A bit Of Toilet Humour

[the_great_she_elephant]

A bit of toilet  humour to cheer you all up. I wrote this in response to a prank photo that circulated showing empty shelves in Busselton Library .

The Literary Dunny

You’ve heard no doubt, the news about

The current bog roll panic,

With fights in shops and calls to cops

And bogans going manic.

Me old mate, Blue, was in a stew

He didn’t find it funny,

That all around no shop he found

With bogroll for his dunny.

He sat alone upon the ‘throne’

In silent desperation,

But then at last there came a blast -

A flash of inspiration.

“Well b*gger me,” he cried with glee

“I’ll fix those theivin’ crooks.

To wipe me crack I’ll just change tack –

And get meself some books.’

With footsteps light at dead of night

He hit the town library,

And helped himself off every shelf

With speed extraordinary.

Then home he crept while others slept

Triumphant and quite blasé

And quickly took each stolen book

And stashed them in the khazi

“And now” he said “they’ll all be read

By me, when on the loo

And when I’m done, to clean me bum

I’ll use a page or two.

I’ve books that that tease and books that please,

And books would shock a parson

But, stone the crows, who sees or knows

Which words I wipe me a**e on?

The library’s shock to find their stock

So cruelly depleted

Was plain to all – as was their call

That justice out be meted.

The South West Times deplored the crimes,

And called for retribution

But sly old Blue had left no clue,

So dodged a prosecution

The only bloke in on the joke

Is me – and there’s no money

Could tempt me to dob in Old Blue

And his literary dunny.

[the_great_she_elephant]

An Easter offering.

           Old Blue And The Rabbits.

Far be it from me folks to criticise the Easter Bunny.

But Blue’s opinion of him at this moment is not sunny.

This isn’t due to Easter eggs, it quickly must be said.

But the havoc Bunny’s mates have wreaked on Old Blue’s garden bed.

They’ve found the greens he planted to replace that you-know-what,

And the buggers raid it every night and munch ‘em on the spot.

He’s shot them and he’s trapped them and he’s even put down bait,

But the little sods won’t give up – and it’s left him most irate

Last time I saw him, though, he had a grin from ear to ear.

And “Listen, mate,” he said, “I’ve had this brilliant idea

It’ll save me veggie garden: peas and beans and all the rest,

And given time, could totally wipe out this bloody pest.

“You must have heard the news,” he said “about that New York zoo.

And how a tiger there has caught this Covid-thingie too.

Now if a tough old tiger can succumb with such great ease.

It shouldn’t be too hard to give a rabbit the disease.

If someone went and caught some – fifty ought to be enough -

And injected ’em with some of that Coronavirus stuff,

Then turned ‘em loose – they’d pass it on. And I’ll bet any money

Before too long this land would not contain one single bunny.

Now the last thing that I wanted was to make Blue feel a fool.

But to fan this fond illusion would have been too bloody cruel.

The old bloke looked so happy with his confident prognosis,

But a bell was ringing in my head – it said Myxomatosis.

So I explained why this was not the way to win his war.

And how the Government had tried a virus once before,

And how at first they’d hailed it as a game-changing event,

When the rabbit population dropped by ninety five percent.

But alas, though it had swept through every rabbitty community,

It left behind survivors who had natural immunity,

And since it didn’t change that most distinctive of their habits

Their numbers soon recovered ‘cause the buggers bred like …. rabbits.

Well, poor old Blue just looked at me and never said a word,

His face fell and I knew he’d grasped the truth of what he’d heard.

At last “Ah well,” he muttered, and he gave a little sigh,

“Looks like I’ll have to rack me brains for something else to try.”

He’s never mentioned it again, I understand instead,

He’s built a sturdy wiremesh fence around his garden bed.

Reality, I fear, has put the mockers on his dream

Of a patent Covid-19 pest extermination scheme.

[twyngwyn]

Anzac Day next?

[the_great_she_elephant]

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@twyngwyn wrote:
Anzac Day next?

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I'll see what I can do. but it will take some serious thought. ANZAC Day isn't something Old Blue would take lightly 

[twyngwyn]

for sure & you should publish these elsewhere

[the_great_she_elephant]

This little episode, of course, refers to times BC

(That's 'before Coronavirus' to the likes of you and me.)

Old Blue At The Wedding.

Today, just for a change, I thought I’d introduce to you,

A couple more of Bluey’s mates – they’re good friends of mine too.

They were christened Roy and Henry, but for reasons I’ll make clear

Their given names are seldom used by anyone round here.

The names by which they’re known instead and how this came about,

Involves of course, me old mate Blue – as you’ll have guessed no doubt.

