by Peter Lalor
Which reminds me of the baby seal that walked into a club.
Then there was this dingo that walks into an outback pub and orders a beer.
The barmaid thinks she’ll get the bludger back for the crimes of his relatives and demands $50 for the drink.
The dingo pays and then she says, ‘You know, we don’t get many dingoes around here.’
‘At $50 a beer I’m not that surprised,’ he says.
Q. Why do elephants drink?
A. To forget.
Q. Why do Queenslanders call their beer XXXX?
A. They can’t spell beer.
Q. Why do Queenslanders call their beer XXXX?
A. They can’t count to five.
There was this bloke who came from outback Queensland and he hits the big smoke, parking his ute outside a pub where he knows his mate’s sister works.
He walks in and orders a beer and starts up a conversation with the girl.
They get talking and he pumps her for some information on what to do in the city.
She tells him about a couple of good restaurants and clubs and the like, but he seems nervous about going out by himself.
He then asks her to come out with him, but she’s a city chick and he’s a real bushie and she doesn’t want to be seen out with him so she says no.
The bloke has obviously misread the girl.
Then he says, ‘Listen, how about coming out with me tonight? I’ll shout you dinner and the like and because it’s been such a good year on the farm I’ll give you $200 for your time.’
She doesn’t want to, but thinks she could do with the money and so they go out and have a pretty good time, but she makes it clear that he’d better not get any fancy ideas.
The bloke then says that he’s desperate for some, having spent so long on the farm that even the sheep have begun to look cute. He offers to chip in $300 for her time.
The girl has had a few and could do with the money so she figures why not, so they go back to her place and do it.
Afterwards she asks where exactly he’s from and is amazed to find he’s from the same farm as her brother.
‘Wait until I tell him I met you,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ says the bloke. ‘And make sure you tell him I gave you that $500 he owed ya.’
A young Kiwi bloke decides he’s going to settle in Oz. Eager to fit in, he decides to forget about sheep and go along with the local customs.
The first night here he goes to a pub and meets a couple of regulars who get him pretty pissed. They then decide to have some fun.
‘Mate, I’ll give you $1000 if you let me smash a dozen full beer bottles over your head,’ says one of them.
‘I don’t think so,’ says the Kiwi, getting a bit nervous.
‘C’mon, mate,’ the rest of them say. ‘We’ve all had a shot at this. It’s part of Australian culture.’
‘Well,’ says the Kiwi. ‘If it’s a local custom I’ll give it a shot. I’ve got a hard head and I could do with the money.’
So the local gets the dozen bottles and begins to smash them over the Kiwi’s head.
It hurts like hell and there’s blood dripping down the bloke’s face but he hangs in there for the first eleven.
Then the Australian stops, opens the last bottle and walks away while swigging it back.
The Kiwi asks him what’s going on.
‘Well, I’m not a complete fool,’ says the Australian. ‘If I smashed this one it’d cost me $1000.’
This bloke walks into a bar and orders two beers. He sits down at an empty table, drinks one and pours the other on his hand.
He does this a couple of times before the barman asks what he’s up to.
The guy blushes and then says, ‘I’m just getting me date drunk before we go home.’
This flea walks into an empty bar, jumps up onto the stool and yells to the barman, ‘Hey, mate, get us a beer would ya?’
The barman thinks he hears something but can’t see anyone so he walks away.
The flea gets cranky and jumps up onto the bar and yells, ‘Mate, get me a bloody beer. I’m dying of thirst!’
The barman looks down and sees the cranky flea, shakes his head and then gets the little bugger a beer.
The flea throws the beer up in the air, does a somersault and lands on his feet just as the beer pours out right into his mouth. He skols the lot and doesn’t spill a drop.
‘Another one, thanks, mate,’ says the flea after letting out a rather large belch.
So the barman gets him another and the flea does exactly the same thing.
He does this time and again until he’s run out of money and then the little bugger jumps off the bar and says goodbye.
The barman is still wondering if he hasn’t dreamt the whole thing when the flea weaves his way back in.
‘I thought you were going home,’ says the barman.
‘I would be, but some bastard stole me bloody dog,’ says the flea.
This bloke’s been at the pub all night and is totally tanked when the barman tells him to go home and sleep it off. After a bit of an argument and a little sulking the guy says, ‘Well, bugger you then, I’ll take my custom somewhere else!’
He gets off the stool and falls flat on his face. People rush to help him up but he tells them to ‘bugger off’ and tries to do it himself.
‘God, I’m more pissed than I thought,’ he thinks and giving up on the idea of standing he drags himself across the floor and to the door where he falls down the few steps to the footpath.
‘I’ll just lie here and get some fresh air,’ he thinks, but even that doesn’t work because every time he drags himself upright he falls down again.
Fortunately he only lives a few houses up the street so he just drags himself along until he gets to his front door.
Reaching up for the door knob he drags himself up so he can get the key in the lock and again falls down on his face.
