Saturday Humour

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Saturday Humour

Here are some stories so old they wear beards from here to Omsk. But they suffice to make you cultured bloggers chortle. Or at least one hopes so:-

In Central Park, two elderly literary Russian-Americans were strolling on a nice winter’s day. As happens with the elderly, the need to pee became strong. Devy said to Rollo, “It happens I have to micturate,” and Rollo said, “I hev to do it all the time now.” So they found a big old tree and stood against it. After a few moments, Devy said, “You know sumpn? When you do that the sound reminds me of the water flowing down some trickling stream in our beloved Russian Steppes, clean as a pouring of pearls, splashing likka rivulet of gold!” Rollo sighed and nodded his venerable head. Then Devy said, “On the contrary though, what I do sounds like someone pissing on a wet blanket!” Rollo thought again and said, “maybe that’s because you’re micturating on my overcoat.” 

A French Canadian’s breakfast: Two eggs side by the other, bacon she be crackly, coffee  double lump and a pair of toast.


The famously foul-mouthed member of the golf club went off to play eighteen holes with the local priest. The Secretary of the club saw them set off with a hand to his mouth. What could happen? At the first green Mr Foulmouth missed his fourth putt and said, “*****! Missed!” and his friend the priest raised an eyebrow. At the fourth tee Foulmouth knocked the ball off the peg  a few yards, and said “*****! ****! Missed . . .” And the priest said, “Really Jock!” and they played on. At the ninth hole Foulmouth took seventeen swipes to clear his ball out of a sand bunker and said, “*****! ****! And ****! Missed!” and the priest said, “Jock, I must tell you that your language is inappropriate and disagreeable.”

At the seventeenth hole Mr Foulmouth took his No. 6 to pitch up to the green, but mishit and sliced the ball onto a neighbouring motorway. He said, “*****! And **** and **** and *****! Missed!” and the priest went to him with a serious face and said, “Jock old man, your language and blasphemy is so foul that one day you’ll go too far and the Lord will strike you dead!” and they approached the last hole. On the eighteenth Foulmouth hooked his drive, took seven to get out of the rough, and then needed five putts to sink his ball. He stood on the green and muttered terrible blasphemies for a solid five minutes. The priest sighed. The heavens opened, a terrible flash of lighting struck downwards, and hit the priest. A voice from Heaven said, “Dammit to Hell, missed!”

By | 2012-04-14T16:03:02+00:00 April 14th, 2012|Humour|0 Comments

About the Author:

‘Dean Swift’ is a pen name: the author has been a soldier; he has worked in sales, TV, the making of films, as a teacher of English and history and a journalist. He is married with three grown-up children. They live in Spain.

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