Two Croaks but no Frogs

Two Quick Flash stories about croaks which have nothing to do with frogs, but a few snook in from the Boggy Swamps of imagination land. The stories are in MY Friction style. That means factual, but with a decent helping of fiction.
Both stories are about death, or 'croaking' ... the frogs therefore made a mistake, but they aren't very clever so I can forgive them and even afford them a moment of fame.
But anyway, I/we hope you enjoy the tales.
I've decided, as I now have a few specimens to enable me to easily become either a scientist and test legal highs on these frogs, or a dealer in frogs legs to Monica Galetti, so if you would like several (we're low on stock at the moment, we have 3) don't hesitate to send your payment with your order. Each leg (and we're including the front ones) is $120 each and we're doing a BTGTLOF deal (Buy Three Get The Last One Free).
Enjoy the stories, they're both basically true especially My Mother's Brain. The first one, set in Egypt could actually happen as the stage is set and one only has to know what some men are like.

I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!
I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn't see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don't really want to hear about it, it's depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a 'job' quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob 'job'! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a 'job' (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that's called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I'd be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we'd have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.
I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can't remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I've always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that's all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy 'you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel'. The bus station management weren't pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.
The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that's an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by ...