Life is busy again all of a sudden, and things are afoot, except our broadband connection which is just anarse.
My daughter is running around singing nursery songs in the manner of a 50-year-old lounge singer from Queens. I have no idea where she’s picked up this style but she only needs a feather boa, a gin, and a past littered with disappointment* and broken romance** and she could warble her heart-breaking, lung-bursting, Sue-Ellen-Ewing-lip-quavering way into a record-contract with the Divalicious label. They’d have to lower the microphones in the studio quite a lot. Perhaps get some Milky Buttons and apple-juice in. Some vodka, maybe; it calms her; artists of her stature (3′2″) can be very highly strung.
We’re fish-sitting too. I’ve grown fond of wee Rover this past week. He’s a Japanese Fighting Fish and he recognises the ultimate futility of everything too. I enjoy our chats in the bathroom – he has to be shut in there so the cat can’t eat him – and often sneak off for some rigourous intellectual badinage at odd points during the day. (Although he does argue the world and all its agents are merely penultimately futile and I’ve suggested he might be talking out of his tiny, tiny fish bum. Our last meeting ended with some stinging words, I’m afraid.) Still, he’s cumpnee, any road. The cat’s thick as a brick.
Here are some jokes:
A woman brought a very limp duck in to a veterinary surgeon. As she lay her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his stethoscope and listened to the bird’s chest.
After a moment or two, the vet shook his head sadly and said, “I’m so sorry, your duck has passed away.”
The distressed owner wailed, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. The duck is dead,” he replied.
“How can you be so sure,” she protested. “I mean, you haven’t done any testing on him or anything. He might just be in a coma or something.”
The vet rolled his eyes, turned around and left the room, and returned a few moments later with a black labrador retriever. As the duck’s owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table, and sniffed the duck from top to bottom. He then looked at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head.
The vet patted the dog and took it out, and returned a few moments later with a cat. The cat jumped up on the table and also sniffed delicately at the bird from head to foot. The cat sat back on it’s haunches, shook its head, meowed softly, and strolled out of the room.
The vet looked at the woman and said, “I’m sorry, but as I said, this is most definitely, 100 percent certifiably, a dead duck.” Then the vet turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and produced a bill, which he handed to the woman. The duck’s owner, still in shock, took the bill.
“$150!”, she cried, “$150 just to tell me my duck is dead!!”
The vet shrugged. “I’m sorry. If you’d taken my word for it, the bill would have been $20, but with the lab report and the cat scan, it’s now $150.00.”
Two blondes are working on a house. One of them, who?s nailing down siding, has been reaching into her pouch, pulling out a nail, and either tossing it over her shoulder or nailing it in. The second blonde, figuring this was worth looking into, asks, “Hey?how come you?re throwing half the nails over your shoulder?”
The first blonde explains, “If I pull a nail out of my pouch and it?s pointed toward me, I throw it away because it?s defective. If it?s pointed toward the house, then I nail it in.”
“You moron!” the second blonde yells. “The nails pointed toward you aren?t defective. They?re for the other side of the house.”
A waiter asks a patron, ?May I take your order, sir??
?Yes,? the man replies. ?I?m just wondering, how exactly do you prepare your chickens??
?Nothing special, sir. We just tell them straight out that they?re going to die.?
I thought they were funny and I won’t apologise for them, no I won’t.
* I’m her mother.
** Caeden from the Green Room. He preferred blondes.