Friday humour - October 17, 2008


From Burnout @ Bluehaze

G'day fellow Humorists, this week we have a bumper crop of marvellous
amusements, so lets just 'get into it', as they say.

Here's some from your ED:

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Paddy and Murphy, working on a building site, when Paddy says "sod this, I
fancy a day off on the sick, I'm going to pretend I'm mad, and they'll
send me home". So he climbs up in the rafters, hangs upside down, and
starts shouting "I'm a light bulb, I'm a light bulb".

The foreman comes over and says "Paddy you're mad, pack your stuff and get
out!", so he packs his stuff and heads off. Murphy starts packing his
stuff up as well, so the foreman says "where the hell do you think you're
going?"
To which Murphy replies "well, you don't expect me to working in the bloody
dark, do you!!"

------------

Pat and Mick walking down a street in London and Pat happens to look in one
of the shop windows and sees a sign that catches his eye. The sign said:
'Suits £5.00 each, Shirts £2.00 each, trousers £2.50 per pair'.

Pat says to his pal, 'Mick, will you look at that! We could buy a whole lot
of dose, and when we get back to Ireland, we could make a fortune. Now when
we go into the shop, you be quiet, okay? Just let me do all the talking
cause if they hear our accent, they might not be nice to us. I'll speak in
my best English accent.'
'Roight y'are, Pat, I'll keep me mouth shut, so I will.' says Mick.

In they go and Paddy, in his best English accent, says 'I'll take 50 suits
at £5.00 each, 100 shirts at £2.00 each, and 50 pairs of trousers at £2.50
each. I'll back up my van and ......'
The owner of the shop interrupts, 'You're from Ireland, aren't you?'
'Well...yes,' says a surprised Pat. 'How de hell d' y' know dat?'
The owner says, 'Because this is a dry cleaners.'
-------------------

My mate received an invitation to the annual dinner and dance of the
Premature Ejaculation society. When he asked if there was a dress code, he
was just told to come in his pants...

------------------

Bloke walks into a bar with a salmon under his arm, and says to the barman
"do you do fishcakes?" Barman relies "no", to which the man replies "that's
a shame, it's his birthday today!"
-----------------------

A fleeing Talibani, desperate for water, was plodding through the
Afghanistan desert when he saw something far off in the distance. Hoping to
find water, he staggered toward the object only to find a little old Jewish
man sitting at a card-table with a collection neckties laid out on
it........

The Arab asked, "My thirst is killing me. Do you have water?"

The Jewish man replied, "I have no water. Would you like to buy a tie? They
are only $150. This one goes very nicely with your robes."

" DAMN IDIOT!" Shouted the Arab, I do not need an overpriced tie. I need
WATER!"

"OK," said the old Jew, "it does not matter that you do not want to buy a
tie, and that you insult me. I will show you that you have not offended
me.
If you walk over that hill to the east for about four miles, you will find
a lovely restaurant. Go! Walk that way! The restaurant has all the water
you need!"

The Arab staggered away toward the hill and eventually disappeared. Six
hours later he comes crawling back to where the Jewish man was sitting at
his table. The Jew said, "I told you, about four miles over that hill.
Could you not find it?"

"I found it all right," rasped the Arab. "Your brother won't let me in
without a tie!"


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From: Cartographer Chris

A platoon of soldiers was marching north of Fallujah when they came upon an
Iraqi terrorist, badly injured and unconscious. On the opposite side of the
road was an Australian soldier in a similar but less serious state.

The soldier was conscious and alert and as first aid was given to both men,
the Platoon Leader asked the injured Australian what had happened.

The soldier reported, 'I was heavily armed and moving north along the
highway here, and coming south was a heavily armed insurgent. We saw each
other and both took cover in the ditches along the road. I yelled to him
that Saddam Hussein was a miserable, low-life sc*m bag who got what he
deserved.'

'He yelled back that Kevin Rudd is a bureaucratic, Good-for-nothing left
wing labour d*ckhead who knows bugger all about running the country.'

'So I said that Osama Bin Ladin dresses and acts like a frigid,
mean-spirited lesbian!'

He retaliated by yelling, 'Oh yeah? well, so does Julia Gillard!'

'And, there we were, in the middle of the road, laughing, shaking hands,
when a bloody truck hit us.'

