The column with the pink clown shoes and the spangled bishop’s mitre
REPRODUCTION OF A JOKE
Two spermatozoa walk into a bar. The first one says to the barman (who is a horse), Why the long face?
The barman replies: No one’s ever asked me that before but it’s possibly because I am a horse. May I see some ID?
The second sperm says: There are a million more of us outside and we’re the only ones who got in. I think that says it all.
The barman says: Sorry. No ID, no drink. Company policy.
The first sperm says; We have nothing to declare but our genes.
Raising a hoof, the barman points to a sign which reads: ‘This establishment reserves the right to refuse service to non-viable life forms.
The first sperm says: Sarcasm is the last resort of the pessimist.
The second sperm says: Yeah……. RIGHT!
The barman retorts: I think it might have been better if you hadn’t come, frankly.
READER: That is not in the least bit funny.
MYSELF: In what sense?
READER: In the sense of where’s the punchline?
MYSELF: There isn’t one.
READER: Well how can it be a joke?
MYSELF: It’s not, it’s a reproduction of a joke.
READER: Ah yes, of course.
Police were called to a house in Lower Piddinghoe after an elderly couple reported being shot at by their pet cat Ozwald. A police armed response unit which sped to the scene discovered Mr & Mrs Ivor Stipinsky cowering behind a bush in their front garden. The suspect eventually surrendered after a trained hostage negotiater spent two hours establishing a rapport with the cat through a rolled up piece of cardboard.
“We’d just returned from an afternoon’s dogging when the first shot whistled over our heads as we walked up the drive” a sobbing Mrs Stipinsky, told our reporter; “so we instinctively dived under the wysteria. We are baffled. Ozwald has always been as good as gold, but has recently taken to staying out until all hours, sometimes not returning until the following morning.”
“We had no idea he even had a gun” said Mr. Stipinsky, a retired driving glove salesman, “or opposable thumbs for that matter. This has all come as a terrible shock”
Hastings Police Chief Hydra Gorgon declined to comment, but issued this statement; “Following a serious firearms incident in Lower Piddinghoe, Ozwald, a male feline, has been remanded in custody and will appear before Hastings magistrates on Monday. I can confirm that several shots were discharged from a sawn-off double barrelled firearm. This is a classic case of a family pet of previously good character associating with the wrong sort of cats, and to put it bluntly, going off the rails. Unfortunately this sort of antisocial behaviour is increasing, and I have no hesitation in laying the blame squarely on Cat MTV, which has become more and more violent in recent years, with its increasing reliance on catnip-hop and mouser rap. When we add to the mix the unspeakable evil of cat heroin, it becomes clear that we have a serious social crisis on our hands.”
SCRUMS OF DISCOMFORT
Until recently, I honestly believed that the most boring, opinionated people to listen to on a Radio 5 phone-in were association football fans. Wrong! That plaudit, I have discovered, belongs to The Rugger Buggers, who appear to have successfully hijacked all the talk radio airwaves. I normally linger far too long in the bathroom in the morning, listening to the radio, reading yesterday’s paper or daydreaming, but this loquacious bunch of trainspotting blimps got me out of there double quick. The poor lady host on radio 5, as she pretended to be interested in their ghastly, interminable, waspish droning, sounded very close to sawing her own head off. The show’s producer must have had some sympathy, or perhaps just access to the rapidly dwindling audience figures, because she was eventually persuaded to pull the plug on this shed-dwelling gaggle of smug, vacuous, nit-picking, ball-handling windbags.
READER: You’re not a rugby fan are you?
MYSELF: I’ve no idea where you got that impression.
Professor Thinktank’s new superfood, Squink, is made from the eyeballs of tadpoles. “One dozen tadpole eyeballs, when processed into Squink, contains the equivilent nutrician of 50 peanut butter sandwiches, a haunch of venison, or a 200Kg rocket salad”, the Hastings inventor told us. “Until I apply for a patent, all I can reveal about Squink is that the eyeballs are blended with 10% extract of horse cheese and dizzolved in tepid seawater at a ratio of 101,000 to 1″.
(Editor’s note: Tadpoles’ eyeballs are regenerative, like Dr. Who. Ocular vetinary experts are required by law to attend the manufacturing process and administer pain-killing injections to the tadpoles before the eyeballs are humanely removed).
Due to budget restraints this column has been forced to accept advertisements.
We’ll be right back after these messages:
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I was taking my afternoon nap (between 12pm and 5.30pm) when I was woken by a strange arhythmic clattering which appeared to be coming from the kitchen. Was it a cat burgler, chipping away at my high security windows in order to gain entry? Or perhaps a pair of criminal squirrels, suspecting that my kitchen may contain nuts? How wrong can you be? What I could actually hear, foxtrotting out of my wireless like a demented machine gunner, was the unmistakeable tippy-tappy toes of tiny-brained terpsichoria, in other words, the new radio version of Strictly Come Dancing. And not a moment too soon in my opinion.
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