Sometimes, in fact very often, human religion sucks like a black hole. Listen to this and tell me whether or not you think these people are sick puppies.
A Jewish rabbinical court has sentenced a dog to death by stoning because they feared that the animal was a reincarnation of a lawyer who had insulted (probably justifiably) its judges about twenty years ago. The unfortunate animal had apparently wandered into the court building and had refused to leave. It gets worse too; one of the judges from the court in the ultra-orthodox Mea Shearim neighbourhood of Jerusalem even asked some of the local children to carry out the sentence. A court manager told an Israeli journalist that the stoning had been ordered because the court deemed it an appropriate way to 'get back at " the spirit that had entered the dog. Appropriate to order children to stone a dog to death? Someone please remind me. Is it 2011 AD or 33BC? By the way, you'll be pleased to hear than the dog escaped before the sentence could be carried out.
I much prefer the recent ruling of an Islamic court in Sudan where a man who was caught in a compromising position with a goat was forced to marry the animal. Apparently they are very happy and have just celebrated their third anniversary. They have two children who unusually for toddlers will eat absolutely anything. With Islamic courts' penchant for punishing women who have had the audacity to have been raped, it bodes well for Middle Eastern peace that extreme Islam and extreme Judaism have something in common - even if it is only lunacy.
On a far more important topic than the Middle East peace process I'm pleased to say that Badger's recent visit to the vet went well. Don't worry Badger fans, there was nothing wrong with him. He just had a general check-up and his toenails clipped. Of course he let me know how brave he was and reminded me that I had squealed like a girl and widdled on my female staff when I had the horse thermometer shoved up my bottom passage. However, I am reliably told (Actually not that reliably - it was my male staff.) that he sat there and trembled throughout the entire consultation, and he didn't even get the horse thermometer treatment, which is probably just as well since his eyes are already pretty bulgy.
Returning briefly to the subject of Islam and Judaism, I wonder what they're attitude to guinea pigs is. Does the fact that we have the word pig in our name make us unclean? Followers of these religion would do well to remember what anthropologists now believe is the probable origin of the thought that pigs and dogs are unclean. It is widely held scientific theory that both animals' intelligence were considered too closely related to that of humans and so, long ago it became taboo it eat them. In the meantime however, it has become apparent that the intelligence of both the dog and the pig has developed far beyond that of religious fanatics of all denominations.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Cane Toads & Cockroaches
Last night Badger and I watched our first game of rugby league on the telly. Or rather I watched the game and Badger gave the players his death stare. It was the second game in a three match series between the Australian states of Queensland and New South Wales. They call it Steak & Oranges or Snakes & Orgasms or State of Origin. Something like that anyway. Now I know many of my overseas readers won't know what a game of rugby league looks like since hardly anyone plays it outside of Australia and a couple of northern counties of England, so calling the Rugby League World Cup a global event is almost as daft as calling the Baseball World Series ............... the Baseball World Series. However I will endeavour to educate you all.
A team consists of thirteen players, none of whom are permitted to have a neck. Each team must have at least eight players who's knuckles drag along the ground and a minimum of four must have spent time at least an hour in a Rwandan rain forest being filmed by David Attenborough. The main thing that you need to know about the game of rugby league is that a team progresses by throwing the ball backwards and then running like crazy to make up the ground they've just lost. The team without the ball can stop their opponents by using pretty much any means they like - a short jab to the chin, a swinging arm across the nose, or by simply pulling down their opponents shorts so that they trip over. This last option seems to be the most popular. A score is made when a player accidentally falls over with the ball behind the oppositions goal line. Yes, to sum up, it's a sort of thinking man's gridiron.
