This version will be edited and updated.

But please send additions or comments to me at brooklynboats@yahoo.com.au

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Bore water vs. ‘boar water.

NSW Central Coast [photo ‘male pig boar pissing urinating peeing]

We are on level 4 water restrictions. So locals are ‘mining’ water for their gardens.

Most have a sign like ‘BORE Water’ to stop the ‘Water Nazis’ coming and fining them some Au$400 for using tap water on their gardens.

One local comic has a sign – ‘Boar Water’ on the front of his house – Yet another example of our Australian larrickanism sense of humour about them, authority and everything, a;ll the way back when the NSW Corps used to sell rum and use the cat on us, the convicts.

 

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To xxx ABC Radio 702 Early Monday AM Overnight Question time. ? Why were we, as kids encouraged to piss on the lemon tree in our grandparents’ chookyard? As kids, we thought it was great fun and rather naughty. But why were we encouraged to pee there. I’d open my button fly. My young, girl cousin would look around to ensure no one else but me was around, drop her shorts, squat then pee near the lemon tree as we fed the chooks.

Why was this so? If not your listeners, perhaps Pr. Dr. Karl Koniski (sp?)  could answer my query?

 

Why did the old British Government collect their citizen’s urine?

 

Where do I come from?

My beloved, long-dead maternal grandparents were bushie-hippies years before the Vietnam War era and years of ‘peace, love, very casual sex, lots of free love, drugs, rock & roll and organic vegetables’.

They lived on a rural two-acre, double block. A weatherboard house with verandahs on three sides. The ‘bedroom’ for visiting grandchildren was the part-enclosed side verandah with visiting possums, spiders, mice and bush rats.

??? [ ADD MORE INFO BELOW]

etc. plants, rabbits and pigeons, fish and venison, Ma sales Tuesdays, almost free Sunday joint, recycled for evening meal until Wed or Thurs. Drop dunny with squares of old newspaper on a nail instead of toilet rolls with a view of the lake because the door was not level, so kept swinging open to reveal a fine view of the lake and enough light to read old Women’s Weekly magazines and Pix with those cartoons with firm-breasted, nubile young lubras inside the back cover.

After dark, Ma would light a tiny meths lamp and hunt for slugs and snails in the garden. She’d put them in a mason jar and feed them to the chooks as part of their next day’s breakfast. My grandparents practiced recycling as a matter of everyday life. But they called it merely being sensible and not wasting anything. Their three compost bins filled and used in turn were filled with all the vegetable matter from all over the property. Ducks, geese and chooks roamed the orchard, gobbling up dropped fruit before fruit flies could strike. They grazed and ate most of the grubs, snails and caterpillars as they roamed under the fruit trees.

I can well remember long summer ‘salad days’ with my tom boy, girl cousin as we sat in fruit trees, reaching for and picking ripe plums, oranges, mandarins, cherries, peaches, nectarines, apples, pears and other types of soft and hard fruit since long forgotten. Until recently, I’d long forgotten  the taste of loquots and fresh figs from my childhood. Both were great either eaten fresh from the branch or when made into jam. Grandma used to make a brilliant melon, orange and fresh ginger jam that won prizes most years at the local show, as did her cakes, scones and sponges. She also taught us how to knit.

If we could not reach a choice-looking piece of ripe fruit in their orchard, we’d go to the barn and borrow a long-handled broom and one of Grandpa’s fishing landing nets to catch the fruit we’d then knock from the upper branches, collecting them with minimal bruising.

A couple of years later my cousin came to stay with us in our rented house in the city. It was in a long-established suburb with high, old and very dense hedges on the back boundary. She and I explored there, down behind the incinerator. In those days you didn’t put much rubbish out front each week. Most household waste was burned in your incinerator at the bottom of the garden. She and I took the hedge clippers and cut a small tunnel through the hedge, all the way into the back of our rear neighbour’s property. She was a war widow and a nurse. Her’s was also a large block. the back half of her block had thirty or forty fruit trees. We took to sneaking there and gorging oursekves on the ‘stolen’ fruit, remembering how much we’d enjoyed filling ourselves with fruit at Gran’s place.

One day the widow caught us. Shame. Shock Horror and the police? No. She asked us up to her house for cakes and cold cordial from her icebox. No one around there had a ‘frig at that stage. We’d follow the horse-drawn ice-cart and beg chips of ice from the ice-man. She took away all our delicious guilt by saying, “Come and eat as much fruit as you like. There’s far too much for me to ever eat. Would you like to collect a few boxes of oranges and lemons so your Mum can make marmalade?”

