Hey Robo - got a couple of good stories I could use at a Rotary changeover dinner next week?
Ross
Humour time
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Roboframer
Well, here's a true story from my African diary...... it may take some memorising!!!
A Lucky Escape
The next day I decided to take my usual pre-breakfast 'stroll', as I used to call it, into the majambi, or jungle, to see if I could catch sight of the very rare 'Chukawati Bati' or Bird of Purgatory, which 'Trusty' as we all called our faithful native ghabi or guide had reported seeing the previous latbani (evening) while we were looking for Harry's leg.
I had only been 'strolling' along the majambi (jungle) ortobam (path) for a few minutes when I became aware of a large and rather fierce fritbangowonkabmaki, or lion, which was standing partially hidden in the pteee, or clearing. I had strayed so close to him, absorbed as I was in my ornithological questi (quest) that when the splendid old thing opened its massive goti (jaws) to roar, revealing as fine a womba, or set, of teeth as I have seen in an adult male, each one as bewapsiptoof (sharp) as a Welshman's head, I could, without so much as leaning forward, have taken his magnificent uvula in my left hand.
Taking advantage of my good luck, I did so, tweaked it hard, an old English colonial officer's granwi, or trick. The lion was rather bemused by my ploy, and so I was able to get in a couple of good straight lefts, keeping my guard well up, to his upper palate and follow them with a cracking good right cross, moving my weight into the punch (as old 'Buffy' Spalding had taught me so many years ago, prior to the needle match against Uppington when 'Spindly' Crabber got up off the floor six times so pluckily only just to fail to win the draw which would have halved the batwel or match), right into my opponent's mane.
Then dancing back a couple of paces, I weaved about causing fritbangowonkabmaki to miss wildly with his crude haymakers while I notched up a few useful points with my left strati, or hand, and I soon found that by this simple strategy of keeping him from getting,in close, where his mighty jaws could have done a lot of nagasaki, or damage, I could pick him off pretty much at leisure, In fact it was only after some twenti (20) minutes, by which time I was well in rogambi (front), that, after a particularly nifty sidestep, I happened to glance around the clearing only to discover that our contest was now being watched by a circle of some fifteen odd of fritbangowonkabwaki’s chums, some of whom were already beginning to edge forward, manes bristling and teeth akimbo, towards our good selves.
It was the work of a moment to divine from their magnificent expressions that they were taking a decidedly partisan attitude to our match, and that they would have few qualms about joining in on my opponent's side if necessary; and so, judging that, if they did, they would eventually subdue me by sheer weight of numbers, I took the better part of valour, and feinting away from another of fritbangowonkabwaki's wild rushes, I got in a parting short jab to the base of his tail (not a blow I was proud of although it put him down for several minutes, but which I felt was excused by the exigencies of the situation, due, after all, to the unsporting behaviour of his colleagues in the first place) before springing upwards towards a lowly hanging branch of an enormous bwinda tree (a species related distantly to our own Elm (elm), but easily distinguishable by its broad unevenly veined leaf with its characteristic cheetah's paw shape, and the peculiar purple-ochre colour of the outer leaves of its gimbi, or buds), some fifteen feet above my head.
I had leapt not a moment too soon, for, although I had gained a firm grasp upon the handy branch, two of fritbangowonkabwaki's pals, leaping with me, had each seized one of my trusty boots in their jaws whilst a third had succeeded in firmly embedding his fangs (teeth) in the seat of my pants, albeit not in my sit-upon itself but in the surrounding material thereof. What a strange sight I must have made, hanging unshaven from the branch with three enormous lions attached to me!
It was not, indeed, without difficulty that I pulled myself up until I could take the branch in my mouth, thus freeing my hands for the more important work of detaching the determined trio, whose bites, however, proved to be so woki, or vice-like, that I eventually decided, not without regret, that it was only by actually abandoning the relevant apparel that I could free myself of their attentions.
Unlacing a jungle boot while hanging by one's teeth from a tree with three angry lions attached is not as easy as it might seem, when the lions concerned companions beneath, but eventually it was done, and right boot and lion plummeted back into the clearing, followed rapidly by their opposite numbers.
With the vastly reduced load the shorts were a formality and in a trice I was seated comfortably on the branch looking down at the enraged horde beneath, who by now, incidentally, must have numbered well over a hundred. I must say they were making a truly memorable din (shindy). However, I was feeling distinctly peckish by now, and so doffing my sola topi rather humorously in their direction I turned for home and breakfast, hoping fritbangowonkabwaki and company would lose interest in me if I stuck to the trees for the first couple of miles. Another old trick, or granwi.
