h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Thanks Prof, I needed a laugh

Thank you Prof, I it. I'd be happy with getting that from PHM but I think he'd choke Not a romantic bone in his body.

I have a song by John Williamson called 'Purple Roses' which says much the same thing only more politely

Hope you are feeling better.



Websailor

it, prof.

hope not taken the wrong way

my aim is to please

Hi Prof,

I enjoyed reading the poem, hope you are feeling better and all the best for 2008

Nigel

What about this one about the talking dog:

Fiona is driving through small villages in Yorkshire when she sees a sign in front of a house: 'Talking Dog For Sale'.

She rings the bell and the owner tells her that the dog is in the garden at the rear of the house. Fiona hurries round to the garden where she finds the dog, a golden Labrador retriever sitting quietly.

'Do you talk?' Fiona inquires of the dog.

'Yes, I do,' the Labrador replies.

'Well!' exclaims the stunned Fiona, 'can you tell me about it?'

The Labrador looks up and says, 'Well, I discovered that I could talk when I was pretty young. I wanted to help the government, so I told the SIS [Secret Intelligence Service] about my gift, and in no time, at all they had me jetting from country to country, sitting in rooms with spies and world leaders, because no one figured a dog would be eavesdropping.

I was one of their most valuable spies for eight years running. But the jetting around really tired me out, and I knew I wasn't getting any younger so I decided to settle down. I signed up for a job at the airport to do some undercover security wandering near suspicious characters and listening in. I uncovered some incredible dealings and was awarded a batch of medals. I got married, had a mess of puppies, and now I'm just retired.'

Fiona is completely amazed; she goes back in and asks the owner how much he wants for the dog.

'£10,' the owner requests. [$20USD].

'£10, ten pounds, good grief and your dog is truly incredible. Why on earth are you selling him so cheaply?'

'Aw, my girl, because he's a liar. He never did any of that stuff.'

Soon it will be Burns Nicht

Here is Rabbie Burns address to the haggis:


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

(sonsie = cheeky)

(aboon = above)

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

(hurdies = hips)

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An' cut you up wi' ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!

(dicht = wipe)
(slicht = skill)

(reeking = steaming)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit" hums.

(deil = devil)
(swall'd=swollen, kytes = bellies,
belyve = soon)
(rive = tear, ie burst)

Is there that o're his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

(olio = olive oil, staw = make sick)

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

(nieve = fist, nit = louse's egg, ie. tiny)

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whistle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thristle.

(wallie = mighty, nieve = fist)

(sned = cut off)

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

(skinkin ware = watery soup)
(jaups = slops about, luggies = two-handled
continental bowls)

Youngsuper_Nigel, good one , that would be incredible if could talk.

Nigel, head here and feel free to add your own in my friend

F1926355?thread=620782

another from my Scottish friend, again ain't no idea on copyright, but it'll be rait

A SCOTTISH CHRISTMAS FAIRY

MERRY CHRISTMAS am a little fairy
On tap o’ the Christmas Tree
It's no1 a job I fancy
Well how would you like tae be me
A tarted up wi' tinsel
It's enough to mak ye boak
An a couple o' jaggy branches
Rammed up the back o1 your frock
An1 these wee lights a'roon me
I canna get my sleep
An' there's the yearly visit
Fae Santa - Big fat creep!
On Christmas Day I'm stuck up here
While you're a' wirin' in
An' naebody says "Hey you up there
Could you go a slug o' gin?
It's nae joke bein' a fairy
The job's beyond belief
You've got to go roon| the wean's beds
An' lift their rotten teeth
But o’ a' the joabs a fairy gets
An' I've mentioned only some
The very worst is sitting up a tree
Wi' pine needles up yir bum
When again the fairies meet again
By the light of the silvery moon
Ye can tell the Christmas fairies
They're the wans that canna sit doon
The Christmas tree's a bonny sight
As the firelight softly flickers
But think o' me I'm stuck up here
Wi' needles in my knickers
So soon as Christmas time's right by
An' I stop bein' sae full o' cheer
I'll get awa back tae Fairyland
An1 I'll see yous a' next year.

again ain't no idea on copyright, but it'll be rait again eh!


WHAT IS A FART

A fart it is a pleasant thing,
It gives the belly ease,
It warms the bed in winter,
And suffocates the fleas.

A fart can be quiet,
A fart can be loud,
Some leave a powerful,
Poisonous cloud

A fart can be short,
Or a fart can be long,
Some farts have been known
To sound like a song.

A fart can create
A most curious medley,
A fart can be harmless,
Or silent and deadly.

A fart might not smell,
While others are vile,
A fart may pass quickly,
Or linger a while.

A fart can occur
In a number of places,
And leave everyone there,
With strange looks on their faces.

From wide-open prairie,
To small elevators,
A fart will find all of
Us sooner or later.

But farts are all bad,
Is simply not true-
We must never forget.
Sweet old farts like you!

"Who did that", said the guard on the train,
"it's like a dead rat up a drain.
All the doors have no knobs,
on account of the yobs.
And we can't let it out if we tried".
Then some passengers openly wept,
As the evilness silently crept.
Up the nose, dulling senses
defeating defences.
The spiders just crawled out and died.

The the guard, (who's patrolling the floor),
said "it's strongest just here, by the door;
Who was last to come in
has committed the sin
of this sinister evacuation".
And then the inquiry began,
and they pilloried one lonely man.
This story, I freely relate,
was told by a very good mate.
I'd got off at the previous station

(just before the doors closed, hee-hee-hee).