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From: Diks
Golf Time
Joe Smith was a far-out nut on golf, and it had come to be his only topic
of conversation.  Mrs. Smith bore it with increasing impatience and felt
herself being slowly driven to the brink of distraction by the constant
discussion of birdies, drivers, and sand traps; of his golf clubs, his
caddies, and his scores. Finally, at dinner one day,
her patience snapped. "Listen," she said, "I'm tired of golf, golf,
golf, day in and day out. For once, I don't want any discussion of golf at
this meal." Joe raised a pair of hurt eyes and said plaintively,
"But what do I talk about, then?"   'About anything," said Mrs. Smith
angrily.
"Talk about s*x, for goodness' sake."   "Okay," said Joe sullenly. He fell
silent for a moment, then brightened up and said, "Say, I wonder who my
caddie is screwing these days" 
--------------

Obama's doctor visit...........

After the speech in Berlin, Obama got out of the shower and was drying off
when he looked in the mirror and noticed he was white from the neck up to
the top of his head.

In sheer panic and fearing he was turning white and might have to give up
his hopes to be president, he called his doctor and told him of his
problem.

The doctor advised him to come to his office immediately. After an
examination, the doctor mixed a concoction of brown liquid, gave it to
Obama, and told him to drink it all.

Obama drank the concoction and replied, 'That tasted like bullsh*t!'

The doctor replied, 'It was. You were a quart low.'
-----------------

Ever been in a taxi?

A Taxi driver reaches the Pearly Gates and announces his presence to St.
Peter, who looks him up in his Big Book. Upon reading the entry for the
cabbie, St. Peter invites him to pick up a silk robe and a golden staff
and to proceed into Heaven.

A preacher is next in line behind the cabbie and has been watching these
proceedings with interest. He announces himself to St. Peter. Upon
scanning the preacher's entry in the Big Book, St. Peter furrows his brow
and says,
"Okay, we'll let you in, but take that cloth robe and wooden staff."

The preacher is astonished and replies, "But I am a man of the cloth. You
gave that cab driver a gold staff and a silk robe. Surely I rate higher
than a cabbie."

St. Peter responded matter-of-factly: "This is heaven and up here, we are
interested in results. When you preached, people slept. When the cabbie
drove his taxi, people prayed."

-----------------

My kind'a luck..............

Three disabled men, a blind man, an amputee, and a man in  a wheelchair,
are flying back with the USA team from the 
Paralympic Games in the Middle East when their plane crashes  in the Sahara
Desert. The three disabled men, the only  survivors, are now stranded and
wait for someone to rescue  them, but no one shows.
 
They start to get real thirsty, so they decide to seek out  water. The
amputee leads the way, with the blind man pushing  the man in the
wheelchair;. Eventually they find an oasis. 
The amputee leader goes into the water first, cools himself  down, drinks a
load of water, walks out the other side and  lo and behold, he has a NEW
LEG! He gets excited and en-
courages his friends to do the same.
 
The blind man offers to push the guy in the wheelchair, but  he is refused.
The man in the chair is sceptical and insists  the blind man goes ahead
first. So he goes into the water,  cools himself down, drinks a load of
water, walks out the  other side and lo and behold, he can SEE!
 
Now the man in the wheelchair is getting really excited and  starts pushing
with all his might. He goes into the water,  cools himself down, drinks a
load of water, and wheels out  the other side. Lo and behold ... NEW
TIRES!


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From: Front Range Barbie, who reckons:

Doesn't really have to be menopause....PMS is just as good!!!!


Best Menopause Question Ever


Q: How many women with MENOPAUSE does it take to change a light Bulb?
Woman's Answer: One! ONLY ONE!!!! And do you know WHY? Because no one else
in this House knows HOW to change a light bulb! They Don't even know that
the bulb is BURNED OUT!! They would sit in the dark for THREE DAYS before
they figured it out. And, once they figured it out, they wouldn't be able
to find the #&%!* light bulbs despite the fact that they've been in the
SAME
CABINET for the past 17 YEARS! But if they did, by some miracle of God,
actually find them, 2 DAYS LATER, the chair they dragged to stand on to
change the STUPID light bulb would STILL BE IN THE SAME SPOT!!!!! AND
UNDERNEATH IT WOULD BE THE WRAPPER THE FREAKING LIGHT BULBS CAME IN!!!
BECAUSE NO ONE EVER PICKS UP OR CARRIES OUT THE GARBAGE!!!! IT'S A WONDER
WE
HAVEN'T ALL SUFFOCATED FROM THE PILES OF GARBAGE THAT ARE A FOOT DEEP
THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE HOUSE!! IT WOULD TAKE AN ARMY TO CLEAN THIS PLACE!
AND
DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON WHO CHANGES THE TOILET PAPER ROLL!! I'm sorry.
What was the question?

---------------------------

He Said, I Said


He said to me . . . I don't know why you wear a bra; you've got nothing to
put in it.
I said to him . . . You wear pants don't you?


