The Monday Morning Mirth

Tag: Australian

  • A Fine Restaurant

    An Englishman, a Scotsman, an Irishman, a Welshman, a Latvian, a Turk, a German, an Indian, several Americans (including a Hawaiian and an Alaskan), an Argentinean, a Dane, an Australian, a Slovak, an Egyptian, a Japanese, a Moroccan, a Frenchman, a New Zealander, a Spaniard, a Russian, a Guatemalan, a Colombian, a Pakistani, a Malaysian, a Croatian, an Uzbek, a Cypriot, a Pole, a Lithuanian, a Chinese, a Sri Lankan, a Lebanese, a Cayman Islander, a Ugandan, a Vietnamese, a Korean, a Uruguayan, a Czech, an Icelander, a Mexican, a Finn, a Honduran, a Panamanian, an Andorran, an Israeli, a Venezuelan, an Iranian, a Fijian, a Peruvian, an Estonian, a Syrian, a Brazilian, a Portuguese, a Liechtensteiner, a Mongolian, a Hungarian, a Canadian, a Moldovan, a Haitian, a Norfolk Islander, a Macedonian, a Bolivian, a Cook Islander, a Tajikistani, a Samoan, an Armenian, an Aruban, an Albanian, a Greenlander, a Micronesian, a Virgin Islander, a Georgian, a Bahamian, a Belarusian, a Cuban, a Tongan, a Cambodian, a Canadian, a Qatari, an Azerbaijani, a Romanian, a Chilean, a Jamaican, a Filipino, a Ukrainian, a Dutchman, an Ecuadorian, a Costa Rican, a Swede, a Bulgarian, a Serb, a Swiss, a Greek, a Belgian, a Singaporean, an Italian, a Norwegian and two Africans walk into a fine restaurant.

    "I’m sorry," says the maître d’, after scrutinizing the group. "You can’t come in here without a Thai."

  • Two Cows

    SOCIALISM
    You have 2 cows.
    You give one to your neighbour.

    COMMUNISM
    You have 2 cows.
    The State takes both and gives you some milk.

    FASCISM
    You have 2 cows.
    The State takes both and sells you some milk.

    NAZISM
    You have 2 cows.
    The State takes both and shoots you.

    BUREAUCRATISM
    You have 2 cows.
    The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away.

    TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM
    You have two cows.
    You sell one and buy a bull.
    Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows.
    You sell them and retire on the income.

    ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND (VENTURE) CAPITALISM
    You have two cows.
    You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows.
    The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company.
    The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more.
    You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows.
    No balance sheet provided with the release.
    The public then buys your bull.

    SURREALISM
    You have two giraffes.
    The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

    AN AMERICAN CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.
    Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.

    A GREEK CORPORATION
    You have two cows. You borrow lots of Euros to build barns, milking sheds, hay stores, feed sheds, dairies,
    cold stores, abattoir, cheese unit and packing sheds. You still only have two cows.

    A FRENCH CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.

    A JAPANESE CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.
    You then create a clever cow cartoon image called a Cowkimona and market it worldwide.

    AN ITALIAN CORPORATION
    You have two cows, but you don’t know where they are.
    You decide to have lunch.

    A SWISS CORPORATION
    You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you.
    You charge the owners for storing them.

    A CHINESE CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    You have 300 people milking them.
    You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity.
    You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

    AN INDIAN CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    You worship them.

    A BRITISH CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    Both are mad.

    AN IRAQI CORPORATION
    Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.
    You tell them that you have none.
    No-one believes you, so they bomb the ** out of you and invade your country.
    You still have no cows, but at least you are now a Democracy.

    AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    Business seems pretty good.
    You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

    A NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION
    You have two cows.
    The one on the left looks very attractive…

  • Muslim Union Cuts Benefits for Martyrs…

    Muslim suicide bombers in Britain are set to begin a three-day strike on Monday in a dispute over the number of virgins they are entitled to receive in the afterlife. Emergency talks with Al Qaeda have so far failed to produce an agreement.
     