This particular game was watched by over eighty-one thousand spectators. That's way more than double the amount of brain cells on the field of play - including the referee. I can't help but wonder if the game would be more attractive if the teams had better nicknames. New South Wales are called the Cockroaches. Is it wise to name your team after what is probably the most loathed creature on earth? This is an insect that even vegans stomp on. Meanwhile the Queenslanders have decided to call their team the Cane Toads. This is even worse. Cane toads (bufo marinus) are seriously ugly, poisonous vermin - at least in Australia. On second thoughts maybe it is quite appropriate to name a team of rugby league players (nullus neckus) cane toads.
An interesting link to past games occured during last night's match. Will Hopoate, the son of rugby league's most famous player made the winning score when he tripped over the corner post while holding the ball. His father John Hopoate rose to fame with his unique finger up the rectum style of tackling and soon became known as "Public Enema Number One."
The teams pre-match training consists of visiting nightclubs, getting totally rat-arsed and then fighting with the security staff before finding a brightly lit shop window to urinate against. The game was invented in Papua New Guinea three hundred years ago, where rival tribes of head hunters played the game using a victims head instead of a ball. The winning team would then eat their vanquished opponents rather than do a lap of honour which has become traditional in the modern game. Apart from that, little has changed. Can't wait for game three.
A team consists of thirteen players, none of whom are permitted to have a neck. Each team must have at least eight players who's knuckles drag along the ground and a minimum of four must have spent time at least an hour in a Rwandan rain forest being filmed by David Attenborough. The main thing that you need to know about the game of rugby league is that a team progresses by throwing the ball backwards and then running like crazy to make up the ground they've just lost. The team without the ball can stop their opponents by using pretty much any means they like - a short jab to the chin, a swinging arm across the nose, or by simply pulling down their opponents shorts so that they trip over. This last option seems to be the most popular. A score is made when a player accidentally falls over with the ball behind the oppositions goal line. Yes, to sum up, it's a sort of thinking man's gridiron.
This particular game was watched by over eighty-one thousand spectators. That's way more than double the amount of brain cells on the field of play - including the referee. I can't help but wonder if the game would be more attractive if the teams had better nicknames. New South Wales are called the Cockroaches. Is it wise to name your team after what is probably the most loathed creature on earth? This is an insect that even vegans stomp on. Meanwhile the Queenslanders have decided to call their team the Cane Toads. This is even worse. Cane toads (bufo marinus) are seriously ugly, poisonous vermin - at least in Australia. On second thoughts maybe it is quite appropriate to name a team of rugby league players (nullus neckus) cane toads.
An interesting link to past games occured during last night's match. Will Hopoate, the son of rugby league's most famous player made the winning score when he tripped over the corner post while holding the ball. His father John Hopoate rose to fame with his unique finger up the rectum style of tackling and soon became known as "Public Enema Number One."
The teams pre-match training consists of visiting nightclubs, getting totally rat-arsed and then fighting with the security staff before finding a brightly lit shop window to urinate against. The game was invented in Papua New Guinea three hundred years ago, where rival tribes of head hunters played the game using a victims head instead of a ball. The winning team would then eat their vanquished opponents rather than do a lap of honour which has become traditional in the modern game. Apart from that, little has changed. Can't wait for game three.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Super Sex
It seems to me that my staff's lives revolve around horsepiddles and old folks homes these days. My female staff recently visited her Dad's old folks home - Sunny Days Aged Care Facility, or Stalag 17 as it is affectionately known by the residents. Once she got past the razor wire, the minefield and the German shepherds her Dad gave her the full tour. Someone was in the "slammer" incessantly tossing a baseball against the wall, while other residents had organised choir practice to hide the noise that the digging of escape tunnels was making.
As they sat there enjoying a cup of dirty grey liquid purporting to be coffee, something of a kerfuffle was heard to be taking place, One of the female residents had finally cracked - gone stir crazy. Instead of making a desperate dash for the fence only to be mown down by the guards' machine guns and left hanging there for the crows to pick at at their leisure, she was going from one male resident to the next, lifting her nightie and yelling "Super Sex!" at the top of her voice. Now, it should be remembered that this resident was ninety plus years of age and the goods on display were somewhat past their use by date. She approached my female staff's Dad, raised her nightie and yelled "Super Sex!" He eyed her with a certain amount of distaste and said simply "Mmmm. I think I'll have the soup please."
