There Was A Young Man From Peru...

There Was A Young Man From Peru
by Marcel DeClercq

There was a young man from Peru
Who had nothing whatever to do
So he flew in the garret
And buggered the parrot
And sent the result to the zoo.


Winner of the Peruvian Golden Potty Award For Outstanding Fripperology, There Was A Young Man From Peru was perceived in desperation and became an instant hit with disaffected yoot worldwide, spawning thousands of copycat verses too lood to mention.  All proceeds are donated to the Save The Parrot From Self-Immolation Fund.  To donate, all you have to do is download the following book...






Arf, arf!

EXPLOSIVE DREAMS: FROM THE SECRET DIARY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

Sherlock writes:
It was a Monday morning, after the night before the night before that.  Watson was in good form, as usual, having sat too close to the fire and burned his backside once more. That man gets through more panties than a hoor in Limehouse.  Anyhoo, I was plagued by a recurring dream about digging holes.  Let them dig holes, Hudders said. But what was the question? I really hadn't the foggiest.  And then some street urchin would be given a spade and told to dig, deeper and deeper and deeper until the poor creature exploded, along with the hole and a trillion grains of earth would pelt the nearest robin, which in turn exploded with a tweet, but not before a deafening trill was unleashed over Baker Street.  And from the shadows emerged Moriarty in black bra and polo shorts.  He told me to dig a hole and so I did, the grimiest, slimiest, squidgiest hole anyone ever did dig, and I too exploded into a trillion zillion atoms which hurtled into a universe no larger than one of Toby's prize winning turds and I thought to myself... wake up, you're on fire!  And sure enough, smoke and flames were billowing from my nether regions and the stench of burnt tobacco and matches hung in the air.  The alarm was raised.  Watson and Hudders threw themselves at my door but budge it would not.  Not to put too fine a point on it, I thought I was toast.  I looked on in terror as the flames engulfed my pubic hair.  "Not my Freddy!" I yelled.  "Anything but my Freddy!"  And at the very moment when Freddy seemed all but lost, Watson and Hudders burst in with buckets of water which quickly doused the flames and Freddy was saved!  Singed but not stirred, he lived to rise another day.  I was mightily relieved, Watson was ecstatic, Hudders was pensive.  "Good grief, Holmes," said Watson, "that was a close one for Freddy, what, what, what!"  "Indeed it was, Watters," said I.  "'I think you'll find, Mr Holmes," said Hudders, "that my first aid training is going to come in very handy here."  Was it a dream?  Was it a fantasy?  Was it elementary?  I shall never know, but now when Hudders brings me my Horlicks afore slumbers, she winks at me ever so gently and says, "Let them dig holes." 

Currently reading...

MORE SHERLOCK, WHAT WHAT WHAT: THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED REAR

It was a cold, autumnal Sunday morning. Holmes sat exasperated. Boredom was his want. The doorbell rang and Hudders escorted in a most ungainly gentlemen who lilted to one side. Holmes immediately pricked up his ears and gestured to the poor fellow to sit down. The gent politely declined, preferring to stand. When Holmes enquired why, he dropped his trousers, turned round and afforded us a most unsavoury sight of his bottom, twisted beyond all anatomical recognition. The poor chap appeared to have two rectums, what, what, what, and festering spots galore. Holmes reacted in a frightfully unhelpful fashion by demanding the man leave forthwith. Several scones and cups of tea later, Holmes and I entertained the following exchange:

“I say, Holmes,” said I, “that was a damn awful way to treat that wretch, what, what, what.”

“Alimentary, my dear Watson,” said he, “I feared I was about to deposit a truly yummy breakfast on our brand-new Axminster. Hudders would have hit the roof, so I had to take extreme measures.”

“Ah, I see,” said I, “then it wasn’t because of any revulsion you felt for this mangled chap?”

“On the contrary, old boy,” said he, “I have nothing but admiration for the dignified way in which this freak presented himself in such trying circumstances.”

“More importantly,” said I, “are you inclined to help the poor chap out of his predicament?”

