As I approach my 59th birthday, my troubled mind
increasingly dwells on a range of imponderable questions. If you can, please
ease my mental anguish by suggesting answers to any of the following:
- What possesses some people to pursue a career in chiropody?
Do they have a foot fetish? Or
perhaps they harbour masochistic tendencies, relishing the prospect of a life
spent on their knees wrestling with foot odour, nail clippings and flaky gunge?
- Why are testicles crinkly?
Crinkles add flavour to my packet
of salt-and-vinegar crisps/chips, but what do they do for those two orbs swinging –
ever lower – between my legs? (Apart from making shaving a precarious activity).
- Why does my soap dish not have a hole in the bottom?
It seems obvious, doesn’t it? In
the shower, work up a lather, drop soap back in its dish and, by the time you
grope for it again, it remains firm, all the excess water having drained away.
Instead, when I reach for my bar of Imperial Leather it often feels like I’m
dipping my fingers into a frothy cesspool.
- Why do doctors in the gastro-intestinal department all have
fingers the width of telegraph poles?
Is it an essential requirement of
the job of the colon doctor to own a forefinger the size and consistency of a
log? Last month, when I suffered the finger-up-the-bum check, it felt as if I’d
been sodomised with the serrated trunk of a sturdy oak?
- Why do restaurant waiters often wear polyester shirts?
Those fine young men who ferry my
ale, wine and Beef Madras to my table do a wonderful job for which I’m
eternally grateful. In the course of a typical day they must walk miles to
satiate the appetites of their customers. And naturally they sweat a lot. So
why in the name of all that’s holy do many opt to wear polyester or nylon
shirts? A perspiration-and-plastic combination smells like someone’s been
boiling cabbage in a communal latrine.
- Why does my willy shrivel during a hospital investigation?
I’m confident that my wand is, at
least, an average size. When I inspect myself in the mirror after my morning shower,
(and when I go to the loo, get dressed, go to bed, get up in the morning) it hangs
out like a real cool dude. So why when I drop my briefs in front of female
nurses during a hospital examination does it get all bashful and recoil into my
abdomen, leaving something resembling a desiccated strawberry?
These are the crucial questions that torment me. Can you
please give me respite by providing some answers?
Photos courtesy of :
1. imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
2. Nat_Sticker at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
