Tumble Tower wrote:Well it could have been worse, glad I didn't bet any more than I did. Remember, only bet what you can afford to lose.
Not for Lorna's "Thumper", in his first race he'll be running for the cooking pot, no doubt slicing and dicing his own veg on the way. .
I bet the "Hellfire Recipe" book is hutch-side reading as we speak!
On a farm lived a chicken and a horse, both of whom loved to play together. One day, the horse fell into a bog and began to sink. The horse begged for the chicken to go and get the farmer for help.
The chicken ran back to the farm. He searched and searched for the farmer, but to no avail for he had gone to town with the only tractor. Running around, the chicken spied the farmer's new Z-3 series BMW. Finding the keys inside, the chicken sped off with a length of rope, hoping that he still had time to save his friend's life.
Back at the bog, the horse was surprised but happy to see the chicken arrive in the shiny BMW. He managed to get a hold of the rope that the chicken tossed to him. After tying the other end to the rear bumper of the BMW, the chicken then drove slowly forward and with the aid of the powerful car, rescued the horse.
Happy and proud, the chicken drove the BMW back to the farmhouse, and the farmer was none the wiser when he returned. The friendship between the two animals was cemented: best buddies, best pals.
A few weeks later, the chicken fell into a mud pit and he too began to sink and cried out to the horse to save his life. The horse thought a moment, then walked over and straddled the large puddle. Looking underneath, he told the chicken to grab his penis and he would then lift him out of the pit. The chicken got a good grip and the horse lifted him out of the puddle, saving his life.
The moral of this story? When you're hung like a horse, you don't need a BMW to pick up chicks.
Katnap wrote:
The moral of this story? When you're hung like a horse, you don't need a BMW to pick up chicks.
HAHAHA! But I would have changed the car to Porsche. There's something about Porsche drivers that I dislike intensely. A modern-day throwback from the 80s yuppie, perhaps.
Johnny wrote:
at least one horse each year involved in the Grand National get put down.
In the style of Dr. Perry Cox (from Scrubs) Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong Wrong.
2002 and 2007 being the obvious examples.
The horses are more likely to be killed crossing the road.
Thanks for clearing that up, glad none were put down this year.
BTW would that be Dr. Cox saying that in the style of the big ben chimes
Johnny
Harry Hill : "What is it about people that repair shoes that makes them so good at cutting keys? Try going in there with a shoe shaped like a key and see how confused they get."
Sput wrote:I always had you pegged as a yuppie had you been born fifteen years earlier!
20 years earlier would have been closer. Although, saying that my mum was 24 having me in 1983. She was a hippy and drove a hippy car.
Given the choice between some weed and a festival or lunch in Kensington with Amelia and Tarquin... *shudder*
Really? Would that have been a VW camper van or a Beetle?
Jeez i was 13 when you was born and had had my first puff of a joint courtesy of my older brother. He can remember the hippy shit festivals my parents dragged him along too. I was only a baby when they done their last festival thingy. I now feel like i had a deprived childhood.
Mental anxiety, Mental breakdowns, Menstrual cramps, Menopause... Did you ever notice how all our problems begin with Men?
miss hellfire wrote:I now feel like i had a deprived childhood.
I bet it was more DEPRAVED was it not Lorna?
.
Definately deprived. My brother said mum was expecting me at the Isle of Wight festival Summer of 1970 i think and Who played. See why i turned out the way i have. Listening to the Who , Doors etc from the womb. Hahaha i didn't even need a wristband. That was a gig my brother had to stay with my nan and Grandad.
Mental anxiety, Mental breakdowns, Menstrual cramps, Menopause... Did you ever notice how all our problems begin with Men?
.