    The unrest began last Tuesday when Al Qaeda announced that the number of virgins a suicide bomber would receive after his death would be cut by 25% this February from 72 to 60. A company spokesman said increases in recent years in the number of suicide bombings have resulted in a shortage of virgins in the afterlife.
     
    The suicide bombers’ union, the British Organization of Occupational Martyrs ( or B.O.O.M. ) responded with a statement saying the move was unacceptable to its members and called for strike vote. General Secretary Abdullah Amir told the press, "Our members are literally working themselves to death in the cause of Jihad. We don’t ask for much in return, but to be treated like this is like a kick in the teeth".
     
    Speaking from his luxury suite in Las Vegas, Al Qaeda chief executive Osama bin Laden explained, "I sympathize with our workers’ concerns, but Al Qaeda is simply not in a position to meet their demands. They are simply not accepting the realities of modern-day Jihad in a competitive marketplace. Thanks to Western depravity, there is now a chronic shortage of virgins in the afterlife. It’s a straight choice between reducing expenditures or laying people off.  I don’t like cutting benefits, but I’d hate to have to tell 3,000 of my staff that they won’t be able to blow themselves up."
     
    Spokespersons for the union in the Northeast of England, Ireland, Wales, the entire Australian continent, California, and New York stated that the change would not hurt their membership as there are few virgins in their areas anyway.
     
    According to some industry sources, the recent drop in the number of suicide bombings has been attributed to the emergence of Scottish singing star, Susan Boyle. Many Muslim jihadists now know what a virgin looks like and have reconsidered their benefit packages.

  • The Australian Salesman

    A young Aussie lad moved to London and went to Harrods looking for a job. The manager asked "Do you have any sales experience?"

    The young man answered "Yeah, I was a salesman back home in Dubbo."

    The manager liked the Aussie so he gave him the job.

    His first day on the job was challenging and busy, but he got through it.

    After the store was locked up, the manager came down and asked, "OK, so how many sales did you make today?"

    The Aussie said "One!"

    The manager groaned and continued, "Just one? Our sales people average 20 or 30 sales a day. How much was the sale for?"

    "£ 124,237.64. Pounds"

    The manager choked and exclaimed 124,237.64 POUNDS!! What the hell did you sell him?"

    "Well, first I sold him a small fish hook, then a medium fish hook, and then I sold him a new fishing rod. Then I asked him where he was going fishing and he said down at the coast, so I told him he would need a boat, so we went down to the boat department and I sold him that twin-engined Power Cat.

    Then he said he didn’t think his Honda Civic would pull it, so I took him down to car sales and I sold him the 4 x 4 Suzuki".

    The manager, incredulous, said, "You mean to tell me… a guy came in here to buy a fish hook and you sold him a boat and a 4×4?"

    "No no no… he came in here to buy a box of tampons for his lady friend and I said, ‘Well, since your weekend’s buggered, you might as well go fishing.’"

  • The Retrosexual Man

    Please allow me to vent. I have had it. I’ve taken all I can stand and I can’t stand no more. Every time my TV is on, all that can be seen is effeminate men prancing about, Redecorating houses and talking about foreign concepts like "style" and "feng shui." Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, metrosexual, non-sexual; blue, green, and purple-sexual…

    Real men of the world, stand up, scratch your arse, burp, and yell "ENOUGH!" I hereby announce the start of a new offensive in the culture Wars, the Retrosexual movement. "

    The Code:

    A Retrosexual man, no matter what the women insists, PAYS FOR THE DATE.

    A Retrosexual DEALS with IT, be it a flat tyre, break-in into your home, or a natural disaster, you DEAL WITH IT.

    A Retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himself.

    A Retrosexual doesn’t worry about living to be 90. It’s not how long you live, but how well. If you’re 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, I salute you. If you are still having sex, you are a God.

