Thursday, June 20, 2024




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Another Friday so time for some guffaws, chuckles and belly laughs, or at least some smiles.


Risque language nd content ahead.

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When Beethoven passed away, he was buried in a churchyard.

A couple days later, the town drunk was walking through the cemetery and heard some strange noise coming from the area where Beethoven was buried. Terrified, the drunk ran and got the priest to come and listen to it. The priest bent close to the grave and heard some faint, unrecognizable music coming from the grave. Frightened, the priest ran and got the town magistrate.

When the magistrate arrived, he bent his ear to the grave, listened for a moment, and said, "Ah, yes, that's Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, being played backwards."

He listened a while longer, and said, "There's the Eighth Symphony, and it's backwards, too. Most puzzling." So the magistrate kept listening; "There's the Seventh... the Sixth... the Fifth..."

Suddenly the realisation of what was happening dawned on the magistrate; he stood up and announced to the crowd that had gathered in the cemetery, "My fellow citizens, there's nothing to worry about. It's just Beethoven decomposing."

Many people told Beethoven that he would never be a musician because he was deaf, but

Did he listen?

Weather didn’t look great so I asked Siri: “Siri, surely it isn’t going to rain today?”

Siri replied “It is and don’t call me Shirley.”

I realised I had left my phone in airplane mode.

Santa's eight reindeer were competing to see who could throw the best Christmas party. The reindeer decided to throw one party a day for eight days, starting with the Dasher party on day one...

Things took an unfortune turn on day seven when a storm snowed them in at the Donner party.

For those who don’t know their American history and didn’t get the above, this is from Wikipedia:

The Donner Party were a group of American pioneers who migrated to California in a wagon train from the Midwest. Delayed by a multitude of mishaps, they spent the winter of 1846–1847 snowbound in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Some of the migrants resorted to cannibalism to survive, mainly eating the bodies of those who had succumbed to starvation, sickness or extreme cold, but in one case two Native American guides were deliberately murdered for this purpose.

What’s the difference between Wuhan and Vegas ?

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas !

A girl asked me if I liked breasts or thighs.

I said I preferred butts and feet.

I’m not allowed in KFC anymore.

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A guy and a parrot sit down on an airplane.

The guy finds it weird, but if people can bring dogs, you can also bring parrots, he thinks.

Moments later, comes the flight attendant: “Good evening can I serve you anything?”

The parrot says: “Bring a nice cold beer you whore!”

The attendant is startled by it, but well, the client is always right. She then comes back with beer.

The parrot chugs it and say again: “Now I’m in the mood for some wine, bring me a red wine you bitch!”

The man seeing the opportunity says: “Can you bring me a glass of water please? Thank you.”

The attendant grabs the wine but forgets the glass of water, she comes back and the parrot says: “Goddammit you piece of shit, I've told you already I don’t like dry wine, bring me a sweet one.”

And the guy says: “And bring my water please. Just a small glass, pretty please.”

Then she goes back to the bar grabs the wine, but forgets the water again, as she walks back, the guy, annoyed, tries to use the parrot tactic and says: “Jesus fucking Christ you stupid bitch, I've told you two times already to bring me my water!”

The attendant is done with it: “That’s it! I won’t tolerate this treatment any more!”

She then goes to the pilot and tells him about the parrot and the man, the pilot goes to the both of them and says: “You two are cursing everybody in this airplane? That’s it, you’re out.”

He then grabs both, open the door and kicks them out of the airplane.

As both of them are falling the parrot says: “Damn bro, for someone that doesn’t have wings you're really fucking brave!”

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When Lazarus came back from the dead
He still couldn’t function in bed.
‘What good’s Resurrection
Without an erection?’
Old Lazarus testily said.

Bonus item:

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Sent to me by David G:

Thanks David.

That was so bad, Dave, that it deserves more bad crow jokes . . .

(The botox removed the crows feet)

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What city is located right in the middle of Czechoslovakia?


Why did Beethoven go to the carriage dealership?

For a lease

I hate people who pretend they're cultured when they talk about Mozart.

I bet they haven't seen any of his paintings.

A pun walked into a bar and ten people died.

Pun in, ten dead.

Alternative version, from the vault:

My local newspaper had a pun contest, and I entered ten of my finest puns. I was sure that one of them would win, but no pun in ten did.

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Wednesday, June 19, 2024



Arthur Wellesley was the first Duke of Wellington



There is a reddit site with over 2 million followers devoted to posting the clever and often savage comebacks to people who deserve it. Funnily enough, it is called . . . Clever Comebacks. You can visit the site by clicking on:

Below is a selection of items from that site that I loved reading, selected and posted in Bored Panda, hopefully you will too.


Savage Responses People Had To Jerks


Tuesday, June 18, 2024





It’s been cold here in Oz and it had me thinking of the poems of Scottish-Canadian Robert W Service (1874-1958), who wrote of the cold in the Yukon and the hardships of the prospectors in the frozen north, such as his poem The Cremation of Sam McGee. Set in the Arctic, it follows the author’s carrying out his dying friend's request for cremation. The friend leaves the cremation because of his sadness, then comes back a little later when “I guess he’s cooked”, only to find Sam McGee, sitting upright, who declares ‘Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.'

Here is another poem by Robert W Service, A Song of Winter Weather. We should bear these words and account of experiences in mind when next we want to complin about the cold and the weather.

Comment from All Poetry at:
This poem depicts the horrors of war from a unique perspective, focusing on the non-lethal but debilitating effects of weather conditions. It highlights the brutality of trench warfare during World War I, particularly the relentless cold, mud, and rain. Unlike Service's other adventure-oriented works, this poem emphasizes the hardship and misery soldiers faced in the trenches.
By the way:

Service was 40 when World War I broke out; he attempted to enlist, but was turned down "due to varicose veins." He briefly covered the war for the Toronto Star (from 11 December 1915, through 29 January 1916), but "was arrested and nearly executed in an outbreak of spy hysteria in Dunkirk." He then "worked as a stretcher bearer and ambulance driver with the Ambulance Corps of the American Red Cross, until his health broke." Convalescing in Paris, he wrote a new book of mainly war poetry, Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, in 1916. The book was dedicated to the memory of Service's "brother, Lieutenant Albert Service, Canadian Infantry, Killed in Action, France, August 1916." Robert Service received three medals for his war service: 1914–15 Star, British War Medal and the Victory Medal.

The poem below is from Rhymes of a Red Cross Man.


A Song Of Winter Weather

It isn't the foe that we fear;
    It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
    Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
    To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns —
    It's the mud,

It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
    It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
    It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
    It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet —
    It's the rain,

It isn't because we lack grit
    We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
    In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
    Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze —
    It's the cold,

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
    The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
    From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
    With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
    Of the rain,
        the cold,
            and the mud.