Here's a terrific joke I was sent yesterday. It's new on me.
Paddy married a lovely girl, Maggie, half his age, in a small Irish farming village.
After several months, Maggie complained that she had never climaxed during sex and according to her grandmother all Irish women are entitled to a climax once in a while. So, to resolve the problem, they went to see the Vet, since there was no trustworthy doctor anywhere in the village. The Vet didn't have a clue, but he did recall how, during a hot summer, his mother and father would fan a cow that was having difficulty breeding with a big towel. This would cool her down and make her relax.
So the Vet told them to get someone to wave a big towel over them while they were having sex. This, the Vet said, would cause the young wife to cool down, relax, then climax.
So the couple hired a nice young visitor from Dublin to wave that big towel over them as the Vet suggested. After many efforts, Maggie still had not climaxed so they went back to the Vet. The Vet said for her to change partners and let the young man have sex with her while Paddy waved the big towel.
They tried it that night and Maggie went into wild, screaming, ear-splitting climaxes, one after the other for well over an hour.
When it was over, Paddy looked down at the exhausted young man and said, smugly: "And that, me son, is how ya waves a fekkin' towel!"
On the subject of bogtrotters who say 'feck', here is a pic that I seem to have saved into my document files. Might as well caption it if the mood takes you.
17 comments:
...and some of them have rings in their ears just like this...'
Great yarn by the way Iders - hope the streets are just as good as when you last left them...!
Excellent, Idle.
I am off to the Emerald Isle this evening to receive a damn good kicking from a client. I think I may use your joke as an ice-breaker. Could be just the job.
And we were back yesterday from a glorious week in West Cork, where unemployment has doubled in the past 12 months, and the roads are falling to pieces as there is no money to repair them.
However, the local population seems to be still the same sociable and civilised crowd that you find down there. I clicked very quickly how odd it is - no CCTV anywhere to be seen, no cameras on motorway bridges, no speed cameras on every bend. No pretend officials in pretend uniforms waiting to do you for whatever.
Ireland. The last civilised country in Europe? Given that I have Irish grandparents, all I have to do is get hold of their birth certs to claim my Irish citizenship.
Why am I waiting?
Elby - you speak Russian don't you?
Go gettem Padraigonov O'Floyddovitch...
Just give me the money. Give me the Feckin' money. Now!
Sir Bob: 'Feck me, did oi really wroite 'feed da worum'?
Da Worum: Mmmm, English money. McYum, McYum.
"When she married me it was as tight as a frog's, but now its like throwing a banana down Lombard Street."
Hope all pans out well this week in the Square Mile.
Banana - Lombard St = priceless!
What about 'waving a match about in The Albert Hall'?
The Tuscan's phrase is a welcome addition to the vocab. We army chaps used to refer to it as throwing a sausage into the back of a four-tonner.
I knew that you in particular would enjoy thr tale, Alceste.
I think the great thing about Ireland is that is NOT civilised, Elby. But I know what you are getting at.
Brown "So if you want a nose like Bob's here, just get a funnel and pour the cider in, like so"
I thought you were a rich employed banker, Idle? Have you spent your bonus already??
I don't think I'd like to say what it looks like Brown is describing he's done to Sir Bob.
Elby - the last civilised country? You'll be glossing over the parts they enjoy killing each other then.
Tuscans phrase makes me wonder why men don't have the fekkin children then. Oh you can't? Well try shoving a basketball up your arse and see how continent you are afterwards. Once it stops bleeding and you have the stitches out, obviously.
I have been resting of late, pip. It is very good for the soul. But all of a sudden you can't afford to pay your wine merchant or school bursar.
It is good for the soul, Idle. With the bursts of good weather I hope it's not all or nothing and you still have occasional rests with a cheeky little vintage and good company, including your own.
I want a firepit to roast marshmallows over :-)
It would be a most unusual birth with the child emerging from the orifice Gordon was telling the lads about in the pic, Pip.
Hee hee, indeed.
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