Putative designs for geek T-Shirts.
"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."
"fsck you and the host you route in on."
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Chris Eubank
Chris Eubank was wandering around Brighton one day repeating "Fee Fi Fo, Fee Fo Fi Fo" over and over. A bloke walked up to him and said: "What's up Chris? You practising your lines for Jack and the Beanstalk?" "No," said Chris, "I'm memorising my mobile number."
Spoonerism
Uproar in the office this lunchtime as one of the girls spoonerises 'Barefoot Contessa' as 'Barecunt Fontessa.' Hilarity ensues.
Lie about how you met me.
One of my good friends, Gavan, recently put up an interesting and amusing post on Facebook. It went like this:
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sportman's Double
One of the Facebook pages I'm a member of; The Redback Tavern in Acton, London, invited me to a spit roast this weekend. Thing is, I don't know that many people in London any more, so I reckon I'd be fairly shy - not to mention it being embarrassing for the girl and the other bloke involved.
Aslan
I just saw Aslan on 'The Podge and Rodge Show' performing 'This Is.' But it was mimed. Initially, I was disappointed, but then I thought - "Hang on; a talking lion! That's fucking awesome!"
I'm glad I remembered to post this.
I have a photographic memory. I just don't have any film at the moment.
Cell Phones
Just saw two mobile phones in the Garda Station wired up to a portable music player. Turns out they're being charged in connection with a stolen iPod.
Don't Disturb the Status Quo
Given how uncertain things are at the moment, I think the most important thing is not to disturb the Status Quo. They might wake up and start playing one of their awful songs.
Huge Strides
The clothing industry shows little sign of economic recovery except the Oversize Trousers Factory where they are making huge strides.
Poppycock
Rumours abound that heroin addicts who can't locate a vein have taken to rubbing it under their foreskins, but I think it's poppycock.
An extract from my forthcoming book 'Acts of God'
Chapter 4
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
G.K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse.
P.J Rourke was walking home from the pub and making a right bollix of it. Home was only a five-minute stroll from Kavanagh’s bar but he’d already been at it for half an hour. The main street of Annacarran is far too wide to bounce off both sides of it as you stagger along, but P.J was having a damn good crack at it. He sang as he stumbled around in the moonlight, syncopating the erratic metre of his singing with ill-timed hiccoughs. He had already serenaded a post-box with eighteen verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry.’ It only has three verses but that was no hindrance to P.J.
Encouraged that the post-box hadn’t walked away or hit him, he had put his arm around it and progressed on to ‘The Green Fields of France.’
“… I see by yar gravestone ya war awnly nineteen …” he bawled tunelessly.
A bedroom window slid open somewhere above him.
“Shut up and go home you drunken bollocks; the children are petrified!”
“… when ya joined da … ah fuck off! (hic!) … great fallen in nineteen-sixteen.”
He gave the post-box a parting kiss and attempted to continue his meanderings. With some concern, he realised he was leaning against it at such an angle that he had neither the strength nor the coordination to stand up straight and walk away. Summoning a superhuman will, he planted his free hand on the side of the post-box and pushed himself off.
As with most pursuits attempted under the influence, the results were mixed. As his body came up though the vertical, one half of his brain told the other half it was time to stop the manoeuvre. Predictably, by the time the message had sunk in, gravity had taken hold and he started to topple like a felled tree the other way. At that moment, the primal fear of falling kicked his arms and legs into action and he fell sideways, still on his feet, like a demented disco-dancer, two hundred metres down the pavement. By the time he got himself under control he had made it as far as Byrnes’. All this time ‘The Green Fields of France’ had been playing away in his brain and, as he got his breath, his mouth picked up where his brain left off:
“… Did dey beat da drum slowly?…” he inquired.
At this stage an insistent pressure in his bladder started to register on his inebriated brain.
“… Did dey play da fife lowly?…” he wondered.
Just as he was about to ask the ghost of Willy McBride if they had played the death march as they’d lowered him down, P.J tripped over Byrnes’ Geranium plant and went arse-over-tit onto the pavement.
“Bastard!” he spat, as he struggled to his feet. He proceeded to curse the hapless plant, which was now lying on its side for the third time that day. He profaned the Byrnes, their poxy Geranium, all members of the Geraniaceae family and potted plants in general. He attempted to kick the poor thing, missed and fell over backwards again. As he lay there, his bladder gave his brain its second public warning.
A wicked thought came into P.J’s mind and he picked himself up. Cackling like a moorhen with emphysema, he fumbled his flies open and proceeded to piss like a stallion on the unfortunate Geranium. This doubly-cathartic activity accomplished, he decided he’d better get home before Sharon locked the door.
Eventually he made it to his porch and was attempting to insert the key into a knot in the wood when the door flew open.
“Where the hell have you been? The pubs have been closed for hours! Was that you roaring out there?”
“Ah, get outta me way and let me in, woman.”