Imagine my surprise, when I discovered sitting next to me on the branch, blocking my path, one of the largest yumbotos (Congolese gorillas) I have ever set eyes on, and I've seen a few in my time, including one old female at Chukambara, or New Bolton, who, in fit of pique (rage) brought on by being struck by lightning, tore an anvil in half much to everyone's surprise.
It is said that his extraordinary strength, allied to his almost legendary short temper, makes yumboto the most feared creature in the whole of Africa, although many claim they will never attack a man unless he comes within three miles of them.
Well, this fellow was certainly a magnificent specimen, with forearms as thick as a poti's nangatwami, or sitpu, and judging from the malevolent expression upon his face bad tempered to a fault. I handed him my topi, as a gesture of friendship, but he merely started poking holes in the crown of it with his index finger while looking at me in what seemed to be a deliberately significant way.
With the lions below, this chap barring my way, and no other branch within leaping distance, I decided there was nothing for it but to sit tight and hope that something would turn up, but before I could put this plan into operation yumboto started edging towards me, and reaching for my head. I backed warily away towards the end of the branch, which served only to infuriate him further; the reason for which I soon discovered, when I bumped into a second gorilla, who had obviously been sitting between me and the end of the branch throughout, and who was equally obviously my pursuers mate (wife).
In a flash it became clear to me that he had interpreted my sudden arrival between them as an attempt to infringe their relationship, and my subsequent retreat from him as the first step in my campaign to win her favours.
What an amusing notion! Time was running short, however, and so I formulated a ruse. If I could persuade the jealous husband to rush the last few inches towards me, it was possible that the branch would snap under our combined weight and activity and that I would then use the split second before we fell to employ him as a kind of vaulting horse, executing the simple half somersault 'Buffy' Spalding had taught me all those years ago, to gain the branch beyond him and above the point where it would probably break.
I could then return to breakfast unhindered, as my erstwhile companions would be forced to continue their quarrel with fritbangowonkabwaki and his chums beneath, So I turned to yumboto's mate, slapped her bottom in a lewd sort of way, and planted a kiss full on her lips. This produced the required rush from yumboto, the branch snapped and everything went according to plan.
As I made my way back to camp through the trees some otwanibokotwikatanafryingpanibwanabotomafekazami (five) minutes later I noticed to my surprise on the majambi, or stakawi, or chittamba, or jungle path below me not only the sixty or seventy lions who had been following me since I'd left the vicinity of the clearing, but also, hurrying along in the middle of this group, and peering constantly up at me, none other than yumboto's mate!
From this I was able to glean that far from scrapping among themselves as I had hoped, fritbangowonkabwaki's pals and my gorillas had joined forces and were now pursuing me, as it were, hand in glove. At that moment I heard a sound behind me and, turning, I spotted, swinging through the trees towards me, yumboto and thirty or forty of the more agile lions. As luck would have it, I was at that moment within half a mile of the Wananga River and so I set off at full speed in its direction, reasoning that if I could find a convenient creeper straddling its surging waters I could reach the far bank, thus making further pursuit more difficult.
I had a head start and managed by brachiating, to hold my lead all the way to the river, where, to my delight, I spotted a solitary creeper suspended from a tree just upstream, across the cascading torrent, to the forest the other side. Ideal!
Once I had crossed, I could destroy the only method of doing so, and complete my 'stroll' on foot. It was the work of a moment to gain the tree whence my creeper hung and soon I was well on my way towards the far bank, admiring the magnificent view of the raging Wananga directly beneath. Indeed I was not halfway across before I began to realise that my 'creeper' was not all it might be, and looking towards the far end of it I was astonished to see, staring back at me from a wak-wak tree, the unmistakable square head, yellow-green criss-cross markings and fearful fangs of an anaconda! I will admit I was astounded!
An anaconda in Africa! How it could ever have found its way there from the banks of the Amazon, let alone why it should have been asleep in this strange position, I shall never know but as I soon confirmed from the characteristic heptagonal scales and the suffused neutral colouring I was grasping an anaconda it was, and one that clearly took exception to being demoted to viaduct. So with one mighty flick of its rippling body, I was sent spinning where I had to dodge a passing eagle, high, high up into the air, before being able to plunge downwards into the waiting maelstrom (river).
I had already surmised that my new surroundings would pose a different problem, for the Wananga is notorious both for the quantity of its hippopotamus and crocodile, and also for the degree of rancour with which these two species regard the human race, and sure enough, on surfacing, I saw the huge shapes of the former setting off towards me from their station upstream, while several thousand of the latter bore down on me from the other direction; so I struck out for the shore with a fast crawl and must have gone some fifty yards before I came up for my first breath, quite against old Algy Bartlett's sound advice to breathe regularly and look where you're going no matter what stage the race is at, which I forgot so disastrously in the three cornered match against Oundle and Haileybury when, after being almost ten yards up after eight lengths, I got so tangled up in the ropes separating the lanes that in the end I had to be content with fourth place and a solitary point.
