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Hello Oily,

Foraging in the attic the other day I came across a false leg once owned by my Aunt Claire. Often wonder where she is. Last I heard she was opening a chain of shops selling cheap jewellery. Now bankrupt I’d imagine. The way of the High Street it seems.

To get back to my point. The leg got me thinking. I’m kinda lonely.What if I was to go onto Ebay and buy some more lady parts? I could build my own girlfriend. We could talk, hug, maybe even make love puddles together. Good idea or am I a freak?

Hans Lecter

Straightjacket City

Oily Replies;

A wonderful idea!

A variant of this was done by a dear friend and fiend of mine Norman Bates some 50 years ago in the US. It worked for him for sure. And he had a very successful motel business which would probably still be going strong – and smelling even stronger – if the corporate chains hadn’t taken over.

Your question raises a very serious issue about today’s society. In an extensive survey that I made up this morning in the shower it was PROVEN BEYOND DOUBT that in just ONE street in East London MORE people live ALONE than in the WHOLE of the street across way.

To me this shows irrefutably that there needs to be more kink in everyone’s lives. It will ease the loneliness.

To get you started I have a special offer. If you buy 30 of my DVD’s within the next 14 days I will throw in a litre of my oil PLUS a battery operated arm. Vital when your own hand locks. Just let me know if you are a righty or lefty and we can get it off and thus get you off, as soon as possible.

Say No to Mr Lonely!

Oily- The Caregiver.

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Hello

As you know we love a train story on Gfb. Well, here is a little ditty from the Queensland Rail authority urging safety on the tracks.

And a shorty on train etiquette!

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Dear Fanny,

My New Year’s resolution is to lose a few pounds in weight so the wife will let me back into our marital bed.

I’ve been inspired by our Olympic heroes over the summer and have taken up the discus. I don’t actually have a discus so I’ve cellotaped some batteries to a frisbee and painted it silver. The trouble is I’m 32 stone and I suffer from terrible chafing.

I’ve tried every cream on the market but my inner buttocks are like mince meat. Could you tell me what face cream you use to keep you looking so incredibly youthful as I think this might be of help?

 Keith from Didcot.

Darling Keith,

I’ve used a blend of Goose fat and Gin for as long as I can remember.

After my morning ablutions I apply the goose fat directly onto the face and take half a bottle of gin orally. Whilst the goose fat penetrates I will watch an episode of my favourite programme ” Jeremy Kyle”. He’s such a cad and absolutely adorable!

I think you’ll agree I don’t look anywhere near my 48 years. You could even spice up your marriage by asking your beloved wife if she’d like to smear it on the affected areas. She’ll probably need some of the Gin first though.

Fannois

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Here’s to a peaceful New Year!

ghandi

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Happy New Year Folks,

I hope you’ve had as much of a giggle at the nonsenses served up on Gfb as I have. As it is a time for reflection, nay, cogitation Cecilia Giminez’s efforts at mural restoration still has me roaring with laughter.

Print it off and stick it on your foreheads for a day to give millions of people and their pets a chortle or two at the start of the New Year!

You may recall Cecilia taking her brush to Ecce Homo in The Sanctuary of Mercy Church near Zaragoza.

An official declared, “The once-dignified portrait now resembles a crayon sketch of a very hairy monkey in an ill-fitting tunic.”

Gfb did its bit to restore the restoration so to speak.

Revisiting the image after a couple of Jameson’s over Crimbo has only further convinced us of the similarity to another well known “hairy monkey in an ill fitting tunic”.

The Resemblance Is Uncanny!

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Hello,

I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got a new ointment for my rash, the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the traditional Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces does Stabman. This and his psychotic condition make for uneasy bedfellows.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! Although he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard. Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scents Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “Use this and get yer arse into town in five minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in seventh.

Why town? For some reason Shirley wasn’t too impressed with my gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never seem to go down well. But I should have learned after the mobile dishwasher I bought last year.

But at least I kept the receipts and didn’t have the need of Stabman’s intervention in Argos last year. That was messy.

Laters.

Bob

You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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“Alas Poor Ginger…….”

That reminds me, I must nip to the dentist's

That reminds me, I must nip to the dentist’s

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Aunty Bill - A Tin Opener Short

The Root Of The Problem

Aunty,

Several years ago I married the man of my dreams. At least I thought. Since then he has been diagnosed with permanent vegetable disorder. His nose is a carrot, arms are leeks, ears are cauliflowers and his head is turning into a giant lettuce.

I love him dearly but when I see him now all I think about is making a broth.

Can you help?

Sally, Stockton on Tees

Aunty Bill Replies;

Dear Sally

Sorry to hear of your dilemma and the distress caused in watching your man slowly turn into a human casserole.