We did, of course. But it was not the same, somehow, after we had been given permission to come and eat fruit without the fear of being caught.

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My grandparents grew pyrethium daisies and geraniums all over their property. They knew how effective pyrethium daisies from Africa are at keeping down the flies and other insects. They grew many other companion plants. For example, basil was always planted around tomatoes and geraniums were plated as a border all around their large vegetable garden to minimise insect attacks. The They’s male up and use a soap and garlic spray against small insects. The only two chemicals I can remember was a white derris dust powder and to copper sulphate-based spray that went on the grape vines.

Over-feeding the chooks.

Sliding down the hay in the barn with my cousin. Seeds needing a picture at the end of the row so they’d know how to grow. Country remedies.

Wood-fired stove in the large kitchen that was banked up each night and never allowed to go out. We collected kindling and fallen branched from the gun-tree plantation next door. There was a large, heavy teapot always standing on a warm section at the rear, near the flue. It was rarely emptied. Only topped up and fres tea leaves added. Grandma would use a scoop to remove some old tea leaves. Rumour had it that she could make a coloured, tasty brew for three or four days if she ever ran out of tea leaves because of the years of tannin and other stuff on the inside surface. It was a wetback stove, making almost as much hot water as we needed.

We were on tankwater, of course, collecting our water from the house and shed roofs. We did not waste water and in my memory, never came near running out. If the house tanks overflowed, the runoff went down to a large, brick-lined underground cystern with an old, iron hand-pump. On hot summer days we’d put a couple of bottles of Grandma’s home-brewed ginger beer in a sugar bag and use a length of rope to lower them into the dark, cool water. We had no refrigerator and they did not waste money onice except at Christmas as part of setting jellies etc. for dinner on the 25th.

Our baked Sunday lunch was a ritual carried out on autopilot by Grandma. The ovens would be adjusted so one was hot for roasting and the other, smaller one a little cooler for the baked desserts and puddings and some of the cakes. The leg of lamb or pork was slowly cooked. The potatoes, sweet potato and pumpkin that were to be baked were peeled portioned and soaked in water. Then almost dried under damp tea towels. Green vegetables from the garden would be prepared, ready to be over-boiled on the stive top on our return from church.

We’d leave for church at about a quarter to ten. We’d be let out half way through the service and would enjoy Sunday school, drawing, bible story telling and singing fun hymns while the adluts sat through the weekly, long, droning sermon. On our return, Grandma would put her pinnie on over her Sunday dress and get back to finishing the meal’s cooking. The roast would be taken from the oven placed on a rack in another tray in the oven and we two kids would take finely-chopped onions, fresh chopped green herbs and flour and make proper gravy on the stove top, under Grandma’s supervision, of course.

We’d also make fresh mint sauce with vinegar, chopped fresh mint, sugar and water if we were to eat lamb. If it was pork, We’d go to the pantry and from the many scores of bottles of beans, fruit and home-made jams, select a siutable jam as the sauce to go with the pork, complete with the world’s best and crispest crackling.

We loved his dogs. They were various types of spaniels and red setters with long, shaggy coats and gentle, loving natures. Well trained to raise up and to retrieve ducks from the reeds and swamps. They treated we kids as part of their pack, of course. At one stage, Grandpa had an old, pre WW2 American car with a single bench seat in front and a dicky seat with a lid instead of a normal boot at the back. We’d sit with all the dogs in the back with our eyes streaming and the digs hanging over the edge, smelling the passing smells and having great fun. Years later I saw a drawing in a Gerald Durrell book. Perhaps it was his ‘My Family and other animals’? That showed an old car, just like ours. In the back were the Durrell kids and all the family dogs. Brought a happy mmeory lump to my throat and a tear to my eye for by then my beloved Grandfather had died, soon followed by our Granfmother: a pair of total quality people with old-fashioned values and country skills I try to maintain.

As my Grandfather once said in his thick Norwegian accent, “If you can’t fix it with a piece of number eight fencing wire and some tin from a kero tin or a piece of roofing iron it’s not worth owning, son.”

My Grandmother never learned to drive. Women knew their place in those days. But she was very observant as she sat in the passenger’s seat, knitting as they drove.

