It's Always Darkest Before You Turn On The Light

  My daughter came into my bedroom at 5 this morning (an ungodly hour that I had up to now believed was a mere rumour) and informed me that there was a mouse in her room.  I asked the only question that I believed to be pertinent at the time - "Is it playing the harmonica?"  Because, as we all know, a mouse in one's bedroom is one thing, but one playing a harmonica (particularly considering that rodents are not renowned harmonica players so it stands to reason that the playing would not be particularly tuneful), is quite something else. She informed me that, to her knowledge, this particular mouse appeared not to be playing the harmonica or, for that matter, any kind of musical instrument, including the clarinet which is not popular with mice because of its length, rendering it quite difficult to hold and play at the same time.   Well, that was a relief, I must say.  So I leaped out of bed and immediately fainted as I have never (a)  leaped out of bed ...

 "Captain!  You're back!", said an elated Mr. Spock as James T. Kirk climbed in the window of the Starship Enterprise dragging a semi-conscious Frenchman behind him.  Marcel Ratatouille blinked and stared about him.  There was a fog in front of his eyes which soon cleared to bright spells and showers. The Captain resumed command and immediately began barking orders.  "Spock!  Get me a progress report!  Uhura!  Take this man to the sick bay!  Sulu!  Get the cleaners in here!  I want this place shining from the bow to the ah...to the ah...."  "That's stern, Captain", said Sulu.  "You bet it's stern", said Kirk, checking the Captain's log for woodworm. Suddenly, an alarm bell sounded and a terrified voice called across the speaker.  "Captain!  There's an alien on board and we think it's eaten Scottie!  "Good lord!", exclaimed Kirk, "are you sure?"  "Well, sir", replied the voice "it...

  The little figure on the raft gazed out across the vast expanse of ocean.  "Hello", he called out, but there was no reply.  He was completely alone.  Gazing skywards, he appealed to the heavens.  "If anyone is up there, send me a signal."   A seagull circled above him, pooped on his head, and flew away.  So that was that. Just yesterday Marcel Ratatouille lay on the deck of the Titanic, sunbathing.  The fact that it was raining at the time didn't deter him.  From the shelter of the bridge the Captain had called "Anything out there?"  "Just a couple of ice cubes", replied the little Frenchman.  Then everything went black. When he came round, Marcel was clinging desperately to the Captain's log which, luckily, unfolded into a raft.  He sighed.  "This is the worst thing that could ever happen to me."  "Oh, I don't know", said a voice behind him.  "Have you ever had your head explode?"  Marcel spun round....

  Marcel Ratatouille was hurled, roughly, into his cell.  "We'll try to be more accurate next time", laughed the toothless crone who was his jailer.  As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they darted around the cell and then returned to his face.  He surveyed this filthy, rat-infested hovel and longed for home.  He thought of his wife - Madame Fifi La Tour de France.  He pictured her bending over the kitchen sink by the window clipping her toenails and singing Tiptoe Thru The Tulips in the wrong key - her enormous bottom blocking out the light.  He remembered her thunderous snoring which nightly left him gripping the edge of the bed for dear life lest he be blown out the window.  He saw her teeth grinning hideously at him as they floated in a glass of water beside the bed. Suddenly this place didn't seem so bad. So it had come to this.  Tomorrow the guillotine would give him his last ever short back and sides.  And for what?...

 So I was in the kitchen cooking a spaghetti that would make an Italian go "Mama Mia!  How does-a she-a do it?", when, in a fit of what I can only assume was early onset dementia, I decided to wash the empty cans of tomato sauce so that they would be sparkling clean in the recycling bin and the guy who picked up the recycling would declare "Jesus!  Would you look at the cleanliness of these cans!  Why, they're SPOTLESS!  I wish I could find the woman who washed these cans and personally thank her for making my day and demonstrating that if we all pull together we can make this world a better place for our children, and our children's children, and our children's children's children, and our chil...." Unfortunately, we will never know what he was going to say next, as he was hit by a falling elephant and squashed beyond recognition.  His own wife, at the funeral parlour, said "I don't recognize him", farted and left.  Incidentally, the e...

 I recently discovered that male goats urinate on their beards to make themselves more attractive to females.  Now, while it's possible these guys think that piddling on themselves is similar to spritzing themselves with a Calvin Klein body spray, it's also possible that they're known collectively to the females as "those pissy-smelling goats over there".  (I once went to a dance wearing a tight corset and I thought I must have looked fabulous because I turned heads everywhere I walked.  It turned out that everyone was staring at me because I had put the corset on backwards and it was cutting off the circulation in my legs, making me walk like I'd just been kicked in the arse.)   This made me wonder if goats actually believe this or, as I will demonstrate, it's actually a trick they play on young goats who don't know any better.  Picture, if you will, a group of male goats standing around in the corner of a field, eyeing up the females who are eating g...

  A little pubic hair named Fred Who dreamed of living on a head Set out one day on his perilous quest And said goodbye to all the rest The other pubes said he was mad So did his mother and his dad But little Fred would not be daunted No matter how the others taunted He knew his trek was fraught with danger But figured it was a life changer For was he not about to go Where none had ventured from below And think of all the friends he'd meet Brushed and combed and looking neat Free to feel the morning air And not squished up in underwear His climb was steep and arduous (If only there had been a bus!) But Fred pressed on convinced that he Would soon be in good company In two weeks he was half way there And chatted with some armpit hair But he was like a pube possessed And sallied forth to reach the crest He reached the chin and thought it weird That pube-like hairs made up a beard And at the nose he saw those guys Held boogers of enormous size Then further north, to his surprise He fo...