Too much time on my hands again 😉
An Italian, a Frenchman, and a Welshman were talking about screams of passion.
The Italian said: “Last night I massaged my wife all over her body with the finest extra virgin olive oil, then we made passionate love and I made her scream, non-stop for five minutes.”
The Frenchman said: “Last night I massaged my wife all over her body with special aphrodisiac oil from Provence and then we made passionate love. I made her scream for fifteen minutes straight.”
The Welshman said: That’s nothing butt! Last night I massaged my wife, right, all over her body with a special butter. I caressed her entire body with the butter and then made love and I made her scream for two long hours.”
The Italian and Frenchman, astonished, asked, “Two full hours? Wow! That’s phenomenal. How did you do it to make her scream for two hours?”
The Welshman replied: “I wiped my hands on the curtains.”
The novel “Fifty Shades Of Grey” has seduced women – and baffled blokes.
Now , Fifty Sheds Of Grey, offers a treat for the men.
The book’s author Colin Grey recounts his love encounters at the bottom of the garden.
Here are some extracts…
We tried various positions – round the back, on the side, up against a wall.
But in the end we came to the conclusion the bottom of the garden was the only place for a good shed.
She stood before me, trembling in my shed.
“I’m yours for the night,” she gasped, “You can do whatever you want with me.”
So I took her to Bunning’s.
She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first, then harder until finally it came. I moaned with pleasure. Now for the other boot.
Ever since she read THAT book, I’ve had to buy all kinds of ropes, chains and shackles. She still manages to get into the shed, though.
“Put on this rubber suit and mask,” I instructed, calmly.
“Mmmm, kinky!” she purred.
“Yes,” I said, “You can’t be too careful with all that asbestos in the shed roof.”
“I’m a very naughty girl,” she said, biting her lip. “I need to be punished.”
So I invited my mum to stay for the weekend.
“Harder!” she cried, gripping the workbench tightly. “Harder!”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s the gross national product of Nicaragua?”
I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window. Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a treat.
“Are you sure you can take the pain?” she demanded, brandishing stilettos.
“I think so,” I gulped.
“Here we go, then,” she said, and showed me the receipt.
“Hurt me!” she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my workbench.
“Very well,” I replied. “You’ve got fat ankles and no dress sense.”
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked. “When I’m done, you won’t be able to sit down for weeks.” She nodded.
“Okay,” I said, putting the three-piece lounge suite on eBay.
“Punish me!” she cried. “Make me suffer like only a real man can!”
“Very well,” I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.
Men Are Just Happier People
If Laura, Kate and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Kate and Sarah. If Mike, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Shorty and Lofty.
When the bill arrives, Mike, Dave and John will each throw in £20, even though it’s only for £52.50. None of them will have anything smaller.
When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators…YES!!!
A man will pay £2 for a £1 item he needs.
A woman will pay £1 for a £2 item that she doesn’t need but it’s on sale.
A man has five items in his bathroom: toothbrush and toothpaste, razor, soap, and a towel.
The average number of items in the typical woman’s bathroom is 337. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn’t.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won’t change, but she does.
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the bins, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail.
A man will dress up for weddings and funerals.
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
Women somehow deteriorate during the night.
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favourite foods, secret fears and hopes and dreams.
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
A married man should forget his mistakes. There’s no use in two people remembering the same thing!
Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Tazer.
The effects of the Tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety…??
WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home… I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I’d get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.
Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?
There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target.
I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.
Am I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and Tazer in another.
The directions said that:
a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant;
a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and
a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water.
Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.
All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, ‘no possible way!’
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I’ll do my best.
I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side so as to say, ‘Don’t do it stupid,’ reasoning that a one second burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it.
I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and…
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. WHAT THE… !!!
I’m pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.
If you ever feel compelled to ‘mug’ yourself with a Tazer,
one note of caution:
There is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor!
A three second burst would be considered conservative!
A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape.
My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace.
· The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where it originally was.
· My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching..
· My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs.
· I had no control over the drooling.
· Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone.
· I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair.
I’m still looking for my testicles and I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return!
PS: My wife can’t stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift and now regularly threatens me with it!
If you think education is difficult, try being stupid!!!!
An American photographer on vacation was inside a church in London taking photographs when he noticed a golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read ‘£10,000 per call’. The American, being intrigued, asked a priest who was strolling by what the telephone was used for. The priest replied that it was a direct line to heaven and that for £10,000 you could talk to God.
The American thanked the priest and went along his way. Next stop was in Lincoln, there, at a very large cathedral, he saw the same golden telephone with the same sign under it. He wondered if this was the same kind of telephone he saw in London and he asked a nearby nun what its purpose was. She told him that it was a direct line to heaven and that for £10,000 he could talk to God.
‘O.K., thank you,’ said the American. He then travelled to York , Rotherham , Sheffield Dewsbury, and Pickering , In every church he saw the same golden telephone with the same ‘£10,000 per call’ sign under it.