My Grandfather was a classic old driver. He was in charge and took no advice from anyone. One day they were out driving. My grandmother saw another car approaching and that there could possible be a collision. “Look out!” she called. “Shut up, wpman. I’m the driver.”

My Grandmother said nothing. Just carried on quietly knitting.

A few weeks later they were coming back from their major monthly shopping expedition. She saw a car approaching from her left, passenger’s side. Following instructions, she said nothing as it came closer and hit hteir car’s left front fender. She turned to my Grandfather and apparently said, “I did see him coming. But you are in charge aren’t you?”

Grandpa was banned from the house after breakfast until tea time. He spend his days fishing for trout, training his gun dogs or working in his shed. In his shed, there was an old radio, a small pot belly stove that was used to keep the shed warm in winter and to make endless pots of tea using real tea leaves. He’d show me how to make intricate and quality leather goods. As well as being a saddler and quality woodworker he had been a sailmaker and sailor on square riggers that went around the Horn and around the Cape of Good Hope carrying cargo to Australia and grain back to Europe. He’d jumped ship in the late nineteenth century, lured by the tales of the Victorian goldfields. Years later in Auckland, he proudly took me on board the sailing ship ‘Pamir’ when on her final visit to the South Pacific.  Asked the sailor at the gangplank if he could meet the captain. We were taken to meet the Norwegian Captain. My Granfather had also been born in Norway in a small town, Elverum with it’s medieval, wooden stave church and not much else, about two hours away from Oslo. He’d run away to sea in the 1800’s.

In the cpatain’s cabin, my Granfather snapped to attention and switched to Norwegian. After a sentence or two the Captain laughed, came closer and shook my Grandfather’s hand. They switched to English for my benefit. It turned out that My Grandfather had jumped ship from a four-masted square-rigger belonging to a precursor of this Baltic-based company. Schnapps appeared and I had y very first taste of alcohol. then followed a guided tour of a real, sailing ship by a real sailor. He was not arrested for desertion. Perhaps it was something about the nautical equivalent of the statute of limitations. Although my Grandfather had been showing me how to row in a small fishing dinghy on the lake since I was about four years of age, I think that day started a life long problem and infection. I’ve been a sailing tragic ever since.

...  and saddler on ...

 

Learning how to smoke

Down near the dog’s kennels on my grandfather’s property was a former corrugated iron dunny he’d rescued from a local property and converted into a smokehouse. He taught me how to smoke fish, eels, rabbits, legs of mutton at Christmas time and even legs of venison pork. We did not use eucalypts of course. There was no fragrant hickory there, as is used in N. America. I must Google and find out what woods we can use to smoke meat in Australia.

On cold winter evenings we’d sit in the front room with its red gum-fuelled wood from the huge wood pile out the back. We used old oil lamps most of the time as we listened to the radio as Grandpa showed me how to tie trout flies. Other nights we would work on his stamp collection, a large part of which wa sourced by my uncle, his youngest son who was at sea. Uncle would send us whole cocunuts with a stamp and an address from Fiji or Samoa. at other times he’d return with toy outrigger canoes that we would sail in trhe stream at the back of the property or on the nearby lake.

 

LATEr - Sailing while at Hihg School and only just passing sixth form exams.

 

URL’s to find

How gay is your dog? - [Use a Google search to find this site.]

 

I’m so old that. . .

·       I thought gay meant quite happy.

·       I can remember when cigarettes were ten for ten cents and matches were a penny a box. Only American servicemen had lihgters. They were Zippos and smelt of aviation high octane petrol: starting in me a life-long addiction to things aviational.

·       Phone calls in a public phone box cost a penny. You pushed button B to get your coin back. Our friends away from the city were on manual exchanges and had ‘numbers’ such as Drake 7D. That’s when I started to learn the Morse code.

 

Quirky definitions.

A stupid person. ‘Has been swimming at the shallow end of the gene pool.’

Autoerotic. Someone who thinks cars are sex objects.

 

A Kiwi songbook.

Some of you might be old enough to remember those little ‘Kangaroo’ brand song-books with the words to popular songs.

An alternative might have been the Kiwi song book. Suitable titles might be: - Ewe made me happy, Ewe are my sunshine, only ewe, etc.

True story. A New Zealand newspaper reorted that two rather drunken maoris had been arrested while dinking on an bike late at night at Mt. Maunganui near Tauronga. The reason the police stopped them was that the rear pedeller had a full-sized, inflatable, fully inflated plastic sheep at his back. That and the cartons of cigarettes and porno magazines had recently been taken from an adult store they’d broken into for some after hours shopping.