Sharon moved aside and P.J fell into the house, landing face-first on the carpet. His muffled voice emanated from the floor:
“Either I’ve fallen over again or the wind has picked up something fierce!”
“You’re drunk again. What on earth kept you?”
He shambled to his feet and unleashed a grin at her that Jack Nicholson would have been proud of.
“I think I had one too many. Every time I took one step forward, I staggered two steps back. I’d never have made it home only for I turned around to go back to the pub.”
“Don’t try and sweet talk me, P.J. You know I’ve no sense of humour as far as your drinking’s concerned.”
The smile drained from his face.
“You’ve no bleedin’ sense of humour as far as anything’s concerned, you lime-faced oul’ wagon. It’s a good job one of us has or we’d never have gotten married.”
Sharon slammed the door in reply and started up the stairs. P.J, considerably sobered by the implications of his own last statement, stomped down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“D’you want a cup of tea?” he called.
“No, I do not! I’m brushing my teeth for bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“You will in your eye! You can sleep on the sofa. I’m not having you snoring and breathing alcohol fumes all over me all night.”
“But the fuckin’ dog sleeps in there.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but he doesn’t mind you snoring.”
“Jaysus; thanks a lot. Sleepin’ with the fuckin’ dog! Jaysus!”
“Well you shouldn’t come home so scuttered, should you? Who were you drinking with? That eejit Joe O’Brien, I suppose.”
“Yeah, him and a few others. Do you know what he told me?”
“Should I be interested?”
“Mary O’Toole’s had another vision.”
Sharon hurtled into the kitchen like a vulture. Her shadow had a hard time keeping up with her.
“Really? What sort of vision?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
“She knows where Fidelma Byrne’s St Anthony is.”
Sharon deflated. Her eyebrows trudged dejectedly back down her forehead. Old news, she thought.
“She said it was dropped in the street and handed in at the Garda barracks.”
This caught Sharon well and truly on the hop.
“Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“That’s what Joe told me.”
“But …” she said.
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
Sharon wandered out of the kitchen and upstairs in a state of utter bewilderment.
What’s the old biddy up to? She knows damn well it was in the flowerpot or she wouldn’t have sent that other eejit looking for it. So why’s he saying it was handed in to the Guards? Think Sharon, think. She knows everyone will find out it’s not there so why would she say it? Aha! She wants everyone to think she’s a fake, that’s why. She wants to keep her abilities to herself. Well that’s fine by me. Tomorrow I’ll lead the charge to the Garda station and make sure everyone knows the medal’s not there. She’ll think her little scheme has worked. She’ll think even I’ve been thrown off the scent. Oh, this gets better by the minute. I’ll be the only person that knows she is psychic and her guard will be down. Oh Mary, you’re going to make me a fortune and you don’t even know it.
Sharon got changed and went to bed with intrigue and plots coursing around her brain like endorphins. Downstairs in the living room, P.J was snoring like a foghorn. After a while, Tiny the “Fuckin’ Dog” abandoned the living room in disgust. He scampered upstairs, clattered across the wooden floor on small terrier claws and jumped up onto P.J’s side of the bed.
Presently he too was asleep. As he dreamt his little legs kicked. He’s chasing rabbits again, thought a drowsy Sharon. But Tiny wasn’t chasing rabbits. He was having nightmares about his previous life as a Black-and-Tan.
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
G.K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse.
P.J Rourke was walking home from the pub and making a right bollix of it. Home was only a five-minute stroll from Kavanagh’s bar but he’d already been at it for half an hour. The main street of Annacarran is far too wide to bounce off both sides of it as you stagger along, but P.J was having a damn good crack at it. He sang as he stumbled around in the moonlight, syncopating the erratic metre of his singing with ill-timed hiccoughs. He had already serenaded a post-box with eighteen verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry.’ It only has three verses but that was no hindrance to P.J.
Encouraged that the post-box hadn’t walked away or hit him, he had put his arm around it and progressed on to ‘The Green Fields of France.’
“… I see by yar gravestone ya war awnly nineteen …” he bawled tunelessly.
A bedroom window slid open somewhere above him.
“Shut up and go home you drunken bollocks; the children are petrified!”
“… when ya joined da … ah fuck off! (hic!) … great fallen in nineteen-sixteen.”
He gave the post-box a parting kiss and attempted to continue his meanderings. With some concern, he realised he was leaning against it at such an angle that he had neither the strength nor the coordination to stand up straight and walk away. Summoning a superhuman will, he planted his free hand on the side of the post-box and pushed himself off.
As with most pursuits attempted under the influence, the results were mixed. As his body came up though the vertical, one half of his brain told the other half it was time to stop the manoeuvre. Predictably, by the time the message had sunk in, gravity had taken hold and he started to topple like a felled tree the other way. At that moment, the primal fear of falling kicked his arms and legs into action and he fell sideways, still on his feet, like a demented disco-dancer, two hundred metres down the pavement. By the time he got himself under control he had made it as far as Byrnes’. All this time ‘The Green Fields of France’ had been playing away in his brain and, as he got his breath, his mouth picked up where his brain left off:
“… Did dey beat da drum slowly?…” he inquired.