Anyway I paid for ignoring Algy's guidance because, when I surfaced only some ten feet from the shore, with the crocs and hippos hot on my heels, I found myself to my disappointment, confronted by a line of gorillas and lions at the water's edge, yumboto and fritbangowonkabwaki well to the fore. In the excitement I had struck out for the wrong bank!
What a pickle to put myself in! Still I had to make the best of a bad job, so I swam straight at the nearest crocodile, waited until he opened his enormous jaws and then quick as a flash spurted forward and, snatching a full lungful of air, hurled myself into his mouth, pulling the jaws shut after me, and scrambled down his throat, while he was still surprised, to the relative safety of his stomach, where I stayed, holding my breath, until I guessed the coast was clear.
Then gambling all on a quick getaway, I worked my way back up his thorax and started insistently tickling the back of his throat. I did not have long to wait, for the jaws opened suddenly and I was hurled out into the light of day by the force of the mightiest cough I have ever experienced at such close quarters, right onto the bank of the river, believe it or not about 10 (ten) yards from the point where the rest of the fellows were just tucking into their devilled kidneys.
I must say they were pretty amused to see me appear from a nearby crocodile without my shorts, but I took their jesting in good part and rejoined them to salvage what I could from the pan of kidneys.
It may seem that I have rather padded out a commonplace enough tale, but the real reason that I have recounted my adventure in perhaps rather unnecessary detail is that exactly the same thing happened to my wife the very next day.
A Lucky Escape
The next day I decided to take my usual pre-breakfast 'stroll', as I used to call it, into the majambi, or jungle, to see if I could catch sight of the very rare 'Chukawati Bati' or Bird of Purgatory, which 'Trusty' as we all called our faithful native ghabi or guide had reported seeing the previous latbani (evening) while we were looking for Harry's leg.
I had only been 'strolling' along the majambi (jungle) ortobam (path) for a few minutes when I became aware of a large and rather fierce fritbangowonkabmaki, or lion, which was standing partially hidden in the pteee, or clearing. I had strayed so close to him, absorbed as I was in my ornithological questi (quest) that when the splendid old thing opened its massive goti (jaws) to roar, revealing as fine a womba, or set, of teeth as I have seen in an adult male, each one as bewapsiptoof (sharp) as a Welshman's head, I could, without so much as leaning forward, have taken his magnificent uvula in my left hand.
Taking advantage of my good luck, I did so, tweaked it hard, an old English colonial officer's granwi, or trick. The lion was rather bemused by my ploy, and so I was able to get in a couple of good straight lefts, keeping my guard well up, to his upper palate and follow them with a cracking good right cross, moving my weight into the punch (as old 'Buffy' Spalding had taught me so many years ago, prior to the needle match against Uppington when 'Spindly' Crabber got up off the floor six times so pluckily only just to fail to win the draw which would have halved the batwel or match), right into my opponent's mane.
Then dancing back a couple of paces, I weaved about causing fritbangowonkabmaki to miss wildly with his crude haymakers while I notched up a few useful points with my left strati, or hand, and I soon found that by this simple strategy of keeping him from getting,in close, where his mighty jaws could have done a lot of nagasaki, or damage, I could pick him off pretty much at leisure, In fact it was only after some twenti (20) minutes, by which time I was well in rogambi (front), that, after a particularly nifty sidestep, I happened to glance around the clearing only to discover that our contest was now being watched by a circle of some fifteen odd of fritbangowonkabwaki’s chums, some of whom were already beginning to edge forward, manes bristling and teeth akimbo, towards our good selves.
It was the work of a moment to divine from their magnificent expressions that they were taking a decidedly partisan attitude to our match, and that they would have few qualms about joining in on my opponent's side if necessary; and so, judging that, if they did, they would eventually subdue me by sheer weight of numbers, I took the better part of valour, and feinting away from another of fritbangowonkabwaki's wild rushes, I got in a parting short jab to the base of his tail (not a blow I was proud of although it put him down for several minutes, but which I felt was excused by the exigencies of the situation, due, after all, to the unsporting behaviour of his colleagues in the first place) before springing upwards towards a lowly hanging branch of an enormous bwinda tree (a species related distantly to our own Elm (elm), but easily distinguishable by its broad unevenly veined leaf with its characteristic cheetah's paw shape, and the peculiar purple-ochre colour of the outer leaves of its gimbi, or buds), some fifteen feet above my head.
I had leapt not a moment too soon, for, although I had gained a firm grasp upon the handy branch, two of fritbangowonkabwaki's pals, leaping with me, had each seized one of my trusty boots in their jaws whilst a third had succeeded in firmly embedding his fangs (teeth) in the seat of my pants, albeit not in my sit-upon itself but in the surrounding material thereof. What a strange sight I must have made, hanging unshaven from the branch with three enormous lions attached to me!
