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JOKES (Guaranteed 99.9% Bookmarkable)This Jokey-Blog may exacerbate chronic halitosis, mental aberration, repetitive spasmodic squinting & inflamed haemorrhoids could hang down lower than a beggar's cap. It enhances Joggers Nipple, Strapadichtomy, Tourettes & Varicose Brain Syndrome. |
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The Imperious Panhandler of this Jokey-Blog cannot be held responsible for brain cells that are lost during your visit.
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July, 2009 General Gubbins………..In a recent interview, The General said, " I believe that forgiving them is God's function. OUR job is to arrange the meeting. "
Dog For Sale……..Even if you don't own a dog at present, you'll
Dog For Sale Excellent guard dog. Owner cannot afford to feed him anymore, as there are no more drug pushers, thieves, murderers, or molesters left in the neighbourhood for him to eat. Never mind all that Michael Jackson stuff.......What I wanna know is what are all the dyslexic children gonna do now SETANTA is dead?!?!?!
 June, 2009 The Bar Jar…..A fellow walks into a bar, Next, he staggers out the back door, He says, NINE EXPRESSIOS ONLY WOMEN USE…………(1) Fine : This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up. * Send this to the men you know, to warn them about arguments they can avoid if they remember the terminology.
June, 2009 The Weekly Mash…..HELLO and welcome to the Weekly Mash, the shark full of cocaine from the Daily Mash, Britain's leading satire website and joyful daytime drinker. Iran - or Persia, as we call it - is a land of fascinations. On the one side are extremists who want to build a nuclear weapon and wipe Israel from the face of the earth, and on the other are moderates who want to build a nuclear weapon and wipe Israel from the face of the earth while wearing Levis and a Lacoste t-shirt. And who is going to decide the outcome of this struggle between the forces of reaction and the surging desire for boot-fit jeans? A man with a beard who thinks the answer is in a book written in the middle ages. God is great! Women’s Writes…………..Who writes best about sex?Women certainly are passionate enough to create raunchy erotica, even if they are impeded by biased cultural expectations.Women think that the Kama Sutra is an Indian takeaway. We are just not fluent in body language. Nor do we have the gift of the grab. While men are ready, villain and able, a woman’s biggest fantasy in the bedroom involves discovering that her husband has picked his underpants up off the floor. On official Name/ Address/ Age forms, after it says Sex most women should write: Not if I can possibly help it.” I know this because the new owner of the relaunched Erotic Review, Kate Copstick, is loath to allow too many female authors to slip between her covers. In the press last weekend and on the BBC Radio 4 Today programme with me this week she stated that women seldom write well about sex because females “have an agenda, they complicate sex, they make layers, it’s conditional. And they lie as well.” Apparently, it would be like reading a meat-lover’s guide written by a vegetarian.So, what exactly is erotic fiction? I suppose the most reliable definition is a magazine or book that you can read only with one hand. It is difficult to write about carnal matters without being unintentionally funny or just plain nauseating. So many contemporary sex scenes — the Bad Sex Award-winning Charlotte Grey by Sebastian Faulks, for example, or the later work of John Updike — read like a hard day’s work at the orifice. They’re as arousing as Ian Paisley in a posing pouch. The purple prose we girls grew up on in historical romances was no better. In fact it was hilariously obfuscatory — “He was diamond hard and proud.” “His thighs stiffened as his scabbard pierced her secret citadel.” We passed around our mothers’ dog-eared paperbacks featuring smouldering Heathcliff-esque heroes ravaging proud, raven-haired beauties, with all the rude bits marked up in red pen. But modern vernacular is repulsively brutal. The Australian erotic lexicon is a meaty smorgasbord of playing “hide the sausage”, with the “luncheon truncheon”, “meat injecting”, “chucking the spam javelin”, “spearing the bearded clam”, or “getting stabbed with the beef bayonet” — not exactly a Shakespearean love sonnet. But English Lotharios fare little better in the lascivious linguistic stakes. In British literature there’s an infantile retreat to the nursery with your “rumpy pumpy”, “hanky panky”, “slap and tickle”, “leg-over”, “nookie”, “bonking”, “giving the dog a bone” and endless triple entendres about crumpet, muffin, tiffin, tart and buttered buns for tea. Not to forget the playground singsong of rhyming slang — “I suppose a Friar Tuck would