Monday, February 12, 2007


WATSON: I say, Holmes.

HOLMES: Yes, Watson?

WATSON: It says here in the Times that that harlot Anna Nicole Smith has passed away.

HOLMES: Language, old chap, please.

WATSON: Sorry, Holmes. It's just it made my blood boil the way she married that silly old fogie and diddled him out of his money.

HOLMES: Don't believe everything you read, old chum. I have it on good authority that he died happily and peacefully with a long, stiff protrusion to boot.

WATSON: Holmes! I'm shocked.

HOLMES: Oh, come now, Watty Botty, we're both men of the world here. You didn't think that your intrepid crime cracker was blissfully unaware of the mores of his underlings, did you?

WATSON: No, of course, not, it's just...

HOLMES: You're not used to me referring to the male member.

WATSON: Quite.

HOLMES: I hardly think protrusion qualifies as talking smutty, do you?

WATSON: Well, no, but but but...

HOLMES: Watson, old bean, I have known pleasures other than nabbing the latest murderer to cause mayhem in Berkeley Square, you know.

WATSON: Oh, dear. Listen to us. Talking tittle tattle like a pair of demented bell ringers.

HOLMES: Or should that be ball ringers?

WATSON: Oh, my Godddddd!

HOLMES: Oh, spare me the feigned outrage, Watson. I saw you chuckle.

WATSON: I chortled against my better judgement, Holmes.

HOLMES: It reminds me of the notorious case of Molly Bloomerless and her insatiable appetite for aristocratic patronage, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, really, Holmes! Must we remember that awful lady of the night?

HOLMES: It has some bearing on the present taste of elderly gents for pretty young things today, does it not?

WATSON: Well...

HOLMES: And Molly would have got clean away with the loot had it not been for the deflating boobsters, remember?

WATSON: An ingenious plan, to fill her ample bosom with thousands of pounds of hard-earnt aristocratic lucre. Only you could have deduced where she'd hidden it.

HOLMES: Indeed. And it was I who recovered the notes from that veritable pouch too.

WATSON: Masterfully done too.

HOLMES: But I shan't deny, my dear quack, that I was stirred by that waif's acquired assets.

WATSON: Naturally.

HOLMES: Which only proves one thing.

WATSON: Which is?

HOLMES: That we are all vulnerable to the attentions of a voracious femme. So we must be on our guard and not think too unkindly or smirk too loudly at the misfortunes that befall silly old duffers who should know better. 'Twas always thus and 'twill always be.

WATSON: Dash it, Holmes, if I'm not more confused than ever. Next you'll be telling me you find that damnable floozie Paris Hilton rather fanciful.

HOLMES: She is not without her merits, Watson, but can't sing for a toffee and has all the grace of a rat on arsenic.

WATSON: I'll take that as a no then.

HOLMES: I think you shall. No, Watson, when it comes to the fairer sex, I can see no more wonderful creature than Helen Mirren. Alas, far too glamorous to bother herself with little old me.

WATSON: 'Fraid so, Holmes. But one can harbour one's dreams what what what.

HOLMES: In fact, there are those who claim I turned to crime solving because of my disastrous forays into romance. Well, perhaps they're right. Perhaps my love for Aggie was doomed from the off.

WATSON: Aggie?

HOLMES: Not now, Watson. The demons are upon me.

WATSON: Oh, right. Well, I er... I'll just go and give Toby a trot round the block.

HOLMES: If you wouldn't mind.

WATSON: Yes. Um... see you later then.

HOLMES: If only I hadn't been so eager to get to second base...


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