Giving up on walking he drags himself down the hall, up onto the bed and next to his wife who mutters in her sleep about smelling like a brewery, being out all night, the dinner going cold and all that trivial stuff.
Before she can get a head of steam up the guy is asleep and so is she.
The next morning the missus wakes him early and starts again.
‘You must’ve really tied one on last night,’ she says.
‘What makes you say that?’ says the bloke whose head is hosting a private show by AC/DC.
‘Well, the pub rang this morning and said you’d left your wheelchair behind again,’ she says.
A drunk is making a bit of trouble in a pub so the barman decides to toss him out and bar him until he is sober.
The drunk weaves his way out the door and wanders around the corner where he finds another door so he goes in and orders a beer.
‘I told you to go home,’ said the barman.
The drunk is quite taken aback.
‘How many frigging pubs do you own?’ he spits on his way out.
A group of blokes are drinking in a pub when an old drunk comes up to one of them, stabs his finger in the guy’s chest and says, ‘Your mum is the best root north of the Mildura.’
Everyone thinks there’s going to be a fight, but the bloke just ignores the drunk and turns to order another drink.
The old soak staggers off, only to return a little while later and confront the bloke again.
‘I gave your mum one this morning and boy was she hot!’
The bloke gets angry but turns away without replying and the drunk weaves off across the bar again.
Sure enough, he’s back again a few minutes later.
‘Your mum gives the best …’ Before he can finish the bloke explodes. ‘For God’s sake go home, Dad, you’re drunk!’
Two mates were out on the turps having a pretty good night. They’d known each other since school days and even though one was university educated and the other was barely literate they got on pretty well.
The smart guy
says he’d like to go out and maybe have a bit of slap and tickle.
‘Good,’ says the slower one. ‘I know this bloody great club where you go in, have a couple of beers on the house, then go upstairs with whoever’s arrived, have a root, go back down, have a couple more beers until somebody else arrives, then you go upstairs and have another root and so on until you’ve had your fill. Then when ya leave they pay ya.’
‘I find that a little hard to believe,’ says the smart one.
‘Oh, it’s true all right,’ says his mate.
‘Well, have you been there?’ asks the other.
‘Nah, but me sister has.’
A family from the mountains of New Zealand decided after their twelfth child that they had enough children and maybe it was time to stop. Not knowing what to do, they went to the doctor and were told that the bloke could have a vasectomy.
After being told exactly what that was, the father of twelve decided he wasn’t too keen on the idea. He asked the doctor if there was another option.
The doctor said they could stop having sex, but the wife was concerned that this might lead to problems.
Condoms were out because neither knew how to use them.
So the doctor suggested a method that had worked for Tasmanian hill families for many generations.
He told the man to go home, put a cracker in an empty can of beer, hold it in his left hand and count to ten.
The man said he couldn’t see how such a thing would stop him having children but figured the doctor knew what he was talking about.
He went home that night and went out the backyard where he lit a cracker, put it in the can in his right hand and began to count.
2 3 4 5 …
Momentarily confused, he paused, then put the can between his legs and continued to count on the other hand.
7 8 9 10 …
Vasect Oh Me Oh My … that smarts!
A couple of very drunk old boys are sitting at a bar in one of the bohemian parts of the big city — one of those places where the men wear earrings and shave their heads and the women wear boots, shave nothing and roll their own.
Anyway, there’s one of these urban girls sitting next to the old guys and she’s wearing the standard uniform: singlet top, hairy armpits, torn jeans and boots.
The two men get friendly with the girl and figure she’s all right and tell her just to signal the barman any time she wants a beer and it’s on them.
So the girl raises her arm and the barman runs over and gets her a beer and this goes on for half the night: she raises her arm, gets a beer and the old guys pay.
The old guys are blotto by the time it comes for a last drink.
‘Get the ballet dancer something from the top shelf,’ says one.
‘Ballet dancer?’ says the girl quizzically.
‘Well, anyone who can get their leg up high enough to order a beer musht be shome short of dancer,’ says the drunk old man.
Have you heard the one about the three pieces of string who decide they want to experience the good life inside a pub?
The first two slick themselves down, straighten themselves up and walk up to the bar and ask for a beer.
‘Sorry,’ says the barman. ‘We don’t serve string around here.’
The third has hung back, and hearing that he figures he might try a different approach. He twists himself round into a knot and frays his ends before walking to the bar.
The barman is not impressed.
‘Hey, I told your friends we don’t serve string here; you are a piece of string, aren’t you?’ he says.
‘Nah, I’m a frayed knot,’ comes the reply.
There’s a smart alec bloke at a pub who reckons he can tell any beer in a blind test.
So they put a blindfold on him and start bringing out different beers.
Boags, VB, James Squire … he picks them all until one wag comes out of the toilet with a glass of urine and puts it before him.
‘That’s p-p-p-piss,’ splutters the smart alec.
