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Tag Archives: humor

A pubic nuisance

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(Inspired by an allegedly true story (here) about a lady who had a car accident while she was multi-tasking…. driving while doing some downstairs shaving at the same time.)
Warning;  Contains adult themes and an implausible act of chivalry by one bearded old farmer.
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Helene was stuck in peak hour traffic
On a city bound commute
When she felt a strange sensation
Around her private parts hirsute.
The itchiness was quite intense
And scratching made it worse,
So she grappled out the razor
Hidden deep inside her purse.

But then the traffic lights turned green
And the cars began to flow
Which was seemingly the signal
For her pubes to quickly grow.
Shooting faster than the beanstalk
That Jack was wont to climb,
They sprouted every which way
Like a labyrinthine vine.

They curled around the gearstick
And the accelerator too.
The clutch was hard to operate.
And they blocked the mirror’s view.
When she looked down at the pedal
She could not believe her eyes
It was like ten Irish Setters
Were camped between her thighs.

Pubes grew right through the firewall
And wrapped around the fan,
Pulling, tugging, wrenching
Until her tears welled and ran.
The hair caught fire on the manifold,
So the cabin filled with smoke
And more wrapped around the tailshaft
Until it weakened, cracked and broke.

She parked the car and knickerless
Shaved the hair off at the roots,
In front of passing executives
All dressed in business suits.
Then I arrived in the nick of time,
And to sweet Helene I gave
A rub with herbicide lotion
To make her follicles behave.

I untangled all the flowing locks,
Fixed her car and doused the fire,
Then carted off the fuzzy thatch
In a nearby truck for hire.
I’ve turned it into yarn and felt,
With élan and aplomb,
And now it’s all for sale on
Toupeesforgirls dot com.

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GOF the Masterchef

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My small country town held a Masterchef competition last week. It was a fundraiser at the church for our beloved Bishop Risotto Parmagiano. He is suffering from depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome after he scored an incredible 99% in a paternity test of the Rawlinson quintuplets.
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Our talents are for giving
As philanthropic deeds
To the destitute, and spawn
Of Bishop’s holy seeds.
There were nine young contestants,
Plus me, I tagged along
With ‘old age and treachery’
Whistlin’ Willie Nelson’s song.

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Seven of ’em exited
Before the show began.
I uncorked my flask marked ‘Anthrax’
And they all took off and ran.
So as I surveyed pots and woks
And lentils, nuts and ghee,
There remained just the three of us;
Gaylord, Fat Anne and me.

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Next to go was gourmand Anne
With a loaf of sourdough bread.
Golden brown and shaped a little
Like Bishop Risotto’s head.
Smiling wide with nostrils flared
Fat Anne was thrilled to bits,
But I’d laced her flour with Epsom Salts
And the judges got the shits.

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Gaylord mortar-pestled with
An alcoholic grin,
From vodka in his drinking glass.
How the hell did that get in?
He fell down drunk and went to sleep,
So now I’m here to boast,
‘Bout how I won the Masterchef
With canned baked beans on toast.
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A useful purpose

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IMG_4492

 

 

This is my Maori weapon from New Zealand, a patu or mere, traditionally used to stave in the skulls of enemies, some juvenile delinquents, and presumably any irritating little turd who popped his head up at an inopportune moment.

A very useful purpose indeed.

My traditional patu is made from very dense wood shaped by a traditional band saw, engraved using a traditional industrial wood stamping machine before being finished off with three coats of traditional petro-chemical varnish applied through a traditional air-powered paint gun.

I inherited my patu following my mums death 23 years ago. Since then it has been sitting on the shelf gathering dust. A little like me really.

Neither of us have a purpose. Until…….

until……I remembered my all-time favourite comedy sketch featuring Rowan Atkinson.

Sunday I will be purposefully taking my patu into the city.

There is a great deal of work which needs to be done.

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Double-barreled football

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Another cultural gift from The Bucket Sports Department.

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DCE

Daly Cherry-Evans  is a prominent player in Australian Rugby League football.

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Now I’m not about to make fun of his name because   I don’t want to run the risk of him coming around here and thumping the scheissen out of me I am an extremely charitable soul.

Instead I’ll just introduce some other hyphenated hunks of humanity who lace up their boots every weekend and bend over into the scrum to have their brains scrambled, rotator cuffs demolished and bottoms digitally remastered. (here)
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Fortnightly Cantaloupe-Minesweeper.

Wallace Gromit-Parker-Bowles-Windsor     (Import from U.K.)

Kim Sun-Bush     (Korean American import)

Rastas Guggenheim-Mohammet     (Stateless import)

Li Ping-Pong     (Import from Serbia)

Matthew Brew-Munder

John-Susan Smith

Moses Inder-Bullrush

Zack Warrior-Princess

Confucius Thatcher-Hefner

Tupac Daley-Habbitt     (Import from USA)

Palmer Carpal-Tunnel

Dallas Hooshot-Jayyar      (Import from Arab Emirates)
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The Bucket has yet to snare an Australian Media Association’s award for excellence in sports journalism. I have a good feeling about 2014.
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Simon the wonder forecaster

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Farming is an occupation where financial viability is often determined by events beyond our control.