The American, upon leaving Yorkshire decided to travel down to Wales to see if the Welsh had the same phone.
He arrived in Rhoose, and again, in the first church he entered, there was the same golden telephone, but this time the sign under it read ’50 pence per call.’ The American was surprised so he asked the priest about the sign. ‘Father, I’ve travelled all over England and I’ve seen this same golden telephone in many churches. I’m told that it is a direct line to heaven, but in England the price was £10,000 per call. Why is it only 50 pence here?’
The priest smiled and answered, ‘You’re in Wales now, son …. it’s a local call.’
A family of England rugby supporters head out shopping in Richmond, one Saturday before Christmas.
While in a sport shop, the son picks up a Welsh rugby shirt and says to his sister, “I’ve decided I’m going to be a Welsh supporter and I’d like this shirt for my Christmas present!”
The sister is outraged at this; promptly whacks him round the head and says, “Go talk to mum.”
Off goes the little lad, with Welsh shirt in hand and finds his mother.
“I’ve decided I’m going to be a Welsh supporter and I’d like this shirt for my Christmas present.”
The mother is outraged at this; promptly whacks him round the head and says, “Go talk to your father.” Off he goes with the Welsh shirt in hand and finds his father.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought; I’ve watched the style of rugby they play and I’ve decided I’m going to be a Welsh rugby supporter and I would like this Welsh shirt for my Christmas present.”
The father is outraged at this; promptly whacks his son round the head and says: “No son of mine is ever going to be seen in THAT!”
About half an hour later, they are all back in the car heading home. The father turns to the son and says: “Son, I hope you’ve learned an important lesson today?”
The son turns to his father and says: “Yes, Father, I have.”
Father says: “Good son, and what is it?”
The son replies: “I’ve only been a Welsh supporter for an hour and I already hate you English bastards!”
A young lad said to his father one day, “dad everyone say’s their bike is the best etc, but yours is the only one in the bible.”
His father replied. “How so mate?”
He said “it says in the bible that David’s Triumph could be heard through out the land.”
Rindercella and her sugly isters lived in a marge lansion. Rindercella worked very hard frubbing sloors, emptying poss pits, and shivelling shot.
At the end of the day, she was knucking fackered. The sugly isters were right bugly astards. One was called Mary Hinge, and the other was called Betty Swallocks; they were really forrible huckers;they had fetty sweet and fatty swannies. The sugly isters had tickets to go to the ball, but the cotton runts would not let Rindercella go.
Suddenly there was a bucking fang, and her gairy fodmother appeared. Her name was Shairy Hithole and she was a light rucking fesbian. She turned a pumpkin and six mite wice into a hucking cuge farriage with six dandy ronkeys who had buge hollocks and digbicks. The gairy fodmother told Rindercella to be back by dimnlight otherwise, there would be a cucking falamity.
At the ball, Rindercella was dancing with the prandsome hince when suddenly the clock struck twelve. “Mist all chucking frighty!!!” said Rindercella, and she ran out tripping barse over ollocks,so dropping her slass glipper.
The very next day, the prandsome hince knocked on Rindercella’s door and the sugly isters let him in.. Suddenly, Betty Swallocks lifted her leg and let off a fig bart.. “Who’sfust jarted?” asked the prandsome hince. “Blame that fugly ucker over there!!” said Mary Hinge.
When the stinking brown cloud had lifted, he tried the slass glipper on both the sugly isters without success and their feet stucking funk.
Betty Swallocks was ducking fisgusted and gave the prandsome hince a knack in the kickers. This was not difficult as he had bucking fuge halls and a hig bard on. He tried the slass glipper on Rindercella and it fitted pucking ferfectly..
Rindercella and the prandsome hince were married. The pransome hince lived his life in lucking fuxury, and Rindercella lived hers with a follen swanny.
Acredited to Ronnie Barker
A rugby referee died and went to heaven.
Stopped by St Peter at the gates he was told that only brave people who had performed heroic deeds and had the courage of their convictions could enter.
If he could describe a situation in his life where he had shown these characteristics, he would be allowed in.
“Well,” said the ref, “I was controlling a game between Wales and England in Cardiff.
“Wales were two points ahead with a minute to go. Ben Cohen made a break, passed inside to Martin Johnson. Johnson was driven on by his forwards, before he passed out to Lawrence Dallaglio who went over in the corner.
“But Dallaglio dropped the ball before he could ground it. As England were clearly the better side all game, I ruled that he had got it down and awarded the try.”
“Ok, that was fairly brave of you, but I will have to check it in the book,” said Peter, before disappearing to look it up.
When he came back he said: “Sorry, there’s no record of this. Can you help me to trace it? When did all this happen?”
The ref looked at his watch and replied: “Forty-five seconds ago.”