The seahorse leapt
up
from the
toilet bowl
And
nibbled
the
pork sausage
but
what a
grin
Monday, November 26, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
WOT THE FREDDY: DIMINISHING ASSETS
FROM PUB SPLASHER'S WEEKLY:
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
New research carried out by the Fecundatory Futures Movement has revealed that, as feared, men's testicles are shrinking at an alarming rate. The study, entitled The Lost Testicle In The Modern Era, measured over two million testicles worldwide. It finds that the average size of testicles in males is 7.5mm in diameter LESS than the average size of testicles of shrimp farmers in Wisconsin and potato growers in Patagonia.
Scientists predict that at the current rate of shrinkage, by 2021 testicles may disappear altogether. World leaders will be gathering at an extraordinary meeting of the Intergovernmental Welfare For Gonads Forum in Lucerne in December to discuss what can be done to halt the deflationary tendencies of the appendages sometimes referred to as "love sacs" or "balls" in more polite circles, and "bollocks" and "nuts" in less polite circles.
Males are being advised that if they are having trouble finding their testicles, they should consult their doctor and think about purchasing a bicycle pump which has been proven in laboratory conditions to temporarily halt the decline of testicular recidivism as the condition has been labelled by leading testes scientist Igor Jerkmybollokov. Yesterday, Mr Jerkmybollokov was unavailable for interview, having been delayed at Speedo's Bicycle Shop attempting to buy the most economically efficient and aesthetically pleasing bicycle pump.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
HAPPIER THAT WHEY
WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I do believe it's time to cut the cord.
HOLMES: Watson, if it's about those chocolate hobnobs that you polished off last night, it's OK. Really.
WATSON: No, Holmes, you've got the wrong end of the thermometer. It's time for me to leave.
HOLMES: And you want me to approve it?
WATSON: Not exactly. I just thought...
HOLMES: That I might persuade you to stay? My dear batty quacky, man is born with freewill and the ability to make his own decisions. If you want to leave, you must have a perfectly good reason for doing so. I shall not intervene in your yearnings.
WATSON: So that's it, is it? Fifteen years of unwavering devotion and all I get is a footnote about "yearnings".
HOLMES: My dear boy, what more do you want? A touching speech that tugs at the heart strings of every sensitive maid in Old Albion? A notice in the Times about your impending departure and a few lines of deep gratitude for all you have done to assist the great Sherlock Holmes on his travels? A commemorative fruit cake with the words "So long, Watty, old chum" emblazoned on it? A limited edition mug with your mug on it displaying that hallmark puzzled yet gormless expression? A telegram from the Queen requesting the pleasure of your company for the awarding of the CBE? What, pray, do you want?
WATSON: Nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all. But when it all goes, pardon my French, boobies up and there's no one to deal with your vagaries and penchants and you fail to solve a single crime, even of the most petty nature such as which dog piddled on which lamppost in which street, I hope you will regret your ill-conceived words. Because Holmes, and don't let me mince my pies here, you are NOTHING without me. And you just can't bear to admit it. Sir, you are below a sub-atomic species from the green lagoon. Contemptible would be too high an accolade for your sneering, petty, anal-repressive attentive misdemeanour. What an uttter plank you are! Goodbye.
HOLMES: Watson... Oh, for pity's sake. Must everything be a competition? Must I pretend to be that which I am not for the sake of domestic harmony? Must inadequacies in one's near and dear be brushed under the carpet and left to fester? Must sheer genius be misinterpreted as arrogance and abject selfishness? How long must I bear the burden of being superior and always right? I am reminded of my dear friend Baden-Powell's words: "We never fail when we try to do our duty, we always fail when we neglect to do it." I have tried to do my duty to Watson, God knows I've tried. But nothing lasts forever. And frankly, I think I've been holding him back. There is a darkness in his soul that needs to be let out. He needs to live more, get laid, get drunk, make mistakes, get hurt, wallow in humanity's mud. I've protected him for long enough. True, he might get seriously burnt by life's woes, he might even kick the bucket, but no longer will he be gaining sustenance from my shadow. It's for the best. It might affect revenue from the books and serial rights, but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Can there be any greater sacrifice than letting your closest companion free to face certain oblivion, I mean to ascertain why we are living? It's got to be done. Besides, he'll turn into a raving lunatic if he stays here much longer. On the other hand, they'll be no one to whip at croquet or chess or to tell me just how great I really am... Oh, all right. He stays. Happy now?
