Sunday, December 27, 2009

Dangers of Drinking

I just read an article on the dangers of drinking....

Scared the shit out of me.

So that's it!

After today, no more reading.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey

It was necessary to keep a good supply of cannon balls near the cannon on old war ships. But how to prevent them from rolling about the deck was the problem. The storage method devised was to stack them as a square based pyramid, with one ball on top, resting on four, resting on nine, which rested on sixteen.

Thus, a supply of 30 cannon balls could be stacked in a small area right next to the cannon. There was only one problem -- how to prevent the bottom layer from sliding/rolling from under the others.

The solution was a metal plate with 16 round indentations, called, for reasons unknown, a Monkey. But if this plate were made of iron, the iron balls would quickly rust to it. The solution to the rusting problem was to make them of brass - hence, Brass Monkeys.

Few landlubbers realise that brass contracts much more and much faster than iron when chilled.

Consequently, when the temperature dropped too far, the brass indentations would shrink so much that the iron cannon balls would come right off the monkey.

Thus, it was quite literally, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. And all this time, folks thought that was just a vulgar expression?

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Power of Alcohol

A man is waiting for his wife to give birth. The doctor comes in and informs the dad that his son was born without torso, arms or legs. The son is just a head! But the dad loves his son and raises him as well as he can, with love and compassion.

After 18 years, the son is now old enough for his first drink. Dad takes him to the bar, tearfully tells the son he is proud of him and orders up the biggest, strongest drink for his boy. With all the bar patrons looking on curiously and the bartender shaking his head in disbelief, the boy takes his first sip of alcohol.

Swoooosh! Plop! A torso pops out! The bar is dead silent; then bursts into whoops of joy. The father, shocked, begs his son to drink again. The patrons chant, "Take another drink!"

The bartender continues to shake his head in dismay .. Swoooosh! Plip! Plop! Two arms pop out.

The bar goes wild. The father, crying and wailing, begs his son to drink again. The patrons chant, "Take another drink! Take another drink!"

The bartender ignores the whole affair and goes back to polishing glasses, shaking his head, clearly unimpressed by the amazing scenes.

By now the boy is getting tipsy, but with his new hands he reaches down, grabs his drink and guzzles the last of it. Plop! Plip! Two legs pop out. The bar is in chaos.

The father falls to his knees and tearfully thanks God. The boy stands up on his new legs and stumbles to the left then staggers to the right through the front door, into the street, where a truck runs over him and kills him instantly. The bar falls silent.

The father moans in grief. The bartender sighs and says,



(Wait for it.)


"He should've quit while he was a head! "

Wednesday, December 16, 2009



* 2 cups flour
* 1 stick butter
* 1 cup of water
* 1 tsp baking soda
* 1 cup of sugar
* 1 tsp salt
* 1 cup of brown sugar
* Lemon juice
* 4 large eggs
* Nuts
* 2 bottle wine
* 2 cups of dried fruit

Sample the wine to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the wine
again. To be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and
drink. Repeat. Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a
large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point
it's best to make sure the wine is still OK. Try another cup... Just in
case. Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 eggs and add to the bowl and
chuck in the cup of dried fruit.

Pick the frigging fruit up off floor. Mix on the turner.. If the fried
druit gets stuck in the beaterers just pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the wine to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt.
Or something. Check the wine. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your
nuts. Add one table. Add a spoon of sugar, or some fink. Whatever you
can find. Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to
fall over. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl
through the window. Finish the wine and wipe counter with the cat.
Go to Tesco and buy cake.

Bingle Jells

Thursday, December 03, 2009


For those that don't know him, Major General Peter Cosgrove is an 'Australian treasure!'

General Cosgrove was interviewed on the radio recently.

Read his reply to the lady who interviewed him concerning guns and children.

It is a portion of an ABC radio interview between a female broadcaster and General Cosgrove who was about to sponsor a Boy Scout Troop visiting his military Headquarters.

So, General Cosgrove, what things are you going to teach these young boys when they visit your base?

We're going to teach them climbing, canoeing, archery and shooting.

Shooting! That's a bit irresponsible, isn't it?

I don't see why, they'll be properly supervised on the rifle range.

Don't you admit that this is a terribly dangerous activity to be teaching children?

I don't see how. We will be teaching them proper rifle discipline before they even touch a firearm.

But you're equipping them to become violent killers.

Well, Ma'am, you're equipped to be a prostitute, but you're not one, are you?

The radiocast went silent for 46 seconds and when it returned, the interview was over.

Why Men do not Write Advice Columns


Dear Mike,

I hope you can help me here. The other day, I set off for work leaving my husband in the house watching the TV as usual. I hadn't driven more than a mile down the road when the engine conked out and the car shuddered to a halt. I walked back home to get my husband's help.

When I got home I couldn't believe my eyes. He was in our bedroom with the neighbors daughter. I am 32, my husband is 34, and the neighbour's daughter is 22. We have been married for ten years. When I confronted him, he broke down and admitted that they had been having an affair for the past six months. I told him to stop or I would leave him.

He was let go from his job six months ago and he says he has been feeling increasingly depressed and worthless. I love him very much, but ever since I gave him the ultimatum he has become increasingly distant. He won't go to counselling and I'm afraid I can't get through to him anymore..

Can you please help?


Scroll down………


Dear Sheila:

A car stalling after being driven a short distance can be caused by a variety of faults with the engine.

Start by checking that there is no debris in the fuel line. If it is clear, check the vacuum pipes and

hoses on the intake manifold and also check all grounding wires . If none of these approaches solves the problem,

it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty, causing low delivery pressure to the injectors.

