Saturday, July 13, 2019

Jane Bond

Jane Bond

Mr and Mrs Bond wanted a son but got the opposite and named her Jane.

Jane was to be trained to be a spy in MI5 or 6 or 7. Her parents were not that bright and Jane was an imbecile.

At the age of 15, both her parents were murdered by a Muslim madman and Jane was put into a home for useless idiots.

Jane then met Erich. He was stupider than her but had a massive phallus that worked and filled Jane's womb with the next generation of useless taxpayer’s hang alongs.

Jane threw the baby in the bin and sent her CV to MI 5,6 and 7. She wanted to be a spy.

They in turn realised they had won a mango.
Not only was the dumb bint drop dead gorgeous, but thicker than shit. The perfect spy.
Easier to train than a blind person's guide dog - she was taught parrot style Russian.

Kicked out one night from a low-level reconnaissance flight, she landed up in Valadamir Penismonsterski's garden.
He thought this was manna from heaven.

He took advantage of her.
They got married and lived happily ever after and MI 5,6, or 7 never heard a peep from her.



A bloke comes out the pub.
Very drunk.

He collapses onto the pavement.

‘Oh my lawd’, shout passer byes, ‘I think he is dying!’

He has stopped breathing and has no pulse.

‘Give him mouth to mouth and hit his heart.’

So say the audience as they take pictures to post on Instagram.

In this moment, a man of sense turns up.

He pulls his pants down to expose a 22-inch, rock solid penis, and states-
‘I stick this up his arse, it will make him catch a breath and re-start his heart.’

The End

Mugged in London

Wandering down the street one day.

On the way to the shops. Uphill all the way. So I presume I will be wandering back down again on the way home.
But – three youthful muggers were hanging around outside the shop.

‘Give us your wallet, or get a knife in the gut.’

Now, this is common stuff in London. You can get stabbed clearing airport security.
Yawn – Rhodies always make a plan.

‘I have no wallet, have no cash, I buy my booze and fags on tick and transfer electronically my debt every month.’

The leader of the muggers scratches his head, and says

‘Wot. Wot the fuck? We want booze, get us some or we stab ya.’

‘Sure’, I say and enter the shop. I wink at the owner. He is well rigged for such an occasion.
He goes into the back, returns with a chilled 20 litre keg labelled – Karl Greenberg Special Brew – 99%.

I hand it over to the potential muggers. They wander off laughing, giving each other five highs etc etc.
Next day- all over the news
They found their corpses in a nearby park. It seems they were preparing for winter and drank anti-freeze.

Jenny Rainbow and her dog Porker

Jenny Rainbow and her dog Porker.

Wandering through a beautiful orchard of oranges and peaches and marijuana plants.
A lovely day, the sun shined and butterflys flitted here and there.

Jenny was 15 and still a virgin. But that has nothing to do with this story.

As she wandered with Porker, a 5 year old Labrador,and whom would she come across?
The local priest. Dressed in his black, glad holy rags and ponging worse than Porker could fart.

'Hello Jenny. What a lovely day for a walk. is that your doggie? What is his name?'

Jenny had no fear as the priest was not Catholic.

'Hi Father, this is Porker.'

Porker jumps around wanting to play.

'Jenny, such a strange name for a dog.'

The bees are buzzing between the blossoms, the heavens are clear. All is perfect.In fact - paradise - get a suicide vest.

Jenny replies -
'His name is Porker, because he likes to fuck pigs.'

The End.

A Frozen Flying Blackman

Sunbathing in London

This bloke, dunno his name, was sunbathing in his garden:
All of a sudden a suddenness happen suddenly,

A frozen black man lands in his garden. Only one metre away. Dropped out the sky.
Left a crater 50 cms deep.

Dring dring.
‘This is emergency 999. How can we help?’

‘There is a frozen blackman whom fell out the sky who nearly killed me.’

‘Er…you state, as this is being recorded, a frozen Blackman fell out the sky and nearly killed you?’

