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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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My car is a bomb.

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MY CAR IS A BOMB

 
I bought this new vee-hickle,
A green and purple van,
From Yakuza Motors Incorporated
At Fukushima in Japan.
They assembled it from spare parts
Found scattered up the street,
On rooftops and in trees and
Under slabs of thick concrete.

The seats are radioactive.
It runs on nuclear power.
I outrun all the cops doin’
Two hundred miles an hour.
I fill ‘er up with uranium.
Special blend of two three five.
A single rod for every gear,
Plus two for overdrive.

The chain reaction starts by
Pushing pedal to the floor.
Smokin’ beryllium out the back
You can hear my turbines roar.
But I’ve got a little problem
That worries me somewhat;
Festering ulcers up my nose
With pustules oozing snot.

There’s lesions on my larynx,
Cysts and blisters down below,
And I illuminate the neighbourhood
With my incandescent glow.
I’m sure the car is not to blame.
It’s the vindaloo I ate,
At Mother India Restaurant
Wot’s caused this deathly fate.
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Suffer the little children ……..

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It reflects rather poorly upon me that in more than five hundred blog stories I have failed to present a single literary bouquet of love and gratitude to the children of the world:  the fruit of our collective loins without whom Homo sapiens would become extinct.
(I have a plausible argument in favour of that possibility too, but let’s deal with one catastrophe at a time.)

Human offspring are annoying and ingratiating little people with disgusting habits and unsavoury bodily functions.  Additionally, the antiquated birthing process is a ghastly atrocity which should no longer be necessary in these modern days of genetic engineering and medical manipulation.
childbirth
Let’s face it, to a large extent we’ve cleaned up the unpalatable mechanics leading up to conception by using bright and shiny autoclaved in-vitro flasks and sterile shrink-wrapped turkey basters but parturition remains an extremely ugly, unpleasant and (I’m told) painful business.

A few years ago some obsequious male came up with the idea of ‘sympathy pain’ as a last-ditch attempt to ease the copulative guilt of his gender.   Good try, but it’s absurd.

The entire reproductive shambles needs to be overhauled.  Anyone would think we are just animals.

The Bucket is honored to be called upon for technical guidance;
764
1. Reproduction from the year 2035 onwards will be done exclusively by genetically and surgically created self-inseminating hermaphrodites. 
  
Why the need for change?
Surely it is the height of insensitivity and bad manners to inflict upon another person the disruptive emotional roller-coaster of pregnancy, and an unconscionable abuse of friendship expecting an innocent life-partner to witness the horrendous collateral damage concomitant with childbirth.

Michael, a ruminative local lad, concluded that watching the trauma of his wife giving birth to their first child was “like watching my favourite pub burn down.”  Michael may well require counseling for the remainder of his life. Indeed it is entirely possible that he may never enter another hotel during the term of his natural life in fear of the appalling consequences.

Next comes the vexed question of what to do with (please forgive my use of the agricultural livestock terminology with which I am most familiar) the progeny once they are on the ground.

Well fortunately The Bucket’s Legislative Drafting Service has come to our rescue. Please feel free to suggest any minor changes that you think might be required before we send it off to the Secretary-General for presentation to the General Assembly of the U.N.

2.  In compliance with United Nations Laws of Reproductive Procedures 2035 (Section 23, subsection 4b)  all children will be sent to the Global Obedience Factory at Tombouctou in Mali to be raised by an International corps of wet nurses and benevolent disciplinarian educators.  Neither breast nor rod shall be spared.  At the age of 30, when they might finally begin to exhibit a modicum of maturity, usefulness and responsibility they will be evaluated for possible release and re-introduction into civilised adult society.

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William Wordsworth wrote in 1807;  “Dear child of Nature, let them rail.”

Indeed Bill.  Let them rail ……and ship and truck and fly…. to Tombouctou.

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(With apologies to Elaine, …. and all the devoted midwives everywhere, …Oh yes, and then there’s the mothers of the world too, and…..Oh shit, I think I just did something really bad here.)