At this stage an insistent pressure in his bladder started to register on his inebriated brain.
“… Did dey play da fife lowly?…” he wondered.
Just as he was about to ask the ghost of Willy McBride if they had played the death march as they’d lowered him down, P.J tripped over Byrnes’ Geranium plant and went arse-over-tit onto the pavement.
“Bastard!” he spat, as he struggled to his feet. He proceeded to curse the hapless plant, which was now lying on its side for the third time that day. He profaned the Byrnes, their poxy Geranium, all members of the Geraniaceae family and potted plants in general. He attempted to kick the poor thing, missed and fell over backwards again. As he lay there, his bladder gave his brain its second public warning.
A wicked thought came into P.J’s mind and he picked himself up. Cackling like a moorhen with emphysema, he fumbled his flies open and proceeded to piss like a stallion on the unfortunate Geranium. This doubly-cathartic activity accomplished, he decided he’d better get home before Sharon locked the door.
Eventually he made it to his porch and was attempting to insert the key into a knot in the wood when the door flew open.
“Where the hell have you been? The pubs have been closed for hours! Was that you roaring out there?”
“Ah, get outta me way and let me in, woman.”
Sharon moved aside and P.J fell into the house, landing face-first on the carpet. His muffled voice emanated from the floor:
“Either I’ve fallen over again or the wind has picked up something fierce!”
“You’re drunk again. What on earth kept you?”
He shambled to his feet and unleashed a grin at her that Jack Nicholson would have been proud of.
“I think I had one too many. Every time I took one step forward, I staggered two steps back. I’d never have made it home only for I turned around to go back to the pub.”
“Don’t try and sweet talk me, P.J. You know I’ve no sense of humour as far as your drinking’s concerned.”
The smile drained from his face.
“You’ve no bleedin’ sense of humour as far as anything’s concerned, you lime-faced oul’ wagon. It’s a good job one of us has or we’d never have gotten married.”
Sharon slammed the door in reply and started up the stairs. P.J, considerably sobered by the implications of his own last statement, stomped down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“D’you want a cup of tea?” he called.
“No, I do not! I’m brushing my teeth for bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“You will in your eye! You can sleep on the sofa. I’m not having you snoring and breathing alcohol fumes all over me all night.”
“But the fuckin’ dog sleeps in there.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but he doesn’t mind you snoring.”
“Jaysus; thanks a lot. Sleepin’ with the fuckin’ dog! Jaysus!”
“Well you shouldn’t come home so scuttered, should you? Who were you drinking with? That eejit Joe O’Brien, I suppose.”
“Yeah, him and a few others. Do you know what he told me?”
“Should I be interested?”
“Mary O’Toole’s had another vision.”
Sharon hurtled into the kitchen like a vulture. Her shadow had a hard time keeping up with her.
“Really? What sort of vision?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
“She knows where Fidelma Byrne’s St Anthony is.”
Sharon deflated. Her eyebrows trudged dejectedly back down her forehead. Old news, she thought.
“She said it was dropped in the street and handed in at the Garda barracks.”
This caught Sharon well and truly on the hop.
“Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“That’s what Joe told me.”
“But …” she said.
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
Sharon wandered out of the kitchen and upstairs in a state of utter bewilderment.
What’s the old biddy up to? She knows damn well it was in the flowerpot or she wouldn’t have sent that other eejit looking for it. So why’s he saying it was handed in to the Guards? Think Sharon, think. She knows everyone will find out it’s not there so why would she say it? Aha! She wants everyone to think she’s a fake, that’s why. She wants to keep her abilities to herself. Well that’s fine by me. Tomorrow I’ll lead the charge to the Garda station and make sure everyone knows the medal’s not there. She’ll think her little scheme has worked. She’ll think even I’ve been thrown off the scent. Oh, this gets better by the minute. I’ll be the only person that knows she is psychic and her guard will be down. Oh Mary, you’re going to make me a fortune and you don’t even know it.
Sharon got changed and went to bed with intrigue and plots coursing around her brain like endorphins. Downstairs in the living room, P.J was snoring like a foghorn. After a while, Tiny the “Fuckin’ Dog” abandoned the living room in disgust. He scampered upstairs, clattered across the wooden floor on small terrier claws and jumped up onto P.J’s side of the bed.
Presently he too was asleep. As he dreamt his little legs kicked. He’s chasing rabbits again, thought a drowsy Sharon. But Tiny wasn’t chasing rabbits. He was having nightmares about his previous life as a Black-and-Tan.
New Tattoo
Laugh of the week came from my mate in London who rang and said, "I'm getting a new tattoo, and I just wanted to check; it's two Ts in 'Synnott' and one in 'cunt', right?
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