‘Yes – I am traumatised. Can you send someone to remove him.’

`Hmm – what medication do you take?’

‘Ahh you nuts, you stupid cow! Imagine if he had landed on my car. Oh, great. My car is wrecked because a frozen Blackman fell out the sky!. Try telling that to your insurance..'

‘Have you thought of phoning your physiatrist? `

‘What?. What the fuck is a physiatrist? Listen, you dumb bint - I have a frozen Blackman buried in a crater in my garden that fell out the sky whilst I was sunbathing. How clear is that!'

'Is this a prank call?'

'Jesus resuscitate me. Have I not made it clear to you.I am going to phone the police and get you arrested. Did you ever get an education? Do you earn money by doing grunting and moaning on the phone?

'Actually, yes. Would you like my number? I accept PayPal, American Express and Visa.'

The End.

The 69 Bus

This bloke, can't remember his name, and

I am sick and tired of writing sketches about some blokes whom I can not remember their names!
Who cares? Not me. They all tend to die. Fucking wasters.

Ahh, such power - to dictate the life and death of no one that never existed.

So..anyway- this bloke, is standing at a cross road wanting to cross it but he was cross because he had just been fired for being a lazy bastard,

He starts to cross. he has ear phones up his nose as being deaf - that was the only way he could sniff some vibes.

Just like all previous sketches, he gets fucking wasted by the number 69 bus to Trafalgar Queers.

Turn it on again

This bloke, can't remember his name, but I met him whilst visiting a lunatic asylum. I was to be 'analised'- which sounds disgusting.

They filled me with magic drugs. Then popped me into the garden to contemplate my future. Next to the fish pond.

It was there I met this bloke. He was crying. (Fucking loser.)

The Doctors had given him a smart phone in a vague hope it would sort of wake him up out of a semi-conscious state, where he believed he would be the next British Prime Minster.
(This rings a bell?)

Anyway, he was crying because he didn't know how to turn the phone on because he was an idiot.I knew how to turn it on.

Snatching the phone out his hand, I stated to sing that Genesis hit, Turn it on, turn it on, turn it on again
Turn it on, turn it on, turn it on again.

I just threw the phone in the pond. The idiot dives in, and promptly chokes to death on a goldfish.

THAT was the final straw. I was thrown out the place, let lose in the public domain for being far too clever.
So here I am.

Going on holiday

In 1979, Erich van Ghollsen Tesorius Wacker Penisis, the third Duke of FekenHall, died in a bank.
He was to go on holiday.
In Africa

in those credit cards and the best way was American Express traveller cheques.

So, he orders 2000 cheques at 10 US dollar worth.

Well, he did not know that he had to sign them at the bank - for later use of counter signature.

So he started -
After signing 500 with Erich van Ghollsen Tesorius Wacker Penisis, he had a heart attack and died!
Stress related

The short history of Adam Pollit's life.

The short history of Adam Pollit's life.

Adam was brought up in a middle class family.

On the left of the caravan park were rich people, on the right was a slum full of African migrants.

He went to a good school.

It was classified as good, as only one teacher a month was stabbed to death by a pupil.
He liked maths. was quite good at it.

After leaving school he decided to become a self employed accountant.
The problem is that self-employed accountants are similar to whores - ugly and boring and only after your money.

Clever to con enough idiots out of some serious dosh, at the age of 35, he was still a virgin, never paid for sex, never had a girlfriend and lived on baked beans, a slice of toast and a boiled egg.

Which meant he suffered from severe flatulence.

It was a rainy day and Adam was waiting for the 69 bus.

The 69 bus has an appalling history of killing people. Drivers would cause a riot if picked to drive the route that ended in Trafalgar Queers.

It seemed every loon managed to get run over at one stop or another.
The Mayor of London actually contemplated cancelling the service. Hardly any 'normal' people took it because of the constant delays of squashed bodies, brains splattered on windows and other gory stuff.

