Posts Tagged ‘funny’

Bribie Island aka 'Bribery' Island

Maddy is going to Bribie Island with her uncle Dave this weekend, and is all excited. She said to Ben “Ben! I need a suitcase to take to Bribery Island!”

So he gave her a knapsack to take to ‘Bribery’ Island, and she began to look through her drawers in her bedroom for clothes to take.

“Hmmm…” she said to herself, “Some of these clothes I got years ago but they still fit because I’m so small… I’ll take that as a compliment to myself!”

There’s a book fair on this week at school, and I gave Maddy two $10 notes to take as she’s got her eye on a special notebook and pencils for sale there. She told me that they’re only allowed to take $10 at a time, so I suggested she leave one $10 note at home and bring it the next day. This is the conversation that followed:

Maddy: No, I’ll keep it in my wallet.

Me: I wouldn’t do that – someone might try to steal it.

Maddy: No, I’m not worried about that. They won’t.

Me: Well, it’s happened before, kids taking money out of other people’s wallets.

Maddy: They won’t steal it from mine – it’s got a peace sign on it.

Me: Erm, what’s that got to do with anything? That won’t stop them.

Maddy: Ohhh, yes it will Mum, believe me.

Me: How will a peace sign stop people from stealing money out of your wallet?

Maddy: Because people are afraid of it.

Me: What?!

Maddy: Peace signs scare people.

Me: What do you mean ‘peace signs scare people’???!!!

Maddy: People are afraid of it.

Me: But why do you think that?

Maddy: There was a kid at school who had a hat with a peace sign on it. Another kid came up, took one look at it, and ran away scared.

Me: Riiiiight……

Maddy: So my money will be safe in my wallet.

Me: O—-kay then…

MADDY: “Did you know that there are two places on your body, that if you get shot there, you will die instantly?”

BEN: “Where, Maddy?”

MADDY: “Your head & your neck – you will die instantly if you get shot there.”

BEN: “Not necessarily, I’ve heard of people who’ve been shot in the head or the neck and survived.”

MADDY: “No, Ben. (humouring his ignorance!) That’s just what you see in movies – in real life if you get shot in the head or the neck, you will always die instantly….(thinks for a moment)…unless you can get to a hospital.”

Maybe it’s because I’m about to turn 40 soon (see my count-downer on the bottom of this page – argh!), but I’ve been feeling decidedly nostalgic lately. I’ve already talked about the old gadgets I remember from days gone by, but in this post I’m about to reveal a terribly embarrassing secret from my younger days.

If you’re not Australian, you may not have heard of the term ‘daggy’. A dag is actually the fly-ridden yucky bits which hang off the end of a sheep’s bum, but eventually, in Australian vernacular, it came to mean ‘nerdy, but in a kind of goofy lovable way’. So if you’re a dag, it’s a bad thing in a good kind of way…or is that a good thing in a bad kind of way? I dunno – now I’m confused!

Anyway, I have to confess that I was the epitome of dagginess in my youth. (Note the operative word ‘was’ hehe). I was a dag for a number of reasons.

I had a preoccupation with being what I was not. In other words, I wanted to be a tall willowy straight haired blonde. Instead I was short and plump and my head was topped by an unruly mop of curly very dark hair. These were the days of the Brady Bunch type stick-straight hair and straightening irons weren’t invented, and I was cursed with the kinky frizz from hell. Alas, with my own hair, I’d never be fashionable, so, (and I’m cringing to admit the next bit), I took steps to do something about it.

The first was to ask my mum for a wig for my birthday. I had visions of tossing my straight blonde wig hair about in the breeze like one of those models in the shampoo commercials. When my birthday came and I excitedly opened up my present I found…a wig…short, curly, very dark brown – exactly like my own real hair. I may as well have made my own head into the wig. Of course, I was a polite child, and thanked my mum, and then the wig was used to dress up our poor long suffering dog. She looked pretty darned funny, and if it weren’t for the extra hairy bits and the four legs, we could have been twins when she was wearing the wig.

The second thing I did was even more embarrassing. Obviously, the asking for a wig thing didn’t work, so I resorted to plan B. I took a pair of my mum’s nylon stockings (that’s ‘tights’ to you British!) and cut each leg into three strips. Then I plaited the legs so I had two lovely long braids which I tied off with pretty ribbon. Then I plonked the stockings on my head, and that was my ‘long straight’ hair. Yup, you heard me right – I wore stockings on my head as a wig. Now you will understand the full meaning of the term ‘daggy’.

Oh, btw, I was under the age of 8 when this happened – I swear! I have since bought the world’s most important and life changing gadget – an electric hair straightener, and my world has been different ever since.

My sister sent this poem by Pam Ayers to me in an email, and I thought it apt to post it in honour of my turning the big 4-0.

Oh I wish I’d looked after my tits

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me dear old knockers,
Not flashed them to boys behind the school lockers,
Or let them get fondled by randy old dockers,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

‘Cos now I’m much older and gravity’s winning.
It’s Nature’s revenge for all that sinning,
And those dirty memories are rapidly dimming,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

‘Cos tits can be such troublesome things
When they no longer bounce, but dangle and swing.
And although they go well with my Bingo wings,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When they’re both long enough to tie up in a bow,
When it’s not the sweet chariot that swings low,
When they’re less of a friend and more of a foe,
Then I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When I was young I got whistles and hoots,
From the men on the site to the men in the suits,
Now me nipples get stuck in the zips on me boots,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When picking them up requires some leverage,
When it’s not so much lift as industrial heavage,
When there’s more of a parting and less of a cleavage,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When I was younger I rode bikes and scooters,
Cruising around with my favourite suitors.
Now the wheels get entangled with my dangling hooters,
I wish I’d looked after me tits.

When they follow behind and get trapped in the door,
When they’re less in the air and more near the floor,
When people see less of them rather than more,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.