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A Christmas letter

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Friends of The Bucket will be aware that the online provision of factual and educational masterpieces such as this one is merely a hobby of mine. A humble little gift to humanity. My real job is being a partner with the innovative social engineering firm Smirnoff, Fulcrum and Gof.  The three of us share such close working and personal relationships that sometimes it feels almost as though we are just a single organism.  Being baby-boomers we are still a little old-fashioned and send out Christmas letters to our nearest and dearest.  Today I am sharing with you the one I received this week from my friend and partner Jasper J. Fulcrum Esq.
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26

Hello dear friends,

Holy Rudolph!  Time doth fly doth’nt it!  Once again it’s time for me to reflect upon, and share with all our friends, the gobsmackingly magnificent achievements of my family and pets during the last 12 months.

Well not too much about pets this year.
Donatus our Doberman blotted his copybook in October.  He ate the neighbour’s Pomeranian which had just won the Best Dog in Show award at the Brisbane Exhibition.  No-one would have discovered who the culprit was except that the next-door family members were enjoying a Sunday barbecue lunch on their front lawn after church when Donatus arrived on the scene and regurgitated a furball containing the victim’s pink hair ribbon, Council registration tag, a microchip and a rather nasty looking large tapeworm.  Stupid dog.

Sarky  (Sarcophagus our eldest boy now prefers this truncated version of his name) seems to have become a professional globetrotter of some sort. Something like a storm chaser I believe. He follows cyclones, typhoons, floods and other natural disasters all around the world in rented pantec trucks, then sends back shipping containers full of all sorts of furniture, jewellery and electrical goods which he has rescued from the tempests.  He calls himself a ‘recycler of potentially shop-soiled merchandise’.  That must be a good thing for the planet.  I think he might live in Switzerland because after we sell everything for him that’s where we have to send the money.

Candy still provides ancillary services for Australian and American naval personnel when they arrive in Sydney for R and R.  She is doing very well with one office in Kings Cross and a new one closer to the wharves to provide rapid response services to those with more urgent and pressing requirements.  It is wonderful to know our daughter is giving some little thing back to the servicemen who do so much for our country.  We are very proud of her.

Wollemi, who was born in the year when this rare Australian pine tree was discovered by botanists, turned out to be as thick as two pine planks which probably serves us right for giving him that name in the first place.  He’s become addicted to takeaway food and the demon drink, and judging by his present body shape maybe we should have baptised him Baobab instead.   Well this is the last year I’ll be mentioning him in my Christmas letter because the ungrateful sod went and took out a Restraining Order on me after I went to his place in March and syphoned 500 gallons of his home-brewed stout down into the sewers. For his own good mind you.  There’s only so much you can do for children when they run off the tracks like this.

Eronius, our lastborn who arrive a decade later than the other children, is now 22 and runs a millinery and embroidery business with his very good friend Nigel.  We can’t wait for one of our kids to produce a grandchild.  I think Eronius is a dark horse and might be the first although he keeps telling me that he hasn’t found the right girl yet.  He’s a shy boy so I think he might be reluctant to tell me all about his love life but it wouldn’t surprise me if I have some quite amazing news to share with you within the next couple of years.

Happy holidays, and may all your Herald Angels hark on cue and sing with sublime tunefulness this Christmas,

Love and best wishes from Jasper and all the Fulcrum Gang.
(Except Donatus who is too busy eyeing off the new Chihuahua next door through a knot-hole in the paling fence…….maybe I should nail Wollemi to the fence to block off the hole…..sheesh! ……bloody rotten fruit of my loins he turned to be.  )

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26

The Piles Foundation

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Warning;   Contains childish themes. Guidance from a juvenile recommended.

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The Bucket’s name is synonymous with philanthropic support of medical research around the world.  Most notably, in this digital age, it is the primary benefactor for toe and finger nail wedge resection survivors.

