Girlfriend

“Don’t I have a perfect figure?” my girlfriend asked me admiring herself in the mirror.

“How much do you weigh?” I asked hesitantly.

“You have to figure that out,” she said demurely.

“Your figure must be flat,” I hazarded.

“That’s when I’m at my flat,” she replied coyly, “Otherwise it is 34-18-36.”

“That’s odd,” I remarked, “Are you a figure of eight?”

“That depends on whether I’m playing the French horn or the saxophone,” she replied.

“You must be ambidextrous then?” I asked.

“That’s when I am playing sleight of hand with a deck of cards,” she replied.

“And does the boy still stand on the burning deck?” I enquired anxiously.

“No, he joined the fire brigade long ago,” my girlfriend replied.

“You must be missing him?” I asked.

“Like loose change,” she sighed.

“You should file a missing person report,” I suggested.

“Not much use when he is busy changing a lot of Ms to Mrs,” she replied.

“Has he become a priest?” I asked surprised.

“He does have a habit,” she said, “but he does not change it much.”

“Old habits die hard,” I commented wisely.

“He does dye a lot how do you know?” she asked surprised.

“Dyed in the wool must be,” I said, “Does he change black into white?”

“Frequently,” she said sighing.

“But then he must be a magician also,” I cried, “or is he a fireman?”

“He turns the hoses into buckets for practice when playing tag with the firemen,” my girlfriend said.

“That must be frustrating for the firemen,” I remarked.

“No, no, they actually enjoy it, because they place bets on whether they will find hoses instead of buckets when they respond to a fire,” she grinned.

“But buckets can’t be of much use in buildings, they are so tall these days!” I exclaimed.

“Buckets are much sought after in buildings that don’t have running water,” she replied.

“They should put in plumbing then,” I suggested.

“They wanted to, but the plumbers went on strike demanding that they are allowed to join the fire brigade,” my girlfriend said.

“Did they?”

“No, they said that they did not want to learn pole dancing which is a part of the training,” she said.

“But isn’t it more important to learn snakes and ladders?” I asked, “Otherwise how will they douse fires?”

“Actually they have to play snakes and ladders while pole dancing to qualify for the firemen’s Olympics,” she said.

“Do they make a bucket list about the damsels in distress they rescue? I asked.

“Those are psychiatrists who also work as firemen in their spare time,” she said, “They dissuade people from jumping from the frying pan into the fire while cooking their own goose.”

“So plumbers and psychiatrists are also working part time as firemen?” I questioned.

“The cost of living is very high these days that’s why they are opting for life insurance that promises a coffin as a bonus,” she said.

“Not the one at the end of the rainbow?” I questioned.

“All insurances come to an end when the doctors recommend a hearse instead of an ambulance,” my girlfriend said.

“Do the psychiatrists drive them or the firemen?” I asked.

“The firemen drive the hearses to the bank so that their occupants can make their last will and testament and the psychiatrists the ambulances straight to the lunatic asylums after jumping red lights,” she said.

“Isn’t that morbid, don’t they get booked for jumping traffic lights?” I asked.

“The law is callous for hearses and ambulances,” my girlfriend said.

“It must have been laid down by the undertakers when no one was looking,” I remarked.

“But didn’t you call me fat?” she asked suddenly.

“Did I? It was long ago when you were admiring your figure,” I replied hastily.

“I have a perfect figure,” she said snootily.

“I know, I know that’s why my neighbour is always ogling you,” I smirked.

“You shouldn’t be jealous if your neighbour compliments me,” she remarked, “It isn’t good for your liver or prostate.”

 “I will be jealous of him posthumously even if he turns up at my funeral with a brick to make sure that I am lying low.”

“You should not have such a low opinion of him,” my girlfriend said primly.

“He does love to ogle your low neckline,” I said sarcastically.

 “No harm in a bit of flattery,” she said dismissively.

“Let me catch him flattering you in my presence and I will make sure he catches the flu, influenza, and cholera,” I swore.

“Calm down, you will only make your blood pressure shoot up,” she said warningly.

“I will shoot an arrow up his alimentary canal and make sure he gets lumbago, dysentery and German measles,” I said panting.

“Why bring the Germans into this?” my girlfriend asked, “Anyway, I don’t know German.”

“I wish he had dyspepsia, distemper and a crick in the neck,” I said angrily.

“He will have to consult a doctor about that,” she said with concern, “You must be suffering from gas again, that’s why you are getting upset.”

“No, I’m not, it’s because I couldn’t grow a beer belly and a moustache,” I said annoyed.

“What would you do with a beer belly, they aren’t any good for belly dancing,” my girlfriend said.

“What do you know about belly dancing?” I asked turning on her.

“It’s only good when you have a belly ache,” she admonished.

“Belly dancing is a hobby of mine,” I snapped, “And I will dance as many times as I like.”

“But you don’t wear veils like the belly dancers, you insist on performing in the nude!” She exclaimed.

“I could also go dancing in the rain,” I said thoughtfully, “But the neighbours might complain to the cops.”

“You should never do that!” My girlfriend said scandalised, “Especially when I’m not with you to show you the steps!”

“I know, they are ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ by John Buchan, he was a Scotsman who also played the bagpipes and bagatelle,” I said.