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: I do believe it's time to cut the cord.
HOLMES: Watson, if it's about those chocolate hobnobs that you polished off last night, it's OK. Really.
WATSON: No, Holmes, you've got the wrong end of the thermometer. It's time for me to leave.
HOLMES: And you want me to approve it?
WATSON: Not exactly. I just thought...
HOLMES: That I might persuade you to stay? My dear batty quacky, man is born with freewill and the ability to make his own decisions. If you want to leave, you must have a perfectly good reason for doing so. I shall not intervene in your yearnings.
WATSON: So that's it, is it? Fifteen years of unwavering devotion and all I get is a footnote about "yearnings".
HOLMES: My dear boy, what more do you want? A touching speech that tugs at the heart strings of every sensitive maid in Old Albion? A notice in the Times about your impending departure and a few lines of deep gratitude for all you have done to assist the great Sherlock Holmes on his travels? A commemorative fruit cake with the words "So long, Watty, old chum" emblazoned on it? A limited edition mug with your mug on it displaying that hallmark puzzled yet gormless expression? A telegram from the Queen requesting the pleasure of your company for the awarding of the CBE? What, pray, do you want?
WATSON: Nothing, Holmes. Nothing at all. But when it all goes, pardon my French, boobies up and there's no one to deal with your vagaries and penchants and you fail to solve a single crime, even of the most petty nature such as which dog piddled on which lamppost in which street, I hope you will regret your ill-conceived words. Because Holmes, and don't let me mince my pies here, you are NOTHING without me. And you just can't bear to admit it. Sir, you are below a sub-atomic species from the green lagoon. Contemptible would be too high an accolade for your sneering, petty, anal-repressive attentive misdemeanour. What an uttter plank you are! Goodbye.
HOLMES: Watson... Oh, for pity's sake. Must everything be a competition? Must I pretend to be that which I am not for the sake of domestic harmony? Must inadequacies in one's near and dear be brushed under the carpet and left to fester? Must sheer genius be misinterpreted as arrogance and abject selfishness? How long must I bear the burden of being superior and always right? I am reminded of my dear friend Baden-Powell's words: "We never fail when we try to do our duty, we always fail when we neglect to do it." I have tried to do my duty to Watson, God knows I've tried. But nothing lasts forever. And frankly, I think I've been holding him back. There is a darkness in his soul that needs to be let out. He needs to live more, get laid, get drunk, make mistakes, get hurt, wallow in humanity's mud. I've protected him for long enough. True, he might get seriously burnt by life's woes, he might even kick the bucket, but no longer will he be gaining sustenance from my shadow. It's for the best. It might affect revenue from the books and serial rights, but it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Can there be any greater sacrifice than letting your closest companion free to face certain oblivion, I mean to ascertain why we are living? It's got to be done. Besides, he'll turn into a raving lunatic if he stays here much longer. On the other hand, they'll be no one to whip at croquet or chess or to tell me just how great I really am... Oh, all right. He stays. Happy now?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
REDRESSING SALIENT POINTS & PIE HOLES
FROM THE AULD BUFF IN RESPONSE TO G-FORCE'S HEINOUS LETTER:
Dear G-Hole, I’d like to address the salient points of your recent communiqué:
“You've always been a true friend to me…”
Actually, I’ve ratted you out to the Thought Police on more than one occasion, and I’ve sent newspaper clippings of all your public disgraces to your mother, which probably explains why you’ve been disowned. Just be thankful that I didn’t deposit a Coke bottle up your corn hole that time you passed out in my living room, in a gigantic puddle of your own aromatic chuck-up.
