I Eat My Pringles with a Fork

I eat my Pringles with a fork
…I don't know why I do it.
The crisp is broken straight away,
The fork just goes right through it.

Most people pick their Pringles up
And simply guide them in
But mine, they fly all over town
And hit me in the chin.

There's nothing big or fun about it,
It's never been in fashion.
I couldn't even call it cool
Or say that it's my passion.

I think I want to be unique
And stand out from the crowd.
To get them saying "What the hell
Is that poor bastard doing now?"

It started when I went to Uni,
At least that's when I think it did.
I popped a tube of Pringles open,
Out the window went the lid.

People pointed, people whispered,
But sadly not in awe.
They slowly moved away from me
And walked straight out the door.

I eat my Pringles with a fork
…I think it's time to end it.
It's a useless way to eat your snacks.
I wouldn't recommend it.

Confrontation with a Dressing-Gown

"You never look at me anymore,"
My dressing-gown said to me.
"I'm growing old on my rusty peg—
We're not like we used to be."
"Come on that's a lie!" I shouted back,
Standing strong and tall.
"I love you like a brother, I
love you above them all.
I love you like a lover loves,
Like Romeo loved his bride.
I love you like a summer's day,
Like the pebbles love the tide.
"I love you like— "; "That's bollocks man!
Why do I smell of mold?
You'd be wearing me now if that was true,
Not letting my fabric grow old."
I walked towards my woolen robe
And asked him for a kiss.
"A what!?" he cried. "You selfish arse.
That really takes the piss."

Wool dressing gownWe stared at each other in silence till
My patience began to crack.
"Alright, if you want the truth," I cried:
"I was thinking of sending you back!"
"You WHAT?!" he screamed (he wasn't pleased)—
"I don't think I heard you right."
"Don't play those games, your hearing's fine;
Go on, get out of my sight.
Shut the door as you go," I added,
An evil glint in my eye.
"Don't be like that," my dressing-gown moaned,
"You're going to make me cry."
"Yeah, leave him alone!" my pants piped up.
"Damn right!" yelled one of my socks.
"That dressing-gown's been good to you—
HE DA MAN. He rocks."

I tried but the uprising couldn't be stopped.
It began to get out of hand.
It wasn't long before I saw
My trousers, my jumpers and
My entire shoe collection rise
In an army set to fight me.
I clenched my fists and shut my eyes.
(I tensed my buttocks slightly.)
I ran like a coward, out of the room
And hid in the upstairs loo.
It was then that I heard my shower-cap growl,
"Aha…I've been WAITING for you…"

Great Quiche

I ate a big quiche on Saturday night;
A quiche that was part of a feast.
This quiche was a whopper, this quiche was divine…
It may have been blessed by a priest.
It might've been holy, may've come from above,
It wouldn't surprise me at all.
‘Cause I've never had anything quite like this quiche—
Not as far as I can recall.
I can hear you saying, "Come on, just give it a rest.
The thing can't've been all that delicious."
Well that's where you're WRONG, and when I describe it
You'll think that this quiche was fictitious.

It came on a platter some seven feet long,
And looked very heavy to carry.
As soon as I saw it I bellowed it out:
"Now that looks like something I'd marry!"
My wife wasn't pleased, she ran out of the room,
So I said to the quiche, "Hello you.
How you been, what you at, have I seen you around?
When you're lonely, quiche, what do you do?"
The quiche played it silent, the quiche played it cool,
And so in a passion I ate it.
It took me 4 minutes to demolish the bitch.
(It'd taken 4 weeks to create it.)

My only quest now is to find one that rivals
The standard of that seven-foot quiche.
But if I'm successful, things'll get messy,
And I'll have to be kept on a leash.
This quiche had it all, it had onion and cheese;
It mad masses and masses of bacon.
If you think that you've made one that's better than that
Then my friend you are sorely mistaken.

Grandma and Her Wooden Leg

My grandma's got a wooden leg,
She doesn't try to hide it.
At night she keeps it by the bed
With a rape alarm beside it.

You wouldn't guess which leg it was,
The one that's made of wood.
The makers did a stunning job—
They made it look quite good.
"Granny, Granny, can I see it?
Go on—pull it out."
"Oh fuck off, Kevin, get a life.
Stop buggering about."

When I ask her how it happened
She starts to twitch and shake.
"Oh Christ, don't bring it up," she says;
"Just bring me gin, and cake."
But with gin and cake she loosens up
And starts to tell the story.
She recounts it for me, blow by blow,
In detail grim and gory.
She tells me how, when she was hunting
Lions in '62,
A giant fox lunged out at her
And bit her leg in two.
"A fox?" I say; "A FOX," she cries.
"A fox as big as a tree.
Its teeth were sharp, its eyes were black,
Its head was BIGGER THAN ME."
"Oh Gran, you're pulling my leg," I say—
"If you'll excuse the phrase."
My gran gives me that evil look
She tends to save for gays.
She hisses at me, "It's the truth,
Don't tell me I'm a fake."
She downs the gin, then looks distraught.
(She's finished all her cake.)

When she's drunk she takes it off
And swings it round the room;
"Say hello to my little friend—
My Wooden Stick of Doom."
She thumped a burglar with it once;
She smacked him with her leg.
He spent three weeks in hospital,
His nose smashed like an egg.

My grandma's got a wooden leg;
I wouldn't call her gentle.
She says that she's eccentric but
It's fair to say she's mental.

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