Tag Archive: funny


Talking out of my arse


Fart
Image via Wikipedia

‘What are you on about? You know we don’t have a water bottle,’ said Helen, my girlfriend.

This was about a year ago when I began to realise I had something very unusual happening to my body, well, my nether regions, well OK, my arsehole.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I just farted.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘I promise you.’

She didn’t believe it but I just thought it was funny. So I quickly forgot about the fart in the bath sounding like ‘water bottle’ and we continued with our relatively happy lives.

The next time was harder to ignore – a punch in the face can help focus the mind. I was on my way to the pub to meet John and Jamie, walking fast through the Clapham Park Estate, not the wisest of shortcuts but I was very late.

I noticed four hooded youths walking my way. They spread out in a line as they approached making it hard for me to get past. Not unusual behaviour for stroppy lads and not something I wanted to get into an argument about. I stepped aside to let them pass, avoiding any eye contact.

My arsehole had different ideas though. As I stepped to the side I had to step off the pavement down onto the road and as my foot hit the road I felt a rumbling in my arse cheeks.

It came out loud and clear.

‘WANKERS’

‘WOD’YOU SAY?’

‘Nothing.’

Then again even louder.

‘BUNCH OF WANKERS.’

THWACK!

The first punch hit me on the nose then they all started to wade in. That’s when my arsehole and I aligned our thinking again.

‘Run away!’ it squeaked. I needed no convincing so we ran, fast.

I wanted to explain the whole story to Jamie and John but decided that I couldn’t. I just said I was jumped in the Estate and after a few angry exclamations about going to look for them, we settled down to our usual beer-fuelled waffling for a few hours.

When I got home, a little pissed; I went straight to the toilet, pulled down my jeans, sat down and had a chat with my arsehole. It was pretty chatty. It seems it had been able to communicate for years – since I had a hole in my arse…ha ha.

Anyway, apparently he was always waiting for the right moment – which was hard to find, clearly, and in the end, he just couldn’t stop himself. We’re pretty close now, not just physically – and aside from being extremely opinionated about my diet and digestive system – understandably I guess – he’s a good mate. He gives great advice for an arsehole.

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The Mayor, the hat man and his wife


Sovereign meeting the people

‘Let’s get this straight, you think you’re wife here should have my job?’ said the Mayor.

‘Yeah I do,’ said the man with the hat. ‘Thing is, she may not look it, but she’s a dynamo.’

‘A dynamo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘D’you mind not talking about me as if I wasn’t here,’ said the wife of the man with the hat.

‘See, I told ya,’ said the hat man.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Mayor. ‘I’m just taken aback here. I feel insulted to be honest with you.’

‘Insulted?’ said the hat man.

‘Insulted?’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why ?’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Well come on. I mean, here I am trying to be nice. I’m walking around, chatting with people, trying to find out what they want…’

‘Well, yeah but…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘I’ve only been in the job for 5 days…’

‘I know but…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘And this schmuck…’

‘Hey!’ said the hat man.

‘How dare you!’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘I don’t think he meant anything by that,’ said the Mayor’s aide.

‘Didn’t mean anything,’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Just be a man,’ said the hat man.

‘Be a man? Be a goddamn man!’ said the Mayor.

‘I’m glad I didn’t vote for you…’ said the hat man’s wife.

‘Well, thank you but I didn’t need your vote and frankly…’

‘Mr Mayor…’

‘If anyone’s a schmuck…’ said the hat man brandishing his umbrella.

‘Sir, move away,’ said the Mayor’s security man grasping the umbrella.

‘You make me wanna puke,’ said the hat man’s wife. ‘Come on dear, we didn’t come here to be insulted. ‘

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Where did I put those parents?


Family Room BEFORE
Image by Mandajuice via Flickr

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand so much as that he just couldn’t think about it. Whenever he tried his mind became either completely blank or a mass of noise and scribble and chaos. Either way, the whole subject of housework was always problematic for him. Not that he expected anyone else to do it, well maybe he wouldn’t have minded, to be honest, but as he’d been on his own since hiding his parents, he had no one else who could do it. Theoretically, he could have hired someone but that would have meant earning some money and he hadn’t really worked that out yet either.

His parents’ money was running out fast, unless they had more hidden away somewhere, but if they did he couldn’t think of a way to find it. Asking them was out of the question of course as he’d forgotten where he’d hidden them. All he knew was that he’d hidden them ‘somewhere safe’, that old chestnut.

He’d tried the obvious places, behind the sofa, under the bed, in the shed, in the garage, in the kitchen drawer. He tried places that weren’t at all obvious, like the bathroom cabinet, his pencil case, his jacket pocket, the sugar bowl, the hamster cage and his old shoes under the bed.

All of this had got him nowhere. It had been 9 months now since he’d hidden them. He was a little bit worried about them, obviously, but mainly, he was worried about himself. How was he going to pay the mortgage when the cash ran out?  How was he going to get the house clean, get himself clean, his clothes washed? How was he going to clean up his act so that he could invite someone round or have a chance of meeting someone? He had no clue.

Although his parents were miniature parents, it didn’t mean he relied on them any less. He said to himself that he’d hidden them but in reality they were perfectly able to unhide themselves and find him, they were just choosing not to.

They were letting him use his initiative, something they’d banged on about for years. They may have been miniature but as far as he could tell they seemed to be just as big a pain in the arse as normal sized parents.

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There was this little guy, with a huge left hand. Most of his life he’d made every effort to keep it hidden. Oversized left pockets in all his trousers played a significant role.

He was actually left handed so it led to considerable difficulties. At school or in any public place he used his right hand, so his writing was appalling and he had to avoid any kind of manual work, like carpentry for fear of injuring himself.

His parents helped him to hide, supplying regular notes and excuses on demand. His Dad had a giant left ear and his Mum a tiny left thumb, so they knew what he was going through.

When he was 25 he left home and moved into his own little flat. That day, he decided to come out. He waved that hand around like a huge shovel wherever he went. He always wrote with it in public and he discovered that if he ever got any backchat or abuse from the neighbourhood kids, he could muster an almighty cuff round the ear.

Within a year he had his first girlfriend, an enormous breasted woman with buttocks the size of beach balls. They lived a happy life together.

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