It was not, indeed, without difficulty that I pulled myself up until I could take the branch in my mouth, thus freeing my hands for the more important work of detaching the determined trio, whose bites, however, proved to be so woki, or vice-like, that I eventually decided, not without regret, that it was only by actually abandoning the relevant apparel that I could free myself of their attentions.
Unlacing a jungle boot while hanging by one's teeth from a tree with three angry lions attached is not as easy as it might seem, when the lions concerned companions beneath, but eventually it was done, and right boot and lion plummeted back into the clearing, followed rapidly by their opposite numbers.
With the vastly reduced load the shorts were a formality and in a trice I was seated comfortably on the branch looking down at the enraged horde beneath, who by now, incidentally, must have numbered well over a hundred. I must say they were making a truly memorable din (shindy). However, I was feeling distinctly peckish by now, and so doffing my sola topi rather humorously in their direction I turned for home and breakfast, hoping fritbangowonkabwaki and company would lose interest in me if I stuck to the trees for the first couple of miles. Another old trick, or granwi.
Imagine my surprise, when I discovered sitting next to me on the branch, blocking my path, one of the largest yumbotos (Congolese gorillas) I have ever set eyes on, and I've seen a few in my time, including one old female at Chukambara, or New Bolton, who, in fit of pique (rage) brought on by being struck by lightning, tore an anvil in half much to everyone's surprise.
It is said that his extraordinary strength, allied to his almost legendary short temper, makes yumboto the most feared creature in the whole of Africa, although many claim they will never attack a man unless he comes within three miles of them.
Well, this fellow was certainly a magnificent specimen, with forearms as thick as a poti's nangatwami, or sitpu, and judging from the malevolent expression upon his face bad tempered to a fault. I handed him my topi, as a gesture of friendship, but he merely started poking holes in the crown of it with his index finger while looking at me in what seemed to be a deliberately significant way.
With the lions below, this chap barring my way, and no other branch within leaping distance, I decided there was nothing for it but to sit tight and hope that something would turn up, but before I could put this plan into operation yumboto started edging towards me, and reaching for my head. I backed warily away towards the end of the branch, which served only to infuriate him further; the reason for which I soon discovered, when I bumped into a second gorilla, who had obviously been sitting between me and the end of the branch throughout, and who was equally obviously my pursuers mate (wife).
In a flash it became clear to me that he had interpreted my sudden arrival between them as an attempt to infringe their relationship, and my subsequent retreat from him as the first step in my campaign to win her favours.
What an amusing notion! Time was running short, however, and so I formulated a ruse. If I could persuade the jealous husband to rush the last few inches towards me, it was possible that the branch would snap under our combined weight and activity and that I would then use the split second before we fell to employ him as a kind of vaulting horse, executing the simple half somersault 'Buffy' Spalding had taught me all those years ago, to gain the branch beyond him and above the point where it would probably break.
I could then return to breakfast unhindered, as my erstwhile companions would be forced to continue their quarrel with fritbangowonkabwaki and his chums beneath, So I turned to yumboto's mate, slapped her bottom in a lewd sort of way, and planted a kiss full on her lips. This produced the required rush from yumboto, the branch snapped and everything went according to plan.
As I made my way back to camp through the trees some otwanibokotwikatanafryingpanibwanabotomafekazami (five) minutes later I noticed to my surprise on the majambi, or stakawi, or chittamba, or jungle path below me not only the sixty or seventy lions who had been following me since I'd left the vicinity of the clearing, but also, hurrying along in the middle of this group, and peering constantly up at me, none other than yumboto's mate!
From this I was able to glean that far from scrapping among themselves as I had hoped, fritbangowonkabwaki's pals and my gorillas had joined forces and were now pursuing me, as it were, hand in glove. At that moment I heard a sound behind me and, turning, I spotted, swinging through the trees towards me, yumboto and thirty or forty of the more agile lions. As luck would have it, I was at that moment within half a mile of the Wananga River and so I set off at full speed in its direction, reasoning that if I could find a convenient creeper straddling its surging waters I could reach the far bank, thus making further pursuit more difficult.
I had a head start and managed by brachiating, to hold my lead all the way to the river, where, to my delight, I spotted a solitary creeper suspended from a tree just upstream, across the cascading torrent, to the forest the other side. Ideal!
Once I had crossed, I could destroy the only method of doing so, and complete my 'stroll' on foot. It was the work of a moment to gain the tree whence my creeper hung and soon I was well on my way towards the far bank, admiring the magnificent view of the raging Wananga directly beneath. Indeed I was not halfway across before I began to realise that my 'creeper' was not all it might be, and looking towards the far end of it I was astonished to see, staring back at me from a wak-wak tree, the unmistakable square head, yellow-green criss-cross markings and fearful fangs of an anaconda! I will admit I was astounded!
