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Oh, there’s more where that came from, Zome!
Specifically:
A door to door salesman knocks on a door.
A boy about 13 years old answers, dressed in stockings, suspenders, a wig and make-up, with a fat cigar in one hand and a large glass of red wine in the other.
“Is your mum in, son?” says the salesman,
The boy replies, “Does it look like it?”
gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
I can’t match the mirth and merriment of Mr. Grayson, however, when I lived in Stuttgart, I visited the nearby town of Esslingen (about 10 miles) for the annual Festival of the Onion, which lasts 10 days. On the opening day, a giant onion is paraded around whilst a band strikes up the Onion anthem, then the Lord Mayor of Esslingen opens the whole event. For the next 9 days, there are various activities to celebrate the onion festival, such as the Onion Dancers, and the Onion Balancing competition, as well as recipes, all of which of course have to contain onion.
Honestly, what a load of made up, ridiculous drivel. Except…that’s it’s true:
http://www.esslinger-zwiebelfest.de
The things they do with onions in South West Germany!!!
Darren – AngloGerman
________________________________________‘The Hungarian’s going hell for leather’ – Jim McGrath
when I lived in Stuttgart, I visited the nearby town of Esslingen (about 10 miles) for the annual Festival of the Onion, which lasts 10 days. On the opening day, a giant onion is paraded around whilst a band strikes up the Onion anthem, then the Lord Mayor of Esslingen opens the whole event. For the next 9 days, there are various activities to celebrate the onion festival, such as the Onion Dancers, and the Onion Balancing competition, as well as recipes, all of which of course have to contain onion.
…And when all the festivities have drawn to a close, the mayor takes to the microphone and says, "Right everyone, clear off and go home. That’s shallot!"
(sorry. again.)
gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
Stop it, stop it now!
I need hardly add;
1) I have more where this lot came from,
2) They’ll all appear in the forthcoming book.gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
Vicar checking in to a hotel goes upto the receptionist.
"Excuse me Miss but is the porn in the room disabled?"
"No its just normal porn you sick b.astard"
…And when all the festivities have drawn to a close, the mayor takes to the microphone and says, "Right everyone, clear off and go home. That’s shallot!"
To be honest, I was going to tell you the one about the man who chopped onions non stop for 24 hours, but I’d better not – it’ll only make your eyes water.
Coat.
Door.
M25.
Darren – AngloGerman
________________________________________‘The Hungarian’s going hell for leather’ – Jim McGrath
(((looks for drumkit boom-boom-kissshhh emoticon: fails)))
gc
Jeremy Grayson. Son of immigrant. Adoptive father of two. Metadata librarian. Freelance point-to-point / horse racing writer, analyst and commentator wonk. Loves music, buses, cats, the BBC Micro, ale. Advocate of CBT, PACE and therapeutic parenting. Aspergers.
…And when all the festivities have drawn to a close, the mayor takes to the microphone and says, "Right everyone, clear off and go home. That’s shallot!"
(sorry. again.)gc
Here is one for your book!
THE MIRACLE OF TOILET PAPER…..
Fresh from my shower, I stand in front of the mirror complaining to my husband that my breasts are too small.
Instead of characteristically telling me 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, I fetch a piece of toilet paper and stand in front of the mirror, rubbing it between my breasts.
‘How long will this take?’ I asked.
‘They will grow larger over a period of years,’ my husband replies.
I stopped. ‘Do you really think rubbing a piece of toilet paper between my breasts every day will make my breasts larger over the years?’
Without missing a beat he says, ‘Worked for your arse, didn’t it?’
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.
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