Jokes & Funnies

[The Grand Wazoo]

I don't know how true this is, but apparently it was Letter of the Year in The Times.......

Letter from a 98 yr. old lady to her bank manager:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my cheque with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it.

I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my Pension, an arrangement, which, I admit, has been in place for only thirty eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account £30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan payments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank by cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate. Be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Solicitor, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, I will issue your employee with PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows:

1. To make an appointment to see me.
2. To query a missing payment.
3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4. To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7. To leave a message on my computer (a password to access my computer is required. A password will be communicated to you at a later date to the Authorized Contact.)
8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through to 8..
9. To make a general complaint or inquiry, the contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous, New Year.
Your Humble Client

[Mike Reed]

Three elderly golfers were making their way down the fairway when one says to his companions,

" 60 is the worst age of all. You spend most of the time wanting to pee, but very little comes out."

"I disagree." said another, " 70 is a much worse age. You don't have proper bowel movements any more. You take laxatives, eat bran and sit on the toilet most of the day, to little effect."

"Good Lord, no!" said the third man. "80 is by far the worst age."

"Do you have trouble peeing as well?" the 60 year old asked.

"Heavens, no," replied the former, "I pee like a racehorse at 6 o'clock every morning."

"Well, do you have trouble with your bowel movements?" asked the 70 year old.

"Nope, I poop regularly at 6.30 in the morning like a good'un," replied the octogenarian.

"So why on Earth is being eighty such a terrible age?" chorused the younger two.

"I don't wake up until seven" retorted the old man.


MORAL Ageing is bad for your health.

[The Grand Wazoo]

Good one, Mike!

I've been meaning to put the following up for a couple of days now:
It is raining, and the little town of Greater Nipplescratch looks totally deserted. Times are tough, everybody is in debt, and everybody lives on credit and there's no end in sight.

Suddenly, a rich tourist comes to town. He enters the only hotel, lays a pair of fifty pound notes on the reception counter, and asks the hotelier what sort of room he can get for this sort of outlay.

The hotel owner tells him that for £100 a night, he can have any room in the place, and a big bowl of fruit will be delivered as a personal gift, room service will be charged at a discount of 35% and that he will personally clean his shoes & deliver his morning paper. Furthermore, if the room of his choice is occupied, he'll move the guest to a different room & have the cleaners come in, despite it being their day off, and it will be cleaned to sparkling, spotless perfection.

The tourist says this sounds like an excellent offer, the elderly bell-boy takes the bunch of keys the hotelier is holding up and he shows him upstairs to inspect the rooms in order to make his choice.

The hotelier takes the £100 and runs off down the road to to pay off his debt to the butcher.

Smith, the butcher takes the £100 and gets into his van & drives down to Giles the farmer's place to pay his overdue meat bill.

Giles takes the £100 and gets in his tractor, drives into town to pay his debt to the feed merchant.

Morrison, the feed merchant takes the £100 and, first making sure no-one is following, goes down to the seedier part of town to pay his debt to the prostitute, who in such hard times, had offered "services" to her best customers on credit.

Nancy runs to the hotel, and pays off her £100 debt to the hotel proprietor to pay for the rooms that she rented when she brought her clients there.

The hotelier then lays the cash back on the counter so that the rich tourist will not suspect anything. At that moment, the tourist & the bell-boy come back downstairs after inspecting the rooms. He takes his two £50 notes, and before he leaves, he says that as the bad weather looks like it's clearing up a bit, he's going to drive on to the next town, where he might try to look up an old school friend.

No one earned anything. However, the whole town is now without debt, and everyone looks to the future with a lot more optimism.
But deep down, they know that things will get much worse before they get better.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the entire Western World is doing business right now, today.

[Mike Reed]

(Thanks, CHRIS)

A Scotsman walks into an Amsterdam brothel and asks for the hourly rate.

"100 euros", the prostitute answered.

"How much for a Scottish style session?" he asked.

"Don't do that,", she answered, wondering what it was. Negotiations and exhortations continued up to 500 euros, when the hooker thought to herself 'I've done everything else, so this Scottish style thing can't be THAT bad.'

"Okay, then," she finally said, "I'll do it for 500 euros."

Many hours passed, with every conceivable position and way explored to the full.

"Wow; that was fantastic," she exclaimed at the end. "I've never enjoyed it so much. But I was expecting something perverted and disgusting, so where does the 'Scottish style' thing come in?"

The Scotman replied, "I'll pay ye next week."


NB There's a grave danger of some jokes being repeated as this thread is now so long, so apologies if this one's been done before, as I have a vague memory of a series of Scottish jokes kicking this thread off.

[The Grand Wazoo]

As long as it's still open season on our provincial brothers, I'll offer the following.

Mrs Wazoo has cleared this one on the sexual politics front............

McFinley and Mackay, are sitting in the pub discussing Mackay's forthcoming wedding.

"Och Ay, grand, grand.......it's all going grand," says Mackay.

"I've got everything organized already: the flowers, the Kirk, the cars, the reception, the rings, the minister, even ma stag night..."

McFinley nods approvingly.

"Jings Mon, I've even bought a kilt to be married in!" continues Mackay.

"A kilt?" exclaims McFinley, "that's grand, you'll look pure smart in that! "And what's the tartan?"

"Och," says Mackay, "I'd imagine she'll be in white..."

[Marco]

LOL! The only problem, Chris, is that NO Scotsman I know would ever come out with expressions such as "Jings Mon", etc, so allow me to re-write it for you in more realistic language:


McFinley and Mackay, are sitting in the pub discussing Mackay's forthcoming wedding.

"Nae bother, by the way, pure excellent, pure excellent.......it's aw gawn pure excellent," says Mackay.

"Uv goat the lot sortit oot, so ah huv: the flewers, the Kirk, the moaturs [not pronouncing the 't'], the reception, the rings, the high heid yin, even ma stag night..."

McFinley nods approvingly.

"Mental bastart that a am, av even boat a kilt tae get merrit in!" continues Mackay.

"A kilt?" exclaims McFinley, "that's grand, you'll look pure smart in that! "And what's the tartan?"

"Huvnae goat a scoobie," says Mackay, "Ad imagine she'll be in white..."


Trust me, that's much more like it now!!

Marco.

[Mike Reed]

D'ye ken? A Glaswegian translation service on this esteemed forum !!

Whatever next?

[Marco]

My linguistic talents are endless, dontcha know!

Marco.

P.S "Gorbaldegook" was a nice touch

[The Grand Wazoo]

LOL! The only problem, Chris, is that NO Scotsman I know would ever come out with expressions such as "Jings Mon", etc

Well, Marco, you don't know'em all & Scotland reaches further than Glasgow, mate. I had a student work for me when I was in Dumfries & Galloway who said jings in almost every sentence he said. Funny enough, he ended up in North Wales too! - near Welshpool, I think.

But I never once heard him say "Hoo th'noo broon coo"

[Marco]

LOL. You're right, Chris. I think it was the "mon" along with the "jings" that just swung it too much into 'Jings, crivens, help ma boab' territory!

'There's a moose loose aboot this hoose', and all that nonsense.

Mind you, 'tcheuchters' (look that one up if you're unfamiliar with the expression) often talk that way... But they're all 'aff their heids'!!

Marco.