An anaconda in Africa! How it could ever have found its way there from the banks of the Amazon, let alone why it should have been asleep in this strange position, I shall never know but as I soon confirmed from the characteristic heptagonal scales and the suffused neutral colouring I was grasping an anaconda it was, and one that clearly took exception to being demoted to viaduct. So with one mighty flick of its rippling body, I was sent spinning where I had to dodge a passing eagle, high, high up into the air, before being able to plunge downwards into the waiting maelstrom (river).
I had already surmised that my new surroundings would pose a different problem, for the Wananga is notorious both for the quantity of its hippopotamus and crocodile, and also for the degree of rancour with which these two species regard the human race, and sure enough, on surfacing, I saw the huge shapes of the former setting off towards me from their station upstream, while several thousand of the latter bore down on me from the other direction; so I struck out for the shore with a fast crawl and must have gone some fifty yards before I came up for my first breath, quite against old Algy Bartlett's sound advice to breathe regularly and look where you're going no matter what stage the race is at, which I forgot so disastrously in the three cornered match against Oundle and Haileybury when, after being almost ten yards up after eight lengths, I got so tangled up in the ropes separating the lanes that in the end I had to be content with fourth place and a solitary point.
Anyway I paid for ignoring Algy's guidance because, when I surfaced only some ten feet from the shore, with the crocs and hippos hot on my heels, I found myself to my disappointment, confronted by a line of gorillas and lions at the water's edge, yumboto and fritbangowonkabwaki well to the fore. In the excitement I had struck out for the wrong bank!
What a pickle to put myself in! Still I had to make the best of a bad job, so I swam straight at the nearest crocodile, waited until he opened his enormous jaws and then quick as a flash spurted forward and, snatching a full lungful of air, hurled myself into his mouth, pulling the jaws shut after me, and scrambled down his throat, while he was still surprised, to the relative safety of his stomach, where I stayed, holding my breath, until I guessed the coast was clear.
Then gambling all on a quick getaway, I worked my way back up his thorax and started insistently tickling the back of his throat. I did not have long to wait, for the jaws opened suddenly and I was hurled out into the light of day by the force of the mightiest cough I have ever experienced at such close quarters, right onto the bank of the river, believe it or not about 10 (ten) yards from the point where the rest of the fellows were just tucking into their devilled kidneys.
I must say they were pretty amused to see me appear from a nearby crocodile without my shorts, but I took their jesting in good part and rejoined them to salvage what I could from the pan of kidneys.
It may seem that I have rather padded out a commonplace enough tale, but the real reason that I have recounted my adventure in perhaps rather unnecessary detail is that exactly the same thing happened to my wife the very next day.
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Bill Henry
- Posts: 935
- Joined: Wed 28 Mar, 2007 8:38 pm
- Location: Litchfield, NH USA
- Organisation: Not so much - it's kind of messy.
- Interests: Dry mounting dog hair, counting age spots on old people, playing chess with wood elves, scheming to take over the world.
- Location: Litchfield, NH USA
- Contact:
I got one – guaranteed to be a thigh slapper:
There was a little boy by the name of Mike. Mike was an ordinary little boy who did ordinary little boy things, like playing, eating, avoiding his bath, breaking things, and going to school. One day, when Mike went down to the school bus stop, he found all of his friends huddled around in a little group, talking about a Wreltney.
Being a little boy, Mike was curious. So, he asked them, "What's a Wreltney?"
"You don't know what a Wreltney is?" the kids exclaimed disgustedly. For the rest of the wait, they would not go near Mike, always standing far away and staring at him. Then the bus came. Mike, confused, got on the bus along with the rest of the children.
"Hey, Otto!" one of the children shouted. "Mike doesn't know what a Wreltney is!"
The bus driver turned around abruptly. "You don't know what a Wreltney is?" he said in disbelief. He ordered Mike to sit in the very back of the bus, all by himself.
Eventually, they got to school, and Mike got off the bus and went to class. Class proceeded normally; the students did the Pledge of Allegiance and worked on their multiplication tables for a while. Then the teacher led them into a unit on the history of picture framing. Mike was not really paying attention, but he heard the teacher mention something about a Wreltney.
Mike's hand shot up, and, when the teacher called on him, Mike asked, "Ms. Crabapple, what's a Wreltney?"
"You don't know what a Wreltney is?" the teacher cried in alarm, "Get yourself to the principal's office right now, young man. No, don’t act so surprised … no ifs, no ands, no buts … march!"
