More true than funny

[jbryce1437]

I always knew they had it good in the army as this letter shows:

Dear Mum & Dad,

I am very well, I hope you are too. Tell big brothers Sean, Paddy and Mick that the Army is better than working on the farm; tell them to get into the Army quick before the jobs are all gone.
I was a bit slow settling down at first because you don't get out of bed until 6am, but I got used to it and I like sleeping in now. All you do before breakfast is make your bed, shine your boots and clean your uniform.
No cows to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack, nothing.
Men must shave, but it’s not too bad because there's hot water and a light to see what you’re doing.
For breakfast there’s cereal, fruit and eggs but there's no fillet steaks or sausages. You don't get fed again until noon, and by that time all the city boys are buggered because we've been on a 'route march', which is just like walking to the well in the meadow.
This will kill Sean and Paddy with laughter but I keep getting medals for shooting!! I don’t know why because the bull’s-eye is as big as a bloody bull's head and it doesn't move and it’s not firing back at you like the Murphy’s did when our bull got their cow in calf before the Ballina show. All you have to do is make yourself comfortable and hit the target - piece of piss. You don't even load your own cartridges – they come in boxes and you don't have to steady yourself against the roll bar of the tractor when you reload.
Sometimes we wrestle with the city boys and I have to be very careful because they break easy - it's not like fighting with Sean, Paddy, Mick and all the other local fellas all at once like we do.
Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either; it looks like I'm the best the platoon's got. I've only been beaten once by this guy from Dublin - he's 6 foot 8 and 120 kilos so he’s a good bit bigger than me but I fought to the end.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys to get in quick before word gets out how good it is.











Your loving daughter,
Siobhàn.

[jbryce1437]

As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace at Christmas.
He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay’s kids’ stockings were overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don’t sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown.
If you’ve never been in an X-rated store, don’t go. You’ll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, “What does this do?” “You’re kidding me!” “Who would buy that?”
Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll. One that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the carpool lane during rush hour.
Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I’d only seen in a book on animal husbandry.
I settled for ‘Lovable Louise.” She was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Louise a “doll” took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours, long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise’s pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more.
We all agreed that Louise should remain in her panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.
My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door.
“What the hell is that?” she asked.
My brother quickly explained, “It’s a doll.”
“Who would play with something like that?” Granny snapped. I had several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut.
“Where are her clothes?” Granny continued.
“Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran,” Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room. But Granny was relentless.
“Why doesn’t she have any teeth?”
Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, ”Hang on Granny! Hang on!”
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, ” Hey, who’s the naked gal by the fireplace?”
I told him she was Jay’s friend.
A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized this might be Grandpa’s last Christmas at home.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the panty hose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa.
The dog screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth to mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants. Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and sat in the car.
It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember
Later in my brother’s garage, we conducted a thorough examination and found the cause of Louise’s collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called gorilla tape, we restored her to perfect health.
Louise went on to star in several bachelor party movies. I think Grandpa still calls her whenever he can get out of the house.
I hope that every time you see "Stockings hung by the chimney with care" you think of me and this amusing story.

[ivorthediver]

Good one Jim you paint the scene well , I thought it was only me that had that kind of humour

[jbryce1437]

Good one Jim you paint the scene well , I thought it was only me that had that kind of humour

Yes Ivor, it appealed to my sense of humour too

Jim

[jbryce1437]

THE MIRACLE OF TOILET PAPER
Fresh from her shower, she stood in front of the mirror complaining to her husband that her breasts were too small.
Instead of characteristically telling her it's not so, he uncharacteristically comes up with a suggestion.
If you want your breasts to grow, then every day take a piece of toilet paper and rub it between them for a few seconds.'
Willing to try anything, she got a piece of toilet paper and stood in front of the mirror, rubbing it between her breasts.
'How long will this take?' she asked.
They will grow larger over a period of years,' her husband replied
She stopped. 'Do you really think rubbing a piece of toilet paper between my breasts every day will make my breasts larger?'
Without missing a beat he says, 'Well it worked for your backside'.
He's still alive, and with a great deal of therapy, he may even walk again, although he will probably continue to take his meals through a straw.
Stupid, stupid man.