He said to me . . ..... Shall we try swapping positions tonight?
She said . That's a good idea - you stand by the ironing board while I sit
on the sofa and fart!


He said to me. ... What have you been doing with all the grocery money I
gave you?
I said to him . ......Turn sideways and look in the mirror!


He said to me. ..... Why don't women blink during foreplay?
I said to him .. . They don't have time


He said to me. . How many men does it take to change a roll of toilet
paper?
I said to him .. . We don't know; it has never happened.


He said to me. . Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring
and Good- looking?
I said to him . . . They already have boyfriends.


I said...What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is every
night?
He said. . . A widow.


He said to me . .. . Why are married women heavier than single women?
I said to him . . . Single women come home, see what's in the fridge and go
to bed. Married women come home, see what's in bed and go to the fridge.
----------------------

FOOTBALL AND THE BLONDE
+++ Content:


 Football FINALLY makes sense.......... A guy took his blonde girlfriend to
her first football game. They had great seats right behind their team's
bench. After the game, he asked her how she liked the experience. 'Oh, I
really liked it,' she replied, 'especially the tight pants and all the big
muscles, but I just couldn't understand why they were killing each other
over 25 cents. 'Dumbfounded, her date asked, 'What do you mean?' 'Well,
they flipped a coin, one team got it and then for the rest of the game,
all they kept screaming was: 'Get the quarterback! Get the quarterback!'
I'm like...Helloooooo? It's only 25 cents.'


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From: Geoff

An Ontario surgeon, says: 'I like to see accountants on my operating table,
because when you open them up, everything inside is numbered.'

A Quebec surgeon, responds: 'Oui, but you should try electricians!
Everything inside them is color coded.'

The third surgeon from B.C.  says: 'No, I really think librarians are the
best; everything inside  them is in alphabetical order'

An Alberta surgeon, chimes in: 'You know, I like construction
workers..those guys always  understand when you have a few parts left
over.'

But the Newfoundland surgeon shut them all up when he observed: 'You're all
wrong. Politicians are the easiest to operate on. There's no guts, no
heart,
no balls, no brain s and no spine, and the head and the ass are
interchangeable.


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From: Mitta
Meteor

Security cameras capture footage of meteor burning up over Idaho


 Click here


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From: Muse
1988 Paul Hunt gymnastics comedy beam routine

 Click here


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From: Nottingham Smithie


Vicar checks into a hotel and says to the receptionist

"I hope that the porn channel in my room is disabled?"

"No it isn't, it's normal porn you sick bas***d"

Is the reply
---------------------

Animals

Are we presently witnessing the birth of a new sub-species of mankind?

Astonishing though it may seem, top scientific chaps seem to think that
this is exactly what is happening.  Evolutionary adaptations usually take
millions of years before they become apparent, but many leading
anthropologists now believe that we are currently seeing the emergence of
new classification of human being that is better adapted to eating chips.
Several years ago, a colleague of mine spent some time studying an ordinary
family living on a council estate in the Midlands.  During this period he
paid meticulous attention to the family's social activities, recorded
their eating habits, measured blood sugar levels, probed their eldest
daughter and dissected the family dog.  His results, although not
conclusive, seemed to suggest the emergence of a new strain of human being
- like us in so many ways, and yet, ultimately, not like us at all.  My
friend may have been on the way to the discovery of a lifetime, but he was
sadly killed in a freak windsurfing accident while out shopping, and his
groundbreaking research was never completed.  And so it was, almost ten
years later, that I journeyed to that same council estate to witness this
emergent lifeform for myself.

The Adidas Estate is, without doubt, one of the harshest and most hostile
environments on the planet.  It's a wonder that life can survive here at
all, and yet somehow, miraculously, it thrives.  The streets are littered
with burnt-out cars, abandoned shopping trolleys, overflowing skips and
the rotting carcasses of various sundry domestic animals.  As I drive
steadily down the centre of the road, taking the occasional deviation to
avoid chunks of fallen masonry, gangs of young boys take time out from
torturing birds,
pet cats and each other to eye up my car.   Strangers are not common around
here, and are regarded with suspicion.  It's unnerving to have to suffer
those beady, red-rimmed eyes staring out of grimy faces, the incoherent
grunting and jeering, and the occasional bangs and pings of stones
ricocheting from the bodywork of my car.  Turning a corner I am presented
with a graphic reminder of just how vicious these people can be.  The
carcass of a bus is lying on its side in the road, shattered glass
spilling out across the tarmac.   Twisted and mangled seats spill from the
gaping windows, foam padding billowing from the slashed upholstery.  What
happened to the passengers is unclear, but there is conspicuous evidence
that some of them have been eaten.

