Financial Planning as explained by an Irishman
Paddy bought a donkey from a farmer for $100. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day.
In the morning, the farmer drove up and said, “Sorry son, but I have some bad news. The donkey’s died.” Paddy replied, “Well just give me my money back then.” The farmer said, “Can’t do that. I’ve already spent it.” Paddy said, “OK then, just bring me the dead donkey.”
The farmer asked, “What are you going to do with him?” Paddy said, “I’m going to raffle him off.” The farmer said, “You can’t raffle a dead donkey!” Paddy said, “Sure I can. Watch me. I just won’t tell anybody he’s dead.”
A month later, the farmer met up with Paddy and asked, “What happened with that dead donkey?” Paddy said, “I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at $2 each and made a profit of $898.”
The farmer asked, “Didn’t anyone complain?”
Paddy replied, “Just the guy who won. So I gave him his $2 back.”
Paddy now works for the Commonwealth Bank.
50 Sheds of Grey
The novel Fifty Shades of Grey has seduced women – and baffled blokes. Now, Fifty Sheds of Grey offers a treat for the men. The book has author Colin Grey recounting his love encounters at the bottom of the garden. Here are some extracts …
We tried various positions – round the back, on the side, up against a wall … but in the end we came to the conclusion the bottom of the garden was the only place for a good shed.
She stood before me, trembling in my shed. “I’m yours for the night,” she gasped, “You can do whatever you want with me.” So I took her to Bunnings.
She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first, then harder until finally it came. I moaned with pleasure. Now for the other boot.
Ever since she read that book, I’ve had to buy all kinds of ropes, chains and shackles. She still manages to get into the shed, though.
“Put on this rubber suit and mask,” I instructed, calmly. “Mmmm, kinky!” she purred.?“Yes,” I said, “You can’t be too careful with all that asbestos in the shed roof.”
“I’m a very naughty girl,” she said, biting her lip. “I need to be punished.” So I invited my mum to stay for the weekend.
“Harder!” she cried, gripping the workbench tightly. “Harder!” “Okay,” I said. “What’s the gross national product of Nicaragua?”
I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window. Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a treat.
“Are you sure you can take the pain?” she demanded, brandishing her stilettos. “I think so,” I gulped. “Here we go, then,” she said, and showed me the receipt.
“Hurt me!” she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my workbench. “Very well,” I replied. “You’ve got fat ankles and no dress sense.”
“Are you sure you want this?” I asked. “When I’m done, you won’t be able to sit down for weeks.” She nodded. “Okay,” I said, putting the three-piece suite on eBay.
“Punish me!” she cried. “Make me suffer like only a real man can!” “Very well,” I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.