    A Retrosexual does not use more hair or skin products than a woman. Women have several supermarket aisles of stuff. Retrosexuals need deodorant and shaving gear – that’s it!!

    A Retrosexual does not dress like a homeboy with baggy pants that look like he’s shat himself, or with a gay chain from pocket to pocket. If wearing a hat, wear it correctly – not on the side like a faggot. Blokes and necklaces (unless you are an Australian fast bowler) are out!

    A Retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be. This falls under the "Dealing with IT" portion of The Code.

    A Retrosexual watches no TV show with "Queer" in the title.

    A Retrosexual does not let neighbours screw up rooms in his house on national TV.

    A Retrosexual should not give up excessive amounts of manliness for women. Some is inevitable, but major reinvention of yourself will only lead to you becoming a handbag carrying little puss, and in the long run, she ain’t worth it.

    A Retrosexual is allowed to seek professional help for major mental stress such as drug/alcohol addiction, death of your entire family in a freak BBQ accident, favourite sports team being moved to a different city, favourite dog expiring, etc. You are NOT allowed to see a shrink because Daddy didn’t pay you enough attention. Daddy was busy DEALING WITH IT. When you screwed up, he DEALT with you.

    A Retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey.

    A Retrosexual knows how to tie a Windsor knot when wearing a tie — and ONLY a Windsor knot.

    A Retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about getting. This does not include males who have had cosmetic surgery.

    A Retrosexual knows how to use a basic set of tools. If you can’t hammer a nail, or drill a straight hole, practice in secret until you can — or be rightfully ridiculed for the wuss you are.

    A Retrosexual knows that owning a gun is not a sign that your are riddled with fear, guns are TOOLS and are often essential to DEAL WITH IT. Plus it’s just plain fun to fire one off in the direction of those people or things that just need a little "wakin’ up".

    Crying. There are very few reasons that a Retrosexual may cry, and none of them have to do with TV commercials, movies, or soap operas. Sports teams are sometimes a reason to cry, but the preferred method of release is swearing or throwing the remote control. Some reasons a Retrosexual can cry include (but are not limited to) death of a loved one, death of a pet (fish do NOT count as pets in this case), loss of a major body part, or loss of major body part on your Holden ute.

    When a Retrosexual is on a crowded bus and or a commuter train, and a pregnant woman, heck, any woman gets on, that retrosexual stands up and offers his seat to that woman, then looks around at the other so-called men still in their seats with a disgusted "you rude pricks" look on his face.

    A Retrosexual will have hobbies and habits his wife and mother do not understand, but that are essential to his manliness, in that they offset the acceptable manliness decline he suffers when married/engaged or in a serious healthy relationship – i.e., hunting, boxing, shot putting, shooting, cigars, car maintenance and drinking piss with the boys.

    A Retrosexual knows how to sharpen his own knives and kitchen utensils.

    A Retrosexual man can chop down a tree and make it land where he wants. Wherever it lands is where he bloody well wanted it to land. Except on his ute–that would happen because of a "force of nature", and then the retrosexual man’s options are to Cry, or to DEAL with IT, or do both.

    A Retrosexual will give up his seat on a bus to not only any women but any elderly person or person in military dress (except 2nd Lt’s) NOTE: The person in military dress may turn down the offer but the Retrosexual man will ALWAYS make the offer to them and thank them for serving their country.

    A Retrosexual man doesn’t need a contract — a handshake is good enough.

    A Retrosexual man doesn’t immediately look to sue someone when he does something stupid and hurts himself. We understand that sometimes in the process of doing things we get hurt and we just DEAL WITH IT!

  • The Australian Ventriloquist

    An Australian ventriloquist visiting New Zealand walks into a small town and sees a local sitting on his porch patting his dog. He figures he’ll have a little fun.