"Dark, sullen, slightly retarded"

My destination, a quiet cul-de-sac, seems to have escaped most of the
ravages that have overtaken the rest of the estate.  There is no one
about,
save for a youth of about fifteen perched on railings, playfully
threatening a boy half his age with a large kitchen knife.  As I get out
of my car he fixes me with that dark, sullen, slightly retarded look that
seems common to most of his kind, but otherwise seems to take very little
interest in me.

The family I have come to see, the Fosters, live at number seven.  None of
the houses are numbered, so I make an educated guess and approach the most
likely dwelling.  It is, like all the other buildings, a squat, grey,
pebbledashed bunker, with peeling paintwork and a rusty basket ball hoop
drooping indolently on the side wall.  A ragged assortment of tall, thick
stemmed weeds protrude from the dusty scattering of gypsum that passes for
a front garden, partially hiding a selection of broken breeze blocks, old
car batteries and a dismantled motorbike.  I step over a rotten, rolled up
carpet, skirt the mortal remains of a dead dog, half concealed by an
upturned wheelbarrow, and make towards the door - which has been removed
from its hinges, and is now propped up against the wall, beside the open
doorway.

"Hello!"  I shout inside.  "Anyone home?"

A sudden movement makes me start.  I hadn't noticed before, but all this
time there has been a man standing beside a broken drainpipe, p*ssing up
the side of the house.  He finishes what he's doing, looks at me and with
a nod and a guarded mumble of 'awight', zips himself up and leaves.  I
never saw him again.

"Hello!"  I shout once more, louder this time.  There is no reply, but I
can hear noises coming from within, so I step inside.  It is dark and
oppressive within the dwelling, and I take a moment to acclimatise myself
to the gloom.
I am in a short, cluttered hallway.  To my right is a large stack of boxes,
some containing irons, some toasters, others with kettles, DVD players and
various other appliances.  Foraging for electrical items is common
practice in this neighbourhood, and the goods are often used for the
purposes of barter.  This family appear to have amassed quite a haul,
possibly from a badly secured warehouse or a broken down lorry, and as a
result they are probably occupying a position of high standing within the
community.

To my left, on a peeling Formica shelf above the radiator, there are
further symbols of status: dozens of little plastic toys that have been
given away with McDonalds Happy Meals.  Such items are highly prized, and
the way they are carefully arranged by the front door is intended to fill
visitors with a sense of wonder and reverence.

"A piquant fusion of stale sweat"

Noises are coming from an open doorway, just up on the left.  I move
forward, picking my way cautiously over the abandoned shoes and discarded
junk mail strewn liberally over the floor, until a powerful and heady
aroma almost stops me in my tracks.  It's a piquant fusion of stale sweat,
cooking fat and rising damp, with just the merest suggestion of urine. 
It's enough to bring tears to the eyes of the hardiest of men, but in the
interests of science I press on, breathing through my mouth as much as
possible and trying not to cry.

Upon reaching the main living area the smell is even stronger, turning the
very air into a fuggy haze through which it is barely possible to see. 
The walls are yellow with nicotine.  The carpet is sticky underfoot. 
Discarded plates and takeaway boxes litter the floor, the crusty remains
of ancient dinners crawling with mould and bugs.   Damp and dirty clothing
is draped over every surface.  And there, at the focal point of the room
sits the matriarch, Mrs Foster, in a huge brown armchair, which after many
years of nesting is now perfectly shaped to her ample behind.  Actually,
'ample' doesn't really do it justice.  Many, many years of tireless
devotion to pies and pasties have turned her ar*e into a mighty edifice. 
Gloriously upholstered in yellow Lycra, stretched so tight that through it
you can read the washing instructions on her knickers, her backside
presents a challenge to tempt the most resolute of mountaineers.   Indeed,
many a bold adventurer may well have perished in that crevasse.

To complete this portrait of elegance, she wears a skimpy, sleeveless top,
rolled over countless folds of blubber, exposing fat and stubby pink arms,
each one as thick as a normal man's thigh.  When she reaches up it is
possible to observe great loops of skin hanging from beneath them.  This
is a common feature amongst her kind.  It has been suggested that these
may be rudimentary wings, capable of carrying her short distances - for
example, to the off licence and back - but it's hard to imagine her ever
getting airborne, no matter how hard she flaps.