Today many diseases both real and imagined are represented by empire building friends of pharmaceutical multinationals  charitable organisations, and here at The Bucket we feel it is incumbent upon us to fill one of the few remaining vacancies.  Haemorrhoids.

THE PILES FOUNDATION could not have been established without the compassion, wisdom, legal expertise and personal experience of Mr. Trevor Fulcrum Q.C., Senior Partner in the firm Smirnoff, Fulcrum and Gof.

The name of the Foundation was specifically selected to snare a percentage of ambiguous and/or inaccurately addressed financial transactions of;

(a)  The Local Authority of Piles, Valencia, in Spain.

(b)  The Estate of General Sir Frederick Pile, GCB, DSO, MC 1884-1976 Commander of anti-aircraft attacks in Britain during WW2.

(c)  International Shag Carpet Makers Association.

(d)  Pile Data Division of the Mathematicians Collective.

(e)  The Museum of Graphite Pile Nuclear Reactors.

Whilst our primary funding source will be from these misappropriated  innovatively procured monies we will also be selling inspirational tee shirts to foment a formidable and stubborn global movement which will demand the
ELIMINATION OF PILES FROM OUR PLANET FOREVER.

Piles tee shirt

Please phone 1800 PUSHITGOOD during the next ten minutes to secure your collectors item tee shirt, personally worn, signed, strained and winced over by an actual piles sufferer, for the special price of just $49.99.

(plus $107.95 postage and handling)

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The throne was almost mine

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All the pomp, circumstance and kerfuffle in London this week opened up a deep festering wound in my psyche.

It could have been me standing there in the front row of Saint Paul’s Cathedral alongside Her Majesty.

Please allow me to cry on your shoulder and/or bury my distraught miserable little balding head in your bosom.  I desperately need to talk to you, my compassionate friend, about the deeply-rooted sense of entitlement deprivation which I am feeling today.
Completely and totally rooted.

My tale of woe goes like this;

1. I was born at the same time as Prince Charles in 1948.

2. Mrs GOF and I were married at the same time as Prince Charles and Lady Diana in 1980.

3. Our respective first royal issues, Princess Inga and Prince William were born at the same time in 1982.

I did everything I could. I ticked all the boxes which were within my purview to tick. The jigsaw of fate fitted together perfectly except for just one critical piece………my Father.

“Dad, wherever you are up there, if you had just…… ahem……this delicate matter is a little difficult for me to talk to you about…….but if you’d just been in a, ahem, a different geographic location, in early 1948 things might have turned out a whole lot differently for me.”

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*sigh*   .      .    *siiiiiiiiiiigh*

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Prince GOF.

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King GOF I, first monarch of The House of Bucket.

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I wonder if the good people of the United Kingdom realise just how fortunate they are today.

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More complaints

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Primrose Cottage,
13 Gladioli Crescent,
Bristol.  U.K.
20th April 2012

Dear Mr GOF,

I find you to be a very common and tedious little man. Your gift to literature is comparable to The Duchess of York’s contribution to good taste and the dignity of our beloved British Royal Family.
I suppose some fragments of your blog may be considered mildly amusing by a minority of lower-class descendant-of-convict Antipodean readers despite my judgment that you are unrefined, coarse and extremely vulgar. What I find especially irksome is the frequency with which you choose to resolve contemporary problems by resorting to primitive instincts and the use of explosive devices.

Disappointedly yours,

Lady Penelope Mountshaft.

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Primrose Cottage.....30th April 2012

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On a much brighter note, one valued, observant, perceptive, intelligent, beautiful and impeccably well-bred close relative wrote regarding my ‘illustrations’;

(Editors note;  Another puff of air into GOF’s balloon of hope to eventually be placed into a humanely managed old folks home.)

“GOF, some of your helicopters lack landing gear”

Thank you Inga for bringing this omission to my attention.
In future, to comply with Aviation Authority operational requirements, all my helicopters will have landing gear…..of one sort or another.

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P.S.  No Lady Mountshafts, innocent bystanders, dogs, cats, sqwerls or sloths were hurt in the preparation of this story.