    Ventriloquist: "G’day Mate! Good looking dog, mate. Mind if I speak to him?"
    New Zealander: "The dog doesn’t talk, you stupid Aussie."
    Ventriloquist: "Hey dog, how’s it going old mate?"
    Dog: "Doin’ alright."
    New Zealander: extreme look of shock
    Ventriloquist: "Is this Kiwi your owner?" pointing at New Zealander
    Dog: "Yep"
    Ventriloquist: "How does he treat you?"
    Dog: "Real good. He walks me twice a day, feeds me great food, and takes me to the lake once a week to play."
    New Zealander: look of disbelief
    Ventriloquist: "Mind if I talk to your horse?"
    New Zealander: "Uh, the horse doesn’t talk either…I think."
    Ventriloquist: "Hey horse, how’s it going?"
    Horse: "Cool."
    New Zealander: extreme look of shock
    Ventriloquist: "Is this your owner?" pointing at New Zealander
    Horse: "Yep"
    Ventriloquist: "How’s he treat you?"
    Horse: "Pretty good, thanks for asking. He rides me regularly, brushes me down often, and keeps me in the barn to protect me from the elements."
    New Zealander: total look of amazement
    Ventriloquist: "Mind if I talk to your sheep?"
    New Zealander: "THE SHEEP’S A LIAR."

  • Ode to Australians

    WE, the people of a free nation of blokes, sheilas and the occasional wanker. We come from many lands (although a few too many of us come from New Zealand) and although we live in the best country in the world, we reserve the right to bitch and moan about it whenever we bloody like. We are One Nation but we’re divided into many States.

    First, there’s Victoria, named after a queen who didn’t believe in lesbians. Victoria is the realm of Mossimo turtlenecks, cafe latte, grand-final day and big horse races. Its capital is Melbourne, whose chief marketing pitch is that "it’s liveable". At least that’s what they think. The rest of us think it is too bloody cold and wet.

    Next, there’s NSW, the realm of pastel shorts, macchiato with sugar, thin books read quickly and millions of dancing queens. Its capital Sydney has more queens than any other city in the world and is proud of it. Its mascots are Bondi lifesavers who pull their Speedos up their cracks to keep the left and right sides of their brains separate.

    Down south we have Tasmania, a State based on the notion that the family that bonks together stays together. In Tassie, everyone gets an extra chromosome at conception. Maps of the State bring smiles to the sternest faces. It holds the world record for a single mass shooting, which the Yanks can’t seem to beat no matter how often they try.

    South Australia is the province of half-decent reds, a festival of foreigners and bizarre axe murders. SA is the state of innovation. Where else can you so effectively re-use country bank vaults and barrels as in Snowtown, just out of Adelaide (also named after a queen). They had the Grand Prix, but lost it when the views of Adelaide sent the Formula One drivers to sleep at the wheel.

    Western Australia is too far from anywhere to be relevant. It’s main claim to fame is that it doesn’t have daylight saving because if it did, all the men would get erections on the bus on the way to work. WA was the last state to stop importing convicts and many of them still work there in the government and business.

    The Northern Territory is the red heart of our land. Outback plains, sheep stations the size of Europe, Kangaroos, Jackaroos, Emus, Uluru and dusty kids with big smiles. It also has the highest beer consumption of anywhere on the planet and its creek beds have the highest aluminium content of anywhere too. Although the Territory is the centre piece of our national culture, few of us live there and the rest prefer to fly over it on our way to Bali.

    And there’s Queensland. While any mention of God seems silly in a document defining a nation of half-arsed sceptics, it is worth noting that God probably made Queensland as it’s beautiful one day and perfect the next. Why he filled it with dickheads remains a mystery.

    Oh yes and there’s Canberra. The least said the better.

