered this one from our Westerly list.  It drifted in near the
    end of 1999, so it's time it made an appearance:

                             SANTA'S REALLY BITTER

      T'was the night before Christmas,
      Old Santa was pissed.
      He cussed out the elves, and
      threw down his list.

      Miserable little brats,
      Ungrateful little jerks.
      I have good mind to
      scrap the whole works.

      I've busted my arse
      for damn near a year.
      Instead of "Thanks Santa",
      Just what do I hear?

      The old lady bitches
      'cause I work late at night.
      The elves want more money,
      The reindeer all fight.

      Rudolph got drunk and
      he goosed all the maids.
      Donner is pregnant, and
      Vixen has AIDS.

      And just when I thought
      that things would get better,
      those arseholes from IR
      they sent me a letter.

      They say I owe taxes -
      if that ain't damn funny.
      Who the hell ever sent
      Santa Claus any money.

      And all the kids these days,
      they are simply the pits.
      They want the impossible...
      Those mean little shits.

      I spent a whole year
      making wagons and sleds
      Assembling dolls,
      their arms, legs and heads.

      Made a ton of yo yo's ...
      No requests for them.
      Just computers and robots,
      Hey, I'm not IBM!

      If you think that that's bad,
      then just picture this.
      Try holding those brats
      with their pants full of piss.

      They pull on my nose,
      they grab at my beard.
      And if I don't smile,
      parents think I'm weird.

      Flying through the air
      and dodging the trees.
      Falling down chimneys,
      and skinning my knees.

      I'm quitting this job.
      There's just no enjoyment.
      I'll sit on my fat arse
      and draw unemployment.

      There's no Christmas this year,
      now you know the reason.
      I found me a bimbo,
      I'm off SOUTH for this season!

       Our Nicki (lifetime companion of X-Ray Ted and founding member of
       the group Blazz Click here and numerous other musical concoctions)

       sent this one:


'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual yuletide
celebration, and throughout our place of residence, kinetic activity was not
in evidence among the possessors of this potential, including that species of
domestic rodent known as Mus musculus.  Hosiery was meticulously suspended
from the forward edge of the wood-burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to
our anticipatory pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric
philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of
St. Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective
accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations
of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebra.
My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal cranial coverings, were
about to take slumbrous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the
avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony
of dissonance that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of
repose for the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing the
fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected
as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline aqueous precipitation,
might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself -- thus permitting
my incredulous optical sensor to peruse a miniature airborne runnered
conveyance drawn by an octet of diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer,
piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it
became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller.

With his undulate motive power travelling at what may possibly have been more
vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly,
expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of
the octet by his or her respective cognomen ...  "Now Dasher, now Dancer..."
et al. -- guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through
which structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of
the 32 cloven pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was performing
a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved -- with utmost
celerity and via a downward leap -- entry by way of the smoke passage.
He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebon residue from the
oxidations of Carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on the walls thereof.
His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora of
assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary
dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability.  The capillaries
of his molar regions and nasal aptenance were engorged with blood which
suffused the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the coloration of
Albion's floral emblem, the latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry.
His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common
loop knot, and their ambient hirsuite facial adornment appeared like small,
tabular and columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose gray fumes,
forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a decorative
seasonal circlet of holly.  His visage was wider than it was high, and when
he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the
manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the aforementioned
hosiery with articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned
previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle.  Upon completion of this
task, he executed an abrupt about-face, placed a single manual digit in
lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in
a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith affected his egress by renegotiating
(in reverse) the smoke passage.

He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed
a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the
antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement
hitherto observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed.

But I overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his
vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: "Ecstatic yuletides to the
planetary constituence, and to that self-same assemblage my sincerest wishes
for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period between
sunset and dawn."

        Now it's over to those big bubbling silver vats at CUB and this
        brief contribution from Sarge (via John K):

Q: What do Kabul and Hiroshima have in common?
A: Nothing ... yet.

Q: How do you play Taliban bingo?
A: B-52 ... F-16 ... B-1 ...

Q: What is the Taliban's national bird?
A: Duck.

Q: Why does the Afghanistan Navy have glass bottom boats?
A: So they can see their Air Force

Q: What do Osama bin laden and General Custer have in common?
A: They both want to know where those Tomahawks are coming from.

Q: What's the difference between the Taliban and a bucket of shit?
A: The bucket

      Just before we go to some pics, this brief thought from QCAT:

                               HAVING A BAD DAY?

The next time you're having a bad day, imagine this:

You're a Siamese twin.

Your brother, attached at your shoulder is gay and you're not.

But you only have the one arsehole.

Feel better now?