Children, an excellent traditional source of free labour, have the propensity to irresponsibly leave the family farm at around the age of 20 to look for a paying job, search for some nooky, or plug into Australia’s social welfare payroll from a more prestigious address such as Surfers Paradise.
Politicians mess with our livelihoods yet we are not permitted to shoot or castrate them as we would any other feral pest. Rural life is just one disappointment followed by another.
Weather is farming’s greatest uncertainty. In Australia we have one of the most technologically advanced organisations in the world charged with monitoring and predicting weather.
For the last 20 years at 6.35 every morning I have turned on ABC radio to hear various blokes (until recently they were all male) from the Bureau of Meteorology making weather predictions.

If I were a cynical man I might be tempted to tar all these forecasters with the same brush; i.e. they are overpaid useless bureaucratic wankers who lounge around with eyes glued to computer screens all day in comfortably airconditioned bunkers, and toilet-trained monkeys could make more accurate forecasts by simply sitting on the roof using instinct coupled with superior intellectual capacity.

The Bucket does NOT tolerate intolerance such as this.
Cynicism might be a useful nail with which to deflate the tyre of mindless certainty, but in this case it fails to take into account all the proficient weathermen….. like Simon.
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Simon, aka Sanjay, was welcomed into the portico of my local Weather Bureau in 2009 by a wizened hirsute sitarist and the Indian Consul General who delivered a rather lengthy speech about bilateral relationships before everyone tucked into a free breakfast of barbecued beef sausages with onion rings and tomato sauce on wholemeal buns.

Simon’s enviable reputation as Andhra Pradesh’s premier weather guru had preceded him, and it came to pass that indeed Simon had unique powers of meteorological prediction. “Yes it will be rainings on next Tuesday but only until one quarter past ten in the morning time with the numbers of millimetres being thirty five and goodness gracious me I am seeing the sun will be shining at two o’clock in the exact moment.”
And every time Simon predicted rainings in the exact amounts, and sunshinings in the precise moments, it happened.

For three years he never made a mistake and his reputation grew exponentially. Simon became a celebrity. Aussie forecasters were jealous. Women swooned and Simon received marriage proposals from besotted meteorology students and professional gold-diggers.

Felicity-Jane Hobgoblin, Miss Twin Peaks U.S.A., submitted an irresistible handwritten application tucked neatly into a subtly perfumed item of intimate apparel. Simon, despite being betrothed to a young lady in Mumbai who had been selected by his parents on the basis of bullion ownership and potential fecundity rather than physical beauty, could not resist calling Felicity-Jane.

He nervously dialed the fifteen digits until the phone was answered on the seventh ring and……………..
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…..then I woke up.

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Observations of a bushie in town (Part 3)

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A debriefing on denim shorts.

 

Photo credit; NOT me.

Photo credit; NOT me.

I’m utterly appalled!  (again)

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This sort of arse shrink-wrapping complete with homeless pockets is worn by 79% of young women aged 18 to 22 (range amended following legal advice) who wiggle and sashay around shopping centres.

Mini denim shorts defy all commonly understood laws of physics. They are a lot like Dr. Who’s Tardis. The volumetric mass contained within them far exceeds that which could be expected from the external dimensions of the garment. (Unfortunately I am lacking corroborative data as all attempts I’ve made to take measurements with my theodolite, micrometer and tape measure have been met with varying degrees of resistance.)

Tardis-shorts also don’t comply with the laws of gravity. They’re constantly inching higher and higher away from the Earth’s centre of gravity….presumably attempting to launch themselves, vacant and unpersoned, on new time-travel adventures into unexplored places and the distant corners of the galaxy.

All that prevents take-off is a narrow retaining band of tattered textile and frequent yanking back downwards by the owner…...at an average frequency of seven times every minute.
(Erudition is never the product of sloppy observation.)

Thank goodness. Let’s count our blessings.

Australia has already been sucked into a vortex of depravity, wickedness and turpitude. The last thing we need to see is seething scrums of bare-assed young sheilas mooning around public places accelerating our progress toward eternal damnation.

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Observations of a bushie in town. (Part 2)

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More observations in Shopping Centres.

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Ethnic deficiencies.

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Australians of Anglo-Saxon origin (of which I am one) are a really ugly bunch. (86%)

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Kangaroos, wombats and camels are much prettier.

ugliness scale

The growing numbers of Hispanic, Asian and Scandinavian immigrants make us look even worse.

It’s no wonder England rounded up all of our hideous forefathers who were a blight on the picturesque hills and dales before shipping them off to Australia two centuries ago. Since then we’ve just bred indiscriminately with the first person who was too slow to slam the gate shut on our libidinal inquisitiveness. The result is a genetic train wreck.

We are now a pox on the beautiful face of our wide brown land.

Cosmetic attempts are being made to beautify the human landscape. Three quarters of all men below the age of 35 now have ‘artwork’ tattooed on their arms. Just like the Mandrill monkeys with hair-capes over their shoulders and Hamadryas baboons and their striking pink buttocks, the tattoos at least provide an element of distraction from all the unsightliness existing above the neckline.

ugliness1

We need to clean up the joint permanently by expanding our annual Tidy Towns Competition. Allocate a special day to put all the ugly people in a bin with options;
1.  Deportation to Antarctica.
2.  Being whacked on the scone with a nulla-nulla.
3.  Shish-kebabing with a red-hot greased scimitar.
4.  Compulsory cross-breeding with a Venezuelan.
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And I’m not finished yet. To be continued………………….perhaps from Antarctica or South America.
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