Gorilla up a tree in Avondale

A man living in Avondale, whom we shall call Raymond, woke up one morning last week and, when he looked out his window, he saw a gorilla sitting in a tree opposite his house. When the gorilla saw Raymond looking at him he went berserk. He roared loudly, beat his chest violently with his fists and his mad, red eyes never wavered in their gaze of pure venom.

“Feck this”, said Raymond to himself, “there’s no way I’m leaving this house while that gorilla is up the tree.” So he looked up the Useful Services section of The Munster Express and, to his relief, found an advertisement that said: ‘Gorilla Catcher. Satisfaction Guaranteed. Reasonable Rates.’

His hands trembling, Raymond rang the number given on the advertisement and the phone was answered immediately. “It’s my husband who’s the gorilla catcher and he’s out on a job in Ferrybank at the moment”, said a woman’s voice. “But don’t worry, Mick will be with you as soon as possible and, in the meantime, don’t do anything to annoy the gorilla.”

She was as good as her word and, half an hour later, Mick arrived in his van with a shotgun, a big, pointed stick, a pair of handcuffs and an evil looking Jack Russell dog. He studied the gorilla closely and didn’t seem in the least bit frightened when the big animal shook the tree violently and waved his big fists angrily. “Aha”, said Mick with a big smile on his face, “it’s a male gorilla so that makes it easier.”

“Now”, said Mick to Raymond, “you hold on to the handcuffs and the shotgun. I’m going to climb the tree and poke the gorilla with my pointed stick and, when he falls out of the tree, my specially trained Jack Russell will leap into action and attack his testicles. The gorilla will cross his hands to protect himself and that’s when you slip on the handcuffs.”

“OK”, said Mick, praying that the whole thing would soon be over, “but what do I do with the shotgun?”

Mick gave him a long, hard look. “Be very clear on this. If I fall out of the tree before the gorilla, shoot the fecking dog.”

Hickey’s Blaas always rise to the occasion

A small group of pensioners from Waterford Crystal met in The People’s Park everyday for a chat and a stroll. They were all in pretty good physical condition except one man who was always puffed out even after a mildly brisk walk around the Park. “How do you keep so fit”, he asked his best pal who also had two girlfriends on the go in different parts of the city.

“I do the same as the rest of the lads. I always make sure to eat two crispy Blaas from Hickey’s Bakery every morning and every night. They give me the energy for everything I want to do, if you know what I mean”, he said in a nudge-nudge, wink-wink tone of voice.

Jimmy was surprised and annoyed that he hadn’t known about the wonder Blaas before and, on the way home for his lunch, he called into Hickey’s in Barrack Street. “Give me a dozen crispy Blaas, please”, he said to the woman behind the counter. “Are you sure you want a dozen, love”, answered the woman, “by the time you get to the last one it will be very hard.”

Jimmy blushed a deep red and his eyes opened wide in amazement. “For feck’s sake”, he thought to himself, “everybody seems to know about this stuff except me.”

Late night delights

Johnny and Mary were making their way home after a great day out and they stopped at a certain takeaway to buy a little snack. She bought two battered sausages and a bag of chips and he asked for a quarter-pounder with lots of onions. They were so peckish they decided to eat in the shop and everything was going well until, suddenly, Johnny started to go urghhh, urghhh, arghhh, arghhh. He wiped his mouth and tongue violently on his sleeve until he discovered the object of his distress. There for all to see was a load of curly, black hair that had found its way onto his burger.

Mary was outraged. “How dare you give my Johnny a burger with hair on it”, she cried, and, before anybody could stop her, she marched inside the counter and into the kitchen. The cook, a big swarthy man with a shock of black, curly hair, didn’t hear her coming and, to her horror, she saw him flattening a big quarter-pounder by pressing it into his armpit and squeezing down hard with his arm.

“That’s awful”, she shouted, “you nearly choked my poor Johnny with your smelly armpit hair because of the way you make your stinking burgers.”

One of the women who worked behind the counter had followed Mary into the kitchen and she snorted at Mary’s protestations. “That’s nothing, love”, she said with a sniff, “if you think that’s disgusting, you should see the way he makes the hole in the batter for the onion rings.”

Show me the money

A Mafia Godfather found out that his bookkeeper had embezzled him out of ten million dollars. The bookkeeper was deaf so the Godfather summoned one of his men who knew sign language.

“Ask him where he has stashed my 10 million dollars”, shouted the Godfather.

Following a great deal of sign language, the Godfather’s man told him that the bookkeeper was denying all knowledge about the money.

The furious Godfather pulled out a 9mm pistol, put it to the bookkeeper’s temple, cocked the gun and said: “Ask him again.” The gang member told the bookkeeper in sign language that the Godfather would kill him if he didn’t say where the money was.

At that stage, the terrified bookkeeper gave in and revealed in sign language that the money was in a brown suitcase buried behind a shed in his cousin’s garden.

“What did he say”, demanded the Godfather.

“I’m sorry, Godfather, but the bookkeeper said he has always loved you and he knows you don’t have the nerve to pull the trigger.”

Is your Mammy at home?

A certain candidate in the local elections was canvassing on the Dunmore Road one night last week. They knocked at a big, detached house and a little boy, aged about seven or eight, opened the door. To the amazement of the politician and his supporters, the child had a big cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other.

“Er, is your Mammy or Daddy at home”, they asked. The little boy grinned from ear to ear as he tapped the ash from his cigar on their shoes. “Idiots, what do you think”, he answered, before slamming the door in their faces.

A hospital fugitive

There was a terrible commotion at Waterford Regional Hospital one night last week and visitors were shocked to see a man dressed in an operating-theatre gown running down a corridor followed by a posse of doctors and nurses.

The man, gasping for breath, didn’t stop until he got to the out-patients department where he sat down among the crowd of people there hoping he wouldn’t be noticed by his pursuers.

“What happened, why are you running away”, asked one of the outpatients.

“Listen”, said the man, “I reckon I’ve just had a narrow escape. I was waiting to have my operation when I heard a nurse say ‘Don’t worry, it’s a very routine procedure and I’m sure you will be all right.”

“So what’s wrong with that, she was probably just trying to reassure you”, said the outpatient.

“You don’t understand”, said the fugitive, ”she wasn’t talking to me, she was talking to the surgeon.”