Not thick.
Father in the paddock (padlock panick); Can't stick it in the stallion's throat (vet's advice: it's inorganic).
Quick! Mum's pulling a train in Greggs! Dad? Studying particle physics to try to locate his scrote-eggs (and third leg).
Send my aunt a telegram describing in exquisite detail the diseases ravaging my scrotum and perineum
Come end of shift, what's on all bogs-blokes' lips, Is the flavour combination of mum's bowel drips.
Blokes: Happy New Year, Mum: Happy Old Rear.
Bogs-punters are often left thinking "what's the catch," Well, it's mum's STD-riddled arsehole and snatch.
Mum's doing a residency at the malmaison, Until her bumhole's completely "gone".
Bogs-blokes are stimulated by the cadence, In how mum turns and shouts "up the poo entrance!"
Much like the Dutch national football team in 1984, your dad's got a Ruud Gullet and, despite containing 11 blokes, fails to score. Ball control: poor
Bogs-vets are a notoriously active lobbying group, Pressurising government to formally investigate lost blokes in mum's crap-hoop.
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