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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.

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.



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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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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Growing up with Napoleon

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As we navigate the ocean of life through a flotilla of fanatics, it appears to me that there are only two people remaining in the world with a grip on truth and reality.  You and me.

Accordingly I would like to donate the following grain of historical sand to add to your expansive beach of general knowledge.

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I was born at Ajaccio on the island of Corsica. My childhood friend, Napoleon, was a painfully shy and introverted boy who rarely ventured outside the family home.
When we were both eleven years of age our families moved to Brienne-le-Chateau in France, and by sheer coincidence lived on the same street. The Gof’s at No.17 and the Buonaparte’s in No.26.  The year was 1778.

Unlike me, Napoleon had grown into a rather saturnine and bedraggled looking lad with a ruddy complexion. Truth be told, he was still very much a ‘Mummy’s boy’ with no sense of adventure at all.

Eventually I tempted him to come and play in one of the sand piles on a nearby vacant allotment. It had once been the site of a glass factory which produced Waldglas utilitarian products until Great Britain started to dominate the world table-glass market in the 1750’s at which time our little factory had been abandoned and demolished.

When Napoleon first saw the forts and battlements which I’d constructed in the sand pile he was very upset because he was such a peace-loving person. We decided instead to build cathedrals in both Gothic and Romanesque styles, complete with classical motifs. Then we carved figurines and sacred objects from leftover lumps of clinker and furnace slag, and we had great fun moving our bishops, cardinals and parishioners around the cloisters and ambulatories of our many churches.

Occasionally Nap’s eyes would glaze over and he would utter really weird things like “Religion is excellent stuff for keeping the common people quiet” and “A constitution should be short but obscure”.  Funny boy. I think he might have been an escargot or two short of a full banquet.

Eventually we ran out of sand in our pile, so one dark night I dragged Napoleon along to help me steal some more from the piles which all the other kids were using.  When we’d doubled the size of our sandpit Nap said to me “ Shit GOF, that was a lot of fun. I’ve really got the taste for expansionism now. What else can we do now?”.

At that point I knew I could trust Napoleon so I shared with him my ultimate dream.

“You know Nap, when I grow up I’d like to go to military school then unleash an unprecedented wave of invasion and carnage on the world. I’d just love to go and belt the crap out of some Austrians, Russians, Germans, Prussians, Sardinians, Syrians, Egyptians, Swiss, Ottomans, Portugese and Poles.”

Sadly I was never able to realise my dream because of what happened in 1785.

My father relocated our family to La Rochelle near the Bay of Biscay and one weekend Dad and I went fishing in a crude little sailboat.  A tremendous storm blew us out into the Atlantic Ocean then southwards into the Roaring Forties until we eventually made landfall on Terra Australis driven by the South-East tradewinds.

Even today I find it difficult to believe that we had actually survived for two years adrift on the high seas.

We were the first Europeans to discover the continent of Australia.
The year was 1787.  Much of the gloss of our epic achievement was removed twelve months later by some overdressed pompous Pommie bastard who sailed into our little settlement of Goftown and renamed it Cooktown.

Gof family voyage of discovery to Australia 1785-87

Despite my fame and advanced years (243) I still sometimes wonder whatever became of that unobtrusive and bashful little friend who I left behind in France all those years ago.

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The Skylights Project

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The Skylights Project was a 1960’s top-secret operation designed to prepare Australia for a position of world supremacy in the forecast booming personal computer market of the 1990’s.

Seventeen men and women comprising the finest electronics minds in the Southern Hemisphere were bunkered in a discreet laboratory three storeys below footpath level in Swanston Street, Melbourne in January 1968 when disaster struck.

One of their number, Eunice Hopsteader, smuggled her pet rabbit through the strict security system, into the lift, then down to Level 3.

The rabbit was infected with a mutated and virulent strain of the Myxoma virus. Ten of the scientists, including Eunice, were dead before lunch time.

