Thursday, November 29, 2007
Text of a letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and Dad.
(For Those of you not in the know, Eromanga is a smalltown, west
of Quilpie in the far south west of Queensland).
Dear Mum & Dad,
I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that
the Army is better than workin' on the farm - tell them to get in bloody
quick smart before the jobs are allgone! I wuz a bit slow in settling down at
first, because ya don't hafta get outta bed until 6am. But I like
sleeping in now, cuz all yagotta do before brekky is make ya bed and
shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody cows to milk, no calves to feed,
no feed to stack - nothin'!! Ya haz gotta shower though, but its not so
bad, coz there's lotsa hot water and even a light to see what ya doing!
At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there's no kangaroo steaks or
possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don't get fed again until noon and by
that time all the city boys are buggered because we've been on a 'route
march' - geez its only just like walking to the windmill in the back
paddock!!
This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I keep
getting medals for shootin' - dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a
bloody possum's bum and it don't move and it's not firing back at ya like
the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into their prize cows
before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make yourself comfortable
and hit the target - it's a piece of piss!! You don't even load your own
cartridges they comes in little boxes and ya don't have to steady
yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!
Sometimes yagotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful
coz they break easy - it's not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Jack
and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once like we do at home after
the muster. Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it looks like I'm
the best the platoon's got, and I've only been beaten by this one bloke from
the Engineers - he's 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick handles across
the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5 foot 7 and eight stone wringin'
wet,but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off to the boozer.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys to get in quick before
word gets around how bloody good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Sheila
Monday, November 19, 2007
3 Times A Night
Sean Connery was interviewed by Michael Parkinson, and bragged that despite
being 72 years of age, he could still have sex 3 times a night. Cilla Black,
who was also a guest, looked intrigued.
After the show, Cilla says, "Sean, if I'm not bein too forward, I'd luv to
'ave sex with yer. Lets go back to my ouse, we could 'ave a lorra fun."
So they went back to her place and got comfortable. After a couple of drinks
they went off to bed and had an hour of mad passionate sex together.
Afterwards, Sean says, "If you think that was good, let me shleep for half
an hour, and we can have better shex. But while I'm shleeping, hold my
ballsh in your left hand and ma willie in your right hand".
Cilla looks a bit perplexed, but says "Okay".
He sleeps for half an hour, awakens, and they have even better sex than
before.
Then Sean says, "Cilla, that was wonderful. But if you let me shleep for an
hour, we can have the besht shex yet. You'll have to......."
"I know Sean. Yer want me to 'old onto yer bat 'n balls again. No problem
hun".
Cilla complies with the routine.
The results this time are absolutely mind blowing. Once it's all over, they
have a drink, Sean lights a cigarette and Cilla asks:
"Sean, tell me, dis 'oldin yer balls in one hand and yer willie in de other
- does it really stimulate yer that much?"
Sean replies, "No, not at all Cilla, but the last time I shlept with a
scouser, the bitch stole ma wallet !"
Monday, November 05, 2007
Aunt Shirley
A teacher gave her class of 11 year olds an assignment:
Get their parents to tell them a story with a moral at the end of it.
The next day, the kids came back and one by one began to tell their stories.
Ashley said, "My father's a farmer and we have a lot of egg laying hens. One
time we were taking our eggs to market in a basket on the front seat of the
car when we hit a big bump in the road, and all the eggs went flying and
broke and made a mess."
What's the moral of the story?" asked the teacher.
"Don't put all your eggs in one basket!", Ashley said.
"Very good," the teacher replied.
Next little Sarah raised her hand and said, "Our family are Farmers too. But
we raise chickens for the meat market. One day we had a
dozen eggs, but when they hatched we only got ten live chicks, and the moral
to this story is, 'Don't count your chickens before they're
hatched'."
"That was a fine story, Sarah," said the teacher. "Michael, do you have a
story to share?"
"Yes. My daddy told me this story about my Aunt Shirley. Aunt Shirley was a
flight engineer on a plane in the Gulf War and her plane got hit. She had to
bail out over enemy territory and all she had was a bottle of whisky, a
machine gun and a machete. She drank the whiskey on the way down so it
wouldn't break and then she landed right in the middle of 100 enemy troops.
She killed seventy of them with the machine gun until she ran out of
bullets. Then she killed twenty more with the machete until the blade broke.
And then she killed the last ten with her bare hands."
"Good Heavens", said the horrified teacher, "what kind of moral did your
daddy tell you from that horrible story?"
"Stay the fuck away from Aunt Shirley when she's been drinking."