There was a long pause as Holmes struggled with his demons, or pondered what to do with Toby, who was once again tugging on his right slipper, a practice Holmes could not abide.

“Watson,” said he, “I fear to solve this case we must descend lower into the murky depths than we’ve ever done before. We must, in the modern vernacular, get our hands dirty. I have no doubt that the fiend Moriarty is behind this, if you get my drift. But no matter, we must get to the bottom of this, for the sake of this bum, don’t you know!”

“Oh, really, Holmes!” said I, “how can you joke at a time like this? This man’s future ablutions depend upon you.”

“Watson,” said he, “I am not a surgeon. I can find the culprit, but I can’t reconfigure his waste disposal facilities. I fear he is twisted for life.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,” said I. “Hudders! Hudders! The man who just left with his trousers around his ankles…”

“The man with the twisted…” said she.

“The very one. Quick. Time is of the essence.”

But Hudders was too late. The man was found in the early hours of the next morning in a ditch by King’s Cross railway station, in a highly distressed state, the victim of excessive wind. On this occasion, Holmes was proven wrong. It was not the dastardly Moriarty behind the perverted prank but none other than the Serial Twister of Twickenham, who obtained many a jolly from rearranging the anatomical parts of 73 victims before LaStrade cornered him outside a public house in Limehouse as he was about to reverse an unsuspecting wenche’s front and back parts. Holmes never forgave himself for allowing his hatred of Moriarty to cloud his deductive powers which prevented him from cracking the case earlier. No more was said of this and Toby was given his own set of slippers to tug and chew to his heart’s content.

BOOKS SHERLOCK HOLMES LIKES:
 


Un-furr-toon-ate-lee, some puppies have already copped it.  To prevent more canine demise, get da book RIGHT NOW, pliz.
 
Arf, arf!

WE WANT THE OCTOPIDDLES!!!

Soaring demand for The Octopiddles has meant that the Peeps are begging, nay, pleading even, with da Buff and Birdy for more Octopiddles.  It would appear that the appetite for Doggy Brill is unquenchable, wot wot wot.  You want Doggy Brill? You got it.  AND don't furr get to tell yer friends bout da book, righty?

Doggy Brill
by Stewart Sumner

Half-munched cakes
and plates of
silence
on the
sidewalk
staring

Glaring
uncomfortably
at
trees and
things
postcards
on the
ledge
staring

Wag
your tale
as well
you must
be
weeping
not
staring

In a
trance
on a
barge
to
Doggy Brill
All
aboard
arf, arf!

NED FOOKS UP

Pleased with what he's written, finishing his screenplay at 3 AM, having not slept for two days, Ned clicks on PRINT, but nothing happens. He sees the red LED on the printer blinking. He reaches for the RESET button, but instead knocks over a cup of coffee that spreads rapidly under the paper tray.


Ned leaps out of his chair, grabbing a wad of Puffs to soak up the coffee, but in doing so knocks over a water bottle that spills onto a stack of manuscripts lying on the floor, that were destined for the post office. He realizes that now he will miss all the deadlines for the screenplay competitions, as he's almost out of paper and Staples doesn't open for another 7 hours.

Cursing, he starts sopping up the coffee spill, splashing coffee onto the paper in the printer tray. Cursing vehemently now, he flings the coffee-soaked wad of tissues against the wall, ruining a brand-new calendar.

The coffee spill has now spread all the way under the printer. Fearing electrocution, Ned unplugs the printer, which causes his computer to crash. He realizes that he hasn't saved his work in over six hours.

"Sonofamotherfookingpissant!" he roars, kicking the trash can, which falls over, spilling its contents. In the beer-soaked trash, he sees an overdue bill and hones in on the words "A $35 fee will be charged for late payments." Ned realizes he's forgotten to pay his mother's electric bill.

"Shitpissfook****hoor!!" he screams, slamming his fist into the door, awakening his roommate who is recovering from a double hernia operation. Startled, the invalid falls out of bed, dislodging his catheter. He screams in agony, scaring the shit out of Ned, who is busy hopping from the pain of the now bleeding knuckles on his right hand.