[jbryce1437]

I was undecided to post here or on the Modellers section, but here goes:

When I was an apprentice engineer we did one day a week at college where they measured things in anything from ‘thousandths of an inch’ to ‘so many yards’ (and of course the ridiculous metric alternatives of millimetres, centimetres and metres that had been forced on us by ‘Jonny Foreigner’ back in the early 1970’s). However, ‘real engineers’ were taught a far older and more reliable range of measurements.
Generally, at the quantum end of the scale, you started with a ‘Smidgeon’, which equated to the standard British imperial precision ‘clearance’ measurement of ‘sixteen thou’ (16/1000 of an inch) or just under half of one of those ridiculous ‘millimetres’ that were foisted upon us by Europe.

In traditional British industries (if you are under 30 years old, ask your dad about the industries we had before Thatcher shut them down or sold them off for pennies), three Smidgeons were equivalent to a ‘Gnat’s-Dick’.

Three Gnat’s-Dicks were equivalent to a ‘Cock-Hair’ and four Cock-Hairs equalled one ‘Tad’.

With the Tad we have entered the ‘macro’ scale, where things can be reliably measured by eye.

A ‘Thumb-End’ was made-up of two Tads and five Thumb-Ends were equivalent to one Handful. (Except in Norfolk or certain parts of Yorkshire where a Handful can be comprised of six or even seven Thumb-Ends).

At the larger end of the scale we had a ‘Batch’, which was the equivalent of twelve Handfuls’ followed by a ‘Ruck’ which was comprised of twelve Batches. The only measurement greater than a Ruck was a ‘Shitload’.

It was never firmly established how many Rucks it took to make a Shitload because, according to conventional wisdom, “If you have a Shitload, you have enough!”

This system of ‘standard integers’ was ideally suited to the universal requirements of British industry because they can be used as a measurement of length or mass but equally as a measurement of volume or the passage of time. Even the intensity of human emotions was often calculated using this system.

“Mr Brunel will be more than a tad peeved if this bridge turns-out to be a thumb-end short of reaching the other side of the Avon!” Said the foreman as he surveyed the site from his vantage-point atop a swarthy barmaid from Bristol; “And there’ll be a shitload of us filling the next batch of boats back to Ireland if it’s so much as a cock-hair out-of-kilter!”
Excerpt from ‘The Building of the Dangly Bridge’ by R S Biscuits @1868.

Nowadays of course we have all sorts of silly metric sizes for things while still clinging forlornly to the old imperial system of inches, feet, yards and miles. It’s no wonder we have difficulty grasping the finer nuances of measurements.

Have you ever found yourself in the position where you need to replace a bolt on your bike or trike but you aren’t sure of the exact size?

OK so, if you have the original bolt, you can try to roughly measure the diameter with a rule (or more exactly if you own a Micrometer), and perhaps you establish it to be in all likelihood 10mm in diameter (or 25/64 inch or about 8 cock-hairs); but then how do you know if it is a British imperial thread such as BA, BSF or BSW, or a metric thread or even a silly American ‘Unified’ thread? The simple answer is, generally you can’t!

Maybe you can take a guess based on the manufacturer of the motorcycle but even that becomes less reliable with custom built bikes and trikes, so what do you do?

Well you could try wading through all of the tech-spec stuff on the internet or you can go to your local bike-shop and ask them (again, less of an option for custom bikes).

I suppose, if you are a deranged optimist, you could ask on one of the motorcycle forums on the internet but the chances are some incredibly boring bastards will give you the very-long-winded version of 'a completely wrong answer'.

Well, I’ll tell you what you have to do! You have to ask around until somebody gives you the name of the local Wizard!

