Friday, December 6, 2013

Funny Friday


At trivia on Wednesday night one of our team members, Jess, was unhappy that her cat was not well. 

Now some years ago my daughter and I lived in a flat with a cat that was, funnily enough, called Jessie. Now this cat, a tortoiseshell, began peeing and spraying everywheret – on the carpets, on the clean washing (I did the washing, I might add, not my daughter), on the beds, inside my camera bag . . . This was in the height o summer and it stank. Someone said have it desexed, that that would solve the problem, so I did but it didn't.  Eventually we had to find it another home but to this day I can detect cat urine at 100 paces. It has also left me wondering why the Almighty saw fit to breathe life into such a cold, unfeeling, aloof, pissing, spraying, useless occupier of space. 

Nonetheless, in an attempt to cheer up Catwoman Jess, today’s Funny Friday is dedicated to feline furballs.

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Some items from the book “101 Uses for a Dead Cat” by Simon Bond:





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Pet Diaries:

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary:

* 8:00 am -   Dog food! My favourite thing!
* 9:30 am -   A car ride! My favourite thing!
* 9:40 am -   A walk in the park! My favourite thing!
* 10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favourite thing!
* 12:00 pm - Lunch! My favourite thing!
* 1:00 pm -   Played in the yard! My favourite thing!
* 3:00 pm -   Wagged my tail! My favourite thing!
* 5:00 pm -   Milk bones! My favourite thing!
* 7:00 pm -   Got to play ball! My favourite thing!
* 8:00 pm -   Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favourite thing!
* 11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favourite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Diary:

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. 

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am.

Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow - but at the top of the stairs. 

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...

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I knocked on a bloke's door earlier and said, "Have you lost a cat?"
He said, "Yes."
I said, "Black & White?"
He said, "Yes."
I said, "I've just seen it."
He said, "Whereabouts?"
I said, "Follow me."
I walked up the road, pointed to a tree and said, "There, on that poster."

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Roy Rogers buys himself a pair of specially made, hand tooled leather boots. That night, as he is asleep in his bunk with his boots on the floor next to him, a tom cat starts making a racket on the fence outside the window. Roy puts up with the noise as long as he is able until finally, in exasperation, he throws his new boots at it to drive it away. The next morning he goes outside to retrieve the boots, only to find that they have been chewed up by the cat. Angry and annoyed, he places an ad in Variety offering a reward for the cat.

The next morning the doorbell rings. When Roy opens the door, he finds Bing Crosby standing on the doorstep holding a cat by the scruff of the neck. Bing sings “Pardon me Roy, is that the cat that chewed your new shoes?”

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LIMERICK SPOT

(Risque language)

My wife, Kate, and I were watching one of the episodes of that excellent BBC series Restoration Home. If you haven’t seen it, the shows follow the restorations of decrepit historic mansions and houses in Britain, at the same time researching the history of each house. The episode we were watching had someone carrying out research in the town of Aberystwyth (pronounced Aber-ist-with). “Hey,” I said, “I know a poem about that town” and i recited the poem below. She must have been moved by my literary skills because she spoke a single word of appreciation. “Nice,” she said as she used the remote to take the DVD off pause.

Here it is:

A winsome young lass of Aberystwyth
Took grain to the mill to get grist with.
But the miller's son, Jack,
Laid her flat on her back
And united the organs they pissed with.

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