Meanwhile, the coffee has flowed over the edge of Ned's worktable, spilling onto a power-strip, short-circuiting it. All the lights go out. Mindful of his roommate's continued screams, Ned rushes to his aid, in the dark, and trips over a bowling ball lying in the hallway.

Ned falls on his face, the bowling ball smacking him in the groin, causing him to go cross-eyed with pain as he gasps for air. At that moment, his telephone rings.

Ned drags himself to his feet, reeling with pain, disoriented in the dark. He stubs his toe on the bowling ball.

"Syphylliticafterbirthofagonarrheariddenhoorcow!!!" he screams. Furious, he kicks the bowling ball, breaking three toes, falling to the floor, with pain so intense he vomits all over himself.

Again dragging himself to his feet, Ned slips in his own vomit and falls on his back, on top of the bowling ball, fracturing three vetebrae. Adrenalin kicks in.

Ned leaps to his feet, grabs the phone, shouts "WHAT DA FOOK DO YOU WANT??" and hears his aged mother on the line, wheezing... "I... I... just wanted to know if your power is out, dear... ours is out here."

Ned rips the telephone from the wall and hurls it out the window. It falls on Mr. Kinderman, his 72 year old neighbor, who is out walking his dog, an asthmatic Cockapoodle named "Farley". Kinderman is knocked unconcious and falls into a cactus bed. Farley rushes to his aid, lapping Kinderman's bleeding scalp, the end result of being smacked in the head by Ned's telephone, and being impaled by a Barrel cactus.

Oblivious to the mayhem he has caused, Ned gropes around in the dark for a flashlight. He finds one, but the batteries are dead.

"Fook me," he murmurs, groping in the dark for a wall, to steady himself.

In the adjoining bedroom, his Indian roommate, Rigveda, is moaning in agony. His bloody cathether has leaked urine all over the carpet. The smell of vomit makes him nauseous. He upchucks on the carpet.

Outside, a burglar has found the unconscious Mr. Kinderman lying in the cactus bed. He ransacks Kinderman's pockets and steals his wallet. Finding Kinderman's cellphone, he calls 911 to summon the paramedics before fleeing the scene. Feeling sorry for poor Farley, he reaches down to pat him. Farley bites him.

Furious, the burglar flings Farley through Ned's open bedroom window. The yelping dog scares the bejesus out of Ned, who imagines that he's being attacked by a rabid wolverine. He freezes like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.

The lights come back on. Ned sees Farley lapping up a puddle of vomit, which causes him to throw up again. Farley seems to think this is for his benefit and wags his tail in appreciation.

Ned hears something behind him. He turns and sees Rigveda crawling toward him, his face contorted with pain, his torso soaked in blood, reeking of vomit and urine.
Ned suffers a brain embolism and keels over, dead. Farley licks his face in sympathy. The power goes off again.

Film at eleven!



AND DON'T FURRGET TO BUY DA BOOK:

SHORT POETRY IN BRIEF

A Propinquitous Retrospective Vision Of The Octopiddles Expired

short poetry in brief... all hail the Octopiddles!

Er, buy this book on Kindle or the puppy gets it. REALLY gets it, geddit!

LESS AND MORE AND MORE

BUFFALO WROTE BUT DA UDDER DAY...

I like myself LESS, I like you LESS, I like this world LESS, I like drinking LESS, I like comments LESS, I like Obama LESS, I like legs LESS, I like wood LESS, I like pies LESS, I like ochre LESS, I like strangers LESS, I like cupcakes LESS, I like thinking LESS, I like Eliot LESS, I like Danton LESS, I like sincerity LESS, I like desire LESS, I like longing LESS, I like belonging LESS, I like compromise LESS, I like letters LESS, I like copies LESS, I like deadlines LESS, I like confessions LESS, I like confusion LESS, I like memories LESS, I like contact LESS, I like the truth LESS,  I like the sky LESS, I like onions LESS, I like esteem LESS, I like values LESS, I like deals LESS, I like wisdom LESS, I like opinions LESS, I like moderation LESS, I like success LESS, I like mystery LESS, I like praise LESS, I like cars LESS, I like toys LESS, I like chaos LESS, I like feelings LESS, I like drains LESS, I like endings LESS, I like space LESS, I like sound LESS, I like contemplation LESS, but what I DO like is KISSING MORE and MORE in the MOST UNLIKELY PLACES.

