The frigate ploughed on steadily through the dark waters between the Scottish Isles under the resolute command of 2nd Lieutenant Cathy McVitie. In the captain's quarters behind the bridge, the faint glow of a ships lantern which had once belonged to admiral Nelson, cast a faint radiance that softly illuminated the square jaw and chiselled features of Captain Jack St John RN. Mainwaring put the port decanter down and relaxed back into his chair as the last of the officers left the mess.
"D'you know the Bishop of Winchester?" asked St John gruffly.
"Beg pardon, Sir?"
"The Bishop of Winchester?" repeated the Captain.
"Er...can't say that I do, Sir."
"Awfully decent feller," said St John, glaring pointedly at Mainwaring, "but he never passes the port either!"
"Sorry, Sir—miles away. Top you up?"
"Thank you, Number one," said St John, holding out his glass.
Only the faint creaking of the panelled, walnut fittings and the distant throb of the turbines broke the stillness of the silent wardroom as Mainwaring glanced furtively at the grey hairs that had invaded the Captain's beard of late. He sighed deeply and sipped his port. Suddenly he was jolted out of his reverie as the Captain’s face moved into sharper focus.

"W—what?" he asked.
"I said, damn fine filly McVitie," repeated St John. "First rate officer too."
"Ah," replied Mainwaring, collecting his wits. "Um—the men say she's not quite square rigged, Sir."
St John choked and a dribble of port ran down his immaculate shirt.
"What’s that you say?"
"Er, batting for the other side, if you take my meaning, Sir."
“No, not quite with you there, old man. Never seen her play cricket, strange notion, women playing cricket. Uckers now, different story, seen her keep her end up at uckers many a time.”
“Well,” said the increasingly frustrated Mainwaring. “She throws the dice with the left hand.”
“Good God, you don’t mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But surely not…”
“I’m afraid so, Sir.”
“Didn’t the MO pick it up when she signed on?”
“They don’t ask, Sir. Look, thing is—the men say she's having an affair with the Cook."
"Good heavens man, that doesn't make her a carpet muncher. Not unless the old food spoiling bastard has had a sex-change."

"Cholmondeley-Smythe* swallowed the anchor after he was caught gundecking if you recall, Sir. Christine Mountjoy is the new Cook."
"Is she by Jove! Bit of a rum cove from what I hear. Sacrifices capons at the full moon, or some such tomfoolery, doesn't she? Mind you, her Coq au Vin is first rate."
"She prefers the term 'Wicca', Sir," said Mainwaring. "And apparently it was a rubber chicken as she's a confirmed vegan."
"Dash it all, Mainwaring, what a confounded waste. The woman has nipples like organ stops. And they're both in each other's rigging, y' say?"
"So Seaman Staines says, Sir."
"How the devil does he know so much about it?"
"Caught them about to score off-side in the pantry, Sir."
"Did he, by Jove. No wonder Mountjoy is always hanging around the hawse pipe. Better send them both up to my Day Room," said St John. "Oh, and ask my steward to pop a couple of bottles of Bubbly into the ice bucket. Best to put the fillies at their ease before y' keel haul them, eh?"

The Captain turned to go, then suddenly stopped short. "Great Scott, I’ve just remembered. She borrowed my razor last week, said she’d left hers ashore. Never gave it a thought at the time—I suppose it must mean she's the butch one. We have a lot to learn about women Mainwaring, a lot to learn.”

Angus McLeod slammed down the telephone receiver with a muffled oath and immediately dialled another number. "I want tae speak tae Beauchamp," he said. "Who? Marjoribanks...there's dead fish wi' more sense than him—the useless bampot. Och aye? Ye do, do ye? Well, I'm no gan tae give it ye. Look, just get me Beauchamp. Och aye, she'll know who it is reet enough. Just tell her her old Uncle Angus has a wee bittee present for her."
Angus rocked back in his chair and chuckled softly as he waited to be connected.
"Beauchamp? Aye...aye...yes—I know aboot the Russians, but...I dinna think tae...Now, just a minute, wee lassie—we agreed we'd...What? No, of course I havna...d'ye think I'm soft i’ the heid? Och, the bampot would never think tae bug my…what? Beauchamp? Hello? The bloody Sassenach has hung up on me!"