be out of the question?” American Casanovas are leg-crossingly crass. The erotic vocabulary of male authors and rap artists is all to do with fast food, rock music and manual labour. “Tuning in her fuzz box”, “plugging your live seed feed into the love socket”, “eating fur burger” . . . tooling, screwing and, post-Iraq, scoring a direct hit with his “sexocet missile”. One thing’s for sure. Read most contemporary literary sex scenes and you’ll soon be cured of all sexual inhibitions — mainly because you’ll be celibate for the rest of your life. But when it comes to penning full-frontal carnal encounters, the one voice missing is female. (Apart from brave pioneers such as Anaïs Nin, Kathy Acker, Erica Jong, Charlotte Roche and a coven of forthright French writers including Pauline Réage and Catherine Millet, that is, who make it very clear on which side their beds are buttered.) This is because for the most part women writing frankly about sex is still taboo. Forty years after the publication of The Female Eunuch and 100 since Emmeline Pankhurst tied herself to the railings, the double standards towards sexuality still exist. The hypocrisy is innate in our language. A man who is sexually active is a “Love God”, a “Lothario”, a “Romeo”, a “stud muffin”. A woman who has the same sexual appetites as a man is still described as a “slut”, a “slapper”, a “tart”, a “moll” or a “slag” with “margarine legs” — ie, easily spreadable. In truth, men still expect women to be virginal. The new man in a woman’s life will invariably ask: “Darling, darling, am I the first man to make love to you?” To which the woman will reply: “Of course. . . I don’t know why you men keep asking the same silly question.” Copstick complains that women complicate sex. But when scribes from Philip Roth to the scriptwriters of American Pie have entrenched the idea that men will have sex with anything with a hole and a heartbeat, and then count the legs afterwards (not just tethered, reasonably domesticated livestock are in demand, but even room temperature pies) — it doesn’t take much to make women look over-emotional. Men and women approach sex differently. What men call a quickie, most women would dismiss as premature ejaculation. (Some men are so premature their wives are not even in the room. Then you have to worry who he was fantasising about. Ugh. How could the man you love let Sarah Palin have sex in your bedroom?) We also have very different understandings of the word “commitment”. For the female of the species it means love, marriage and happy-ever-afters. But by Copstick’s logic, for the male of the species “commitment” means a meaningful one-night stand — preferably with seven bisexual hookers. But as wordplay is foreplay for women (how else is Woody Allen still getting laid?) it seems logical that women could write well about sex. If the Erotic Review really wanted to make its relaunch innovative and provocative, it would be commissioning the cliterati. Earlier this year Maggie Alderson, Imogen Edwards-Jones, Jessica Adams and I launched In Bed With, a collection of raunchy stories written by top British female authors, including Fay Weldon, Esther Freud, Ali Smith and Joanne Harris. The idea was that the authors would write under their porn names (first pet, first street.) The fun of the nom de porn is in guessing the real identity of Pom Pom Paradise, Minxy Malone and Cressida Bedwell. So much of contemporary fiction, from Harold Robbins to Bret Easton Ellis on, depicts women as submissive victims.The world of eroticism on screen and in magazines is dominated by male images and fantasies in which the women who aren’t mutilated or killed manage to achieve award-winning orgasms with no foreplay, crying out with such intense ecstasy that the audience is confused whether it’s an orgasm or demonic possession. Partnering such a woman, I wouldn’t know whether to offer a post-coital cigarette or an exorcist. If the women draped over the pages of sex scenes written by men (Ian Fleming being a typical example) were real, they’d have constant migraines from inflating plastic sexual pleasure enhancers and persistent pneumonia from dressing provocatively. (Female protagonists are constantly having to slip into something less comfortable.) Horny housewives would have third-degree carpet burns and fishnet friction on bits of their anatomy that couldn’t be explained away as a housework-related incident (Warning: male erotic fantasies are for professionals only. Do not try these in your own home.) We wanted a collection of stories that showed women in control, having fun and seeking pleasure. Writing about our sexual fantasies was an attempt to create porn that was celebrating, rather than exploiting, women. Our only criterion as editors was that the stories should do more for female stimulation than