Yes I know I live in the sub-tropics of beautiful, sunny Queensland, but will someone please tell my staff that it's time they bought some heating. They're always banging on about how it's only chilly for about a month and that all they need to do is wear a few more layers of clothing. Well hello! What about me and Badger? We can't trundle down to the nearest fat person repository (shopping centre), whip out a visa card and come away with a nice warm woolly jumper can we. All we can do is rub two pieces of dry bush chocolate together and set fire to our bedding and there's not much future in that when you're confined inside a metal cage. Hells Bells! Badger and I can't even cuddle up to each other for warmth since we're in separate cages, all because whenever we're together I try to bonk his brains out. I ask you. What's wrong with that? Thankfully, the temperature rarely drops below ten degrees centigrade here at night, so you probably think I'm being a bit of a wimp, but it's all relative isn't it? All the same I can't help wondering how all those piggies living in really cold climates like Canada manage. Do they find a polar bear to snuggle up to? Or is it just that their staff aren't as bloody tight-fisted as mine?
As they sat there enjoying a cup of dirty grey liquid purporting to be coffee, something of a kerfuffle was heard to be taking place, One of the female residents had finally cracked - gone stir crazy. Instead of making a desperate dash for the fence only to be mown down by the guards' machine guns and left hanging there for the crows to pick at at their leisure, she was going from one male resident to the next, lifting her nightie and yelling "Super Sex!" at the top of her voice. Now, it should be remembered that this resident was ninety plus years of age and the goods on display were somewhat past their use by date. She approached my female staff's Dad, raised her nightie and yelled "Super Sex!" He eyed her with a certain amount of distaste and said simply "Mmmm. I think I'll have the soup please."
Yes I know I live in the sub-tropics of beautiful, sunny Queensland, but will someone please tell my staff that it's time they bought some heating. They're always banging on about how it's only chilly for about a month and that all they need to do is wear a few more layers of clothing. Well hello! What about me and Badger? We can't trundle down to the nearest fat person repository (shopping centre), whip out a visa card and come away with a nice warm woolly jumper can we. All we can do is rub two pieces of dry bush chocolate together and set fire to our bedding and there's not much future in that when you're confined inside a metal cage. Hells Bells! Badger and I can't even cuddle up to each other for warmth since we're in separate cages, all because whenever we're together I try to bonk his brains out. I ask you. What's wrong with that? Thankfully, the temperature rarely drops below ten degrees centigrade here at night, so you probably think I'm being a bit of a wimp, but it's all relative isn't it? All the same I can't help wondering how all those piggies living in really cold climates like Canada manage. Do they find a polar bear to snuggle up to? Or is it just that their staff aren't as bloody tight-fisted as mine?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Pig on a Plane
Occasionally it's not hard to dislike my male staff. He assured me that it would be about forty degrees when we landed in Dubai so I grew my winter coat with all due haste. You'd have absolutely loved me. My fur was thick and lustrous and beautifully warm. It was indeed forty degrees when we landed in Dubai. Forty three actually, centrigrade that is. I really wish my staff would be more specific. My gorgeous thick winter coat immediately stood on end in the heat, so that I looked like a bloody porcupine - most undignified. Anyway, justice was seen to be done in the end because every time my male staff touched me he received a hefty jolt of about five thousand volts due to all the static. The yelping and swearing was almost worth the indignity.
So anyway, finally it was time to fly back to Australia. It's a fourteen hour flight from Dubai to a place called Sinnyorstraya, so my male staff said I wouldn't have to travel in his suitcase this time. He smuggled me onto the plane in the same way he used to smuggle me into the hospital to see his Mum - by shoving me down the front of his trousers. While he watched probably the most stupid film ever made - Snakes on a Plane - (I didn't know snakes growled.) I poked my head out of his fly and ate his limp airline salad for him. Then once I'd finished that I leapt out of his fly and helped the lady in the next seat eat hers. I don't think she was expecting a large hairy thing to burst from her neighbours fly and land in her food tray. In truth she seemed a little shocked. However, once she regained conciousness she was quite good about it really.
