Dagorhir style jokes anyone...

In the reign of Edward the first of England, English nobles were given titles and lands in far off Scotland to help subdue that wild land and bring it into the English realm.

One day Sir Roger of Doddington was riding through the borderlands with a troop of twenty of his finest men-at-arms heading for the lands that King Edward had awarded him.

Suddenly a lone scot stood upon a hillock before them. He was clad in a ragged shirt and bright green and black plaid great kilt. He yelled abusively in the ancient Gaelic tounge of the highlanders.

"What's that man saying?" Doddington asked his Sargeant-at-arms.

"Don't know sir, but my guess would be he's calling you the ugly backside of his hairy Arse. If you beg me pardon sir."

With that the Scot pulled up his kilt and dangled his manhood at the Englishmen.

"Send two of your best men up there Sargeant, and teach that scot some manners." Said Sir Roger.

Within moments two men at arms rode up the hill, swords held high. The scot ran down the backside of the hill with them chasing.

From behind the hill could be heard the clash of metal and yells and screams.

Sir Roger smirked "Good show, wot?"

But then the Scot reappeared at the top of the hill. Again he yelled and cursed in his native tounge and flashed his family jewels.

"What the devil?" Sir Roger was not smirking now. "Sargent send four men this time and bring that blighter to me in chains!"

"Yes sir." The sargent sent four more men at arms charging up the hill. Again the scot ran down the backside of the hill with the men at arms chasing him. Soon there was a great calmour of metal, hooves, horses snorting and men shouting.

Sir Rodger waited triumphantly for his prisoner but instead, it was the Scot that mounted the hill again. He said nothing, he simply turned his back, bent over and pulled his kilt over his backside and shook his hairy arse at the English.

"Send them all, all of you go and fetch me that man's head!" Sir Roger yelled.

The Sargent lowered his lance and charged, followed by his remaining troop of men-at-arms.

The scot ran down behind the hill. The sargeant sent some of his lads around both flanks of the hill while he and the others rode up and over.

The sounds of the fight was deafening. It lasted a long time and then there was quiet.

Sir Roger waited. Finally a lone figure appeared on the hill and walked down toward him. It was his faithful sargent-at-arms. He was missing shield, sword, and helmet. His face was bruised and bleeding. He walked up to his lord liege and shook his head.

"It was a trick m'lord." He said with difficulty "There was two of them."

Much lols were had.

I'm stealing this and posting it on the Fianna board.

That is sooo very funny....and true.

K-

It's an old SCA joke, and unfortunately the only one I can remember, but if I come across any others in my web wanderings, or such, I will post.

Konradr

Legate Quintus Marcus Castor has his three Roman Legions lined up along the clearing of the Vira river. One flank is anchored on the thick German forests and the other along the river. Across from them, like a dense block of humanity is the combined German tribes of the Aromanci, Varii and Quadromani.

The Romans stand grim faced and ready, Large scutum shields resting on the the ground with the tops coming to just below their chests, Some have Pilum ready to throw while others have already unsheathed their short, stabbing swords, the gladius.

The Germans are just as gaunt and determined. A motley mix of men in simple tunics or mail armor, with wild manes of fair colored hair, thick moustache's and beards. Some have spears ready, other's axes, but most carry their long Germanic slashing swords called a Spatha. The front rank has interlocked their small, round shields and stand ready.

All is silent.

Legate Castor speaks first, his voice booming over the silence.

"Rome does not seek bloodshed, but we are not afraid of it either. It is your choice, Peace or War?"

The old, gray bearded and wise chieftain of the Quadromani steps forward. He turns to face his countrymen and address's them.

"Why is it lads, that the men with the biggest shields always have the smallest swords?"

Laughter echoes throughtout the valley from rough, German throats.

And so, there was War.

Konradr

Aw man I'm a Roman Italian, lol. Oh well it was still funny.