        Okay, now to pics.  This first one's a PowerPoint slide-show and was
        originally forwarded back in April by Frank (an engineering
        ex-colleague of mine from Boral).  Yet another brilliant example of
        corporate management overriding sound engineering advice.  Generally
        this occurs along the lines of "Argh, what would the damn engineers
        know?  Tell 'em to stuff off, we run this place."  Yeh?  Sure, guys ...

  That sinking feeling: Click here

        And now that incognito is back on deck up at QCAT after his holiday,
        we have this collection for you.  First one is a must for that next
        Christmas booze-up (needs Excel or StarOffice):

  Booze meter: Click here
  I hate that ... Click here
  When I'm 64 ... Click here
  Party balloon: Click here

        A comment on marriage as passed on by Steve (Digi) Harding (this is
        a PC (Windoze) EXE file, so if you're reading this on a real computer,
        you'll need to move onto a MS Windoze box to look at it.  You'll be
        prompted to save it, then you'll have to find it and double-click):

  Marriage: Click here

        A little collection from Mike Horne next.  This came with some witty
        descriptions which I've mislaid, but they went something like this:

  The U.S. perspective on the anti-terrorist war: Click here
  Other countries perspective on the anti-terrorist war: Click here
  What you're doing as you see these: Click here
  What you'd rather be doing instead of seeing these: Click here

       Another couple of Excel files now (puzzles) as passed on some time
       back by Paul Fazey:

  Top model: Click here
  IQ test: Click here

       And to finish, a little collection from yours truly:

  Little gingerbread men: Click here
  Don't be a bastard: Click here
  Lion Taming For Dummies: Click here
  What's for breakfast? Click here
  Can't find one? Click here

       And some sizzling new O'Reilly Nutshell publications, just in time
       for Christmas:

  O'Reilly Java: Click here
  O'Reilly Security: Click here
  If nothing else works: Click here
  Or even better still: Click here

    This next one from David McCallum is the textual equivalent of that
    booze meter thingee above.  As Fifi (Biggus) put it - "A good one from
    my 21 yo nephew.  He's learning the ropes!"   Once again, quite fitting
    for the festive season ...


             ONE STAR HANGOVER *

No pain.  No real feeling of illness.  Your sleep last night was a mere
Disco nap which is giving you a whole lot of misplaced energy.  Still
able to function relatively well.  However, you can drink 10 bottles of
water and still feel as parched as the Sahara.  Even vegetarians are
craving Cheeseburger and a side of fries.

             TWO STAR HANGOVER * *

No pain, but something is definitely amiss.  You may look okay but you have the
attention span and mental capacity of a stapler.  The coffee you chug to try
and remain focused is only exacerbating your rumbling gut, which is craving a
full English breakfast.  Although you have a nice demeanour about the office,
you are costing your employer valuable money because all you really can handle
is some rearranging of your PC icons followed by aimlessly surfing the net
and writing junk e-mails.

             THREE STAR HANGOVER * * *

Slight headache.  Stomach feels crappy.  You are definitely a space cadet
and so not productive.  Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume
reminds you of the random gin shots you did with your alcoholic friends after
the bouncer kicked you out at 1:45 a.m.  Life would be better right now if
you were in your bed with a dozen donuts and a litre of coke watching Good
Morning Australia with Bert Newton.  You've had 4 cups of coffee, a litre of
water, 2 Sausage Rolls and a litre of diet coke yet you haven't peed once.

             FOUR STAR HANGOVER * * * *

You have lost the will to live.  Your head is throbbing and you can't speak
too quickly or else you might honk.  Your boss has already lambasted you for
being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze.

You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you either missed
an oh-so crucial spot shaving or it looks like you put your make-up on while
riding the dodgems, depending on your gender.  Your teeth have sweaters, your
eyes look like one big vein and your hairstyle makes you look like a reject
from the class picture of Moss side secondary school circa 1976.

You would give a weeks pay for one the following -

* Home time
* A duvet and somewhere to be alone
* A time machine so you could go back and NOT have gone out the night before.

             FIVE STAR HANGOVER * * * * *

You have a second heartbeat in your head, which is actually annoying the
employee who sits next to you.  Vodka vapour is seeping out of every pore and
making you dizzy.  You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth
from brushing your teeth.  Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva,
so your tongue is suffocating you.

You'd cry but that would take the last of the moisture left in your body.

Death seems pretty good right now.  Your boss doesn't even get mad at you and
your co-workers think that your dog just died because you look so pathetic.
You should have called in sick because, let's face it, all you can manage to
do is breathe ... very gently.

             SIX STAR HANGOVER * * * * * *

You arrive home and climb into bed.  Sleep comes instantly, as you were fighting
it all the way home in the taxi.  You get about 2 hours sleep and the noises
inside your head wake you up.  You notice that your bed has been cleared for
take off and is flying relentlessly around the room.  No matter what you do
you know you're going to chuck.