So then I decided to stretch my legs and have a look around. I mooched about on the floor, biting people's toes and tidying up any stray limp lettuce. In this way I passed the long flight quite happily and even found a few wires to chew, though I didn't tell my male staff this until after we'd landed safely.
Sinnyorstraya is a funny place. It's a bit like Singapore I suppose only colder and the humans (called Sinnysoydas for some reason) are much ruder. It appears to be a tradition in Sinnyorstraya to dress in black in winter and this lends the place a rather sinister air, especially at dusk when homeward bound pedestrians are flitting all over the place like shadowy bats. Like Singaporeans they charge around with cell phones glued to one ear or texting furiously and not looking where they're going. However, unlike Singaporeans they are not so good at avoiding each other and there are frequent collisions which often results in a fight. My male staff says that this is because they are either drunk or in such a hurry to go somewhere to get drunk that the least delay in getting there provokes violence.
In any case it's good to be home. Badger is fatter, the budgies are noisier and my female staff is still a fruitcake. I wonder where I'll go next.
So anyway, finally it was time to fly back to Australia. It's a fourteen hour flight from Dubai to a place called Sinnyorstraya, so my male staff said I wouldn't have to travel in his suitcase this time. He smuggled me onto the plane in the same way he used to smuggle me into the hospital to see his Mum - by shoving me down the front of his trousers. While he watched probably the most stupid film ever made - Snakes on a Plane - (I didn't know snakes growled.) I poked my head out of his fly and ate his limp airline salad for him. Then once I'd finished that I leapt out of his fly and helped the lady in the next seat eat hers. I don't think she was expecting a large hairy thing to burst from her neighbours fly and land in her food tray. In truth she seemed a little shocked. However, once she regained conciousness she was quite good about it really.
So then I decided to stretch my legs and have a look around. I mooched about on the floor, biting people's toes and tidying up any stray limp lettuce. In this way I passed the long flight quite happily and even found a few wires to chew, though I didn't tell my male staff this until after we'd landed safely.
Sinnyorstraya is a funny place. It's a bit like Singapore I suppose only colder and the humans (called Sinnysoydas for some reason) are much ruder. It appears to be a tradition in Sinnyorstraya to dress in black in winter and this lends the place a rather sinister air, especially at dusk when homeward bound pedestrians are flitting all over the place like shadowy bats. Like Singaporeans they charge around with cell phones glued to one ear or texting furiously and not looking where they're going. However, unlike Singaporeans they are not so good at avoiding each other and there are frequent collisions which often results in a fight. My male staff says that this is because they are either drunk or in such a hurry to go somewhere to get drunk that the least delay in getting there provokes violence.
In any case it's good to be home. Badger is fatter, the budgies are noisier and my female staff is still a fruitcake. I wonder where I'll go next.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Over-Sexed Rogues
Well, I'm nearing the end of my short stay in Olde England and I've come to the conclusion that despite what you might imaging from watching Hollywood movies not all Englishmen are utter prigs with a stainless steel rod up their bottom passages like most of Colin Firth's characters. Neither are they lovable, over-sexed rogues like most of Hugh Grant's characters, indeed like Hugh Grant himself from what I can tell. No, many Englishmen are total nutters like my male staff. His sister is something of a fruitcake too, although this can come in handy sometimes. Like the time she, her husband and my staff's dad went to an airshow. With my staff's dad driving they pulled up next to the man taking the entrance money. My staff's sister was pulling faces at her husband, something she does quite a lot apparently. The nice man taking the money assumed she was intellectually challenged - a quite understandable error, and gave her a free pass. He also assumed that her husband was her carer and charged him half price. My staff's dad is a senior citizen and so he was also entitled to half price. So all three of them got into the airshow for the price of one. Sometimes it pays to be slightly deranged.