Arf, arf!



Bird wrote "Read Middlemarch, ya jerk-berk! Nuff said!"

SLIGHT SLUT

SLIGHT SLUT

I'm a slight slut
I wink my way
through life

When times are hard
and the weather's bad
I lift my skirt
and feel so good
it almost hurts
When the bow anchor
rides on through

I'm a slight slut
I go to bed
in my socks

Well... why not?

TALES OF THE ATOMIC AGE

Tales of the Atomic Age

by Buffters


In July of 1945, near Los Alamos, New Mexico, there existed a secret government research facility where the best minds in Physics had been assembled in order to beat Hitler to the punch, by engineering the first atomic bomb. On the morning of July 16th, the following incident occurred at this facility.

Neils Boorish, a young scientist, had been working all night at his drafting table to finish a design for a device that would be critical for the mass production of Uranium-238 and Plutonium. Just before dawn, he finally completed his drawing and rushed with it to his supervisor, Dr. Ricardo Frumenti, who was having a discussion with other physicists gathered around another drafting table. Dr. Boorish's excitement was palpable, and everyone was practically drooling in anticipation. The drawing was spread out on the table, and eager hands reached out to place heavy paperweights on the corners of the large drawing, to hold it in place.

"Gentlemen," Boorish said. "This is a preliminary design for a nuclear refracting facility that will enable us to increase our production of fissionable materials by, conservatively, a thousand percent." Neils had them at "Gentlemen."

But, Dr. Frumenti was not impressed with Boorish's drawing. He pointed at the drawing with his pipe and said, "Is this some kind of joke, Dr. Boorish?" The room went stony silent, as Frumenti ripped the drawing from the table and held it up to Boorish's face. The other scientists realized that something was terribly wrong.

"This is a drawing of a circle," Dr. Frumenti said. "Nothing more. Please explain yourself, Dr. Boorish."

Boorish, however, was not intimidated. "That is a drawing of a... cyclotron," Boorish said.

"A cyclotron?" Frumenti asked, his bushy eyebrows raised in disbelief, threatening to become airborne. "A cyclotron? Have you gone mad? This is a circle, pure and simple. Either that or a large zero. Yes, that is precisely what it is. . . a zero."

The other scientists, none of whom had ever liked Boorish, began shouting at him. Dr. Robert Kroppenheimer went so far as to tell Boorish that he was "a fooking idiot."

At this point, Frumenti placed Boorish's drawing back on the drafting table, spread it out, and rolled it into a cone shape. He then inserted the tip of the cone into a nearby pencil sharpener, and turning to Boorish, said "This is what I think of your stupid drawing, Boorish." Frumenti then began cranking the pencil sharpener, jamming the end of the paper cone into the sharpener with all his might, while his colleagues continued to heap abuse upon Boorish. The razor sharp jaws of the pencil sharpener ground Boorish's drawing into fine shavings.

At that moment, the facility was vaporized by the first nuclear explosion in recorded history. A giant mushroom cloud rose from the desert floor. It was visible in Las Vegas, over a hundred miles away. The explosion produced temperatures that exceeded the core temperature of our own Sun. The resulting heat and shock wave, bristling with radioactivity, spread out at supersonic speed in all directions, obliterating every living thing for a radius of five miles, leaving the desert floor contaminated with radioactivity for weeks to come, before it would be safe to approach the site of the blast.

To this day, that is what always happens whenever a critical mass is formed at a ground zero.  Arf, arf!

