A Truly Terrible Joke, Remembered In The Aftermath Of An Ambuscade

Three Legionnaires went walking through the desert under a baking sun. Why? Who cares. They just did. They really shouldn't have though, as they were pasty, gingery specimens (like me) and between sunburn, sandflies and heat rash, the desert played havoc with their addled branes. Mirages appeared on the horizon, swimming pools shimmered in and out of view, the distant tinkle of an ice-cream van teased their blistering ears.

But the Legionnaires kept marching solidly on. Very well-trained, so they were. And starving - for the dirty eejits had neglected to bring any rations. They had no choice but to press on, in the hope that they might find food and shelter. They trudged to the top of another dune, weak and weary, and bleakly scanned the horizon. Suddenly one of them froze (metaphorically speaking). "Psst," he said. His companions halted and strained their eyes to where the first Legionnaire was pointing.

"Le voila!" he said, "Regardez, mes amis, isn't zat a bacon tree on ze 'orizon?"

And sure enough, there it was in the middle of the desert, a bacon tree. Dripping with rashers, sizzling in the scorching desert sun. Slowly they crept forward, inch by inch centimetre by centimetre (they're French) until they were within a stone's throw of the bacon tree. Suddenly a shot rang out, stopping one of the Legionnaires in his tracks. The others hit the ground as bullets thudded into the sand around them.

They struggled back down the dune to relative safety, and set about tending to their fallen comrade. They bandaged him carefully and poured the last of their meagre water rations over his face. His voice was faint. "Zat was no bacon tree," he gasped, "Zat was an 'am bush!"

Isn't That Stevie Wonder?

World Culture's flavour tends to spoil a little in the persistent rain and Saturday afternoon brought a downpour, so after a late breakfast we went back to bed to read the papers. I snuggled up to him and proceeded to read his newspaper over the top of my book (because the grass is always greener) feeling smug and pleasantly bourgeoisie (I reckon it was the pancakes). He started to laugh. "How delightfully middle-class! Perhaps later we should go to that little ethnic festival, darling!" he trilled, in an awful approximation of a plummy southsider. "I hear they have some brown chaps with drums!"

Snort and ROFL

What do dyslexic pirates say?

"RRAAAAAAAAAAA!"

(I'm in good humour this morning)