Pass the Puns, Please

Happy Sunday, dear internet. It has been a long week, so a groaner is much needed and well deserved. Like a fine wine, this one may need to breathe a bit, to be fully appreciated! Enjoy!


These two blokes are lost in the Sahara desert. They're desperate for water, but just as they think they're about to die, they chance upon a village where market day is in full swing.

They go to the first stall they see and ask if they can buy some water. "No," replies the Bedouin stall owner, "I only sell fruit. Try the next stall."

So off they go to the next stall and again they ask for water. "Sorry," says the merchant, "But I only sell custard." Custard? one of the blokes says to the other, "What kind of place is this?"

By now desperate, they go to the next stall, only to be told, "Sorry, but I only sell jelly." Hearing this, one of the blokes turns to the other and says, "This is a trifle bazaar."

The Hairless Pussy

There are certain things I have decided not to blog about. Boundaries I have set to help maintain my privacy and ensure that you, dear internet, do not think I am the world's biggest bozo. Things like the fact I bought a brand new digital camera about a month ago, and have yet to hook it up to my precious computer, because, well, I don't know how. And if I ask my darling hubs, he'll laugh his ass off all the way to the silly shack. I have decided not to blog about the general state of affairs between me and my mommy. Too damn depressing. Or the fact that my hub's family is just about as screwed up as my own. Isn't every family fvcked beyond redemption anyhow? I try not to blog about the overwhelming lack of support my family has showered upon my husband, kids and I since our angelboy flew away. It's hard to see through the tears and type at the same time.

I try not to blog bad things about my kids. Things like the fact both my kids resemble Bucky the Beaver and are going to cost me more in orthodontia equipment than my mortgage did. It's not their fault they have crooked teeth. Some might point out, that it is mine and my hubs. I try not to complain about the staggering amount of rotted apples and bananas my son tends to hide in his closet. The kid doesn't like fruit. But he can be highly creative when it comes to making it disappear. I try to see the bright side of this problem. I try not blog about my daughter's irritating habit of cutting papers into a billion tiny pieces and then scattering them around her room like confetti. Always a party when you're nine, right?

I try hard not to complain about my brilliant and beautiful husband. Because, let's face it, he reads this blog. And he works his ass off every day so that I can bitch about my neighbors. And the only thing he ever asks for is, well, more like offers everday, is his peckercillin. Really, what more could I ask for?

But when I found this cartoon, I could hold off no longer. You see dear internet, for the past two months I have been busting my ass working at a local greenhouse. The owner is a friend of mine who believes in plant therapy. She thinks if I get my arse off the couch, and stop staring at the computer screen, my grief will diminish. And she was sort of right. My grief hasn't diminished, but my ability to cope has increased. And I have lost ten pounds and gained girly biceps along the way. So it is all good, right?

Wrong. I have discovered my love of flowers in no way overpowers my hatred of manual labour. But why blog about it? Doesn't everyone hate their jobs? And at the end of May, I no longer am employed. I will be free to lounge in my pool and pluck my weeds. So I have deferred from blogging about my job.

But this cartoon, makes it impossible to say no. I MUST blog. You see, the greenhouse is ruled by several four legged creatures. A dog who is deaf, hates kids and tries to bite the wind. But he is cute, he likes me and he eats my apple cores, so I'll leave Winston alone. Then there are the cats. Mr. Burns and Smithers, who are a little fat, and do nothing but purr all day. We also have Maverick who has an affinity for mousing and then leaving the carcasses where I continually crunch them. Lovely but normal.

But then there is the cat from hell, aptly named Hobbes. This cat stalks me, terrorizes me and plays mind games with me. He sits on the flowers I am trying to transplant and he thinks my arms are meat bones for him to chew on. I have so many cuts, and scratches from that damn cat that when I see him on the driveway I wish I was in my car so I could mow him down. Hobbes had matted, long orange fur which he would perpetually choke up in a nice hair ball and deposit it where I could see it.

Not anymore, dear internet. The damned pussy tat was shaved. And a funnier site I have never seen. Now everytime I dodge his swiping paws or jump to avoid being bitten, I just laugh and walk away. Hard to be mad at a hairless kitty. And it really pisses him off.

Hee hee. Revenge is sweet Hobbes. Next time, you'll think twice about who you sink your little claws into.

***I can't wait to see how many perverts visit my blog when they Google hairless pussy. Sorry to disappoint you dudes, but perhaps you should get your mind out of the gutter. ***

Hillbilly Wars - For the Record

Last night we had an unexpected visitor. The hillbilly's new puppy came over and decided to check us out. I find this ironic as Mrs. Hillbilly used to screech at me like a flesh-eating banshee whenever my golden retriever used to wander over to visit them. As I was petting their giant, slobbering, stupid Rottweiler puppy named Wolfgang, it occurred to me that perhaps I haven't given the hillbilly's next door fair representation on my blog. There are people out there who may believe I live next door to ape-like critters.

I do. But that is besides the point. They have feelings too. Even when they are demanding I pick up the garbage their dog scattered and dragged home. Or when Mr. Hillbilly is peeing on my feet. Or when their son whips into my drive way and punches my 58 year old father for not signalling when my dad turned into my driveway. (I shit you not. But in fairness to the kid, he was stoned. It is hard to see straight with all that mojo flowing through your system.)

I'm sure Mrs. Hillbilly had feelings when she told me I diluted the gene pool with my youngest son. I mean, who wouldn't be upset to find out the new neighbor choose to breed and brought home, gasp, a disabled baby. Property values plummet all the time, I'm sure, due to the handicapped.

And I absolutely believe that Missy Hillbilly, who at fourteen, had crushing feelings when she drove her ATV up and down our road while yelling obscenities and the occasional death threat to Fric and Frac. When my husband caught her doing it, she explained that the, then 6 and 7 year old, kiddies were very annoying on the school bus, what with them wanting her to play video games with them. She was overwhelmed. We all know how two little kids who want to be nice to you can kill your social life. Nothing kills the "Badass Bitch" look one tries valiantly to cultivate easier than being nice to people under four feet tall.

So you see dear internet, I haven't been all that fair to my hillbilly neighbors next door. I haven't taken into consideration their frustration with having rednecks for neighbors. I haven't provided balance along with my insight. So I apologize, dear internet. And I am here to set the record straight.

The hillbilly neighbors have feelings, too.