He slammed down the 'phone, kicked off his seaboots and switched on the radio. '...Then things became more strange. A bizarre series of conflicting messages were exchanged with the MOD via a third party: Firstly, the MOD denied the Submarine was theirs—even though it had MOD identification on it. Secondly, they denied that the bright yellow vessel was missing—even though it was physically ashore on Islay. Then the MOD stated it was impossible to have found it where Angus McLeod claimed he had—implying the fisherman had stolen it. Finally the MOD claimed to have reported the loss to the Coastguard ten days earlier—but no local coastguard members have been able to confirm this.'
"Fuckin' bampots!" he exclaimed.
'...For ten days this state-of-the-art surveillance craft was floating about in a busy waterway, in perfect weather conditions, and the might of The Royal Navy was unable to find it. So far, the MOD has failed to make any contact with the fisherman, who they insist is holding them to ransom. The question of salvage has now arisen—'
"Aye," snorted Angus derisively as he switched the radio off, "and ye can keep askin' aboot it but ye’ll dinna get so much as a barnacle off the sub's hull until ye stump up the cash, ye murderin', Sassenach scumbags!"

As HMS Babylon continued to slice steadily through the dark waters between the Scottish Isles, Captain Jack St John vomited heavily into the washbasin in his bathroom. The faint glow from the shaving light reflected his chiselled features and square jaw in the mirror as he dabbed at a smudge of red lipstick with a flannel. "Bugger!" he muttered to his reflection. "So much for my plan to keel haul those two cunning minxes." Taking one last look at his handsome profile, he popped a mint into his mouth and staggered back into the Day Room.
"Better?" asked Chef Christine Mountjoy, as he dropped heavily onto the sofa beside her.
"Um...ye—" St John's reply was cut short as 2nd Lieutenant Cathy McVitie suddenly kissed him. He told himself for the umpteenth time that it had been a serious mistake to order up two bottles of Bubbly as Christine unbuttoned his shirt and drew it over his head. His eyes slowly focused on the low coffee table, strewn with playing cards and a large pair of navy blue, regulation knickers that apparently belonged to Chef Mountjoy—as she was clearly not wearing any. In fact she was not wearing much of anything, as her bra, skirt and jacket were draped over the back of a nearby chair. He risked a quick glance to his right. 'Nipples like organ stops,' he muttered to himself, as his gaze was irresistibly drawn to two enormous breasts straining against the thin T-shirt that barely covered her bottom.
Cathy edged nearer and kissed him again, her mobile tongue darting deep into his mouth.

"Tell me, Sir," she murmured as she continued to kiss the corners of his mouth, "do you have someone special in your life?"
"Well—um, yes, I do, as it happens."
"Anyone I know?"
"Well—um, me, actually."
"Yes, I can understand that," said Christine as she admired the captain's chiselled features in the soft, golden light cast by the table lamp that had once belonged to Lord Mountbatten.
"No," said Cathy, "I meant someone you love and cherish above all others."
"Still me, really."
"No, but surely there must be someone waiting for you ashore; someone really hot like me?" asked Christine.
"Oh, a filly! Good heavens no. Always been a sailor. Married to the sea—navigation charts are my mistress, possibly with an Ann Summers catalogue tucked discreetly between the sheets."
"No casual flings then?" asked Christine, running her fingers up the captain's manly thigh.
"Totty? If only! Never learned the ropes, d' y' see?"
"Well, you seem to be managing quite well with us," giggled Christine as she took off her T-shirt and slipped her hand into the captain's bulging trousers.
"Steady on!" gasped St John. "You'll wake the bosun's persuader!"
"Well...that's the general idea, Sir," Cathy murmured into his ear.