“But he was not a belly dancer!” she exclaimed.

“How do you know? If he wasn’t a belly dancer then why should he write about thirty-nine steps?”

“That’s probably because he only knew how to count till thirty-nine or forty,” my girlfriend replied.

“Or perhaps there were thirty-nine steps to the bats in his belfry,” I said thoughtfully.

“Bats don’t know how to count,” she remarked.

“But they could have been taught by Buchan, he did a lot of writing and could have been teaching the bats in sign language in his spare time,” I argued.

“Do bats have a good IQ?” she asked doubtingly.

“Must be, otherwise how could they fly around in the dark when they are blind?”

“That’s because they have radar and a gyroscope, you could fly too if you had them,” she said.

“I don’t wish to fly around with a lean and hungry look.”

“You can lean on a barge pole and look hungry for all I care,” she replied.

“I do have a barge pole, but I can’t recollect where I kept it,” I said.

“You can look where you thought you put it last, that’s the best way to find missing things,” my girlfriend said.

“It could be under the bed or in the closet,” I said thoughtfully, “Or I could have put it in the washing machine.”

“Just think,” she said patiently, “You could have lost it while you were walking in your sleep.”

“My neighbour could have pinched it,” I said brightly.

“Why will he steal your barge pole?” she asked.

“I don’t know, perhaps to stir the pot,” I said hopefully.

“Does he take pot?” She asked surprised.

“Could be, he’s a bit potty,” I remarked.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Must you say such uncouth things?”

“I meant he is mad, a maniac and a poltroon that has had too many bananas and has gas,” I explained patiently.

“How do you know that bananas cause gas?” She asked petulantly.

“There’s natural gas too,” I said, “It’s not caused by bananas!”

“It could be that your neighbour is looking for natural gas,” she said, “And using a barge pole to dig for it.”

“You have hit the nail on the head!” I exclaimed, “And I will shove the bargepole up his behind if he trespasses on my property.”

“Won’t you need some help?” she asked, “He might put up stiff resistance.”

“I will catch him when his pants are down,” I said cunningly.

“Does he go around like that?” asked my girlfriend shocked.

“When he goes to the laundry; he can’t be wearing the trousers he wants to be dry-cleaned,” I said.

“How do you know he is not going to a nudist colony?” she asked, “He will only need to comb his hair then.”

“He goes to his hair stylist frequently to change his wig before going to the nudist colony in a bikini,” I replied.

“You mean he goes to the nudist colony on Bikini Atoll too!” she exclaimed, “That’s where they tested the nuclear bombs!”

“It wasn’t nuclear bombs, they were testing to see how much gas a man could accumulate on a diet of green coconuts and bananas,” I said informatively.

“That could cause an implosion,” my girlfriend said, “and it could cause a leak in the large intestine.”

“That’s what my neighbour is suffering from, a leak in the large intestine and a puncture in the small intestine and that’s why he is always spilling the beans,” I replied.

“The poor man could get swine flu,” she said with concern.

“What can you expect from pork?” I questioned.

“Chops,” she said at once.

“You can also have sausages,” I remarked, “But his intestines would be unsuitable.”

“His intestines could be highly inflammable,” she suggested.

“They test that too at the Bikini Atoll and they make my neighbour take off his underwear or it might catch fire underwater,” I said.

“That’s because he has too much gas and he believes it is more blessed to give than to receive,” my girlfriend said.

“No one wants to be at the receiving end of gas,” I protested.

“But there is no harm in charity,” she remarked, “Especially if you have so much unaccounted gas.”

“It could be mustard gas or chlorine gas in which case I would need to buy a gas mask,” I replied.

“He should do something about his leaking intestines,” she said thoughtfully.

“He could go and suck his colon that should help,” I said dryly.

“But wasn’t he breastfed?” She asked wonderingly.

“No, he fed on the fat of the land when his mama wasn’t looking,” I replied.

“Must have been very greedy,” she said.

“Greedy as a Pig that was turned into sausage,” I remarked.

“Every man has his faults,” she said.

“Here the fault line is showing in the seat of his pants,” I pointed out.

“Then he must be heavily stacked too!” she exclaimed.

“Heavily stacked from the bottom up,” I replied, “The doctors hunting for his gallstones will need a ladder and a telescope to get access to them.”

“If he has so much gall they could just call the fire brigade, it would be simpler,” my girlfriend said.

“The problem is with his gas, it’s a time bomb that could blow the rivets of a submarine sent into his alimentary canal through the mouth to mouth resuscitation,” I replied.

“Why not just give him a pill?” she asked simply.

“It would blow up instantly causing fallout in the neighbourhood and they don’t give insurance for that,” I said.

 “Then they should give him an anti-rabies injection,” she replied.

“He doesn’t need one, he has cured all the dogs in the neighbourhood of insomnia,” I remarked.

“You could get a power of attorney to send him to a lunatic asylum then,” my girlfriend said.

“I couldn’t afford an attorney, they outsource the milk of human kindness,” I shuddered.

“No harm in drinking milk,” she said soothingly.

“I gave up drinking years ago,” I said woefully.

“Then you need to gargle twice a day, have your alimentary canal dredged and kicked in the shins for all the gas that your neighbour passes around freely without a thought to the environment,” she said and walked away in a huff.