Funnies
Muslim Mothers
(If you object to politically incorrect, totally insensitive and tasteless jokes then you had better skip this and move on to the next one.)
Two Middle Eastern mothers are sitting in the cafè chatting over a pint of goat's milk.The older one pulls out her bag and starts flipping through pictures and reminiscing. "This is my oldest son, Mohamed. He would be 24 now."
The other mom replies, "I remember him as a baby."
"He's a martyr now", says the older mom.
"Oh, that's wonderful, my dear", says the other mother.
She flips to another picture.
"And this is my second son, Kali. He would be 21 now."
"Oh, I remember him, too. He had such curly hair when he was born."
His mother sighs, "He's a martyr, too."
"Oh gracious me, so blessed" says the second mother.
"And this is my third son. My beautiful Ahmed. He would be 18 now", she whispers.
"Yes", says her friend enthusiastically, "I remember when he started school."
"He's a martyr also", she says, with tears in her eyes.
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Muslim mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says…”They blow up so fast don’t they?”
The Tong Master (Aussie barbecue culture)
(This has been here a long time, but I just can't bear to delete it.)
The tong-master Macca was at the barbecue and Jonesy was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at the sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone.
We didn't know why we were at the barbecue, we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue has a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet.
Jonesy said "the thin ones could use a turn", I said "yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn", Macca said "yeah they really need a turn" - it was a unanimous turning decision.
Macca was the Tong-master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started. "Nice", I said. The others went "yeah".
Blue was passing us, he heard the siren-song-sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Blueeeeeee ...come. He stuck his head in and said "any room?" We said "yeah" and began the barbecue shuffle; Macca shuffled to the left, Curly shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Blue slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer.
Now there were four of us staring at the sausages, and Macca gave me the nod, my cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers - fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The chipolatas were tiny; they could easily slip down between the grill, falling into the molten hot-bead-netherworld below. Carefully I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Macca snapped his tongs in approval, there was no greater barbecue honour.
Frank came along, he said "looking good, looking good". The irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said "yeah" and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Blue, we sipped our beer.
Five men, lots of sausages. Curly was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed lots of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing.
Frank was shaking his head, he said "I reckon they cook better if you don't poke 'em". There was a long silence, you could've heard a chipolata drop; this new-comer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then the sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger - and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber.
Dianne popped her head in; "mmm, smells good", she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling "yeah yeah yeah", but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the only available space. . . . the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the gap; Dianne was going to try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't take it anymore, she gave up, backed off. Blue waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We all sipped our beer; yeah.
Macca handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication.
The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready for the responsibility? Yeah, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun. "Don't forget to turn the thin one" Macca said as he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the house. "Yeah" I called back, "I will, I will". I snapped them twice, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was...the TONG-MASTER!
Until Macca got back from the toilet anyway....