So... just as the bus pulled into the stop, dead on time - 17 minutes late -
Adam had a huge, and huge -
gaseous explosion from his anal food rest abstracter.

According to the police report, three witness also at the bus stop, (in hospital recovering from severe methane poisoning), that -
the pavement was wet. Adam had an open umbrella and the force of his own wind and natures wind
pushed him direct into the path of the 69 bus.

Yawn.. the usual happens. Loads of screams, squealing brakes, brains on the windscreen, guts hanging off exhaust pipes, skin and meatless bones crushed under back tyres.

And some serious pissed off customers for not keeping his appointments.

The End... But wait - there are more incidents coming with bus number 69.

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Billy Baker – Boozing British biltong maker.

Billy Baker Boozing British biltong maker.

Billy was born in 1957. His parents were wealthy and very clever. His father was a professor giving lectures at the University of Rocket Science - his mother, was the first person to clone a clown that died laughing.

It became apparent that there was something wrong with the gene pool regarding Billy. His mother, a genetic, DNA manipulator, concluded that he was a kick back from Neanderthal times. Billy never went to school and simply sat in front of the TV watching repeats of Dr Who.

He did not speak much but when he did -

I am a Dalek exterminate, exterminate.

When Billy turned 18 his father said -

You want to exterminate? Okay, here is a one way ticket to Rhodesia, a digital watch, and 500 pounds.

Dropping his son off at the airport, he pinned a notice to his back -

Please look after this idiot

At Salisbury International airport, where only planes from South Africa arrived, so sort of international, Billy was recruited into the RLI as soon as he went through Customs and Idiotintergration. He would be trained to become cannon fodder.

Billy loved the training. Standing at 6 foot four and built bigger than a Siberian dancing bear with looks that made a granite cliff face shiver, his fellow recruits loved him. But Billy would become addicted to beer and biltong down at the troopie recruits bar every night! He broke many records - mostly because he hated them playing Gary Glitter.

It was whilst he was ripping the legs off the snooker table because he had lost a game he had a revelation. He would become Scottish. (Although he had been born in Northern Ireland.) Explaining to his OiC in clear language -

Oooch mon, ee me Daleek, haggis, haggis, exterminate, exterminate. Whisky Whisky, Billy want more, he could wear a camouflage kilt and paint his face in weird colours of blue and shiny white.

Sent out on patrol, he was point and would constantly hollow out Oooch mon, there is whiskey in the jar. I am a Dalek exterminate, exterminate.

Leading up to Independence, Billy and his faithful comrades would never once get in a form of aggressive contact with the enemy. The only aggression was if any of his chinas would be replaced and they might be sent to real combat. Then his stick mates threatened mutiny

Just before Independence, Billy cottoned the game was up and must return home. But, before he went, he managed to fathom how to make biltong for truly he was addicted to the stuff. His troopie mates had explained beef, spices, cardboard box, light, heater.

When Billy arrived back on British soil, he had quite a lot of money on him. Real money. He had hardly spent a cent in four years. His bank manager responded most amicably when he strode in and explained
Pounds I have whisky in the jar, I am a dalek exterminate, exterminate.

s parents were not quite overjoyed to see him, especially as he smelt bad, wore no shirt and tucked the ends of his beard into his kilt. However they did have a super-dooper caravan at the bottom of their large garden with all the mod cons and let him stay there if he kept quiet and did not frighten the neighbours.

Billy had become so acclimatized with crates of Rhodie Castle beer, he could not stomach the local stuff, but found a store selling Carlsberg Special Brew
7.3% - which could, after 20 cans, make him think straight.

Night after night he struggled with his addiction
biltong-biltong-biltong- cardboard box, beef, spices, light, heater he needed his fix.

One night, It was after his 37th beer for the night. He had a plan.

1. Cardboard box
2. Beef
farmer Paddy O Brian had a bull next door doing nothing much but chewing the cud.
3. Heating - get some second hand flame throwers from the local army sales.
4. Light.
steal a few street lamps.