Those who remained symptom-free celebrated their close shave with death by dining out the following day at Farmer Gramoxone’s Country Style Restaurant just around the corner in Flinders Street.  (Named after explorer Matthew Flinders.)

Six of them were declared stone cold motherless dead within minutes of sipping the vegetable soup which mistakenly contained diced carrots laced with strychnine poison which Farmer Gramoxone had prepared for distribution as rabbit bait on his farm.
(Today Australian Workplace Health and Safety Regulations only allow poison bait preparation in Registered Kitchens on weekends and Gazetted Public Holidays.)

The Director of The Skylights Project, Bill Picket-Fences, was the only one to survive after a quick-thinking cyclist shoved his bicycle pump all the way down Bill’s oesophagus and syphoned the deadly contents out of his stomach and back into the soup bowl.

“My bike pump never did work very well after that”  Wayne Pedalworster reported to the Advertiser newspaper three days later. “The strychnine corroded my plunger like real bad mate and nobody’s offered to replace it either.”

Even Blind Freddie could have forseen that Bill Picket-Fences would select me as deputy leader of the new Skylights Project team.
With a fresh-off-the-press Diploma of Agriculture and an I.Q. of 71, I was assigned the priority task of developing a portable computer memory device with a capacity of 16 gigabytes.

After just 44 years, I am proud to present the fruits of my labour to the world;  The GOF 16GB Portable Memory Device specifically designed for the Skylights Operating System.

So, all you computer nerds, stick that in your USB slots and smoke it. It will be a long time before you come up with anything better.

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The GOF 16 Gig Portable Storage Device. (GOF PSD)

Carrying capacity….one man’s triumph

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(Blame the Finns for this one. It’s all their fault.)

It was never within the Grand Universal Blueprint for every human to be bountifully blessed with elite-level athletic ability.

Some of us got it, but most missed out.

The decision was a no-brainer really.
I’ve been selected by the Institute of Sport to represent Australia at the International Wife Carrying Championships in Finland next year.

My selection does not of course come without onerous responsibilities being attached. Carrying Mrs GOF speedily and safely across the finishing line on my back is just one of them.

Accordingly I have a training support team…. not only to make sure I can complete the 253 metre course in less than 1 minute 20 seconds, but also to coach me to the highest levels of International diplomacy, sportsmanship and modesty expected from one who is destined to become an athletic role model for future generations of Australians.

‘Team GOF’  comprises;

Ten arthritic masseuses, nine lame sports psychologists, eight anorexic nutritionists, seven indolent motivators, six hypertensive cardiologists, five sprightly ex-weightlifters, four eloquent World Championship wrestlers, three foul-mouthed spiritual advisors, two philanthropic financial advisors, oh…. and a morose Scandinavian elocutionist to help me respond in unaccented Finnish when I receive my gold medal.   (because the partridge will be remaining in it’s Aussie pear tree due to quarantine restrictions.)

Because Mrs GOF has refused to be treated like common baggage being humped all over the farm for the next 300 days, the Institute of Sport in it’s infinite wisdom has provided me with a substitute training partner.


I will miss Mrs GOF’s limpet-like attachment to me during training, with thighs strangleholding my neck, (please refer to following video for clarification) knee-spurs urging me forever onwards by biting deeply into my ears, arms vicelikely gripping my waist, and breasts flocculating around my shoulder blades in search of support which they rarely seem to find.

It will not be the same with Angie.

The life of an elite athlete involves much inconvenience, pain and suffering.

I will be doing it for Australia.

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The REAL cause of rising ocean levels

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Environmental Engineers by Appointment.

United nations.
3 United Nations Plaza.
NEW YORK    10017

Dear Sir,

Thank you for awarding our company the consultancy to investigate the real causes of rising ocean levels. We also acknowledge and appreciate the $1,000,000 advance which enabled our distinguished Partner, the environmentally oracular Mr GOF, to travel the world collecting data.  