These friends of ours are potters with a studio in town.

Where their craftsmanship has earned them both considerable renown.

Their wares all sell like hot cakes but the ones that steal the show

Are the funky psychedelic little flowerpots they throw.

They come in giddy colours, in a range of different sizes,

And their sheer originality has won them a few prizes.

The two boys are a couple, but although they share a bed

They never thought the day would come they’d be allowed to wed.

A commitment ceremony seemed the best they’d ever do.

But then, at last, the law was changed. Their great dream could come true.

They began to plan a wedding in their own flamboyant way.

And thanks to all all those flowerpots they had money stashed away.

So they booked a classy venue and commissioned such a feast,

It would have served to cater for a regiment at least.

In tribute to the handicraft financing this big dream.

They decided that their wedding ought to have a ‘potty’ theme.

There were flowerpots on the tables flaunting blooms of every hue.

There were pots on the reception desk and even in the loo.’

There were some on shelves around the walls from ceiling down to floor

And rosemary - for remembrance – in big pots beside the door,

But crowning all these efforts, and the touch that pleased them most.

Were the  ones they had created to hold champagne for the toast.

They asked Old Blue if he’d consent to chair the celebration,

An honour he accepted with a little trepidation.

For he’d been to many weddings, and it seemed upon reflection,

The bridal toast for this one might require some circumspection;

At first he thought of asking me to search the internet .,

And find some helpful tips on same sex wedding etiquette

But since the boys are larrikins who like a laugh or two,

He decided in the end a well timed joke would see him through.

The great day came; the time arrived for speeches to begin.

Blue walked up to the podium with a small mischievous grin.

“My friends,” he said, and raised aloft his flowerpot of champagne.

An awkward little problem has been nigglin at my brain -

How to toast this couple, now embarked on married life.

'The bride and groom’ would sound absurd, likewise ‘husband and wife.’

No worries though, an answer, has just popped into me head -

I’ve found a more befitting name to toast them with them instead.

So raise those little flowerpots please, ladies and gentlemen.

I pronounce the happy couple …... Bill and Ben, The Flowerpot Men.

[the_great_she_elephant]

The inspiration (though not the sggestion) for todays episode came from my big softie of a huband.

Old Blue Feeds A Stray

In English country gardens, so they tell me, you can find

The secret signs that tramps have left for others of their kind,

Signs that say “you’re sure to get a kindly welcome here”

Or “This householder’s a dragon, I’d advise you to stay clear.”

And I’ve come to the conclusion, having thought the whole thing through,

That cats here in Australia employ this system too.

I’d swear the buggers have a sign near Old Blue’s garden gate

That says “This bloke’s a pushover. You’ve hit the jackpot, mate.”

My journey to enlightenment began a few weeks back

We were on Old Blue’s verandah with a coldie and a snack

And as we sat there chatting, all at once, to my surprise,

A cat strolled through the garden – one of quite impressive size:

A haughty looking, multicoloured furball of a cat.

“Strewth, mate!” I said to Bluey, “Where the hell did you find that,”

“The poor old sod’s a stray”, he said,” it’s round here day and night.”

I call it Feather Duster – ‘cause it looks the part all right.

I couldn’t let the poor thing starve – I’ve got a heart you know,

So occasionally I feed it just the odd small meal or so.”

“The odd small meal”: I had to laugh when Bluey told me that.

I pointed to the row of bowls alongside his doormat.

He looked a little sheepish “Oh, that’s just me little test.

To see which brand of catfood the poor creature likes the best.

It needs some little comforts, living as it does,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s sleeping down the back in me old shed.”

And that, folks, was the moment I first heard the warning bell,

For the cat I’d seen was unmistakably a tortoiseshell.

And I knew it was a certainty, not just some old wives’ tale.

That tortoiseshells were very seldom likely to be male.

I voiced my fear; I looked at Blue; and he looked back at me.

“Oh, **bleep**,”He said “I think, perhaps we’d better go and see.”

Blue’s old shed is derelict, it’s storage days are done,

He hasn’t used it since he bought his brand new Stratco one.

The window glass is broken and the door hangs open wide,

But despite the long abandonment there’s not much room inside.

It’s full of rotting newspapers and junk in plastic bags.

A basket on the workbench holds forgotten cleaning rags.

And there, amidst old jocks and socks and worn out woollen mittens,

Was where we found the secret nest of Feather Duster’s kittens.

I looked at Blue, he looked at me “I know’, he said “I know.

They’re small and cute and fluffy, but, you’re right, they’ll have to go.

But how do we dispose of them, it makes me poor heart weep

Just to think of simply drowning ‘em or putting ‘em to sleep.”

