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Aussie jokes and an explanation; hehe
Topic Started: Sep 27 2004, 02:21 PM (57 Views)
Go_PoD-SSC--
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It ^^^^is a snail...not a turd:)
[ *  *  * ]
One characteristic of the Australians is that NOTHING is sacred, and they'll laugh and mock just about anything or anyone. Being able to also mock and laugh at one-self is fair-dinkum Aussie. Aussie jokes may be abrasive, but they are NEVER PERSONAL with the malicious intention to abuse or insult. Just for a great belly-laughter, Aussie-style !

that said.....



A motorist was driving quietly along the road when, suddenly, his eyes goggled as, believe it or not, he espied a three-legged chook running beside him. It suddenly made a right hand turn, heading up a side track towards a nearby farm house. Intrigued, the motorist decided to follow the chook. At the end of the track, he met a farmer leaning on a gate.

The motorist said, “You probably won’t believe this, but I reckon I saw a three-legged chook running this way.”

The farmer was nonchalant in response. “Yep, we breed them here.”

“But why?” asked the motorist.

“Well, you see, I like a leg, my wife likes a leg, and me son likes a leg.”

“And what do they taste like?”

“Dunno”, replied the farmer, “no one can catch the little bastards.”

[Chook = chicken in Aussie lingo]




An Irishman arrived in Australia and went into a pub in the Outback where he asked for a glass and, having urinated into it, drank it. He then walked out the door, into the chook house and proceeded to knock the hens off their perches prior to going to the paddock, where he lifted the tail of a cow and put his ear to its butt. When he returned to the bar a few minutes later, the publican asked him to explain his strange conduct.

“Before I left Dublin,” he said, “I met an Aussie who said there are 3 things I had to do to be a real Australian. Drink the piss. Knock off the birds. And listen to the bulldirt.”




It all depends on local custom. In Australia, a fly in one’s soup results in it being sent back to the kitchen and a row with the management.

In England, the head waiter quietly, daintily, fastidiously extracts the fly and removes it beneath a serviette.

In France, the soup is eaten, the fly left high and dry on the side of the bowl.

In the Orient, the fly is eaten first and washed down by the soup.

In Scotland, the fly is shaken over the bowl and carefully wrung out. Then the soup is consumed.

And there are places where the diner stares into the bowl and complains. “What’s this? Only one fly?”



Two kangaroo shooters, way out the back of Bourke. Their ute breaks down. They do the right thing – stay with it. But no one comes along. So they decide to walk out. The temperature is 40 plus C. After 2 days, they’re on their last drop of radiator water when they climb a rise and find, nailed to a tree, a sign saying MERCY, POPULATION 12. In the distance, a collection of ramshackle tin huts. They arrive. One hut is identified as a café. They enter. A lady appears, very proper. “Yis”, she says.

“Bring us a drink, luv. Make it long and quick.”

“We only serve one thing here.”

“What’s that?”

“Koala tea.”

“Well, bring it luv, only make it quick!”

She brings it, and she is not kidding. Pathetic little paws grip the edge of the billy and little furry ears poke through the murky surface. Well, kangaroo shooters are pretty tough but they’re not this tough. They look at each other and beg the woman to “take it away please, and strain it.”

“What?” she says, “The Koala Tea of Mercy is not strained.”

[Ute = utility vehicle or pickup truck]

[Billy = an outback teapot]




The encyclopaedia salesman wasn’t having much luck. No one in central New South Wales seemed all that interested in the 24-volume Britannica with year books and the little ‘assemble-it-yourself’ bookstand. Not when it cost a couple of thousand bucks.

One Friday night saw him sitting sadly in a country pub, nursing a beer. He realised he was down to his last $50. That was that. After spending that, he’d be flat broke. Then, glancing around at the other blokes in the bar, who looked inbred and stupid, inspiration struck.

“My set of encyclopaedias is worth a couple of grand retail,” he said. “But if any of you blokes can answer three questions that I select from the information therein, I’ll give the whole bloody set to you for a hundred bucks. And if you can’t answer all three questions, it’s a hundred bucks to me. What do you reckon?”

There was movement amongst the gathering and a few mumbled exchanges. Finally a big, slow-moving bloke moved toward the salesman. “I’ll have a go,” he said. There were any number of approving ‘Goodonyas.’ And he slapped a $100 bill down on the bar.

This will be money for jam, thought the salesman. “First question: What is the capital of Liberia?”

The farmer put a finger in his ear, studied the ceiling, frowned for a few moments and, finally, said, “Monrovia”. The salesman winced. Reassuring himself it was a lucky shot – perhaps the bloke had been watching Sale of the Century – he asked the second question. “Who was Malaysia’s third Prime Minister?”

The young farmer frowned, looked at the barmaid, looked at his mates and, finally said, “Jeez, I think it was Tun Hussein Onn.” The salesman was astonished and leafed desperately through the pages of his encyclopaedia.

“All right, here’s question three. How many people attended the closing ceremony of the 1956 Olympic Games in Melbourne and what were their names and addresses?”

The farmer hitched up his trousers, drank a beer, took a deep breath and said, “Sixty-eight thousand, nine hundred and twenty-two, not including the sheila who had to leave early to have a baby.” Whereupon he began to chant a list of names and addresses.

It took him nearly four days to get to the end of his answer. By then the salesman was devastated. “How the hell do you know all this stuff?”

“Well,” said the farmer, “I take smart pills.”

The salesman realised that these must be miraculous preparations. He’d be better off flogging them than encyclopaedias.

“Where can I get some of these smart pills?” he asked.

The farmer scratched his crotch and said, “Me dad makes them, but he reckons I’m not allowed to tell anyone the recipe. The ingredients are a family secret.”

“But he didn’t say you couldn’t sell them, did he?” asked the salesman.

The farmer thought for a moment and finally said, “I suppose it would be okay if I charged you $50 and you swallowed a couple here and now.”

The salesman eagerly handed over his last $50 bill and watched as the farmer produced a matchbox from his back pocket. “Take them all now with a midi of beer,” he instructed.

The salesman looked apprehensively at the pills but then, one by one, swallowed them. A look of disgust appeared on his face. “Christ, these pills taste like sheep sh!t.”

“See,” said the farmer. “You are getting smarter already.”
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*BOINK*.....OW!............................Oh Hi Purity.....
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