    We, the citizens of Oz, are united by Highways, whose treacherous twists and turns kill more of us each year than murderers. We are united in our lust for international recognition, so desperate for praise we leap in joy when a rag tag gaggle of corrupt IOC officials tells us Sydney is better than Beijing. We are united by a democracy so flawed that a political party, albeit a redneck gun-toting one, can get a million votes and still not win one seat in Federal Parliament. Not that we’re whingeing, we leave that to our Pommy immigrants. We want to make "no worries mate" our national phrase, "she’ll be right mate" our national attitude and "Waltzing Matilda" our national anthem (So what if it’s about a sheep-stealing crim who commits suicide).

    We love sport so much our news readers can read the death toll from a sailing race and still tell us who’s winning. And we’re the best in the world at all the sports that count, like cricket, netball, rugby, AFL, roo-shooting, two-up and horse racing. We also have the biggest rock, the tastiest pies, the blackest aborigines and the worst-dressed Olympians in the known universe.

    We shoot, we root, we vote. We are girt by sea and pissed by lunchtime. Even though we might seem a racist, closed-minded, sports-obsessed little people, at least we feel better for it.

    You are, I am, we are, Australian.

  • The New Zealand Sailor

    I need your help… I am a sailor in the New Zealand Navy. My parents live in Whangarei and my brother-in-law is an Australian living in Gisborne. My father and mother have been busted for drug running and depend on my two sisters, who are prostitutes in Auckland, for a living. My only brother is serving a life sentence in prison for murder. I am in love with a Thai prostitute who solicits around the Auckland wharves. She says she loves me, but knows nothing of my family background. We intend to marry just as soon as her illnesses clear up. My being white doesn’t bother her at all. When I get out of the Navy, we will open a day-care centre in Hamilton and get my two sisters to work there, to keep the business in the family.

    My problem is this. I want to marry this girl and bring her into the family, and I want to be completely honest with her.

    Should I tell her about my brother-in-law being an Australian?

  • Personal Ad

    Advert found in the Australian Canberra Times, Personals Section…
    WANTED
    A tall well-built woman with good
    reputation, who can cook frogs
    legs, who appreciates a good fuc-
    schia garden, classic music and tal-
    king without getting too serious.

    Nah seriously, please only read lines 1, 3 and 5

  • A Beautiful Deserted Island

    On a beautiful deserted island in the middle of nowhere, the following people are stranded:

    2 Italian men and 1 Italian woman

    2 French men and 1 French woman

    2 German men and 1 German woman

    2 Greek men and 1 Greek woman

    2 English men and 1 English woman

    2 Polish men and 1 Polish woman

    2 Japanese men and 1 Japanese woman

    2 American men and 1 American woman

    2 Australian men and 1 Australian woman

    2 New Zealand men and 1 New Zealand woman

    2 Irish men and 1 Irish woman

    One month later, the following things have occurred:

    One Italian man killed the other Italian man for the Italian woman.

    The two French men and the French woman are living happily together having loads of sex.

    The two German men have a strict weekly schedule of when they alternate with the German woman.

    The two Greek men are sleeping with each other and the Greek woman is cleaning and cooking for them.

    The two English men are waiting for someone to introduce them to the English woman.

    The Polish men took a long look at the endless ocean and one look at the Polish woman and they started swimming.

    The two American men are contemplating the virtues suicide, while the American woman keeps on bitching about her body being her own, the true nature of feminism, how she can do everything that they can do, about the necessity of fulfilment, the equal division of household chores, how her last boyfriend respected her opinion and treated her much nicer and how her relationship with her mother is improving. But at least the taxes here are low and it is not raining.

    The two Japanese men have faxed Tokyo and are waiting for instructions.

    The two Australian men beat each other senseless fighting over the Australian woman, who is checking out all the other men, after calling them both ‘bloody wankers".

    Both New Zealand men are searching the island for sheep.

    The Irish began by dividing the island into North and South and setting up a distillery. They do not remember if sex is in the picture because it gets sort of foggy after the first few litres of coconut whiskey, but they are satisfied in that at least the English are not getting any.