“… and you’ve always said you'd take a bullet for me.”
Dream on, you reprobate. I said I’d LOAN you a bullet, and I'd be happy to get back the spent cartridge.
“A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that.”
I can only assume this is an allusion to my alleged skills as a professional scribbler. If it’s an allusion to backdoor boogie, you can go and shag yourself with a Howizter, you degenerate, steaming pile of loose moose flop.
“And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways.”
Surely the understatement of the Millennium. By comparison, that Biblical sod Job was on a holiday to Brighton.
“So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company.”
Don’t tell me you’ve taken a hit of acid? You’re dangerous enough when sober. As for fooking up my marriage, how could it possibly have been more fooked up than it was, long before I had the misfortune to have met you? And for your information, I was NOT fired from the production company, I OWNED the fooking production company. I resigned, in protest, because of the abominable mis-management and wayward hoeing.
“Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.”
Au contraire, melon balls, I knew you were there all along, and took great delight in the knowledge that your genitals had turned to icicles. Why do you think I kept raiding the fridge every five minutes?
“If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.”
Another sterling example of the punishment fitting the crime. As for the defunct drifter, I have forwarded a copy of your confession to the FBI, Einstein.
“O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everything that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone.”
Me, feel sorry for you? It is to laugh. If you like, I’ll Fed-Ex that bullet to you. Just say the word. And as for the alleged charges to my bank account, from what I still remember of Math 101, something from nothing still equals nothing, putz face.
“And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.”
I would no more initiate a search for your sorry ass than I would hire Sherlock Holmes to track down one of my spent turds. But, if you so much as look cross-eyed at that puppy, I’ll have the Pinkertons on your trail so fast it’ll make your MicroSoft Freddy spin like a fookin’ dreedle.
“Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.”
Actually, you’ve done me a favor (at long last). I’ve been trying to dump those tartlettes for ages. I only hope they believed you.
“So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.”
You can’t threaten a drowning man with rumors of an impending flood, you plank. If I were you, I’d worry about the shit tsunami coming YOUR way.
“PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?”
True. You have far exceeded my expectorations, you flaming berk. Zut alors! Once again, I, the auld Buff have proven that in a contest between intellectual Titans and poorly educated pissants, the pissants go tits up every time. Better luck next time, Pie Hole! Ta-ra, jerk-berk!
Dear G-Hole, I’d like to address the salient points of your recent communiqué:
“You've always been a true friend to me…”
Actually, I’ve ratted you out to the Thought Police on more than one occasion, and I’ve sent newspaper clippings of all your public disgraces to your mother, which probably explains why you’ve been disowned. Just be thankful that I didn’t deposit a Coke bottle up your corn hole that time you passed out in my living room, in a gigantic puddle of your own aromatic chuck-up.
“… and you’ve always said you'd take a bullet for me.”
Dream on, you reprobate. I said I’d LOAN you a bullet, and I'd be happy to get back the spent cartridge.
“A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that.”
I can only assume this is an allusion to my alleged skills as a professional scribbler. If it’s an allusion to backdoor boogie, you can go and shag yourself with a Howizter, you degenerate, steaming pile of loose moose flop.
“And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways.”
Surely the understatement of the Millennium. By comparison, that Biblical sod Job was on a holiday to Brighton.
“So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company.”
Don’t tell me you’ve taken a hit of acid? You’re dangerous enough when sober. As for fooking up my marriage, how could it possibly have been more fooked up than it was, long before I had the misfortune to have met you? And for your information, I was NOT fired from the production company, I OWNED the fooking production company. I resigned, in protest, because of the abominable mis-management and wayward hoeing.
“Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.”
Au contraire, melon balls, I knew you were there all along, and took great delight in the knowledge that your genitals had turned to icicles. Why do you think I kept raiding the fridge every five minutes?
“If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.”
Another sterling example of the punishment fitting the crime. As for the defunct drifter, I have forwarded a copy of your confession to the FBI, Einstein.
“O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everything that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone.”