FINLAND: A CAUSATIONAL TAIL

(for those thinking of visiting da land of da Finns, a brief intro-vitro)

FINNISHED? NOT YET
The delicious diversity and impenetrable solipsitic yearning of the people make Finland a must-see colony.  Getting there is easy.  Leaving is a spiritual and conjugational dilemma.  Finland was founded around the time of the Second Great Ice Age.  Since no records remain of this cataclysmic event, which both shaped and destroyed that which we think of as the Northern Cratersphere, and also gave birth to the Finns' undying devotion to coats of arms and questionable rituals of the nether regions, the founding of Finland is shrouded in mystery and revelatory intrigue.  It is a land of sweeping landscapes and inter-bred towns, villages and sticky communities.  Each population settlement looks different, feels different, smells different and washes different.  Physically, Finland is the land that rhyme forgot, historically, the land of rotting Swedes and rutting Russians, the land that refused to be conquered, except for half a dozen bags of gold and a couple of crates of vodka, with a few plates of chips thrown in.

Finland is harsh but fair.  Hoary winters lasting five months, with more snow than you can shake an ice cap at and sub zero temperatures which have frozen many a pair of active balls.  The summers are mild but frenetic due to all the catching up on lost rogering time.  Travellers intending to visit Finland in the summer are strongly advised to watch the Acclimatise To Finland In Summer video provided free at FinnTube.com in which the most noticeable feature of the landscape are the stray bonking couples in every public and private place you can think of.  Please note that during the summer months there is a temporary lifting on the ban on mutual orgasmic activity in a neighbour's shed, tractor or sled. Reindeer are fair game too.

The Finnish people are nothing if not unique, thoughtful, wistful, playful, patriotic and totally insane.  The traveller who has not enjoyed a Finn's company obviously has no social skills to speak of, is rightly shunned by his own people and will be spotted immediately at the airport, port, border crossing point and will not be granted entry into the colony, and/or may be arrested and flogged in an ancient ceremony which may involve cruelty to fruit and the shelling of assorted nuts and some nudity and follicle mutilation.

Finland is awash with festivities and dubious practises which either put hair on your chest or take it off, so it is irrelevant what time of year you choose to visit. As long as you enter Finland with an open mind and easily removable clothing, you are guaranteed a warm reception and a mind altering, possibly brain damaging experience.  Come on in!

COMING SOON: SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BLACK COCK OF KESKI (dat's in Finland, d'uh!)

THE CURIOUS CASE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE COSTLY COCA

BACK ON BAKER STREET, OUR ILLUSTRATIVE DETECTIVE AND WATTERS HAVE BEEN OVERINDULGING THEMSELVES WITH SOME PRIME PERUVIAN COCOA POWDER. CLUMSY OAF THAT HE IS, WATSON HAS SPILLED A COUPLE OF GOOD LINES ON MRS. HUDSON'S PRECIOUS AFGHAN. THEN COMES AN OMINOUS SNIFFING SOUND FROM THE ENTRANCE DOOR, FOLLOWED BY FURTIVE SCRATCHINGS.

HOLMES: I say, Watters, be a good fellow and get the door, will you?

WATSON: Eh? Oh, I see. Precisely. My pleasure, old fellow.

WATSON ATTEMPTS TO RAISE HIMSELF FROM HIS CHAIR, BUT ONLY SUCCEEDS IN FALLING ASS OVER TEAKETTLE, GRABBING THE TABLECLOTH AND PULLING EVERYTHING ONTO THE FLOOR WITH HIM, INCLUDING HALF A TIN OF BOLIVIAN MARCHING POWDER.

HOLMES: (groaning) Watson, you fool! There's twenty pounds worth of the finest Colombian blow splattered all over the flogging carpet!

WATSON IS ON HIS KNEES NOW, CRAWLING TOWARD THE PARLOUR DOOR, TRAILING WHITE POWDER, MUCH TO HOLMES' CONSTERNATION. JUST AS WATSON REACHES THE DOOR, THERE IS A BLOOD-CURDLING HOWL FROM THE OTHER SIDE, AND THE SOUND OF FURIOUS SCRATCHING. WATSON HUNKERS DOWN, NOSE TO THE CARPET, AND SEES A BLOOD-CHILLING SIGHT THROUGH THE GAP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR.

WATSON: Good lord, Holmes, I've nearly soiled myself! There's an enormous deranged ant-eater trying to rip its way through the door with his gigantic talons!

