Coronavirus Humour
Discussion
A suspected Covid-19 male patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.
A young student female nurse appears and gives him a partial sponge bath.
"Nurse,"' he mumbles from behind the mask, "are my testicles black?"
Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, "I don't know, Sir. I'm only here to wash your upper body and feet."
He struggles to ask again, "Nurse, please check for me. ,Are my testicles black?"
Concerned that he might elevate his blood pressure and heart rate from worrying about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and
pulls back the covers.
She raises his gown, holds his manhood in one hand and his testicles gently in the other.
She looks very closely and says, "There's nothing wrong with them, Sir. They look fine."
The man slowly pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her, and says very slowly,
"Thank you very much. That was wonderful.
Now listen very, very, closely:
"Are - my - test - results - back?"
A young student female nurse appears and gives him a partial sponge bath.
"Nurse,"' he mumbles from behind the mask, "are my testicles black?"
Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, "I don't know, Sir. I'm only here to wash your upper body and feet."
He struggles to ask again, "Nurse, please check for me. ,Are my testicles black?"
Concerned that he might elevate his blood pressure and heart rate from worrying about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and
pulls back the covers.
She raises his gown, holds his manhood in one hand and his testicles gently in the other.
She looks very closely and says, "There's nothing wrong with them, Sir. They look fine."
The man slowly pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her, and says very slowly,
"Thank you very much. That was wonderful.
Now listen very, very, closely:
"Are - my - test - results - back?"
Edited by dudleybloke on Friday 27th March 23:05
Handy guide on how to tell if you have been doing too much lockdown diy, sorting, gardening, tidying, sawing, choping, erecting, fettling or whittling.
Symptoms. Tired, hungry, thirsty, sunstroke, backache, craving the sofa, wine and Netflix/Prime?
Nope... Wrong, think again..
It's much more high tech than that!
Infact your smartphone is so smart it will let you know immediately, because it won't bloody unlock using the fingerprint thingy.
It will issues dire warnings to the effect that you only have a rapidly decreasing number of tries at pressing your digit against it's G-Spot before it's 'not in the mood anymore', and goes into full social isolating sulk mode, refusing to communicate with anything, let alone you, your nearest and dearest, or the next world.
Reason. Simple. You are a lily livered namby pamby office desk jockey with Fairy Liquid hands. Used to nothing more energetic or taxing than loading the printer with the pesky 80g A4 paper or surreptitiously picking your nose and scratching your arse hoping colleagues don't notice.
Consequently you have worn your girlie featherlight fingerprints away with exactly 2.4 days worth of unaccustomed digital activity and manual handling, rather than as is usual after a lifetime of hard physical graft.
Your hands (if they are anything like mine) now resemble a butchers chopping block that's been attacked with a wire brush and the rotating knives from Boudica's chariot.
Covered with a plethora of nicks, cuts, gouges, bruises, grazes, but sadly no discernible fingerprints. The tips of your fingers have the feel of an ancient egyptian cats mummified tongue, and are as rough as that rusty old coarse rasp Grandad left you.
You might, like me, skilled in the art of DIY first aid, also have the odd appendage wrapped in insulation, gaffer or sellotape to stem the stubborn flow of blood after the earlier relatively minor incident with the hacksaw/drill/hammer etc.
Clearly it's now time to commit that perfect but heinous crime you have been planning for years, you don't even need gloves anymore. Raid Tescos for toilet roll, baked beans and super duper hand cream? Be my guest, but please get me some as well and leave it 2m from my front door. Thanks.
Let's hope that thanks to social distancing you don't need to do anything requiring a tactile sensitive touch anytime soon. The tough navvies digits you now possess can't manage anything more gentle than rubbing down the skirting board without sandpaper. People aren't going to appreciate that.
At least I can use my easy to remember password or lock pattern shape thing to unlock my phone. Oh merde!
What pattern or password did I use 18 months ago when I set it up after my latest frivolous and unnecessary peer pressured vanity phone upgrade?
Lock pattern? Probably a V sign or somethings else unsubtle.
Password? It must be the same as the standard one I use for everything including Google and banking. 'PleaseHackMe1'
Well I can't go out and buy 'non essential' hand cream, so I'll just have to go back to basics and use the ancient out of date 'Lurpak' lurking at the back of the fridge.
I hope it spreads onto my hands straight from the fridge like Penelope Keith says it does in the old TV adverts...
I'm not putting it in the microwave again, it took ages to clean it after the last incident when in under three minutes I created a personal tub of heaving volcanic magma margarine for my burnt toast.
Symptoms. Tired, hungry, thirsty, sunstroke, backache, craving the sofa, wine and Netflix/Prime?
Nope... Wrong, think again..
It's much more high tech than that!
Infact your smartphone is so smart it will let you know immediately, because it won't bloody unlock using the fingerprint thingy.
It will issues dire warnings to the effect that you only have a rapidly decreasing number of tries at pressing your digit against it's G-Spot before it's 'not in the mood anymore', and goes into full social isolating sulk mode, refusing to communicate with anything, let alone you, your nearest and dearest, or the next world.
Reason. Simple. You are a lily livered namby pamby office desk jockey with Fairy Liquid hands. Used to nothing more energetic or taxing than loading the printer with the pesky 80g A4 paper or surreptitiously picking your nose and scratching your arse hoping colleagues don't notice.
Consequently you have worn your girlie featherlight fingerprints away with exactly 2.4 days worth of unaccustomed digital activity and manual handling, rather than as is usual after a lifetime of hard physical graft.
Your hands (if they are anything like mine) now resemble a butchers chopping block that's been attacked with a wire brush and the rotating knives from Boudica's chariot.
Covered with a plethora of nicks, cuts, gouges, bruises, grazes, but sadly no discernible fingerprints. The tips of your fingers have the feel of an ancient egyptian cats mummified tongue, and are as rough as that rusty old coarse rasp Grandad left you.
You might, like me, skilled in the art of DIY first aid, also have the odd appendage wrapped in insulation, gaffer or sellotape to stem the stubborn flow of blood after the earlier relatively minor incident with the hacksaw/drill/hammer etc.
Clearly it's now time to commit that perfect but heinous crime you have been planning for years, you don't even need gloves anymore. Raid Tescos for toilet roll, baked beans and super duper hand cream? Be my guest, but please get me some as well and leave it 2m from my front door. Thanks.
Let's hope that thanks to social distancing you don't need to do anything requiring a tactile sensitive touch anytime soon. The tough navvies digits you now possess can't manage anything more gentle than rubbing down the skirting board without sandpaper. People aren't going to appreciate that.
At least I can use my easy to remember password or lock pattern shape thing to unlock my phone. Oh merde!
What pattern or password did I use 18 months ago when I set it up after my latest frivolous and unnecessary peer pressured vanity phone upgrade?
Lock pattern? Probably a V sign or somethings else unsubtle.
Password? It must be the same as the standard one I use for everything including Google and banking. 'PleaseHackMe1'
Well I can't go out and buy 'non essential' hand cream, so I'll just have to go back to basics and use the ancient out of date 'Lurpak' lurking at the back of the fridge.
I hope it spreads onto my hands straight from the fridge like Penelope Keith says it does in the old TV adverts...
I'm not putting it in the microwave again, it took ages to clean it after the last incident when in under three minutes I created a personal tub of heaving volcanic magma margarine for my burnt toast.
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