So, Mike headed down the long, dark, frightening hallway to the principal's office. He slowly opened the large, heavy door, and timidly entered the room behind it. There, at a large, imposing desk, sat the principal. The principal was a hulking man, balding, with a thin, pencil mustache. He spoke in a deep baritone voice. His mere presence was enough to send little boys like Mike who had been sent to his office trembling with fear.
"Well, Mike," he began slowly. "What seems to be the problem?"
Mike whimpered, "Mr. Skinner, I just don't know what's going on today. Everyone's been acting weird, and they're all treating me really badly. Like Ms. Crabapple … she just sent me to you and I don’t know why."
"Now, Mike, “said the principal in a voice oily and dripping with menace, “I'm here to help you. I'm the princi-Pal, after all. Heh, heh! Can you tell me why everyone's acting so strangely?"
"It's because I don't know what some stupid Wreltney is."
"What? You don't know what a Wreltney is? That's it. I am calling your mother, young man. Consider yourself suspended.", roared the principal.
The principal threw Mike out of his office and told him to go home. Mike, crying, began the long walk home. When he got there, his mother was standing in the doorway waiting for him.
"Mike!" she sobbed, "I was so worried about you! What happened?"
"Mom," Mike cried, "Everyone was being mean to me and I had to sit in the back of the bus all by myself and the teacher sent me to the principal's office and the principal suspended me, all because I don't know what a Wreltney is!"
"What? You don't know what a Wreltney is?" Mike's mother shrieked. "Go to your room this minute. Go! Just wait until your father gets home!"
So, Mike marched up the stairs and into his room. He collapsed on the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. After some amount of time, he heard a car pull in and some doors shutting. His father was home. He could hear his anxious parents muttering downstairs but couldn’t make out the words. Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Then his door was thrown open.
"Mike," his father began in that lecturing, father tone, "Your mother says you've been acting badly lately. Would you like to tell me what you've done?"
"Dad, I haven't done anything! I just don't know what a Wreltney is!"
"You ... you don't know what a Wreltney is”, he sputtered. “Well, in that case, you can just stay in this room all night, mister. No TV, and forget about dinner!"
Mike's father slammed the door and stormed off. Mike collapsed on his bed, crying his eyes out. He spent the next several hours that way, lying there, miserable, wishing he would wake up.
Then, in the middle of the night, he heard a voice. It said: "Mike. I am a Wreltney, Mike."
Mike sat up with a start. He looked around the room, trying to find the source of the voice, but he couldn’t.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Find me, Mike."
It was coming from outside. So Mike got up, put his shoes on, opened the window, and climbed out onto the roof.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Follow my voice."
Mike jumped down off the roof and followed the voice down the road. He got to the edge of a forbidding forest.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Follow me, Mike."
The voice was coming from inside the woods. It was very dark and very frightening, but Mike didn't care. He had to find out what a Wreltney was. So, bravely, he entered the woods.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Keep going, Mike."
Mike kept going into the forest. He could hardly see anything, and he kept falling down and walking into things and hurting himself. But, he kept going, driven by a need to find this enigma that kept calling his name.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. This way, Mike."
Eventually, Mike emerged from the woods. He was on the shore of a lake.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. I'm out here, Mike."
It was coming from out across the lake. Mike got one of the small rowboats from the dock, untied it, and rowed out. Since he was only a small boy, it was very difficult. But, he had to find out what a Wreltney was.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Row, Mike."
The voice was coming from across the lake. Mike doubled his effort, and the boat began to move a little faster. When he was about half way across the lake, he heard: "Mike, I am a Wreltney. Look up, Mike."
It was coming from directly above him. Mike stopped rowing and stood up to look for it. The boat tipped over, dumping him in the lake. Mike didn't know how to swim, so he drowned.
Moral of this story: Don't run with scissors.
There was a little boy by the name of Mike. Mike was an ordinary little boy who did ordinary little boy things, like playing, eating, avoiding his bath, breaking things, and going to school. One day, when Mike went down to the school bus stop, he found all of his friends huddled around in a little group, talking about a Wreltney.
Being a little boy, Mike was curious. So, he asked them, "What's a Wreltney?"
"You don't know what a Wreltney is?" the kids exclaimed disgustedly. For the rest of the wait, they would not go near Mike, always standing far away and staring at him. Then the bus came. Mike, confused, got on the bus along with the rest of the children.
"Hey, Otto!" one of the children shouted. "Mike doesn't know what a Wreltney is!"
The bus driver turned around abruptly. "You don't know what a Wreltney is?" he said in disbelief. He ordered Mike to sit in the very back of the bus, all by himself.
Eventually, they got to school, and Mike got off the bus and went to class. Class proceeded normally; the students did the Pledge of Allegiance and worked on their multiplication tables for a while. Then the teacher led them into a unit on the history of picture framing. Mike was not really paying attention, but he heard the teacher mention something about a Wreltney.