Now that left only spices. This is where Billy got a bit unstuck until

He was watching MTV and a strange song permeated through his head
So tell me what you want, what you really, really want?

Billy knew what he wanted
biltong and he had just found his spices. But how to get them?

Stay tuned for Part Two. (If you really, really want.)

Monday, February 25, 2019

William Waster - Washout

Recruit Trooper William Waster Washout.

In 1975, William received his call up papers. The date to rock up to be drafted had almost run out because his address, In Cardboard Box, No 13, Under a Bridge, Salisbury, had the poor postman in tears finding him.

William was actually delighted being called up. At last he could focus on a future beyond scratching at his fleas and scrounging from the indigenous natives at shebeens for a sip of some Rufaro Ngoto.

Arriving two hours and three days late, explaining he had forgotten to wind up his non-existent alarm clock he soon caught up with the rest of the intake by getting a rapid hard kick in the rear. Now he would be taught how to become a man to fight for his country, which, meant, as far as William was concerned meant he got a new cardboard box.

I, the writer, will not delve into to much details that would fill a three page book, but suffice to say, his instructors realised after a few days the oke was insane! He was caught looking down the barrel of his gat to see if it was dirty whilst, with a round in the spout and the safety off.

Called into the OiCs office he was told -

Recruit Waster, you are a danger not only to yourself, but to friends and foes alike. You will finish your national service here at the barracks washing windows.

William was delighted and replied -

Will I get my RGSM at the end?

William was soon put to work washing away and swigging at the window cleaner soap because he concluded If it smelt nice it must taste nice. What he did notice was that when he botty burped foam came out of his bottom and bottomed out the bottom of his camo trousers.
All was well and good- until he had to clean the windows on the outside of the first floor and was given a ladder.

The problem? William suffered from severe vertigo hence the reason he lived under a bridge rather than on top of it. He refused. Would rather be shot at dusk, just before the firing squad hit the bar. (It was impossible to be shot at dawn in Rhodesia, as at that time; those responsible to pull triggers were still sleeping it off.)

And now?

His OiC literally went mental he was trying to run a war, not a lunatic asylum.

Give him a job washing washers.

This was duly done, and William had a table, a basin full of soapy suds, a tooth brush, ten thousand washers, and a clothes line to hang them on. He was happy and scrubbed away. But it is NOW that YOU the reader, will be stunned by what William had done he had entered the zone of quantum physics.
Because William would wash and feed 5000 washed washers onto the washing line and attempt to tie one end to a tree. As he lifted the washing line up - all the washers fell off the other end into the dirt.

So he had to wash them again. This went on for decades. Through Independence, through every financial crisis- he just kept washing away at all those washers.

Until in 2019, the local government officials confiscated all his washers. They would now be used as currency. William was devastated he was now unemployed and never did get his RGSM.
But he had a backup plan

Saturday, February 16, 2019

The weird Dream

The weird Dream-

I  just awoke from intoxication with this weird dream still in my head.

There is this beautiful woman, blonde, petite, 50 plus- a hippy sort of gal and I grab her at the bus stop and behind some councils flats rape her.

She kicked up no fuss and when I had finished said That was nice can you do it again please.

So I did and when I was finished she said That was nice can you do it again please.

So I did and when I finished and quite frankly wondering if any doctor on the NHS can repair a very well burnt out bell end - when she sits up and says -

That was nice can you do it again please.

Well . as I said, she was very sexy looking and when I  finished she said

That was nice can you do it again please.

Now I am suspicious.

So I gave her a kick to the head a really big one and she fell over and said

That was nice can you do it again please.

Now I was really frightened. I found a lump of wood and shoved it up her bum hole and she said -

That was nice can you do it again please.

I am not a person to panic in a strange situation as I am a Rhodie so I jumped on her head so much hoping she would be dead and she said -

That was nice can you do it again please.

In Part Two of this saga
we find out she is actually an android that escaped from an experimental mental house and running on Windows XP.

you are allowed to laugh now.