Before presenting our recommendations I must firstly pay tribute to Mr GOF for his conscientiousness in spending unpaid extra time on the waterfront at Rio De Janeiro during Carnivale in February, observing, measuring, and taking thousands of photographs.  

It is however regretted that one of your Portugese negotiators was required to travel urgently from Geneva in order to defuse the international misunderstanding which he caused, and to bail him out of police custody.  
In view of the attached comprehensive report we are prepared to take no further action regarding Mr GOF’s single ill-conceived moment of social exuberance.  He has been issued with an official reprimand.


We have great pleasure in advising the General Assembly that rising ocean levels cannot be significantly attributed to any of the following;

A.  Global Warming resultant from increased CO2 emissions.
B.  Displacement caused by lost fishing sinkers.
C.  Burials at sea.

Eighty seven percent of the annual rate of increase in ocean levels is caused by MAMMALS, especially HUMANS and WHALES.

The biospheric physics is relatively simple.

Average ocean temperature = 17 degrees Celsius.
Average human and whale body temperature = 36 degrees Celsius.
Heat from any object is transferred 27 times faster to sea water than it’s dissipation rate into International Standard Atmosphere.

i.e. Too many humans and whales in the sea = increased ocean temperature = warming of atmosphere and melting of polar ice caps = higher sea level.

Additionally Archimedes Theorum comes into play. Bodies of humans and whales immersed in the sea displace equal volumes of water.

At any given moment there is an average of  23,631,203 humans swimming, skinny dipping, diving, frolicking or wading in the ocean, and 11,000,003 whales doing all of the above except wading, the displacement water from which has only one way to go.
i.e. UP = rising ocean levels.


1. Ban and forcibly remove all humans from the sea.
Since we are now evolved with bipedal competence, there is no excuse for revisiting the primordial brine, slime and froth from which we emerged.  

2. Encourage the Japanese to catch more whales.
After all, they only ‘do it for research’, and ‘research’ must surely be a very good thing.

3. The remaining whales which are surplus to Japan’s immediate research requirements should immediately be fitted with ‘rubber duckies’ as a temporary measure to float them ON TOP of the ocean. This action alone will see a reduction in the global ocean level of 7 inches, and make these giant environmental hoodlums easier to spot and harpoon when the Japanese whalers mount their next research expedition.

Thank you for awarding our company the honour of serving the world. Please find enclosed invoice for $2,500,000 being the balance owing.

Yours Faithfully,

Vladimir J. Smirnoff

c.c.   Greenpeace.
Save the Whales.
Yakuza Fish Factory.
Benny Hinn Ministries.
Brazil Naturist Society. (for urgent attn. Paula)
President, Federated States of Micronesia.
(together with an aid gift of 20,000 flippers and snorkels.)


P.S. …. SMIRNOFF, FULCRUM and GOF apparently have a vacancy for a competent accountant.

Scientific subterfuge

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It is an International disgrace.

I have half a mind ………… pack up my laboratory, turn my back on civilised society and head for a plot of land somewhere in the middle of the jungle to spend the remainder of my life reading rain gauges and chasing feral pigs out of my garden.

I am of course referring to the following insult upon my intellectual property;

The Mouse Grimace Scale. 

This inferior scholastic treatise came out of McGill University and the University of British Columbia in Canada and has now been accepted as the standard scale for measuring the degree of pain and discomfort suffered by animals during experimentation.

Well let me tell you exactly what it is.

It is nothing more than a thinly-veiled plagiarism of my 1974
ground-breaking profound gift to the biological sciences;

GOF’s  Wombat  Anal-Sphincter  Clench  Scale

0  volts …………………….  ۝

10 volts …………………..   O

20 volts ………………….    0

30 volts ………………….    Ϙ  

40 volts ………………….    Ố  

50 volts ………………….    Ѳ

60 volts ………………….    ỗ  

70 volts …………………    ☼

80 volts ……………………  ᴕ

90 volts ……………………  ¤

100 volts ………………….   ו


I am enraged that the developers of the Mouse Grimace Scale have been lauded with academic recognition when all I received after conducting seven years of diligent scientific experimentation was a six-month term in Boggo Road Jail for animal cruelty.