Mike's hand shot up, and, when the teacher called on him, Mike asked, "Ms. Crabapple, what's a Wreltney?"
"You don't know what a Wreltney is?" the teacher cried in alarm, "Get yourself to the principal's office right now, young man. No, don’t act so surprised … no ifs, no ands, no buts … march!"
So, Mike headed down the long, dark, frightening hallway to the principal's office. He slowly opened the large, heavy door, and timidly entered the room behind it. There, at a large, imposing desk, sat the principal. The principal was a hulking man, balding, with a thin, pencil mustache. He spoke in a deep baritone voice. His mere presence was enough to send little boys like Mike who had been sent to his office trembling with fear.
"Well, Mike," he began slowly. "What seems to be the problem?"
Mike whimpered, "Mr. Skinner, I just don't know what's going on today. Everyone's been acting weird, and they're all treating me really badly. Like Ms. Crabapple … she just sent me to you and I don’t know why."
"Now, Mike, “said the principal in a voice oily and dripping with menace, “I'm here to help you. I'm the princi-Pal, after all. Heh, heh! Can you tell me why everyone's acting so strangely?"
"It's because I don't know what some stupid Wreltney is."
"What? You don't know what a Wreltney is? That's it. I am calling your mother, young man. Consider yourself suspended.", roared the principal.
The principal threw Mike out of his office and told him to go home. Mike, crying, began the long walk home. When he got there, his mother was standing in the doorway waiting for him.
"Mike!" she sobbed, "I was so worried about you! What happened?"
"Mom," Mike cried, "Everyone was being mean to me and I had to sit in the back of the bus all by myself and the teacher sent me to the principal's office and the principal suspended me, all because I don't know what a Wreltney is!"
"What? You don't know what a Wreltney is?" Mike's mother shrieked. "Go to your room this minute. Go! Just wait until your father gets home!"
So, Mike marched up the stairs and into his room. He collapsed on the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks. After some amount of time, he heard a car pull in and some doors shutting. His father was home. He could hear his anxious parents muttering downstairs but couldn’t make out the words. Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Then his door was thrown open.
"Mike," his father began in that lecturing, father tone, "Your mother says you've been acting badly lately. Would you like to tell me what you've done?"
"Dad, I haven't done anything! I just don't know what a Wreltney is!"
"You ... you don't know what a Wreltney is”, he sputtered. “Well, in that case, you can just stay in this room all night, mister. No TV, and forget about dinner!"
Mike's father slammed the door and stormed off. Mike collapsed on his bed, crying his eyes out. He spent the next several hours that way, lying there, miserable, wishing he would wake up.
Then, in the middle of the night, he heard a voice. It said: "Mike. I am a Wreltney, Mike."
Mike sat up with a start. He looked around the room, trying to find the source of the voice, but he couldn’t.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Find me, Mike."
It was coming from outside. So Mike got up, put his shoes on, opened the window, and climbed out onto the roof.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Follow my voice."
Mike jumped down off the roof and followed the voice down the road. He got to the edge of a forbidding forest.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Follow me, Mike."
The voice was coming from inside the woods. It was very dark and very frightening, but Mike didn't care. He had to find out what a Wreltney was. So, bravely, he entered the woods.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Keep going, Mike."
Mike kept going into the forest. He could hardly see anything, and he kept falling down and walking into things and hurting himself. But, he kept going, driven by a need to find this enigma that kept calling his name.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. This way, Mike."
Eventually, Mike emerged from the woods. He was on the shore of a lake.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. I'm out here, Mike."
It was coming from out across the lake. Mike got one of the small rowboats from the dock, untied it, and rowed out. Since he was only a small boy, it was very difficult. But, he had to find out what a Wreltney was.
"Mike. I am a Wreltney. Row, Mike."
The voice was coming from across the lake. Mike doubled his effort, and the boat began to move a little faster. When he was about half way across the lake, he heard: "Mike, I am a Wreltney. Look up, Mike."
It was coming from directly above him. Mike stopped rowing and stood up to look for it. The boat tipped over, dumping him in the lake. Mike didn't know how to swim, so he drowned.
Moral of this story: Don't run with scissors.
Don't take life so serious, son, it ain't nohow permanent! – Porky Pine
There once was a man who heard a strange tale of of a wise old man living somewhere in the Himalayas who was reputed to know the secret of happiness. Being somewhat unhappy himself and generally dissatisfied with life in general, he decides to seek this man out. Many miles he walked, up and down various mountains, asking he and there where he might find the wise man. People would tell him "Oh yes he does exist but I don't know where he lives. Ask at the next villiage". This goes on for years, but eventually he finds himself outside a little hut. A wizened old man is sitting outside. "Are you him! Are you the man who knows the secret? Please tell me you are. I have searched these past 20 years to find you". The old man looks up and says, "Yes. I am he that you seek. I suppose you want to know the secret of happiness?"