Wizards nowadays don’t tend to dress in pointy hats, curly-toed shoes and starry robes, they are far more likely to be wearing oily jeans and a mucky, often blim-burned and invariably aged t-shirt; but they are no-less mystical and magical for that!

Wizards can have strange names like ‘Grobo’ or ‘Snob’ or ‘Budgie’ though often they have fairly mundane-sounding names like ‘Chris Ireland’ or ‘Dick Smith’.

My local Wizard is known as ‘Trike Paul’ and he can ascertain the size and thread of the bolt you need simply by licking the end of your thumb!

Wizards can conjure-up whatever parts you need, including parts you weren’t even aware you needed, with the wave of a hand (though it can often be a very slow wave) and they can tell you how to fit them.

Wizards can also ‘magic-up’ cups of tea with barely a flicker of movement, if you are prepared to listen to them describing in great detail how they designed a revolutionary exhaust bracket for a triple-expansion banjo polisher or some such bizarre item… and it is invariably ‘bloody good tea’!

I hope this short educational; article has gone someway to helping you to solve your engineering problems. I shall now return to sitting in the corner of my nicely padded room and eating my crayons.

You never know, now that Britain has left Europe, perhaps we can all get our cock-hairs back and start believing in magic again?

[ivorthediver]

Excellent post Jim and still capable of conjuring up a sympathetic grin and understanding

[jbryce1437]

The new school alphabet
A's for arthritis;
B's the bad back,
C's the chest pains, perhaps car-di-ac?
D is for dental decay and decline,
E is for eyesight, can't read that top line!
F is for farting and fluid retention,
G is for gut droop, which I'd rather not mention.
H high blood pressure---I'd rather it low;
I for incisions with scars you can show.
J is for joints, out of socket, won't mend,
K is for knees that crack when they bend.
L 's for libido, what happened to sex?
M is for memory, I forget what comes next..
N is neuralgia, in nerves way down low;
O is for osteo, bones that don't grow!
P for prescriptions, I have quite a few, just give me a pill and I'll be good as new!
Q is for queasy, is it fatal or flu?
R is for reflux, one meal turns to two.
S is for sleepless nights, counting my fears,
T is for Tinnitus; bells in my ears!
U is for urinary; troubles with flow;
V for vertigo, that's 'dizzy,' you know...
W for worry, now what's going 'round?
X is for X ray, and what might be found.
Y for another year I'm left here behind,
Z is for zest I still have---in my mind!
I've survived all the symptoms, my body's deployed, And I'm keeping twenty-six doctors fully employed!

[jbryce1437]

At this time of the year it’s difficult to know what to say without offending someone. So I’ve checked with my legal adviser and on his advice I wish to say the following to all friends and colleagues.
Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practised with the most enjoyable traditions of religious persuasion or secular practices of your choice with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practise religious or secular traditions at all.
I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2024, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our country great (not to imply that Great Britain is necessarily greater than any other country) and without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishee.
By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms:
This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.
Disclaimer: No trees were harmed in the sending of this message; however, a significant number of electrons were slightly inconvenienced

[jbryce1437]

When four of Santa’s elves became ill and the trainee elves were unable to produce toys as quickly as the regular elves, Santa began to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Mrs. Claus then informed Santa that her mother was coming to see him.
This added to Santa’s anxiety.
When he went to catch the reindeer, he discovered that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were somewhere in the wilderness.
More anxiety.
When he started loading the sleigh, one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground, scattering the toys.
Santa, frustrated, went inside for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum.
He went to the cupboard and discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, so there was nothing to drink.
In his rage, he dropped the cider pot, which broke into hundreds of small pieces all over the kitchen floor.
When he went to get the broom, he discovered that mice had eaten the straw end.
The doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa trudged to the door.
When he opened the door, there was a small angel holding a large Christmas tree.
The angel said, very cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa! Isn’t it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?”
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.