Beside her, sprawled on a sofa, is her daughter, Britney.  She's smaller
than Mrs Foster - but it's really only a matter of time.  She's wearing
baggy jeans and a white t-shirt, on which she is proudly exhibiting the
remnants of some of the meals she has eaten in recent weeks.  Worryingly,
she seems to be entirely dependent on the mobile phone, as one is
permanently clamped to her ear.  Currently she is talking to someone
called
'Trisha', although whether Trisha is managing to say anything in reply is a
matter for conjecture, since it would appear that Miss Foster is conducting
the conversation single handed, remaining reluctant to leave a gap large
enough for anyone else to get a word in edgewise.  I notice that she
doesn't even pause to inhale, which suggests that she may have developed
some sort of blowhole for breathing purposes.

These are not the only two in the room. Britney has offspring of her own,
and these are scattered about the abode in buggies, baskets and blankets,
belching and sh*tting themselves at leisure.  I lose count of how many
there are, but there is an impressive variety of ages, sizes and colours,
suggesting that Miss Foster is popular with much of the local male
population.  The latest addition to her brood is a small pig-like creature
that is currently nuzzled up beside her on the sofa, feeding on gravy from
its mother's breast.

"Bigoted opinions and salacious gossip"

As is traditional at this hour of the morning, mother and daughter are
seated before a TV set, watching a talk show in which people much like
themselves air their grievances, shout at the audience and attempt to
murder each other whilst being egged on by the host.   It's an opportunity
for Mrs
Foster and her daughter to bond, sharing life experiences, bigoted opinions
and salacious gossip, and I am reluctant to interrupt.   Nevertheless, I
feel it is only polite that I announce my presence.  After some time spent
trying to catch Mrs Foster's eye, a commercial break momentarily breaks the
television's iron grip on her attention and I am able to introduce myself.
Of course, I didn't want to burden them with the real reason for my visit -
that would have created far too much confusion, and invited suspicion.
Instead, I had chosen a cover story.  I had telephoned the previous day to
explain that I was their long lost Uncle Frederick, that I was currently
being hassled by a firm of debt collectors, and that I would be staying
with them for a few days until the heat was off.   I wasn't sure exactly
how this had gone down, for Mrs Foster's replies had been guttural and
indistinct,
and I strongly suspected that she'd been holding the phone the wrong way
round.

Our first meeting turns out to be a tense moment.  As I stand there in her
living room she glares at me with an expression of irritation bordering on
hostility.   For a full thirty seconds we lock eyes as she sizes me up.  I
can feel myself breaking out into a cold sweat.  Then suddenly she nods
and asks me if I have any 'fags'.  This is good news!  It means that I
have been accepted into the family unit and am, for the time being at
least, one of them.  I hand over a pack of 200 Benson and Hedges, then sit
down in an armchair beside her.

It isn't long before a third member of the family unit enters.  This is
Darren, Mrs Foster's eldest son, and immediately I can see that he his
markedly different from the others.  Whereas the two females are rather
squat, heavy-framed individuals, the male is tall, gawky and slight of
build, looking as if he is descended from a line of rats. His bum-fluff
moustache, close cropped hair and pimpled, scabby jaw line exacerbate his
frail appearance, and his inability to form simple sentences and reliance
on expressions like 'innit', 'safe' and 'wot' do little to dispel the
impression that he is mentally subnormal.  I notice that his front teeth
are curiously arranged, jutting out in all directions, apparently at
random.  At first I take this as a sign that he has been hit in the face
quite a lot - a reasonable assumption to make.  After all, he clearly has
one of those faces you just want to punch.   Even I have to struggle to
maintain my scientific detachment and prevent myself from slapping him,
and I've only just met him.
But as I look more carefully I realise, much to my delight, that his
bizarre dentition is a natural modification, providing him with
specialised teeth to prise apart pork pies, scoop the last dregs from a
carton of mushy peas or open bottles of lager.

At present I am witnessing Darren in a highly agitated state.  He has just
come back from a local shopping centre, where his attempts to obtain a
refund for a DVD he bought several weeks ago have proved to be
unsuccessful.
I gather that there's nothing wrong with the item - he just thought it was
crap, and believes this entitles him to his money back.  Mrs Foster
immediately takes charge of the situation.  She phones the shop and swears
at them for several minutes, during which time I note with some
satisfaction that she is holding the receiver the wrong way round.  She
then declares that she is going to go down there in person, to assault the
staff and inflict criminal damage on the premises.  This is a wonderful
development -
an opportunity to see these people in action, doing what they do best, and
I eagerly accept the invitation accompany them.