"Hang on a minute—I thought you two were—Bermuda rigged?"
"Sir?" asked Cathy, slowly unbuttoning her blouse.
"Um—sail on the opposite tack; throw the dice with the other hand, y'know?"
A hot flush spread over St John's chiselled features as Cathy freed her breasts and cupped his trembling hands around them. "I think you're on the wrong tack, Sir. It's the only way we can stop the men from making passes at as."
"So, y' not batting for the other side then?"
Christine started and stared at the captain. "Wh—what?"
"Er…on the opposite side?"
"How the hell do you know that?" she asked.
"Who told you?" demanded Cathy, pulling away from him in alarm.
"Mainwaring."
"The bastard!" the two women shouted together.
"So..." began Christine, seductively grinding her pelvis against the captain's muscular thigh. "Are you going to turn me in Sir, or...could we come to some arrangement?"
"You in?" asked Cathy. "You're not working for the Americans too, are you? You could have bloody told me!"

"What?" asked Christine, turning around so fast her nipples parted the captain's beard.
"You're working for the Americans?" she repeated.
"Yes, are you?" asked Cathy.
"I might be..."
"You bitch!"
"Eh?" asked St John.
"Actually I'm working for the Russians," said Christine. But the Americans think I'm working for them."
"Snap," said Cathy.
Christine's mouth opened and shut several times. Captain St John's mouth stayed open as his eyes glazed over. "Eh?" he repeated.
Cathy grinned. "I mean I am working for the Americans but the Russians think I'm working for them."
"Eh?" St John repeated.
"WILL YOU STOP SAYING THAT!" snapped Christine. "Look, I'll fuck you if you keep quiet. Well…I was going to fuck you anyway so I could blackmail you into letting me have the sub, but if would be a whole lot better if we both fucked you and shared the sub."
"Fine with me," said Cathy. "It's either him or Mainwaring and Mainwaring is batting for the other side."
"Er…I'm sorry," said St John, collecting his scattered wits and trying not to look at the erect nipples inches away from his face. "Did you just say that my Number one is working for the Russians?"
"No, Christine is working for the Russians—I'm working for the Americans."

"Good God, woman, "You don't mean..."
"Yes...
"But surely not..."
"I'm afraid so, Sir. Mainwaring is as gay as a boat."
"Bloody hell! No wonder the feller's always hanging around the junior ratings' latrines. But you two are—um..."
"Hot to trot, Sir? You bet!" Gushed Cathy, wriggling out of her khaki shorts and drawing the captain's hand down into her navy blue knickers.
"Ah, on an even keel, eh? Well, I must say, I've always admired the cut of your jib, McVitie," he said huskily. "Damn fine filly. First rate officer. Said as much to Mainwaring. Not that the pompous bum bandit—"
"—Shh," she whispered urgently. "Take my knickers off."
"But you're spies! I'd be consorting with the enemy, dammit!"
"We won't tell if you won't, Sir," murmured Cathy, as she squeezed the captain's fingers between her thighs.
"Ah! So that's what you used my razor—"
The rest of his sentence was cut short as Cathy crushed her lips against his.
"Hooray and up she rises, Number two!" said St John, flourishing Cathy's knickers triumphantly in the air.
"That's the ticket, sir," said Christine. "Let the hawser out."
"Do—ah...call me Jack," said St John as the two girls tugged his trousers off.

Funny Stories is packed full of some of the most original and hilarious short stories you'll find anywhere on the internet.

From scathingly witty parodies of the literature of the last century like The Evils of Coffee and How to detect Self Abuse in Young Girls, through stories about Wrapping presents with a Cat, Performance Art and the Perils of Public Toilets, to advice on how not to save your marriage and the dangers of Threesomes, Funny Stories contains some of the very best writing Utterpants has to offer.

With such a wide range of outstanding material, it is almost impossible to single out anything that, er—stands out, but our adult version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, as well as Jennifer Gardner's many stories, are all firm favourites with our readers.

Can there be a funnier title than If my Pussy smells like Tuna, why doesn't my Cat eat me out? We don't think so, nor have we read a better satire on the differences between men and women than The Penis Paragraphs - jointly written by Don Pitts and Jennifer Gardner.

You'll find all these stories and more listed in the section contents page (newest first).

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