‘I know,’ says the wag. ‘But whose piss is it?’
Three businessmen meet in Sydney to discuss projections for the international company for the next financial year. One is from America, one from England and one is an Aussie.
After crunching numbers, planning mass sackings and boosting their executive entitlements the trio head for the nearest bar to wash out their mouths.
‘I’ll get you three local beers, eh?’ says the Australian.
‘Naw,’ says the Yank. ‘I’ll have a Bud.’
‘I’d prefer a pint of bitter,’ says the Pom.
The Aussie turns around and asks for a pint of bitter, a Bud and a lemonade.
The others ask him why he hasn’t ordered a beer.
‘Well, if you’re not drinking beer neither am I,’ says the Aussie.
A drunk walks into a bar and takes the last bar stool right next to a rather proper old gal who’s drinking a glass of wine.
The drunk orders a beer but soon the lady notices a terrible smell.
She turns to him and says, ‘Excuse me, but I think you’ve pooped in your pants.’
‘I shertainly have,’ says the drunk.
‘Well, why don’t you run off and clean yourself up then?’ says the lady.
‘Yeah, yeah, I will, it’s just that I haven’t finished yet.’
A drunk walks into a pub and says to the bartender that he wants a beer but he’s got no money.
The bloke tells him to bugger off.
‘Hang on,’ says the drunk. ‘What if I show you a trick?’
‘Well, it’d better be good,’ says the bartender.
‘Oh, it’s good, in fact it’s so good I think you should give me two beers.’
‘We’ll see,’ says the bartender.
So the drunk carefully reaches into his pocket and draws out a green frog and places it on the bar. He then reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a miniature piano which he places in front of the frog.
The bartender is amazed, but even more so when the little critter starts to bang out the hottest jazz tunes he’s ever heard.
Sure enough, the bartender shouts the drunk two beers.
When he’s finished these, the drunk asks, ‘If I can top that will you give me free beer for the rest of the night?’
‘If you can top that you can have free beer for the rest of the week,’ says the bartender, thinking that the pub will be packed with people coming to see the amazing jazz-playing frog.
The drunk smiles to himself and reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lady rat in a slinky dress. The rat leaps from his hand, leans against the piano and sings along.
The bartender is blown away and keeps his word. While the drunk drinks, the rat and frog entertain customers and the pub is packed every night.
On the last night of their deal a theatrical agent walks in and cannot believe what he sees.
He immediately offers the drunk $1000 for the frog and the rat.
‘Nah, forget it,’ says the drunk.
The agent then says he’ll give $1000 for the rat alone.
‘You’re on,’ says the drunk.
The agent takes the rat and leaves, but the bartender is furious.
‘You just broke up a million dollar duet for a lousy $1000!’ he yells.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ says the drunk. ‘The frog’s a ventriloquist.’
This old geezer’s lying on his deathbed, family gathered around and everyone is feeling a bit emotional.
Even his nagging wife is in a good mood.
‘You’ve been a good husband,’ she says. ‘We’ve had a good life together. Is there anything I can get you, love? Any last request?’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ he says.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she replies. ‘Everybody deserves a last wish. You just ask and I’ll do my best.’
‘Well, I would love one of those beers you put in the back fridge yesterday,’ he says.
‘Oh
my God,’ she says. ‘Just like you — selfish and thoughtless. Those are for the wake!’
This drunk walks into a bar and says to the bartender, ‘Give me a beer before the shit hits the fan.’
The bartender gives him a drink and walks off.
The drunk calls him over again and says, ‘Give me another beer before the shit hits the fan.’
The bartender obliges and this goes on for a while before the bartender says, ‘I hope you’ve got enough money to pay for these.’
‘Oops, the shit’s hit the fan,’ says the drunk.
A Queensland cow cockie parks his ute outside a Sydney pub, grabs his swag and shotgun out of the back, goes inside, puts the gear down and has a big afternoon on the beer.
Towards evening he picks up his swag and shotgun and leaves, only to return a few seconds later red with anger.
He lets off a shot into the ceiling and yells, ‘Somebody has stole me frigging ute and if it’s not back by the time I finish me next beer I’m gonna have to do what I did in Melbourne!’
The locals pick the bits of ceiling from their receding hair and look at each other nervously.
The bartender gets the cow cockie a beer and starts to sweat when he notices the car park still empty.
‘Will you tell me what happened in Melbourne?’ asks the bartender.
‘Yeah, I will,’ the cockie says. ‘I had to walk all the way home.’
A wombat emerges from a building site and walks across the road into a pub and asks for a beer.
The bartender is taken aback to find a talking wombat.
They get chatting and the bartender asks where the wombat works.
‘Over the road on the building site,’ comes the reply.
‘Well, you know with your skills you could get a job in the circus,’ says the bartender.
‘A circus?’ asks the wombat.
‘Yes, a circus,’ says the bartender.
‘One of those joints with tents, animals and sawdust?’ asks the wombat.
