Courgette newsflash
Some of the courgettes I sowed in May have started to fruit. Already my mouth is salivating with the thought of freshly-made ratatouille.
Some of the courgettes I sowed in May have started to fruit. Already my mouth is salivating with the thought of freshly-made ratatouille.
Today, July 6th, is the anniversary of the death of Guy de Maupassant in 1892. How many July 6ths did Guy de Maupassant pass without realising that it would be the day of his eventual death. Something tells me all of themj.
Now we are all used to celebrating anniversaries of one form or another. In the western world we celebrate our birthdays; the anniversaries of our advents into this valley of tears. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition it is more common for people to celebrate their “name day”", the feast day of the saint after whom they were named - provided, that is, they have not been named after someone like Keanu or Brittney. Robinson Crusoe, in Defoe’s novel, celebrated the anniversary of his shipwreck. But I am entranced by the possibility of being able to at least note the date of the day upon which I am to die. It would allow for so much purposeful preparations. There would be no need to worry about leaving loved ones behind; they could be let in on the secret years in advance. One could also make sure that all those fiddly little arrangements had been put in place. Disputes about who gets the Tom Jones vinyl collection could also be settled amicaby.
When I received a list of the events organised to accompany the forthcoming fleadh and saw that the speakers included that no good beggar from Belturbet, I was reminded of the story about the two fleas pigging out on a piece of shit. One of them farts very resolutely and loudly, causing the other to say: “Ah now, can’t you see I’m eating?”
And then I lookied at the committee and I was reminde of yet another story. A bar in the Texas Panhandle organised a contest where they were offering $1,000 to the guy whose girlfriend or wife’s pussy smelled the worst. A local factory worker jumped on stage and told the MC.
“The money’s as good as mine. Wait till you smell my wife’s pussy.” He went away, returning five minutes’ later pulling a aft and bloated womn by her hair. The MC commented. “My., I can smell her pussy from here.”
“Just you wait”, said the man, as he pushed up her skirt, took down her panties and exposed her pussy. The room wass immediately filled with a truly stomach-wrenching tidal wave of stale urine, sweat, faeces and what could only be described as ten-year-old Thai fish sauce. This was so overpowering that it led to a stampede as members of the audience rushed towards the exists, clambering over those who had fainted and through large pools of vomit. The MC was barely able to remain standing, so powerful was the stench, and he turned to the man with a cheque for $1000 and said |”Okay, no contest. You win hands down. But how do you live with someone with such a smelly pussy?”
“It’s not that bad,” he replies. “ The first three weeks after she died were the worst.”
Mary told her parents she was going out with some of the girls from work for a drink, and that they shouldn’t wait up. In fact she was going on a ate with the office stud. He wanted her to come back to his place, but because she was a virgin and she sensed that his intentions were not honourable she invited him back to her home, cautioning him not to make a noise.
Once inside the door he announced that he needed to go to the toilet – badly. As this would have meant a trip upstairs past her parents’ room she stopped him.
“But it’s urgent. Can I go in the kitchen sink?” he pleads.
I don’t know”, she aide. “So long as you don’t make a sound and clean up after you.”
He agrees and goes into the kitchen. Mary stands nervously outside, expecting his imminent re-emergence. But the seonds become minutes, and she eventually says. “Are you ok in there?” whereupon he sicks his head round the door and asks:
”Is thereany toilet paper?”
And he could just as well have wiped his arse with the booklet about the Fleadh in Cavan that I receiverd today. I deon’t know whether it was addressed to me at all. It just read “Ciaran Parker 4 Earlsvale Road.” Now I live at 5 Earlsvale Road, and I couldn’t be addressed by my proper title as this would have made that blatherskite from Belturbet look bad. The idea that someone else has a PhD in Cavan, of longer standing, is something he just can’t hack, so I have to be airbrushed out. To be honest the whole thing makes me totally ashamed to be from Cavan.
Brendan had been going out with a girl for a year but he’d been reluctant to go onto Level 2 of the relationship because he was ashamed at the smallness of his willyu. He decided to ask the advice of his friend Eugene.
“Size isn’t everything”, counsels Eugene. “It’s what you do with it. Get her in the right place and the right mood, and the fact that you’re a bit on the small size won’t make any difference.”
Armed with this advice he goes out with his girlfriend. They drive to a dark spot where Brendan considers it’s a now-or-never moment. He unzips his fly, whips out his willy and gently guides his girlfriend’s hand to it.
“No thanks,” she says. “I’ve given up cigarettes.”
A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed.
“Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.
“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”
“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”
“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.
“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for, but you have to do something for me.”
“Name it!”
“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”
“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.
“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.
“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.
After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:
“How old are you?”
The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”
“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”