I hope this helps,


Tuesday, December 01, 2009

9 Months Later...

Jack decided to go skiing with his buddy, Bob. So they loaded up Jack's
minivan and headed north. After driving for a few hours, they got caught
in a terrible blizzard. So they pulled into a nearby farm and asked the
attractive lady who answered the door if they could spend the night.

'I realize it's terrible weather out there and I have this huge house all
to myself, but I'm recently widowed,' she explained. 'I'm afraid the
neighbours will talk if I let you stay in my house.'

'Don't worry,' Jack said. 'We'll be happy to sleep in the barn. And if the
weather breaks, we'll be gone at first light.' The lady agreed, and the
two men found their way to the barn and settled in for the night. Come
morning, the weather had cleared, and they got on their way. They enjoyed
a great weekend of skiing.

But about nine months later, Jack got an unexpected letter from an
attorney. It took him a few minutes to figure it out, but he finally
determined that it was from the attorney of that attractive widow he had
met on the ski weekend.

He dropped in on his friend Bob and asked, 'Bob, do you remember that good
- looking widow from the farm we stayed at on our ski holiday up north
about 9 months ago?'

'Yes, I do.' said Bob

'Did you, er, happen to get up in the middle of the night, go up to the
house and pay her a visit?'
'Well, um, yes !,' Bob said, a little embarrassed about being found out,
'I have to admit that I did.'

'And did you happen to give her my name instead of telling her your name?'

Bob's face turned beet red and he said, 'Yeah, look, I'm sorry, buddy.
I'm afraid I did.' 'Why do you ask?'

'She just died and left me everything.'

And you thought the ending would be different, didn't you?...


When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.
David Bissonette

After marriage, husband and wife become two sides of a coin; they just can't face each other, but still they stay together.
Sacha Guitry

By all means marry. If you get a good wife, you'll be happy. If you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.

Woman inspires us to great things, and prevents us from achieving them.

The great question... which I have not been able to answer... is, 'What does a woman want?

I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me.
Sigmund Freud

'Some people ask the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays.'

'There's a way of transferring funds that is even faster than electronic banking. It's called marriage.'
Sam Kinison

'I've had bad luck with both my wives. The first one left me, and the second one didn't.'
James Holt McGavra

Two secrets to keep your marriage brimming
1. Whenever you're wrong, admit it,
2. Whenever you're right, shut up.
Patrick Murra

The most effective way to remember your wife's birthday is to forget it once....

You know what I did before I married? Anything I wanted to.

My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met.
Henny Youngman

A good wife always forgives her husband when she's wrong.
Rodney Dangerfield

A man inserted an 'ad' in the classifieds: 'Wife wanted'. Next day he received a hundred letters. They all said the same thing: 'You can have mine.'

First Guy (proudly): 'My wife's an angel!'
Second Guy: 'You're lucky, mine's still alive.'

If only it was a joke!

This was actually taken from a passport application and a member of staff copied it, as it made her laugh all day.

Dear Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport but I am a total loss to understand or believe the hoops I am being asked to jump through.

How is it that Bert Smith of T.V. Rentals Basingstoke has my address and telephone number and knows that I bought a satellite dish from them back in 1994, and yet, the Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?

How come that nice West African immigrant chappy who comes round every Thursday night with his DVD rentals van can tell me every film or video I have had out since he started his business up eleven years ago, yet you still want me to remind you of my last three jobs, two of which were with contractors working for the government?

How come the T.V. detector van can tell if my T.V. is on, what channel I am watching and whether I have paid my licence or not, and yet if I win the government run lottery they have no idea I have won or where I am and will keep the bloody money to themselves if I fail to claim in good time.

Do you people do this by hand?

You have my birth date on numerous files you hold on me, including the one with all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 30-odd years. It's on my health insurance card, my driver's licence, on the last four passports I've had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes and boats over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that are done every ten years and the electoral registration forms I have to complete, by law, every time our lords and masters are up for re-election.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, I was born in Maidenhead on the 4th of March 1957, my mother's name is Mary, her maiden name was Reynolds, my father's name is Robert, and I'd be absolutely astounded if that ever changed between now and the day I die!

I apologise Minister. I'm obviously not myself this morning. But between you and me, I have simply had enough! You mail the application to my house, then you ask me for my address. What is going on? Do you have a gang of Neanderthals working there? Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I don't want to activate the Fifth Reich for God's sake! I just want to go and park my weary backside on a sunny, sandy beach for a couple of week's well-earned rest away from all this crap.

Well, I have to go now, because I have to go to back to Salisbury and get another copy of my birth certificate because you lost the last one. AND to the tune of 60 quid! What a racket THAT is!! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot to assist in the issuance of a new passport the same day? But nooooo, that'd be too damn easy and maybe make sense. You'd rather have us running all over the place like chickens with our heads cut off, then find some tosser to confirm that it's really me on the goddamn picture - you know... the one where we're not allowed to smile in in case we look as if we are enjoying the process!
Hey, you know why we can't smile? 'Cause we're totally jacked off!

I served in the armed forces for more than 25 years including over ten years at the Ministry of Defence in London. I have had security clearances which allowed me to sit in the Cabinet Office, five seats away from the Prime Minister while he was being briefed on the first Gulf War and I have been doing volunteer work for the British Red Cross ever since I left the Services. However, I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am -- you know, someone like my doctor..................who, before he got his medical degree 6 months ago WAS LIVING IN PAKISTAN...

Yours sincerely,
An Irate British Citizen.