Grandpa's Naughty Bedtime Stories

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9780741404480: Grandpa's Naughty Bedtime Stories

A Rabelaisian collection of prose and poesy as narrated to me by that Old Curmudgeon, Grampa.

Rated, R:

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

I was born on 16 July 1924, about 20 miles south of the United States border. No not Mexico but Essex, Ontario, Canada (just south of Detroit.) I received a B.A. from the University of Western Ontario, retired from the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) after twenty years as a pilot, and then taught Technical Writing at SIAST (Saskatchewan Institute of Applied Science and Technology) for seventeen years. Now, twice-retired I dabble in the arts, especially painting and writing. I have three lovely daughters and seven beautiful grandchildren; we drown the ugly ones at birth.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:



George DuLaux

I believe this is the ultimate limerick because it goes back to the very beginning of sex in our civilization:

In the Garden of Eden sat Adam
With his hands on the thighs of his madam.
He chuckled with mirth
'Cause he knew on the earth
There were only two balls, and he had 'em.

. . . . . . . .

Two boys found a girl sitting on a riverbank and dangling a fishing line in the water. The older of the two, a real smart ass, couldn't resist shouting to the girl, "If you're fishing for a man, quit sitting on your bait."

The girl just ignored him so they went on their way, but the younger boy was puzzled, "How did you know she had worms?" he asked.

. . . . . . . .

Two inmates of a mental institution had rooms across from each other. They both believed they were Napoleon, and they had been arguing for days.

"You can't be Napoleon, because I'm Napoleon," shouted one inmate.

"No, I'm Napoleon," countered the other.

"Who said you were Napoleon?" the first one asked.

"God said I was." came the reply.

"I certainly did not!" boomed a voice from the next room.

. . . . . . . .

Oscar Wilde was notorious for his sexual preferences, and his friends feared that his affection for young boys would be his undoing. They finally persuaded Oscar to curb his appetite for young boys and planned an elaborate Medieval feast to celebrate the occasion.

The guests were waited on hand and foot by liveried pages who stood behind each guest's chair. The festivities were proceeding beautifully until someone noticed that Oscar was missing, and, worst of all, his personal page was also missing..

The house was searched, and they finally found Oscar disrobing in a bedroom while his naked page cowered beneath a sheet on the bed.

"Good lord, Oscar. You promised that you were going to turn over a new leaf!" exclaimed one of his friends.

"I certainly intend to turn over a new leaf," Oscar replied, "Just as soon as I get to the bottom of this page."

. . . . . . . .

A farmer's teenage daughter accompanied him when he took his prize bull to a neighbour's farm to service his friend's cow. His friend had a teenage son who sat on a fence beside the young girl watching as the bull went through his paces with the cow. When the bull was finished, the girl turned to the lad and asked, "How'd you like to do that?"

"Wow! Yeah!" exclaimed the eager young man.

"Well, go ahead," said the girl, "She's your cow!"

. . . . . . . .

Mae West always maintained that "a hard man nowadays is good to find."

. . . . . . . .

There was a young girl from Madras
Who had the most beautiful ass.
'Twasn't round. 'Twasn't pink,
As some people might think,
But was gray, had long ears, and ate grass.

. . . Which brings up a point. The proper English word for what the French call a derriere is arse (check your Chaucer), but modern American and Canadian usage has made the word ass more popular, hence the admonishment intended in that last limerick.

. . . . . . . .

A horny young German soldier was searching a Parisian apartment when he came upon a young woman whom he promptly proceeded to rape in the usual Nazi fashion. When he finished, he zipped up, came to attention, gave the Nazi salute and said, "In nine months you will have a male child and you will name him Adolf. Heil Hitler!"

"And in a few days, you'll break out in a rash, and you can call it prickly heat," she calmly replied.

. . . . . . . .

Mrs. Murphy met Mrs. Sullivan while they were shopping.

"What are these lies you've been spreading about my husband?" Mrs Murphy asked.

"And just what have I been saying?" Mrs Sullivan replied.

"You've been saying my husband has a wart on the end of his tool!"

"I said no such thing." Mrs. Sullivan replied. "I only said it felt like it."

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