"Burberry caterpillar"

A trip into town isn't as straightforward as it might seem, for when Mrs
Foster travels, the rest of the tribe must go with her.  We spend about
twenty minutes gathering up bags, purses, shoes, coats and children before
we emerge from the house and stream down to the bus stop.  Our procession
weaves through the streets like a Burberry caterpillar and by the time we
board the bus we seem to have collected even more kids.  Britney is unable
to tell me exactly how large her brood is as many of her mutant offspring
have turned feral and now roam the streets, causing consternation, panic
and frequently getting clogged up in the brushes of street cleaning
apparatus.
Those that she has managed to gather together for this trip now endear
themselves to our fellow passengers by running up and down the length of
the vehicle, shouting, ringing the bell and insulting people at random. 
An elderly, neatly dressed, frail old man politely asks Britney to keep
the children under control, but she quickly responds by telling him to
shut the f*ck up.  The poor man spends the rest of the journey in an
embittered silence with various snot-stained, sh*t-streaked children
tugging on his ears and knocking his hat off.

It's interesting to note that the Fosters haven't paid a penny for the
privilege of riding this bus, and free access to public transport is not
the only entitlement they enjoy.  Thanks to a night course she took at the
local college, Britney has an NVQ in Screwing Money Out of the Local
Authority,
and as a result the family now gets a weekly pie allowance, video game
vouchers, handouts for leggings and shellsuits, plus the usual mobile
phone assistance, lager subsidy and money for bingo and cigarettes. 
However this may all soon come under threat, since the government have
threatened to stop
Miss Foster's dole money and force her to take a job.  Understandably,
Britney is outraged.  Working for a living would leave her with no time for
watching TV and going to the pub.  She believes it is totally unreasonable
of the authorities to expect her to support herself, and ultimately blames
asylum seekers who are, as she puts it, 'coming over here and taking our
benefit'.

By the time we reach the city centre the bus is a write-off and many of our
fellow passengers are in tears.  It's a pattern that continues as we
progress through the streets, moving from one pie shop to another, leaving
a trail of devastation and crumbs in our wake.  The crowds scatter before
us.
Security staff hastily gabble into radios, warning each other of our
approach. For a moment it seems like we are being contained, but then the
family decides to split up and all is lost.   Darren goes off to do some
shoplifting, while Britney decides to hang around outside a chip shop,
shouting at her children and occasionally slapping some of the smaller
ones.
Meanwhile, I stick close by Mrs Foster as she sets out to secure a refund
for her son's DVD.

It is, without doubt, a magnificent performance.  She demands to see the
manager.   She demands to see the owner.  She doesn't allow anyone to get
a word in edgeways.  Every denial is met with a raise in pitch and volume.
Every argument is met by the steadfast reaffirmation that she knows her
rights, she wants her money back, and she's going to bloody well stand
there until she gets it, and if she doesn't she's going to complain to
their head office, or to Trading Standards, or she's going to tell her
husband, and he'll come down and sort them out in person, and then they'll
be sorry, oh yes.  Inevitably, she gets what she wants, and smugly marches
out of the shop, scattering a few choice insults in her wake.  It's of no
great surprise that they gave in to her, she confides in me afterwards. 
She used to work in a shop once (two weeks on a supermarket checkout in
1982) so she knows that the law was on her side.  I have my doubts.  I
suspect that it was her constant whining voice and the unpleasant smell
rather than her sharp legal mind and dazzling oratory that finally forced
the shop manager to capitulate.  It was, nonetheless, an impressive
spectacle all the same.

And so, with this excitement over, we meet up with the rest of the family.
Darren has scored a fine selection of small, easily pocketable electrical
items to add to the family's haul, and Miss Foster has gained a few more
children.  We acc*mulate some additional pies, pasties and sausage rolls,
then head back home - where I finally get to meet the head of the
household.

"A bulbous outcrop of solidified lava"

It's obvious, from the moment we step through the front door, that
'something' is waiting for us within.  There's a new smell in the air. 
It's a meaty smell.   A beery smell.  And there's a sound too, the
rasping,
wheezing, snorting noise of some huge creature struggling to breathe.  As
we approach the door to the living room, I have a sudden urge to turn back
but
I know I must force myself to go on.   And then I see it!  It's slumped in
an armchair, its great bald head lolling to one side, apparently asleep. 
It is wearing a dirty red tracksuit and muddy brown shoes, and its
grotesque belly hangs out over the waistband like a bulbous outcrop of
solidified lava.  One of its thick, gorilla-like paws grips a beer can at
an angle, the contents slopping out onto the carpet.  The creature stirs,
twitches, then lifts up one cheek of its monstrous backside and farts. 
The thick green cloud envelops him for a while, as if unwilling to leave
its creator, before slowly dissipating into the already saturated air.
This creature - this behemoth - is Mr Foster, and he's just got back from
the pub.