Doctor Ruth. And the diverse collection of fiction provocateur that soon poured in, ranging from fairy-tale frottage to sci-fi seducers and X-rated ghost stories, did have the editors lying down a lot. We hoped it would spawn a whole new genre of cliterature. But even with the fig leaf of a pseudonym, many of Britain’s most famous literary lionesses refused to roar. When approached, their responses proved remarkably meek: “Oh no! I wouldn’t want my mother to read it.” “What would my husband say?” “My children would be disgusted.” In Bed With was inspired by a newspaper report on marriage in which 42 per cent of women surveyed said that they often thought about running away with someone else. Half wished they’d never married. And one in three never reached orgasm during sex. A similar survey also revealed that British men, on average, achieve sexual satisfaction in less than three minutes. As women need at least five minutes of foreplay, you don’t have to be Einstein to see what’s wrong with that equation. It seems to me that the trouble is not women faking orgasms but men faking foreplay. It’s perplexing that the bloke who can calculate the total surface area of every room in the house, determine the exact mileto-the-gallon ratio of a five-hour trip to the South of France, where he effortlessly locates the remote fishing village that’s not even on a map — can’t find a clitoris. (A woman’s favourite destination, by the way, is not a French fishing village, but a cosy little spot that goes by the name of “G”. Location! Location! Location! This is all there is to say about the G spot really.) According to the many women I’ve interviewed for my novels over the years, if a man does attempt a little half-hearted foreplay, he invariably prods away at the clitoris as though it’s an elevator button and he’s running late for a meeting. It is then that a woman might cut to the carnal chase and say, exasperatedly, “Oh, just take the stairs”. The same research revealed that as many as 40 per cent of women in the UK have a libido that is limbo low, causing all kinds of resentments within a relationship. Husbands seem bemused about female sexual dysfunction. How can a woman lose her orgasm? What is it? A sock? Is it in some sexual laundry basket waiting to be paired so it can become a multiple orgasm? But for nearly half of the British female population the orgasm appears to be more elusive than the Bermuda Triangle. Yet if women wrote more candidly about their needs and desires, male partners might realise that “mutual orgasm” is not an insurance company. They may even feel inspired to take an anatomical orienteering course, armed with compass and a list of edible berries. With the double standards prevalent in our society it’s not going to be easy. Writing frankly about sex for In Bed With, I suffered from a performance anxiety I hadn’t felt since those hedonistic hours of enforced folk dancing in primary school. I have always avoided embarrassing myself in my sex scenes by making them funny — hey, it worked for Chaucer, Henry Fielding, Ovid, Catullus, Boccaccio and comedic co. But part of the joy of writing anonymously is flirting with another style and experimenting stylistically. The annoying aspect about anonymity is when your story is not only critically acclaimed, but is also attributed to another author, as happened to me this time. The hope is that for the next edition we’ll pen our pieces under our own names. It’s time that women got out from under. One thing is for certain: by claiming that female writers are erotically inept, Copstick is suffering from delusions of glandeur.
June, 2009 Typical Woman??A woman was in town on a shopping trip. She began her day finding the most perfect shoes in the first shop and a beautiful dress on sale in the second. In the third everything had just been reduced by 50 percent when her cell phone rang. It was a female doctor notifying her that her husband had just been in a terrible car accident and was in critical condition and in the ICU.
From a recent Bristol Evening Post: -
Outside Bristol Zoo is the car park, with spaces for 150 cars and 8 coaches. It has been manned 6 days a week for 23 years by the same charming and very polite car park attendant with the ticket machine. The charges are £1. per car and £5.per coach. On Monday 1 June, he did not turn up for work. Bristol Zoo management phoned Bristol City Council to ask them to send a replacement parking attendant. The Council said "That car park is your responsibility." The Zoo said "The attendant was employed by the City Council... wasn't he?" The Council said "What attendant?" Gone missing from his home is a man who has been taking daily the car park fees amounting to about £400 per day for 23 years. Interesting claim eh?
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