You stumble out of bed and now find that your room is in a yacht under full
sail.  After walking along the skirting boards on alternating walls knocking
off all the pictures, you find the dunny.  If you are lucky you will remember
to lift the lid before you spontaneously explode and wake the whole house up
with your impersonation of walrus mating calls.  You sit there on the floor in
your undies, cuddling the only friend in the world you have left (the toilet),
randomly continuing to make the walrus noises, spitting, and farting.

Help usually comes at this stage, even if it is short lived.  Tears stream down
your face and your abdomen hurts.  Help now turns into abuse and it usually goes
back to bed leaving you there in the dark.  With your stomach totally empty,
your spontaneous eruptions have died back to 15 minute intervals, but your
body won't relent.  You are convinced that you are starting to turn yourself
inside out and swear that you saw your bum come out your mouth on the last

You lie there cold and shivering, with eruptions now occurring at 1 hour
intervals.  It is now dawn, and you pass your disgusted partner getting up
for the day as you try to climb into bed.  They abuse you again for trying to
get into bed with lumpy bits of dried vomit in your hair.  You reluctantly
accept their advice and have a shower in exchange for them driving you to
the hospital.  The whole day spent (as above Hangover 5 Star)

You finally feel well enough to eat again on the following day, with the
mention of alcohol making your stomach churn.  This effect of sight or smell
of alcohol making your stomach churn lasts for a week and publicly you vow
never to do it again ... until next time.

        Now for a couple of horror pieces from our own Doc Muscat (the man
        of many crystals and Linux boxes):

About 7 am on August 25th 1998, thirty-six year old Mrs Sarah Jenson started
her period.  By the time she arrived at work an hour later, she had started
to experience a chronic itching sensation in her crotch.

Sarah worked as an adviser in a call centre and had recently received a
final warning about her poor attendance record.  To keep her job, she tried
to ignore the itch and got on with answering customers' calls.

At 11:25am she reported to her boss that she suffering from severe abdominal
pain and it was only when she collapsed in her own vomit that he called for
an ambulance.  She was admitted to the Lincoln Hospital, Texas where doctors
discovered that her v*gina was greatly swollen and her l*bia had distended to
three times normal size.  Whilst cleaning the inflamed area, a tampon was found
and it was sent away for analysis.  Suspecting Toxic Shock Syndrome, Sarah
was kept under close observation until her condition was no longer critical.

One week later the Lab results on the tampon arrived and doctors were baffled
to find that it contained traces of wasp venom.

It transpired that Sarah was having an affair with her aerobics instructor, and
when her husband Mr Henry Jenson found out, he was so enraged he wanted revenge.
Knowing his wife was allergic to insect stings, he purchased wasp venom through
a biochemical company.  He lightly coated his wife's tampons with the venom,
resealed the individual wrappers and replaced them in their box.

Mrs Jenson has filed for a divorce and a case of grievously bodily harm.

Mr Jenson is reported as saying, "I just wanted her to have a swell time
without me."

On September 4 1999 at 9.30 a.m. Ron Guptey of N.S.W Australia went into
hospital complaining of severe pain in the rectum area.  The Doctor on call
examined him, he found severe swelling around the anus but was left puzzled
because he had not seen such a thing before.  Two more doctors examined Ron
but they too were left confused about what was happening.

Through the day Ron's condition was deteriorating he had developed a fever
and was suffering a lot of pain around his abdomen.  The doctors gave pain
killers but the symptoms worsened until 2.57 p.m. when he lapsed into a coma
and 2 hours later was pronounced dead.

An investigation was led to discover the reason of death.  The body was placed
in for a post mortem, traces of wood bark were found inside the rectal passage,
but as the examination went further the doctor discovered about 3 or 4 black
widow spiders in Ron's intestine.

The police had found a tree with a cut off branch along the side in Ron's
back yard, there were traces of KY jelly and traces of rectal juices along
the branch.  There was also Black widow egg shells found inside the bark.

Ron was apparently satisfying himself with this tree stump, but failed
to notice the black widow nest on the tree.  During his sexual act he had
impregnated himself with the black widow eggs.  The eggs had embedded in his
rectal passage walls and were kept at the required temperature for the eggs
to develop and finally hatch.

Once the baby spiders were hatched they had bitten him and had poisoned him
from the inside.

       And to finish up for the week, over to Maddus Mickus of Markwick
       and this somewhat philosophic contribution:

There are three things you lose as you get older.
The 1st is your memory, and ...

There are three things you lose as you get older ...
The 1st is your memory and ... er ...?

I have seen this one before and can't remember if it was from you.
Delete if you have seen it before.

... Oh, yes ... and the fourth is your memory.
[ End Friday humour ]

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