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Pot Shot

A salesman in the Australian outback was driving from Cunnamulla to Dirranbandi in the late afternoon. He was being constantly troubled by kangaroos and emus running towards the headlights of his car. He stopped at a farmhouse and asked the farmer to put him up for the night.

"I suppose so. But there'd better be no hanky-panky with my beautiful nineteen-year-old daughter."

"Oh, gosh no. I'm a happily married man."

When they went inside the farmer's wife was cooking dinner. Their daughter was setting the table. She was indeed very beautiful. They turned in early, the farmer showing the salesman to his room.

During the night the farmer woke to hear a peculiar noise. He got out of bed and picked up the loaded shotgun standing beside the door. In the passage he could see a light under his daughter's bedroom door. He flung open the door just in time to catch the rep swinging one leg out of his daughter's bed. He up with the shotgun and let him have the left barrel—right through the stalk.

His victim let out an agonised scream and ran out of the house to his car. He drove the hundred kilometres to Dirranbandi with one hand, clinging to his injured member with the other. Around 3 am he knocked up the local GP who examined the affected part for a time in silence. Then he said:

"You have made a mess of it, haven't you? I'm afraid there's not much I can do for you, but I can put you onto a good man down in Brisbane."

"Is he a good specialist, doctor?"

"Well, he's not really a specialist. In fact he's not a doctor at all. He's a piccolo player, but he'll be able to show you which holes to put your fingers over when you want to take a leak."

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