Me, feel sorry for you? It is to laugh. If you like, I’ll Fed-Ex that bullet to you. Just say the word. And as for the alleged charges to my bank account, from what I still remember of Math 101, something from nothing still equals nothing, putz face.
“And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.”
I would no more initiate a search for your sorry ass than I would hire Sherlock Holmes to track down one of my spent turds. But, if you so much as look cross-eyed at that puppy, I’ll have the Pinkertons on your trail so fast it’ll make your MicroSoft Freddy spin like a fookin’ dreedle.
“Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.”
Actually, you’ve done me a favor (at long last). I’ve been trying to dump those tartlettes for ages. I only hope they believed you.
“So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.”
You can’t threaten a drowning man with rumors of an impending flood, you plank. If I were you, I’d worry about the shit tsunami coming YOUR way.
“PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?”
True. You have far exceeded my expectorations, you flaming berk. Zut alors! Once again, I, the auld Buff have proven that in a contest between intellectual Titans and poorly educated pissants, the pissants go tits up every time. Better luck next time, Pie Hole! Ta-ra, jerk-berk!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
MUMMY OF TUTANKHAMEN SPEAKS OUT
I just want him back. I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have shouted at him... I fooked up, OK? I said I'd kicked the habit but I lied. What more can I say? I'm really sorry, son. I swear, as Pharaoh Ramses II is my witness, that I will never do coke again. Please, PLEASE come back. Without you, your mummy's nuthin'. The moment you walk in that door, I'm in rehab. Deffo. Love you, Tootie poos.
G-FORCE VENDETTA PART 1
BUFFALO: At 2 AM, G-Force used his one and only phone call to let me know he’s in jail. Driving with a suspended license. Third offense. What should he do? After careful thought, I advised him to gently extract his cranial appendage from his rectal orifice. Or, just hang himself. He promised to think about it. And then he wrote this note:
"Dear Buff,
You've always been a true friend to me. And you've always said you'd take a bullet for me. A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that. And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways. So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company. Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.
If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.
O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everthing that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone. Cos with any luck, the bank WILL return all your funds and the credit card bangers won't charge you any interest on the few transactions that came to pass so that I could scoot.
And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.
Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.
So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.
G-Force
PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?
******
Well, folks, there is a moral in there, but I'm Freddied if I know what it is. What does the G stand for? Well, what do you think?!
"Dear Buff,
You've always been a true friend to me. And you've always said you'd take a bullet for me. A monster banger up the carpal tunnel too. And I respect that. And I know that over the years I have given you mucho shito with my wikkid ways. So I thought you should know, in case the tab doesn't work, compadre, that it was I that fooked up your marriage and got your sad ass fired from the production company. Indeed, if you hadn't been so fixated on watching Blazing Saddles YET AGAIN on TCM that hoary night in November, you woulda noticed me shivering like a skinned coyote behind your refrigerator with frozen balls the size of melons.
If it's any consolation, dude, balling your wife was about as exciting as shooting that drifter who tried to steal my chain saw. Which I also have told nobody about till now, bud.
O what the fook, dude. Let's face it. I'm a bad ass mother follicker and I deserve everthing that's coming my way. And I don't want you feeling sorry for me, Buff, after I'm gone. Cos with any luck, the bank WILL return all your funds and the credit card bangers won't charge you any interest on the few transactions that came to pass so that I could scoot.
And don't try and find me, dude, cos if anything happens to me, the puppy gets it. I think you know what I'm saying.
Oh, and one more thing - Clare, the chick you were doing until that unfortunate accident with the pitch fork - I porked her too. And Chrissy and Desiree and just about every other woman that ever showed you as much as a sleeve of their affection. And after what I told them, I doubt if you'll be doing any bone jumping for a VERY LONG TIME.
So, so long, loser. You deserve all the shit that's floating slowly your way. And believe me, dude, there is a LOT of it in the pipeline.
G-Force
PS Not quite the boob you thought, huh, sucker?
******
Well, folks, there is a moral in there, but I'm Freddied if I know what it is. What does the G stand for? Well, what do you think?!
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