Another thing I've noticed about the British is that they've stopped sending their criminals to Australia and started electing them to parliament. Here's an interesting statistic for you. 0.14% of the British general public are in prison. 0.6% of Members of Parliament are in prison according to Private Eye. So, Members of Parliament are four times more likely to be convicted of a criminal offence than the general public. Dozens of MPs and Peers who sit in the House of Lords have been found guilty of rorting their very generous parliamentary expenses - some have gone to prison. The latest greedy bastard to go to jail is Conservative peer Lord Taylor of Warwick. He fiddled the British tax payer out of eleven thousand pounds in false travel claims. The funny thing is that the House of Lords has no regulation of expense payments as Peers are considered to be above such swindling. Who voted against having these regulations? Yep - the Peers themselves.
Not only have the British stopped sending their criminals to Australia, but Australia has started sending it's criminals to Britain. Forty seven year old Clifford Tucker had lived in Australia since he moved from Britain with his parents at the age of six, but her never took Australian citizenship. He only held permanent resident status. In the eighties and nineties he was jailed for violent crimes but he hadn't been in prison since 1999.
Now, the Aussie authorities may have been within their rights to kick this guy out, but don't you think it smacks of shirking their responsibility. This bloke is effectively an Australian. He obviously learned his criminal ways in Australia since he'd been there since he was six years old. Do you think it's fair to him or the British that this Aussie criminal should be dumped in Britain - a country he has absolutely no connection with other than his birth forty seven years ago?
One last thing. I've just been watching the BBC news coverage of the battle for the USA's Republican presidential candidate. OMG! Mitt Romney or Sarah Palin? What a choice. Mitt has all the personality of screwdriver and Sarah has the brains of a ............... Republican presidential candidate. Good luck guys.
Another thing I've noticed about the British is that they've stopped sending their criminals to Australia and started electing them to parliament. Here's an interesting statistic for you. 0.14% of the British general public are in prison. 0.6% of Members of Parliament are in prison according to Private Eye. So, Members of Parliament are four times more likely to be convicted of a criminal offence than the general public. Dozens of MPs and Peers who sit in the House of Lords have been found guilty of rorting their very generous parliamentary expenses - some have gone to prison. The latest greedy bastard to go to jail is Conservative peer Lord Taylor of Warwick. He fiddled the British tax payer out of eleven thousand pounds in false travel claims. The funny thing is that the House of Lords has no regulation of expense payments as Peers are considered to be above such swindling. Who voted against having these regulations? Yep - the Peers themselves.
Not only have the British stopped sending their criminals to Australia, but Australia has started sending it's criminals to Britain. Forty seven year old Clifford Tucker had lived in Australia since he moved from Britain with his parents at the age of six, but her never took Australian citizenship. He only held permanent resident status. In the eighties and nineties he was jailed for violent crimes but he hadn't been in prison since 1999.
Now, the Aussie authorities may have been within their rights to kick this guy out, but don't you think it smacks of shirking their responsibility. This bloke is effectively an Australian. He obviously learned his criminal ways in Australia since he'd been there since he was six years old. Do you think it's fair to him or the British that this Aussie criminal should be dumped in Britain - a country he has absolutely no connection with other than his birth forty seven years ago?
One last thing. I've just been watching the BBC news coverage of the battle for the USA's Republican presidential candidate. OMG! Mitt Romney or Sarah Palin? What a choice. Mitt has all the personality of screwdriver and Sarah has the brains of a ............... Republican presidential candidate. Good luck guys.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Drugs and Bedpans
I had to go to the vet today. I've been sneezing like a human with his head in a snuff pot recently. I think it must be the cold weather here in good old Blighty. Either that or the cocaine. Anyway my male staff dragged me to the surgery where once again I had a horse thermometer (see my previous post http://pemery.blogspot.com/2010/12/horse-thermometer.html ) shoved up my bottom passage and a dirty great needle stabbed into me. The former made by eyes water and the latter made me squeal like a girl and wet myself. All very undignified. Anyway the upshot of it all is that the vet thinks I'm just being a wimp, and to punish me has given me some bloody awful tasting antibiotics. Bastard!
