There's only an arsehole under the tail

Normality pertains in the world of sons and dogs.

Graphic dogs. Phone conversation with today's battiest customer:

‘What sort of a dog is it?’ (me)

‘No idea. It’s got 4 legs and big ears.’ (she)

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘How do I tell?’

‘Does it lift a leg or squat to pee?’

‘Lifts a leg.’

‘Is he neutered?’

‘Dunno. How to I tell?’

‘Can you see any testicles?’

‘What do they look like?’

‘Dangly lumps under the tail.’

‘Nope. There’s only an arse hole under the tail.’

Dog carer later confirmed neutered male crossbreed. Thankfully a nice one.

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Why men don’t wear make-up.

O returned from school having fallen victim to contents of several make-up bags. With long, thick curly eyelashes caked in ultra-lengthening, maximally-thickening, loop-the-loop-curling mascara and lips swollen with plumping-to-negroid lip gloss. After most of a family pack of cotton wool, an entire bottle of Clinique eye dissolver and a screaming session of which the most Prima of Prima Donnas would be proud, O’s eyelashes were recovered. Only time could restore the lips. Slightly unfortunate that both tuba lesson and orchestra had to happen before time had any chance.

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Cats = Oats

‘Is there any more porridge?’ O asked, brandishing the empty packet.

‘Not yet,’ I replied. Without telling him that I’d spent some eternity in Tescos wondering why on Earth I had ‘cats’ on the shopping list. The consequence of terrible writing combined with a refusal to wear reading glasses in a supermarket. Cats = oats.

PLANET OK - JANUARY 12

 

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