I mentioned the shire Ranger, but Blue stopped me with a frown.

“If that sod gets his hands on them, he’ll have them all put down.

So we went back home to my place and I combed the internet’

In search of a solution that we hadn’t thought of yet.

And at last I found a rescue group: we rang them for advice

And they said  they’d take the kittens – and the mother – for a price.

They had a list of clients wanting kittens so it seemed,

But we’d have to wait a week or two until they could be weaned.

So Old Blue watched those kittens like a fussy mother hen,

And kept feeding Feather Duster, till at last the day came when

He rang me up and told me, without fuss or carry-on,

“The rescue people came today and picked them up. They’ve gone.”

He didn’t sound too cut up, but with Blue it’s hard to say,

So I thought I’d better pop around and check he was okay.

I knocked at his front door and I called out “Hey Blue, it’s me.”

I thought he’d come to open it - he always does, you see.

But he called back. “In the lounge room mate. I can’t get up just now,

But come in, grab yourself a beer and join me anyhow.”

So, anxiously, I stepped inside, uncertain what I’d find,

But the tableau there before me - well, it kind of rocked my mind,

For there sat Blue upon the lounge, contented as you please,

And Feather Duster, fast asleep, lay purring on his knees.

That ‘take the mother too’ idea had never gone ahead,

The cunning cat had led Blue down the garden path instead.

The artful little minx had wormed her way into his heart,

And I’d swear that she’d been planning this right from the very start.

She’s microchipped and registered, shes been to see the vet.

And Blue has somehow got himself another flamin’ pet.

[bright.ton42]

Ah thanks She El,  Ol Blue's adventures warm my heart.

Wonder what he'll  do next?

[the_great_she_elephant]

Thanks Bright.ton I should mention  here that Feather Duster is, or was, a real cat who belonged to our late next door neighbour many moons ago. I posted the poem on Facebook this morning and got a delighted response from his daughter. She says I've made her day. 

[the_great_she_elephant]

Old Blue The Philosopher.

Aware of the insistence we maintain a social distance,

We’d an esky placed strategically between our folding chairs.

As we sat on Blue’s verandah and discussed the propaganda

Being spruiked about this virus that has caught us unawares.

“You know,” remarked Old Bluey, “though I may not be too cluey.”

(And here he paused to lift another tinnie from the ice.)

“There’s a lesson to inspire us in this Covid -19 virus,

That I’d teach those flamin’ experts if they asked for my advice.

I’d tell the clever d*ckheads they should get it through their thick heads,

That it wasn’t Trump’s America or China playing tough,

Or bats in some old market that first got this whole thing started.

It was Mother Nature telling us she’s had e-bloody-nough.

She’s well and truly **bleep** at all the chances that we’ve missed,

To remedy the damage we’ve inflicted on the earth.

So to show her aggravation, she’s unleashed on every nation

This punishment for ruining the planet of our birth.

But, maybe that’s what we needed, ‘cause it seems her plan’s succeeded

In a way quite unexpected, as in spite of all our fears,

Without completely ceasing, our emissions are decreasing.

And the Earth is breathing easier than it has done for years.

And so,” Blue added boldly, (as he cracked another coldie,)

I reckon we should take this as a warning to the wise.

Forget the moans and griping, and political infighting,

And accept this bloody virus as a blessing in disguise.”

[the_great_she_elephant]

               Old Blue And The Mice.

Old Blue came round the other day, to ask for my advice.

He had a little problem, and the name of it was mice.

They’d bred up unmolested in his old abandoned shed,

And were now inside his house – and it was doing in his head.

“There’s squillions of the little sods” he told me in frustration’

And I’m buggered if I know how to resolve the situation.

I’ve caught a few in traps, and Feather Duster does her best,

But I reckon it’d take a bomb to clean out all the rest.

I said “that pest controller bloke could surely give ‘em hell.”

But Blue reckoned all those chemicals might do him in as well.

“Well, mate.” I said, ‘The only thing that’s left then, I suppose.

Is to find something non-toxic that will get right up their nose.”

I lent him some more traps – it was the best that I could do;

And I reckoned that was that; but never underrate Old Blue;

He’s just rung up to tell me that he took that seed I’d sown,

And devised an eco-friendly mouse deterrent of his own.

As regular as clockwork, at the end of every day

He collects the kitty litter out of Feather Duster’s tray;

And soaks it in a bucketful of water overnight,

To produce the secret potion that he uses in his fight.

Then early every morning, once he’s had his cup of tea,

With trusty spraygun in his hand he stalks his enemy,

And sprays each nook and cranny that might be their habitat

With his special his mouse-deterrent - which he’s calling eau-de-chat.