An old Aussie bloke lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite home made meat and spud pie wafting up the stairs from the kitchen. He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled down stairs.

With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread put upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally dozens of his favorite pies alongside which was a bottle of his favorite "dead horse".

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted, big hipped all round , dinkum Aussie sheila of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy ocker ?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the pastry was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.

The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a pie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife......

"F*** off" she said, "they're for the funeral."

Love It,

Love it,

LOVE IT !!!!!!!

Alfapup, that's the best one from you for a long time.

One word of explaination for our northern mates;

Dead horse = sauce.

Rick.

:devious: :devious: