The wealthy shop owner counted his money and laughed. 

“This is a lot of money!”

Suddenly a peasant carrying a bucket burst into the shop.

“Sir, I’d like to clean your window!” he shouted.

“I already have a window cleaner” laughed the wealthy shop owner as he quickly stuffed his money into his pockets.

“How much do they charge?”


“Well I’ll pay YOU £5 if you let me clean it” pleaded the peasant.

“Why would you do that?” asked the shop owner, who had become suspicious of the peasant ever since he noticed he was a peasant.

“Well, it’s a wonderful window, sir. And this is a very fancy shop. Would look great on my CV if I could say I’d cleaned your window, sir”

He was right. It was a fancy shop and it was a wonderful window thought the shop owner.

“Okay, it’s a deal” said the shop owner holding out his hand. The peasant shook it. “No, I want my £5.” The peasant paid him and exited the shop to begin cleaning the window.

The shop was closing in half an hour, so the shop owner went back to counting his money, chuckling once one.

Closing time came and the shop owner left the shop where he found the peasant still cleaning the windows.

“Nearly done” said the peasant.

“How much longer?” asked the wealthy shop owner.

“Hard to say, sir. You go on home. I’ll finish up here”.

“Fine” said the shop owner, who locked the door and returned home to his large house.

The next morning the wealthy shop owner returned to his fancy shop to find the peasant still cleaning the window.

“What in God’s name?!” cried the shop owner.

“Sorry, sir” said the peasant “Just trying to get this last bit right. Won’t be much longer”.

The shop owner opened up the shop and went back to counting his money. An hour went by and the peasant was still cleaning the window. This would not do. He left the shop and told the peasant enough was enough.

“I just want to do a good job, sir. I won’t be much longer”.

“No, you must stop now. You’re scaring off my customers” roared the shop owner.

“Sorry, sir, but I did pay you £5 to clean your window. We had a deal” said the peasant. He was right, a deal was a deal, even between a peasant and a wealthy shop owner. The shop owner returned inside and started counting his money again.

Closing time came and the shop hadn’t had a single customer. The peasant was still cleaning the window.

“I want you gone by the time I come in tomorrow” insisted the shop owner.

“Of course, sir. I’m nearly done. You’re going to have the cleanest window on the street”.

Tomorrow arrived and the peasant was still standing outside the fancy shop, cleaning the wonderful window.

“I want you to leave right now!” Deal or no deal, you’ve got to go!” yelled the wealthy shop owner as he grabbed the peasant by the arm. A large chunk of flesh came away from the peasant’s arm and as the wealthy shop owner looked at it he could see it was filled with worms.

“Oh god. I’m sorry” cried the shop owner. Filled with guilt he told the peasant he could carry on cleaning the window until lunch time.

Lunch time came and the shop owner left the shop to speak to the peasant.

“Well it’s lunch time. And it looks like you’re finished. This is the cleanest window on the street”.
The peasant window cleaner looked at the window and agreed this was true.

“Well, I guess I’ll be…” the peasant began to say before snapping the fingers off his left hand, spraying blood all over the clean window. “Oh no. Look at this mess. This is going to take forever to clean up, especially with only one hand”.

The peasant returned to cleaning the window.

“No. No. No.” barked the wealthy shop owner. “That’s enough. How much do you want?”

“Want for what, sir?”

“To stop cleaning my window. I’ll give you £5,000”.

“Deal” said the peasant.

The shop owner went to the safe and pulled out £5,000, then gave it to the peasant.

The peasant ran off and the shop owner set about the difficult task of cleaning the blood off the window.

While the shop owner was distracted with his window cleaning, becoming increasingly covered in blood himself, the peasant returned in his newly bought £5,000 suit and snuck into the shop, locking the door behind him.

“What the devil?!” cried the shop owner. “Open that door immediately!”

“I don’t think so” laughed the peasant in the £5,000 suit.

“Right, I’ll show you” said the shop owner before calling over a passing police officer. “That man has stolen my shop!”

The police officer took one look at the man standing inside the shop in a £5,000 suit and the man covered in blood and immediately arrested the shop owner for filing a false police report.


After leaving the factory for the last time, Alan stopped at the hardware store, bought a shovel, then headed home. He kissed his wife of thirty-nine years on the cheek and went straight to bed.

The next morning Alan awoke before sunrise and began digging in the garden almost immediately. By the time Alan's wife came downstairs he had already dug a hole three feet deep.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Digging a hole." he replied.

At 5pm Alan stopped digging, came back into the house, kissed his wife on the cheek and went straight to bed. The same thing happened the next day and the day after that.

On the fourth day Alan's wife came out to the garden and saw the hole was now over ten feet deep.
"If you carry on like this you'll end up in China." she said with a false chuckle. Alan groaned and carried on digging.

Two weeks passed and Alan's wife was becoming increasingly concerned. Knowing that confronting him would only annoy him, she decided to embrace the digging. That night she cooked a toad in the hole. This seemed to please Alan, who made eye contact with his wife for the first time since his retirement.

The next day, Alan's wife said she had rented a film for them to watch when he'd finished digging.
"If I'm not too tired." said Alan.
"It's The Hole, the one with Thora Birch and Keira Knightley."

Alan appeared to enjoy the film, but once it finished he seemed agitated. He asked his wife to load the computer so he could check the internet movie database. His fears were confirmed. Keira Knightley was 15 at the time of filming The Hole, a film in which she flashed her bare breasts. Concerned that he may have just consumed child pornography, Alan unplugged the TV and VCR, put them in his car and drove forty miles to the nearest forest. There he smashed the TV and VCR with a hammer, then set fire to them just to be sure.

Alan's wife received no explanation for the missing TV and VCR and so she decided it was probably for the best to stop embracing the digging.

On the 122nd consecutive day of digging, when the hole was now over a hundred feet deep, Alan's shovel was met not by soil or rock, but by wood. There was a coffin. A nice one. Top of the range. Alan opened the lid and was met by a man with his same face, clothes and hair.
"Alan." said Alan.
"Alan." replied the Other Alan. The Other Alan climbed out of the coffin, put his hand in Alan's pocket and pulled out his keys and wallet. Alan climbed into the coffin and closed the lid.
"Bye then." he said.

The Other Alan spent the rest of the day filling in the hole. Once he was finished, he went into the house, kissed Alan's wife on the cheek and went straight to bed.


"Why should I give you the job?" the interviewer asked the man. 
"Because if you don't, I'll kill you." the man replied, pointing a gun at the interviewer's head. He had her. She knew you weren't supposed to give jobs to people who threaten to kill you, but she also knew that if she didn't give him the job she would be killed. 
"You've got the job!" the interviewer exclaimed. 
"Yes!" the man roared.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The CEO of the business entered the room, clapping his hands slowly.
"You've just earned yourself a company car. My car!" the CEO said, tossing his keys at the man.
As the keys flew towards him, the man panicked and fired his gun straight at the CEO's head, killing him instantly.
The man was worried now. He knew that killing your boss was a sackable offence. He needed to do something. And quick.
"That's for killing my father." the man said coolly. He picked up the car keys and told the interviewer he'd see her on Monday. There was no way they'd fire him for avenging the death of his father. The job hunt was over.


"Please, you've got to help me!" yelled Eduardo as he banged his fist on the counter. His face was black with soot and he held a petrol can in his hand. "I need stamps. Give me stamps."

"You need to buy a coffee if you want a stamp." said the barista as he inspected Eduardo's Caffe Nero loyalty card. He was two stamps short of a free coffee.

"I can't drink coffee. I've got IBS. Please, I'm loyal." he pleaded.

"How about a hot chocolate?"

"No, no. I'm off carbs. Please. Just give me some stamps." begged Eduardo. "I swear allegiance to Caffe Nero. All I want is a couple of stamps."