Anyway I'm feeling better now and my staff has been painting my favourite vegetables with the antibiotic liquid. He thinks I don't notice, but I'm not as stupid as he is. So it's either antibiotic flavoured capsicum or go without, and I've never been one to go without.
We're going to the horsepiddle again today to visit my male staff's mum. Apart from the fact that I'll be shoved down the front of my male staff's trouser again in order to smuggle me in I'm rather looking forward to the outing. Once we're settled next to his mum's bed my male staff usually undoes his fly to allow me to poke my head out and eat some of his mum's grapes. It's a shame Badger couldn't come too as he just loves grapes, but someone had to stay back in Australia to keep my female staff under control. There would certainly be plenty of room down the front of my staff's trousers for both Badger and I. It's not as if there is much else down there, as I have found from my own bitter experience.
I have to admit that while I enjoy visiting horsepiddle, I find the whole ritual more than just a little strange. Every day my male staff, his dad, his auntie and yours truly pile into the car and drive to the hospital. After the first couple of days everyone ran out of things to say. My staff's mum's day revolves around drugs and bed pans and as for the rest of us, well, our days revolve around preparing to visit the horsepiddle. How much can anybody say about that sort of existence. So we all sit in a rough semi-circle around my staff's mum. My staff's dad hobbles around using a dickensian contraption called a walking frame, is stone deaf and habitually says "Eh?" to everything that is said, even if it's not said to him. My staff's aunt recently tripped over a garden hose and face-planted into a pile of gravel. Consequently the poor old thing's face looks like it's been attacked by a particularly stroppy cat. Then of course there's my male staff who sits there with a large, hairy creature poking out of his open fly. They all sit there gazing at his mum, trying to think of things to say that weren't said the day before - and the day before that. The only moderately normal person amongst them is my staff's mum. The rest of them look more like they should be in horsepiddle than she does.
Anyway I'm feeling better now and my staff has been painting my favourite vegetables with the antibiotic liquid. He thinks I don't notice, but I'm not as stupid as he is. So it's either antibiotic flavoured capsicum or go without, and I've never been one to go without.
We're going to the horsepiddle again today to visit my male staff's mum. Apart from the fact that I'll be shoved down the front of my male staff's trouser again in order to smuggle me in I'm rather looking forward to the outing. Once we're settled next to his mum's bed my male staff usually undoes his fly to allow me to poke my head out and eat some of his mum's grapes. It's a shame Badger couldn't come too as he just loves grapes, but someone had to stay back in Australia to keep my female staff under control. There would certainly be plenty of room down the front of my staff's trousers for both Badger and I. It's not as if there is much else down there, as I have found from my own bitter experience.
I have to admit that while I enjoy visiting horsepiddle, I find the whole ritual more than just a little strange. Every day my male staff, his dad, his auntie and yours truly pile into the car and drive to the hospital. After the first couple of days everyone ran out of things to say. My staff's mum's day revolves around drugs and bed pans and as for the rest of us, well, our days revolve around preparing to visit the horsepiddle. How much can anybody say about that sort of existence. So we all sit in a rough semi-circle around my staff's mum. My staff's dad hobbles around using a dickensian contraption called a walking frame, is stone deaf and habitually says "Eh?" to everything that is said, even if it's not said to him. My staff's aunt recently tripped over a garden hose and face-planted into a pile of gravel. Consequently the poor old thing's face looks like it's been attacked by a particularly stroppy cat. Then of course there's my male staff who sits there with a large, hairy creature poking out of his open fly. They all sit there gazing at his mum, trying to think of things to say that weren't said the day before - and the day before that. The only moderately normal person amongst them is my staff's mum. The rest of them look more like they should be in horsepiddle than she does.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Seven Deadly Sins
While I've been busy trying to keep my male staff out of trouble as he travels the world, my female staff has been living the high life back in Australia. She's been shopping, dining out and taking joy rides to Brisbane on the train. I can understand why she likes the train - it's always so entertaining. On this most recent journey she was accompanied by a nice lady wielding a Watchtower magazine which contained a full page description of each of the seven deadly sins. A short time into the journey the nice lady leapt to her feet and began a religious rant that would have done Ayatolla Khomeini proud. She then proceeded to rip pages from her magazine and hand them very generously to her fellow passengers. My female staff received the page concerning the deadly sin of gluttony. At this point she decided to do less dining out and more shopping in the future. Having distributed the seven deadly sins the nice lady sat down next to an elderly gentleman and threatened to stuff what was left of her magazine up his nose. All the passengers were terribly disappointed when she disembarked soon afterwards. The rest of the journey was rather boring.
My male staff, his sister and his dad have all been rather upset lately and I've been hard pressed to raise their spirits in spite of all my endearing cuteness and vibrant personality. You see my male staff's mum is very ill in horsepiddle and it fell to him to deliver some rather bad news to the rest of the family. He and his sister share the same perverted sense of humour and I overheard him telling her the following sad but apparently true story.
A while ago in the British army there was a certain Regimental Sergeant Major Stone. It was RSM Stone's habit to give the soldiers bad news about their family while on parade. He would stand the regiment to attention, puff out his barrel chest and yell out at the top of his voice something like.
"Private Jones. Your mother has been run over by a bus and killed. Take five days leave and go to her funeral." Naturally poor Private Jones was very upset at this, as was everyone who received tragic news in this manner. Eventually the RSM's superior - Colonel Blamey came to hear of the way RSM Stone dealt with these delicate matters and he called him into his office.
"Now look here old chap." he said "You're going to have to be more subtle with the men when delivering bad news. Try taking a more gentle approach." The RSM saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched from the office. A week later the regiment were on parade again, lined up neatly and standing stiffly to attention. RSM Stone strode up and stood before them. Puffing out his chest he bellowed
"All men with living mothers take one pace forward........ Where the bloody hell do you think you're going Lance Corporal Bates?
Yep. Sometimes if you didn't laugh you'd cry.
My male staff, his sister and his dad have all been rather upset lately and I've been hard pressed to raise their spirits in spite of all my endearing cuteness and vibrant personality. You see my male staff's mum is very ill in horsepiddle and it fell to him to deliver some rather bad news to the rest of the family. He and his sister share the same perverted sense of humour and I overheard him telling her the following sad but apparently true story.
A while ago in the British army there was a certain Regimental Sergeant Major Stone. It was RSM Stone's habit to give the soldiers bad news about their family while on parade. He would stand the regiment to attention, puff out his barrel chest and yell out at the top of his voice something like.
"Private Jones. Your mother has been run over by a bus and killed. Take five days leave and go to her funeral." Naturally poor Private Jones was very upset at this, as was everyone who received tragic news in this manner. Eventually the RSM's superior - Colonel Blamey came to hear of the way RSM Stone dealt with these delicate matters and he called him into his office.
"Now look here old chap." he said "You're going to have to be more subtle with the men when delivering bad news. Try taking a more gentle approach." The RSM saluted, turned smartly on his heel and marched from the office. A week later the regiment were on parade again, lined up neatly and standing stiffly to attention. RSM Stone strode up and stood before them. Puffing out his chest he bellowed
"All men with living mothers take one pace forward........ Where the bloody hell do you think you're going Lance Corporal Bates?
Yep. Sometimes if you didn't laugh you'd cry.
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