 

Beating big business - sometimes

Many years ago, we’d usually dry our washing on the Hills hoise in the back yard. If it was raining we’d string the wet clothes on a temporary line on the back verandah. We had two young girls and a two bedroomed house. The two girls had always shared a bedroom. One day our youngest, who could twist me around her little finger at the slightest effort declared that she was goning to move onto the back verandah. And that I had to enclose it. I did.

But where to dry our washing on wet days? We looked through the catalogues and ordered an electric clothes drier from Waktons: a Sydney depatrment store.

Weks passed. No drier had been delivered. I phone them to stir things up. Spoke with a manager who promised to sort it all out. A couple of days later our new drier turned up and it worked fine. I went away on a ten day trip to London, expecting to get the bill about the time I returned. On my return there was no bill. But a second drier sat, unopened on our front verandah. Duh! Obviously a corporate Simpsons moment. I phoned them to sort it out. Spoke with another manager who promised to arrange for it to be picked up. Nothing happened.

Soon after, Walktons went broke and c;losed down. We never did receive an account for either drier. We sold it for cash to a neighbour. Then used the cash to buy more stuff from Grace Bros. department store. At that stage of our lives, we had forgotten first principles and had become good, obedient little consumers with a very high disposable income.

Shame of it was that Grace Bros. had a very efficient accounting system. We never did get any freebies from them because of accounting stuffups, did we?

 

Bringing a cheese from London to south of Bega.

This rather ‘coals to Newcastle story is strange but true. Typical of our attitude to friendship, life and travel in those rather hedonistic and fun-filled days of my young adulthood.

Based in London as a Qantas 747 pilot with my Emglish born wife and our two young girls. My job was to fly from London to Bahrein and back. Else from Lindon Heathrow to Bombay and back. Flying ‘downhill’ from London to Bombay in winter time was quick and easy because we hunted to and rode the jet streams, thus shortening our flight time and causing us to save much fuel. Bad news was that in winter, on our return to London we’d have to stay low and slow to avoid the adverse jetstreams and to conserve fuel. It was dark from the time we took off after midnight, local time in Bombay until well after we landed, still in the dark after six a’clock, back at Heathrow. If we were late enough, we would see the daily British Airways Concorde doing its always super-spectacular takeoff, on its way to New York, full of over-funded celebritis and self-important politicians spending our tax money on so-called urgen business in New York.

But I digress. A friend and his lady sent us an invitation to the opening of their small restaurant in a small NSW coastal town a few miles south of Bega, the cheese capital of the world, in my opinion.

I swapped a trip or so and we were ten free to fly to Sydney, get friends to pick us up at the airport, drive to the opening. share the fun. drive back to Sydney Kingsford Smith, jump on another London-bound Qantas 747, go home, have a sleep and put on my pilot’s uniform to take my next day’s flight to Bombay. It was northern winter. So it was warm ans ummer weather back in Australia.

I’d returned from a flight to Bombay and back. My wife and our two girls met me at Heathrow flight ops with some real clothes. I left my uniform in a bag ther and we went through check in and onto the same aircraft I’s brought to London from Bombay only a couple of hours earlier. As aircrew, we were allocated spare first class seats of course. By the Way. From the day they were born, our two young girls had only ever flown first class. While we were based in London, they’d typically have a chat with a friend in Sydney, talk between themselves and declare that, ‘They were going to take a few days off school in England and fly to Sydney to stay with Vickie. that because it was summer and Vickie was having a birthday party. They’d fly alone in first class, distaining to show those ‘unaccompanied minor’ tags by hiding them inside their blouses or sweaters.

On arrival in Sydney, they’d march through arrivals and customs with nothing but a small hand bag and be met by Vickie’s parents. My youngest would always carry her rather fine baggamon set. She was a monster player and a natural hustler. I remember one flight where I was the copilot on the seven and a half hour night flight from Singapore to Sydney. At that stage the upstairs 747’s bulge was not passenger seating but trhe first class lounge. Before top of climb, she was sitting at a  table upstairs with an ice-filled soft drink, idly moving her baggamon pieces about, waiting for a victim. Sure enough, an American, first class male passenger approached. “Hello little girl. Do you know how to play that?”