Mrs Foster jabs him repeatedly in the back of his head, and slowly he
begins to wake up.  Somehow he has developed the ability to completely
ignore her,
and happily tucks into some cold, congealed chips which he finds in the
folds of his belly.  However, as soon as he sees me, his attitude begins
to change.  A dark, thunderous look passes over his face, as if he is
struggling to prise some unpleasant thought from some long forgotten fold
of his lard-addled brain.  Suddenly he realises what it is that's annoying
him:
there is a stranger in his house.  He doesn't like strangers.   He wants
this stranger to go away.

"Who's this c*nt?"  he grumbles.

At this point we are all pretty much agreed that it would be better if I
left.   I'm certainly in no doubt that this is the best course of action,
and I hightail it from the premises as fast as I possibly can.

As I emerge, blinking into the sunshine, I wonder if these people, and
others of their kind, will ever be able to integrate into normal society?
It is to be hoped that they won't.  They descend upon an area like a plague
of locusts, devouring everything in their path and leaving a residue of
drinks cans and car parts.  They soil everything they touch, and destroy
everything they can't steal - so it comes as no surprise to me to find
that my car is now missing and all that remains is a single wheel trim
propped up against the kerb, standing like a monument to the unknown
automobile.  I'm not too upset.  It's a nice day, and I'm far too
overjoyed at being away from that all-pervading stench that accompanies
the Fosters and their freakish progeny to let anything get me down.  The
ability to breathe again without worrying about the prospect of my lungs
dissolving far outweighs the loss of the odd motor.

I pick up the wheel trim and stick it under my arm - a keepsake.  And then,
whistling a happy tune to myself, I set off on my long walk back to
civilisation.

----------------------------

Diagnosis

Presenter:  Good evening, and welcome to today's edition of Diagnosis.  In
this programme the emphasis is on family health, and we'll be taking a
serious look at vaccination and the furore surrounding the new measles
jab.
We'll also being doing a round up of some of the latest diet plans on the
market, and there's our regular phone-in with Doctor Marcus Slick.  But
first we're delighted to welcome Professor Kendrick Wimple to the studio,
one of the world's foremost experts on Tourette's Syndrome.  Good evening
Professor Wimple.

Professor Wimple:  F*ck you.

Presenter:  Well, I want to start, if I may, with a brief outline of this
terrible condition.  For the benefit of those of our viewers who may not
be aware of Tourette's, could you perhaps fill us in on some of its
symptoms and consequences.

Professor Wimple:  Certainly, you big fat tosser.  Well it's basically a
neurological disease, which can affect anyone - although we find that the
majority of sufferers are male.  Hairy tits!  Hairy tits!  It's hereditary
in nature, and is generally characterised by random tics, spasms and
vocalisations.  Twat.

Presenter:  And I believe that these vocalisations can often take the form
of socially unacceptable phrases - cursing, swearing and such like?

Professor Wimple:  Sh*t!  Big melons.

Presenter:  This can obviously cause a great deal of distress and
embarrassment for sufferers.

Professor Wimple:  Oh yes, damp m*nge.  The correct term for this is
coprolalia, and it thankfully only affects a small number of sufferers,
you aaaaaaarsse!  Bollocks!  Nevertheless, it doesn't mean that these
people can't live perfectly normal and fulfilling lives, f*cker, given the
proper amount of tolerance and understanding.  C*ck.

Presenter:  I see, and is there no treatment available?

Professor Wimple:  Scr*w you!

Presenter: For example, I've read that behavioural therapy can help in some
instances.

Professor Wimple:  Balls, balls, sweaty balls.  It can do, smelly fl*ps,
yes.  But the real problem is diagnosing the problem in the first place.
Many doctors fail to recognise the condition, f*ckwits, and so patients
never get the help they require.  Piss bucket, kn*b jockey, dong. 
However,
the best thing we can do is to educate the public, j*sm.

Presenter:  We need to be more sympathetic to sufferers of this condition?

Professor Wimple:  Damn straight, donkey d*ck.  The only way these people
are ever going to b*stard live a normal f*nny sodding life is if we an*s
c*ck b*llock b*gger tits frig sn*tch pr*ck.  And that's a fact.

Presenter:  Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got time for.  Professor
Wimple, as a sufferer yourself we appreciate how difficult it must have
been to talk about this problem -
Professor Wimple:  I beg your pardon?

Presenter:  As a sufferer -
Professor Wimple: I don't suffer from Tourette's!

