I am really looking forward to receiving a ceremonial paperweight from my employer in three years time. (Shit, twenty-two years I've been here. How did that happen?)
There is only one rubber duck, and it teleports itself unseen from one bathtub to the next. Anywhere more than one rubber duck is seen at once, mirrors have been employed.
There is no way I'd forget to put my shirt in the car to change into when I get to work, so I wouldn't spend the rest of the day in a running vest. My work colleagues wouldn't take the piss either.
BBC Radio 3 can be picked up in Slovenia by filling a large pair of women's tights with the third/fourth page of the Primorske Novice (only this newspaper will do), and rotating it around an oak staff at four revolutions per minute.
In Cardiff, ferocious pensioners terrorise the streets, tearing down entire buildings in their eagerness to get at the fibre glass insulation inside. They then sell this to Bolivian merchants, who ship it home on one extremely well trained and muscular carrier pigeon.
I recently met and fell in love with the smallest bat in the world at a late night roller disco. He was performing as a bass guitarist in the complementary cabaret act as part of a progressive jazz combo called Whoops, Butterfingers. Sadly, we can never have children because he is addicted to crabsticks and too much salty food diminishes semen and eyesight.