"Yes!" says the man. "Yes,yes yes. Please tell me!"
"Well", says the old wise man."It is very simple really. Never disagree with anything anybody says to you. No matter what total rubbish they speak, always agree."
"What!" screams the man. "Is this what I have walked all these thousands of miles to hear? You are nothing but an old fraud!" With that he turns and walks away in disgust.
"Yes. You are quite right". says the wise old man.
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Another one courtesy of Peter Ustinov:
An English army major stationed in Khartoum had a young son. Eager to instill some military values and discipline into the lad, he took him for a walk one day. Presently they came to a big statue. "See that son? That is Gordon. He was a Great Hero. I want you to come here every day at first light and salute his statue". "Yes Father" says the boy. From that day on the little boy kept his promise and every day religiously marched to the statue to salute it.
Years past. The garrison was disbanded and all the troops were recalled back to England. The little boy had grown into a young man. On the day before they were due to leave the major decides to go with his son to salute Gordon for the last time. "My boy" he says with a tear in his eye, "I can't tell you how proud I am. No father ever had such a dedicated son". "Thank you father", replied the boy. After a pause, the boy says "There is one thing I always wanted to ask you father". "Oh course." says the major. "What is it?"
"Who is that man on Gordon's back?"
"Yes!" says the man. "Yes,yes yes. Please tell me!"
"Well", says the old wise man."It is very simple really. Never disagree with anything anybody says to you. No matter what total rubbish they speak, always agree."
"What!" screams the man. "Is this what I have walked all these thousands of miles to hear? You are nothing but an old fraud!" With that he turns and walks away in disgust.
"Yes. You are quite right". says the wise old man.
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Another one courtesy of Peter Ustinov:
An English army major stationed in Khartoum had a young son. Eager to instill some military values and discipline into the lad, he took him for a walk one day. Presently they came to a big statue. "See that son? That is Gordon. He was a Great Hero. I want you to come here every day at first light and salute his statue". "Yes Father" says the boy. From that day on the little boy kept his promise and every day religiously marched to the statue to salute it.
Years past. The garrison was disbanded and all the troops were recalled back to England. The little boy had grown into a young man. On the day before they were due to leave the major decides to go with his son to salute Gordon for the last time. "My boy" he says with a tear in his eye, "I can't tell you how proud I am. No father ever had such a dedicated son". "Thank you father", replied the boy. After a pause, the boy says "There is one thing I always wanted to ask you father". "Oh course." says the major. "What is it?"
"Who is that man on Gordon's back?"
As long as you are not in Liverpool.
A primary teacher starts a new job at a school on Merseyside and trying to make a good impression on her first day, explains to her class that she is a Liverpool fan.
She asks her students to raise their hands if they, too, are Liverpool fans. Everyone raises their hand except one little boy.
The teacher looks at the boy with surprise and says: “Dominic, why didn’t you raise your hand?”
“Because I’m a not a Liverpool fan “ he replied.
The teacher, still shocked, asked: “Well, if you’re not a Liverpool fan, then who are you a fan of?”
“I’m a Huddersfield fan, and proud of it,” Dominic replied.
The teacher could not believe her ears. “Dominic, why pray tell me, are you a Huddersfield fan?”
“Because my mum and dad are from Huddersfield, and my dad is a Huddersfield fan and my mum is a Huddersfield fan, so I’m a Huddersfield fan too”.
“Well,” said the teacher, in an obviously annoyed tone, “that’s no reason for you to be a Huddersfield fan. You don’t have to be just like your parents all of the time. What if your mum was a prostitute and your father was a drug addict and a car thief, what would you be then?”
“Then” Dominic smiled, “I’d be a Liverpool fan.”
She asks her students to raise their hands if they, too, are Liverpool fans. Everyone raises their hand except one little boy.
The teacher looks at the boy with surprise and says: “Dominic, why didn’t you raise your hand?”
“Because I’m a not a Liverpool fan “ he replied.
The teacher, still shocked, asked: “Well, if you’re not a Liverpool fan, then who are you a fan of?”
“I’m a Huddersfield fan, and proud of it,” Dominic replied.
The teacher could not believe her ears. “Dominic, why pray tell me, are you a Huddersfield fan?”
“Because my mum and dad are from Huddersfield, and my dad is a Huddersfield fan and my mum is a Huddersfield fan, so I’m a Huddersfield fan too”.
“Well,” said the teacher, in an obviously annoyed tone, “that’s no reason for you to be a Huddersfield fan. You don’t have to be just like your parents all of the time. What if your mum was a prostitute and your father was a drug addict and a car thief, what would you be then?”
“Then” Dominic smiled, “I’d be a Liverpool fan.”