However with the onset of the cold weather, now is the time to prune those parts no longer of any use to him. He seems to have most of the ingredients to make that lovely warming casserole with the simple addition of a pound of stewing steak and a tin of butter beans and some lentils.

I recommend using a slow cooker to bring out the full flavour of your mans “produce” (leave out the lettuce though). Russell Hobbs do a 6.5 litre brushed aluminium effort for £26 (with vario-thermostatic control) which would be ideal for your needs and provide a healthy and sustaining meal which will last you for several days.

Don’t worry about pruning the limbs as this type of vegetable disorder is that the limbs grow back after a short while therefore providing a constant supply of food! Ensure you keep his lettuce well watered as this is the source of the nutrients that keep the rest of his root vegetables healthy.

I’m sending you a copy of my leaflet “20 Slow Cooker recipes for those living with permanent vegetable disorder (or with someone in the household who does)” – bit of a mouthful but sure tastes good!

Yum Yum!

Aunty Bill

You can read more Aunty Bill here!

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Agnes DuPont tells us more about her previous lives!!!!!! Read other lies here.

To connect with previous lives, Agnes eats cheese. She also claims vegetables from the Brassica family have a similar effect.

PLEASE DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME AS CAULIFLOWER, COOKED OR RAW, IN THE WRONG HANDS CAN BE LETHAL.

Hello People,

Last Wednesday I was working in my local butcher’s, removing veins from lambs liver, when Mahatma Gandhi entered me.  Not in that way I hasten to add.

No, Gandhi’s spirit  entered my mortal remains. It was great being a bow legged pacifist for a while. Dressed in a sheet too.  You might say it was Dandy Ghandi.

Wendy Crabtree walked in, as is her want, to buy a belly of pork for the Sunday roast.

As Mahatma I wasn’t happy about this and organised a campaign of vegetarian mass civil disobedience. I readjusted the thickness on the ham slicer and tossed root vegetables (I always carry a few in case of emergencies) around the place.

As I flung a turnip at a rack of lamb I thought of Morrissey.  Strange that.

Sadly I lost my job at the Butcher’s but do have a much greater insight into the last days of Britain’s presence in India. A fair exchange.

You may think I am a fantasist who eats cheese and broccoli long into the night……….I would beg to differ.

Regards,

Agnes

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“I’m on the train,” the man brayed into his Blackberry.

I looked at him. He was staring out the window, oblivious to the notice on the window that read, “Quiet Carriage”.

“Yeah, yeah, it was OK. But I don’t think Gareth was happy with the sales projections. But you know Gareth, in love with his own voice.”

He nodded and said, “Yep! That’s Gareth to a tee.”

A middle aged man looked across the aisle. He rustled his newspaper profoundly and raised a bushy grey eyebrow in opprobrium. The Caller caught his gaze.

“No, it will be fine. Listen I’ve got to go, upsetting other passengers……… Yeah I know, it’s full of them. Catch you later.”

He rang off and apologised to the man, who returned to his paper.

The Caller was in his thirties. Suited. Very proud of his hair. He smelled of expensive balms. He wore a fine pair of shoes too. Leather uppers and soles. Hand stitched by the look of them. Classy.

His phone rang again.

“I’m on the train,” the man brayed into his Blackberry.

I looked at him. He was staring out the window, oblivious to the notice on the window  that read, “Quiet Carriage”.

“Yeah, yeah, it was OK. But I don’t think Gareth was happy with the sales projections. But you know Gareth, in love with his own voice.”

He nodded and said,”Yep! That’s Gareth to a tee.”

The middle aged man looked across again. He rustled his newspaper, raised both eyebrows and added a cough to highlight his dudgeon. The Caller caught his gaze.

“No, it will be fine. Listen I’ve got to go, upsetting other passengers……… Yeah I know, it’s full of them. Catch you later.”

He rang off and again apologised.

He moved to allow me to reach the carriage aisle. I nodded my thanks. His phone rang.

“I’m on the train,” the man brayed into his Blackberry.

As I reached the carriage vestibule, I noticed a green button encased in a glass casing. Above the casing a sign read, “In Case Of Knob. Break Glass And Press Button. Penalty For Improper Use £200.”

I broke the glass and pressed the button.

There was a hiss of compressed air. Then a mini sonic boom as The Caller’s seat shot upwards, towards the Coach’s ceiling.

A ripple of applause accompanied my return to my seat. The middle aged man extended his hand. His fingers were inky from the Newspaper so I declined to shake it.

The Caller’s head and shoulders were jammed into the roof of the carriage. He was silent.  His well shod feet dangled limply from the seat. Dust particles danced around them.

I saw his Blackberry on the floor. The reedy tones of a voice were emanating from it. I picked the phone up and held it to my ear, “Hugo? Hugo? Are you OK?”

“He’s in the train.” I replied.

The shoes pinched a bit to begin with but they fit like a glove now.

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