Scottish humour.

[medlar]

An elderly scotsman lay dying on his bed.

While suffering the agonies of his immenent death, he smelt the aroma of his favourite biscuits wafting up the stairs. He mustered his last remaining strength, and leaning on the wall, made a slow and toruruous crawl out of his bedroom. His weezing breath rattling in his sunken chest..with an even more massive effort, he made his way, crawling in agonizing pain down the stairs. With his heart galloping and in laboured breath, sweat in a sheen on his pallid brow, he leaned himself against the door frame, gazing blearily into the kitchen. If it were not for death's agony he thought himself to be at heaven's gate, for there spread out on waxen paper, on the kitchen table, were literally dozens of his favourite biscuits, loved from himself, as far back as his when his dear maw had lovingly made for him as a lad. Freshly baked steaming in a heady aroma no mortal nostril could fathom.

Was this heaven. Or was it the final loving act from his devoted, loving wife of sixty years, seeing to it in her own way, that he leave this earth a happy man?

With one great final effort, he lurched to the kitchen table, landing on his poor weakened knees. Mindless of the agonizing shooting pains that racked his weary stricken body his trembling ancient bony hands fumbled to grasp a biscuit, a simple act he had never once thought, now a burden taking his breath out his lungs like trout out of water, when his shaking hand was smacked by a wooden spoon.

"Fock off" snarls his wife. "They fae the funeral mind!"

Merely the practical way of the Scots.

One more:

What did Cinderella say when she got to the ball?






*gag

[kel]

hahaha the second is awesome