Suddenly two police officers burst into the coffee shop, both wielding tasers in their hands.
"Eduardo Jones, you are under arrest for the firebombing of three Starbucks and one Costa Coffee."

"You'll never take me alive!" cried Eduardo, as he grabbed a nearby double macchiato.

"Don't do it!" yelled the barista "You've got IBS."

Disregarding the barista's words, Eduardo downed the coffee and immediately shit himself to death. The barista picked up Eduardo's loyalty card and gave it a solemn stamp. It was still one short of a free coffee, but it was the best he could do without risking disciplinary action from his manager.


“Here's your double pepperoni. That'll be $12.95.” I said as I handed her the pizza.
She dropped her towel and placed her left breast in my right hand.
“Thanks, keep the change.” she whispered in a weird childlike voice.

 I was unsure about what was going on. Was she not going to pay? Had the touching of breasts become an official currency? This was at the height of the financial crisis and I hadn't listened to the news at all that day.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. I wasn't thirsty, but I accepted her offer. If she wasn't going to pay for the pizza it would be taken out of my wages, so I should at least get something out of it. As a gay man the breast hadn't done a lot for me.
The naked woman returned from the kitchen with a bottle of Bailey's, which she proceeded to open and pour all over her bare breasts. It seemed like an odd thing to do straight after having a shower, but I was beginning to suspect that this lady wasn't one for “society's ways”. She pulled my head to her chest and ordered me to drink, which I did with pleasure. Bailey's is delicious by any delivery method.
“Do you want to fuck me?” she asked. I didn't, but saying no might have come across as impolite. My father had always told me to be polite. I thought back to something he once told me:
“Son, it's important to be polite. If you're ever invited for dinner at someone's house and you don't like the food, you eat it. You eat it all.”
I was going to eat the food all right, eat it with my dick.
“Sure.” I said “It would be an honour to make love to you.” I suspected that this woman might have suffered from low self esteem, so I made a conscious effort to pay her some compliments.
She led me into the bedroom and draped herself over the bed, her legs wide open.
“That's a great vagina you've got there.” I said “a real top of the range cunt.”
“Thank you, daddy, but I've got some bad news. I've been a bad girl. I need to be punished. Fuck me with that BIG DADDY DICK.”
“It seems like you might have some father issues.” I said, placing my hand compassionately on her shoulder.
“Father issues? How could I have father issues? I never even knew the guy! All I have is this picture of him!” she yelled, showing me an old photo of a man.
She pulled me down onto the bed, placed the photograph of her father over my face and began to suck my dick. It felt good. I suddenly realised that men and women weren't that different after all; we all have hopes and dreams and mouths.
“Now I want you to shove this vibrator in me. All the way.” she said waving the sex object in my face. “Damn, the batteries have run out. Hold on while I got get some out of the remote.”
I got up to leave. This wasn't right. A gay man shouldn't have to have sex with a woman. Manners be damned. As I got to the door I looked back at the photograph of her father.
“NO!” I roared, clenching my hand into a fist. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be another man walking out on this poor soul.
“It's the wrong kind of batteries.” she said upon returning, the vibrator in one hand, the remote control in the other.
“We don't need those.” I said confidently. I pushed her onto the bed and put my penis into her vagina. It felt great, like a mug of warm bolognese sauce. “I'm going to cum away all of your problems. Everything is going to be okay.”
The sex had been going on for nearly 9 minutes. There were thrusts and reverse thrusts, creating a sort of rhythmic drilling motion.
“This is going well.” I told her. Suddenly I became inspired. I withdrew my penis and set about performing oral sex on her. Disgusting, but does a doctor wince when he has to fix a broken intestine? She began to cum. Her screams loud enough to wake the neighbours if this hadn't been a detached house in the middle of the day.
“I'm cumming!” she laughed as she tore the photo of her father in half. I'd done it! I'd cured her. We high fived and promised to love each other forever.
Staring at myself in the mirror I realised I'd had sex with a woman. There was nothing more to fear. I finally had the courage to quit my job and become the Chief of Police.