She fluttered her guileless blue eyes and shook her blond hair. Put on her sweetest pixie smile and said, “well. Just a little bit.” As in ‘Come in spinner’.

After a game of two she’d shyly show her few dollars pocket money. On this occasion she and the guy stayed up all night, playing until top of descent near Sydney.

On arrival, she announced that she had won seventy one US dollars overnight.

I was shocked and declared that she should give it back for I knew she was a little hustler. “No.” she declared. “I won it fair and square. He was just a stupid, self-important Yank, I reckon. Besides, I’m going to take Vickie out to Wonderland and we are going to blow the lot. So there!”

What can you say to a seven year old with an IQ of more than 150 who had been taught baggamon by a female friend in London who made her living as an assistant at Christies auction bhouse and most of her nights earning hundreds of tax-free pounds playing serious baggamon on upper class, private London gambling clubs?

While in Sydney, they’d share clothes, as did Vickie and her sisters when they came to visit us in London. A few days later the girls would take themselves back to London, home on the Wentworth Estate and back to school at Virginia Water Public School. Suitably tanned and with sun, salt and chlorine bleached hair, having gotten a tan and gone blond again just to piss off their lily-white, Pommie classmates.

But
I digress, yet again.

As our family group passed the Heathrow duty-free, ‘H’ declared that we must buy a bottle of good port as well as a couple of bottles of single malt whisky to take with us. As we were on an almost taxt-free income and I rarely spent all my overseas cash meal allowances, there was always a few score of pounds and other types of notes in my wallet. We did.

Once seated I noticed she’s slipped on board carrying a qiute large, cardboard box from Harrods [or?]. “What’s in there?” “A full Stilton I had delivered yesterday,” ‘H’ replied. “It’s for the sideboard in Derek and Mina’s new restaurant.”

“OK,” I thought. “Good thinking, mate.” I was tired, having worked all the previous night to bring that airplane up the hill from Bombay to London. So I slept most of the 21 plus hours from London to Bombay. Then on to Perth and across Australia to Sydney.

We arrived soon after dawn to be met by Ross and Sandy. We propped in the back of thewir VW Kombi camper and we set off southbound down the coast towards xx, just south of Bega and our friends. We slept most of the way.

On arrival at McKells, we found it still at the ‘almost but not quite ready to open’ stage. Derek and Mina were madly painting the dining room But the food was in their many frig’s, out in the kitchen. Derek was meant to be the cook that night for thewir guests for this free, pre-commercial opening night for the local bank manager, newspaper and local radio station reporters, butcher and vegetable suppliers, real estate agents and local motel amnd caravan park owners.

OK. While Derek and Mina worked out front, we took over the kitchen. Derek explained their planned cooking style. Tables of eight or ten. They were going to use a variation of Russian service. That requires minimum waitstaff. They’d bring a large soup tureen, a ladle and a big basket of freshly baked bread for the first course. Serve yourself. The local mayor’s table received their home-made soup in a flower patterned, ornate ‘gzunder’ bought from a local op shop. He accepted the back-handed compliment, being used to dealing out ‘s**t’ in the local council area. Frsh local brwad was served at the local real estate agents’ and local solicitors’ tables marked, ‘Cash for local council for building approval applications’. They’d thenn add fresh local cream and chopped green herbs and croutons to their soup from plants in their own herb garden.

For the main course, whole legs of lamb, beef roasts or pork roasts, part-carved and brought on a large platter to the table with lots of roast vegetables laid out all around the joint. With a set of carving knives and forks for the guests to use to carve more and to serve themselves. Large, covered old china bowls of freshly steamed vegetables, more roast potatoes, sweet potato and roast pumpkin. Crisp Yorkshire pudding and lashings of gravy, of course, to go with the main course.

So we set to in the kitchen, firing up the wood-fired Aga and starting our prep while they worked to finish the main dining room.

The wine for the evening had been provided almost free by a local provider: an arrangement we did not ask too much about. There was a lot of contra dealing going on in and around that town at that time, of course. Derek and Mina were master and mistress of contra deals. e.g. Radio advertising time in exchange for free meals on a Sunday ight, as was also provided for the local taxi drivers and their families on Sunday nights in exchange for them bringing guests to the restaurant as a matter of course.

By 2pm we were all flagging. So we broached the cargo of wine that has been delivered for the evening meal, just to test it and to let the red wines breathe, of course.

The girls made most of the desserts. We made it on time. Just.

A good time was had by all.

And the full-sized Stilton cheese, brought all the way from Fortnum & Mason in London’s Picadilly looked fine at the centre of the sideboard with other, more locally made cheeses from Bega and soft cheeses from Tasmania.

And the port? In those days, it was habit to pour a little port into the top of the Stliton ‘to keep it moist’. You’d also drink either red or white port or muscat with your after dinner cheese platter.

Thise were the ‘Good Old Days’, as I remember them.

We slept most of the way back to London the next day. I had another sleep, put on my uniform and took yet another 747 to Bahrein for three or four casks of Australian red wine to take back to London for almost nothing. But that is another rather quirky story, I fear.

 

Importing Australian Wine to Bahrein

We were based in London, flying Qantas 747’s to and from Bahrein and Bombay.

Our local Arabian Gulf Australian Trade Commissionaer was an enterprising type of bloke. [etc etc]

 

Womens Rights, PC and Feminism

I strongly believe in equality of opportunity and no prejudice in all aspects of life.

It’s great to meet a deeply involved feminist with a sense of humour. When you do, you can have an intelligent conversation with another human (Ooops. I meant ‘huperson’) being. For example, I’ve known Ms. Eva Cox for some twenty years. She is great and I honour her work, skills and her attitude.

But when I was tutoring at Uni. of Sydney, College of Health Sciences some years ago I felt that it had gone a little too far. So with the agreement of the female editor of our monthly student magazine I started a ‘Politically incorrect’ column that drove some of the sisterhood mad. It was quirky but informative. For example, I explained that ‘manus’ is a Latin word for hand from which many English words are d4erived. Those with limited education attempt to change commonly used English words containing ‘man’ even though they may refer to the Latin ‘manus’ and not to the male of our hu-person group of animals.

It was easy to find copy. from real life, our Student style guide and the Internet, plus daily and weekly newspapers and other media provided more than we could publish.

Some of the ‘sisters’ on staff seriously attempted to find out who was writing that column. But the Student Union’s magazine Editor. Ms. ‘SC’, a single mother with a great sense of humour, used to claim, “I don’t know. The copy just appears under my door on a floppy disk each month”.

 

Which woman?

Would you rather sit across a dinner table, sharing a dinner with Paris Hilton or Jana Vendt? [sp?]

 

A sip of the tongue. Hopefully, non-Freudian

I have nothing to be ashamed of. And I try to make a good impression, especially during a final interview to be appointed as a nurse with an Anglican aged Care system. So there I am, neat, clean and tidy in front of these three very senior Nursing Systers who were part of their management Committee.

Question after question, all apparently answered well. We all relaxed a bit as they asked me about some of my outside interests and life experiences.

Then came the question, “Are you a Christian?”

“Easy,” I thought. For this was an Anglican – Church of England organisation. “Yes. I went to church from the earliest age. Well indoctrinated and happily confirmed into the Church of England at our C of E prep (primary), boarding  school. I was the leading boy soprano in our local cathedral choir and, [wait for it. I was under stress and talking fast.] an ‘incest swinging’ alter boy.”

Oh Shit!!!!  Half hearing what my mouth had uttered, I’d even paused in shock after the first word, before saying ‘swinging’. ‘End of job prospect,’ I thought. There was a shocked, short silence. Then all three of the ladies burst into raucous laughter. They thought it was so funny.

I got the job.

Months later, one of them spotted me on the ward, came across, asked how I was getting on, then asked, “Still enjoying swinging, Keith?”

So I had apparently made an impr4ession during that interview.

 

Bad (and some slightly subtle) jokes

Physicists jokes.

·       A neutron walks into a bar and orders a beer. Pulls out its wallet, but the bartender says, “No charge”.

·       Two atoms bump into each other. One says, “I think I’ve lost an electron”. The other says, “Are you positive?

 

Train driver joke;- “To be a train driver, you have to be loco.”

Psychoanalyst joke. -  “You look fine, How am I?”

Communications joke - Two cell phone tower installers met and got married. Their wedding was so so. But the reception was fantastic.

Astronaut’s joke. - NASA set up a restaurant on the moon. Great food but no atmosphere.

Blood collector’s joke. - How does a vampire leave the country? In a a blood vessel.

Sick jokes. Necrophilia’s dead boring. Copraphilia’s rather shitty. Not everyone can be a eunuch. You have to be cut out for the job.

 

ENDS