600 Women Looking for a Man

by duncanr

canstock3473265Psst, guys – you’ll never believe this, but it’s true

there’s 600 women living in a village in Brazil – on their own, with no men around

and they’re getting very horny lonely

they are appealing for men to come visit them and . . . steady on ratty. no need to push, there’s plenty to go round !

[well, that’s the last we’ll see of him for a while]


16 Comments to “600 Women Looking for a Man”

  1. Wrong, wrong, wrong !

    I sent them a 20 year old photo and details of my willy my physical attributes.

    They were very keen to have me, as I was to go.

    Then a snag came up. One of such magnitude that I called the whole thing off.

    Beware all applicants – they don’t have a pasty shop over there !!!


  2. That’s also a centuries old tradition of one of the tribes of South America. Men and women dwell in separate communities, coming together only at certain times of the year. Perhaps I could have phrased that better.


  3. Edward was tipping the Bell-boy who had brought their things to the room. Daphne knew only too well that her husband, of three years, would only give the meanest of tips, and even that would be done grudgingly. “God,” she thought “how on earth did I marry such a man?”

    Walking on to the balcony, she placed her hand to shield her eyes from the, now setting, Mediterranean sun.

    Aunty Isabel had suggested this trip to her as they sat drinking tea in the idyllic garden of her Cambridgeshire thatched cottage.

    “You owe it to Edward, Daphne, and to yourself, to make this marriage work” she had said in a tone that belied her matronly exterior, “You need to rekindle that desire you once shared together . . .

    coming along, eh, Nobbly, coming along


  4. “Tipping the bell boy over the third floor balcony was mean,” thought Daphne, as the wail of the ambulance siren receded, “but a penny saved is a penny earned, and Edward’s action was beneficial, as the saving could go towards purchase of a red rose, or perhaps, her next cup of tea.”


  5. “A bloody red rose! Over mah dead body, tha knaws!” came a thunderous voice.

    “Oh no” wailed Daphne, “it’s Uncle Seth from Hebden Bridge. How on earth did he get here?”

    “Ah come on t’bloody tram, tha daft mare, how dust think ah got ere so quick? It’s a direct line from Todmorden to t’Mediterranean. Any road up, ah wants thee to ditch that soppy bugger Edward – sharpish like, an’ get shacked up wi’ mah neighbour’s young ‘un, Billy. He’s gorra bit o’ brass and all his own teeth, an’ his father has promised me one of his best whippets if I can tek t’lad off his hands. Ow abaht it, then?”


    • . . . Daphne’s head was spinning and reeling and splitting and feeling disorientated, light and detached from her body and on the verge of exploding. But apart from that, she thought she was handling the situation quite well.

      Then her legs gave out, they felt leaden and didn’t respond when she tried to move, her knees knocked, and her feet ached. She tried to run, but was rooted to the spot.

      She took a deep breath, but none came and she found herself gasping for air, her breathing was shallow and irregular. Her ears buzzed, her heart’s normal rhythm was now replaced with violent palpitations, her throat burned, her eyes stung, her stomach was tied in knots, her arms hung limp and her fingers felt numb.

      “Did theur not ‘ear uz, Daphne, love. Eur theur unwell ?” enquired Uncle Seth.

      “I’m fine” lied Daphne, through dry lips and chattering teeth.

      “How had it all come to this ?” she thought, her fevered brain trying desperately to make sense of the situation . . .


  6. “How could he…” she thought, “How could uncle Seth have known what I was thinking of ? I never said a word of it out loud I’ll swear.”
    “Because,” roared her barmy uncle, peering at her attentively through his Marvel Comics x-ray spectacles which he’d bought as a lad in 1966, “you wrote it in your diary, including all your usual grammatical errors…”


    • . . . just then, Edward flip-flopped into the room wearing a white M & S Panama hat (£23.27 – actually, ratty bought one himself, and they’re bloody good value at that price) and a pair of barely there Speedo’s.

      “Ready for a quick dip in the pool Dahling . . .” Edward’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of Daphne’s X-ray-spectacled uncle sitting on the corner of the bed.

      “Seth” he said, straining to hide the contempt he held for the old Scotsman, “what, what are you doing here ?”

      “Ah’m ‘eear ta ‘elp theur wi’ dis small lahl thing tha’ is spoilin thy marriage.” he replied in his strong scouse accent.

      Edward’s hand darted to his groin. “Daphne, have you been talking ?” his voice filled with panic.

      Daphne, heard all of this, but was unable to formulate a reply. “God, I need help” she thought to herself, “if somebody doesn’t help me with some form of dialogue, then I shall die . . .”

      . . . . . . . . . . . . .

      So. There it is folks, if someone doesn’t come to her aid and give her a voice, then they will be reponsible for her death !


  7. “I’m here to save you, my Darling! I shall give you the courage to say what you have been longing to say.” The voice came from an immaculately dressed, incredibly suave, ruggedly handsome chap standing in the doorway (for now, readers, we shall conveniently ignore the fact that the top of his head was level with the doorknob…).

    “Who the hell are you?” demanded Edward, “and why do you refer to my beloved , err.. wossername.. as ‘my darling’?”

    “By gow!” said Uncle Seth in a far more measured Yorkshire tone without even the hint of pseudo-scouse “Ah were expectin’ young Billy Arkwright, but he’s a good yard taller than thee. Who the bloody are thi, lad. come on, speak up, ‘as ferret got thi tongue?”

    “I….” said the diminutive yet irresistably charming stranger before he paused for the obligatory dramatic effect, and waited for the credits to roll ending this week’s show “… am….. I said, ‘am’….start the music you daft twat!…. Oh, bugger, it’s a book isn’t it – there is no cliffhanger till next week like in Eastender Farm Street, is there?. Right, on with my big (ish) entrance then,…” he paused and took stock of the situation before striding purposefully towards Daphne, to take her in his arms.

    “I am…. Steele Throbworthy, the lecherous laundryman from Lewisham. Daphne and myself are in love and intend to flee this place, make love in a hayloft and then live happily ever after in Milton Keynes (if such a thing is plausible as a plotline)”

    “F…..” started Uncle Seth, stopping before the BigD asterisk intervention profanity censoring service (inc.) got involved.

    “F….” started Edward, stopping himself before uttering the first profanity of his literary career.

    “Fuck me! Yes please!” cried Daphne, who had now found both her voice and her true love, and intended to cop off for a quick shag as soon as the authors would allow it


  8. Daphne, momentarily buoyed by the discovery of her voice in the first person, was disconcerted when her newfound voice began to jump from person to person.
    “Fuck you too… no I mean Fuck you two !” her voice yelled in the second person. “In fact, fuck him and fuck them all” the voice continued from the safe anonymity of the third person.
    “Which two ?” asked Uncle Seth and Edward.
    “Who else?” wondered Daphne, accidentally treading on the remote.
    “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.” her voice replied from last night’s karaoke recording…
    Throbworthy steeled himself, as he suddenly realised…


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