It is indeed a cruel world.


I don’t want to talk about it.

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Fame and glory: Better late than never.

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There are times in a man’s life when he really should take a long hard look at himself and truthfully admit that, when compared to others, he is occupying six cubic feet of space which might otherwise be put to better use.

Let’s face it, I have completely failed to honour my genetic inheritance or justify the existence of my protoplasmic mass with any semblance of outstanding achievement.

Tom Lehrer was the twentieth century’s pre-eminent satirical lyricist.
When he was 37 years of age in 1965 he also broached the subject of his own comparative inadequacy with the following comment to his audience;

“It is a sobering thought, for example, that when Mozart was my age he’d been dead for two years.”

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The following  is a condensed list of my failures to date;

1.  Failed to achieve any of my childhood ambitions. Fireman. Ship’s captain. Radio announcer. Train driver.

2.  Failed to consummate what at one time seemed to me to be a ‘sure thing’ with Ms fancypants MacPherson.

3.  Failed to win any pie-eating, ballroom dancing, arm wrestling or Mister Congeniality competitions.

4.  Failed to sire octuplets. (to the best of my knowledge)

5.  Failed to change the world in any way. I’ve never precipitated a war, fomented social unrest, marched for world peace or even burnt a bra in anger. (except for just one time, and that didn’t change the world….it just made Mrs GOF very angry.)

6.  Most distressing of all is that Australia ignored my prodigious talents for 30 years when selecting it’s International cricket team.  Furthermore, even after I’d spent so much money on a (since reversed) sex-change operation I was still not even considered for
our women’s beach volleyball training squad prior to the Sydney 2000 Olympics.

So shove it Australia. I’m taking my sporting prowess overseas.

Being fully aware that my springchickenhood may well expire sometime during the next decade, I was left with the challenge of finding a suitable sport upon which to unleash my superabundant talents.
The answer came through divine intervention.
A heavenly angel descended to my garden shed (into which you will recall I had been compulsorily quarantined by Mrs GOF last month when I was sick) and whispered the following message from God;

“GOF, your destiny is a narrow, cold and wet hole in the ground.”

Before I had time to further discuss the ramifications of this spiritual sporting guidance, the angel suddenly went *poof* and transmogrified into a ghostly and ghastly apparition (which coincidentally bore an uncanny resemblance to Tammy Faye Bakker) before vanishing through the shed window into the darkness of night.

Praise the Lord for absence of ambiguity.  


I’m now in training for;




The International Bog Snorkelling Championships.

Mr Gerden Green, a linguist from Llanwrtyd Wells in Wales, came up with the idea of bog snorkelling one evening in 1976 when he was high on a combination of booze and methane trying to forget the travails of his academic day. His post-doctoral thesis, “An examination of where all the missing Welsh vowels disappeared to” was not progressing as planned and was giving him the shts and splttng hedachs.

World record-holder for two laps of the 55 metre-long bog trench is Joanne Pitchforth with a time of 1 minute 35.18 seconds, so I phoned her in the U.K. hoping she would help me with some training hints;

“Pith off GOTH ith juth finisht trainink ant I caent tork to you corth my flikinth teeths are full oft grath and mut and uther thit laek amoebaths, parathetiumths and wormths”.

Well I’ll teach that Ms Gutter-Gob Pitchfork a lesson or two in August at Waen Rydd bog in Wales.
She may well have superior buoyancy but I’ve been working on a way to harness diet and technology to my advantage.
Sauerkraut and baked beans for breakfast linked somewhat circuitously to a hot-air catalytic thruster concealed in my jocks.

I have a feeling in my gut that the Bog Snorkelling World Record will soon be mine.


Autographs may be requested on this forum in September after I triumphantly return to Australia laden down with trophies and medallions and tanned all over from the relentless glare of the International media spotlight.

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