Presenter:  Oh...  Well, thanks anyway, and the very best of luck in your
continuing efforts to raise awareness of this problem.

Professor Wimple: W*nker.

(That's worn out the Swear Filter - ED)


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

Here comes some A/V stuff now:


From: Whizzbang
Fly a ballooo -


This is very very clever


Turn the sound on....


Open and wait....dont resize your browser window....see what happens!!!


        Click here

-------------------

SA Nandos Ad.

 Click here


-----------------

Coffee

 Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here
 Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here
 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Anatinus
GOOD THING THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN. (Too right it is - ED)

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Anonymous
Retirement Today

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Arfermo

Subscribe: Shanghai, Beware fat ducks, Protaras, Cyprus, Curious cuisine,
Chiang Rai, Thailand, The real McCoy, Ephesus, Turkey, Nasal Assault,
Udaipur, India, Drive-by surgery Wausau, Wisconsin, Move over tiger, Sierra
College Camp.

 Click here

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 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

Your Ed sent these in:
Paper:
 Click here

---------------
 Click here

-----------------------

I was.....Were You???

 Click here

------------------------

Parking

 Click here

------------------

If Wall Street went Road Building

 Click here

------------------

Lets get rid of Daylight Saving......

 Click here

--------------------

Public Phone

 Click here

--------------------


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Cartographer Chris
Russian Bar				(Very Good - ED)

 Click here

------------------

Beer

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

-------------------


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Croydon Caz
Defective treadmill.... this is priceless!!!!!!!!!!

 Click here

other two are funny too.............

Unfair Parking Ticket No1:

 Click here

& No2:

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Diks
HORRIFYING KNOCK KNOCK JOKE

 Click here


 
 GOTCHA!
----------------------


Lamgorgini.....

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Duke of Barsinov
Sound advice from Northampton

 Click here

-----------------

Marriage....]

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Front Range Barbie
Best costume

 Click here

--------------

Trouble

 Click here

----------------

Redneck Fire Alarm!

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: KRP from Coffs Harbour
Subject: Excavator climbs tower

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Moose
Subject: bad sneeze!

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Muse
Subject: One last kick at the.... bush

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

----------------------

One last kick at the.... bush

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

-------------------

Mothers in all colours

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Nottingham Smithie
Subject: a creature very deer to my heart

This tiny deer was delivered by Caesarean section at a wildlife hospital
after his mother was killed by a car.  Little Rupert, who is so small he
can fit in an adult's hand, was born after vets failed in their battle to
save his mother.

At just six inches tall and weighing just over a pound, he is now in an
incubator in the intensive care unit at Tiggywinkles Wildlife Hospital in
Buckinghamshire.

He has only recently opened his eyes.

Les Stocker, founder of Tiggywinkles, said: 'Rupert's mother had very
severe injuries.

We brought him out and got him breathing and then he went into an incubator
on oxygen.

He is now being fed by a tube.'


Tucked up: Rupert in an incubator


Rupert pulls a striking pose for the camera

Staff are optimistic Rupert, now five days old, will make a full recovery.

'Deer are very, very tricky but this one has spirit. He's an extremely
feisty little guy and quite pushy,' Mr Stocker said.


Asleep: Rupert takes 40 winks

 Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here

------------------

Olympics Opening Pictures

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From: Whizzbang		(Smut Warning - ED)
Subject: Inspirations for you all .......they get better

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

 Click here

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 Click here

-----------------

Boneeral

 Click here

----------------

That's what you get for stealing

4 September 2008


This alleged thief had to be rushed to hospital last night after being
impaled on a fence.
The incident took place at the East London museum.
The suspect is alleged to have broken down the back door to the museum. The
alarm went off, giving him a fright, and he ran away.
He climbed a tree and then attempted to jump over the fence. However, he
lost his footing and was impaled by one of the spikes on the fence.
The man was discovered by a tow truck driver who heard his cries.

 Click here Click here Click here Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___


From: anonymous
Finally the Truth............

 Click here

---------------

Ever wondered what happened to the Coppertone girl?

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

From Anonymous - (You know who you are)

This IS worth passing on

We all get 'em, those HORRIBLE bits of glurge in emails that tell you to
forward the thing to at least X number of people in the next 15 minutes so
that wonderful things and miracles will happen if you do,
and there will be consequences if you don't.

If you hate them, then you will enjoy this.

Just follow the link to this flash site:

 Click here


  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___

Quote of the Week:

It takes 20 years to build a reputation and 5 minutes to ruin it. If you
think about that you will do things differently.

Warren Buffett.

  ___._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.____._-fh-_.___



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[ End friday humour ]

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