HOLMES: Balderdash, Watson, don't you recognize Toby's plaintive baying? Get up, man, for God's sake, and let him in before Mrs. Hudson arrives brandishing a gelding knife!

WATSON: For Toby?

HOLMES: No, for US!

WATSON: Oh, right, I see... very well, then.

WATSON PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS KNEES AND USES THE ELEPHANT LEG UMBRELLA STAND TO GET TO HIS FEET. WITH SOME TREPIDATION, HE OPENS THE DOOR A FRACTION OF AN INCH AND IS IMMEDIATELY TRAMPLED BY TOBY THE LOVESICK BLOODHOUND, WHO BOUNDS INTO THE ROOM, DROOLING, KNOCKING HOLMES OUT OF HIS CHAIR. FROM DOWNSTAIRS, COMES THE FRANTIC GONAD-SHRIVELLING SCREECHING OF MRS. HUDSON, WHO HAS JUST DISCOVERED TOBY'S MUDDY PAWPRINTS IN THE VESTIBULE AND ON THE STAIRWAY LEADING TO HOLMES' APARTMENTS.

HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, this is the absolutely the final straw! I forbid that filthy creature to invade the sanctity of my home one more time! Remove that wretched beast from the premises immediately or I'll call the constable!

HOLMES: Cripes, now we're for it... Watson, get this deranged canine off me, at once!

BUT WATSON IS FLAT ON HIS BACK, SUDDENLY ABSORBED IN THE INTRICATE STAMPINGS OF THE TIN CEILING, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES. HE DOES NOT HEAR HOLMES' ANGRY ENTREATY. MEANWHILE, TOBY HAS STARTING SNIFFING THE AFGHAN FOR FLEAS AND DISCOVERS INSTEAD, TO HIS INFINITE DELIGHT, THE TRAIL OF NEARLY PURE COCAINE THAT LITTERS THE FLOOR. BEFORE HOLMES CAN RESTRAIN THE BEAST, TOBY SNIFFS UP SEVERAL TABLESPOONSFUL OF THE COSTLY COCA, AND LOOKS AN ABSOLUTE FRIGHT, HIS MOIST NOSE RESEMBLING A SUGAR PLUM. TOBY WAVERS FOR A MOMENT, AS IF ABOUT TO KEEL OVER BUT THEN THE COCA COURSING THROUGH HIS VEINS CAUSES HIS HEART NEARLY TO BURST AT THE SEAMS. WITH A LEAP AND A BOUND WORTHY OF AN OLYMPIAN, HE POUNCES UPON WATSON'S PRONE FORM AND BEGINS ENERGETICALLY HUMPING HIS LEG.

WATSON: Eh? What is this, then? Toby, you mangy hound! I say, Holmes, this wretched fleabag is dry humping my good leg!

HOLMES: Brilliant deduction, Watson. And well-deserved, if you don't mind me saying so. It's a wonder his heart hasn't exploded. He's just snorkled up five quid worth of prime Brazilian nose whiskey.

WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes! We must evacuate the premises at once. If his liver blows, we're mincemeat! Get off me, you degenerate flea-bag!

MRS. HUDSON NOW STORMS INTO THE ROOM BRANDISHING A COAL SHOVEL AND A BULLWHIP.

HUDDERS: There he is! Your days are numbered, you filthy brute! Hold him, Dr. Watson, while I bash his filthy brains in!

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, calm down for God's sake. The situation is well under control, I assure you.

HUDDERS: Under control my bloomin' arse! There's mud and doggy effluent all over my parlour and stairs, that filthy animal is dry-humping poor Dr. Watson, and what in the name of the Queen is all this white muck all over my costly Afghan?!

WATSON: Eh? Oh, that's just a bit of white gold dust, Hudders. Don't worry, we'll sweep it up in a jiffy. Toby! No crotch nibbling!

HUDDERS: White gold dust, is it? Hmph. Looks suspiciously to me like some of that filthy gutter glitter them whoors down in Soho use to powder their noses with. I've told you before, Mr. Holmes, this is a good clean Christian house and I won't tolerate no drug addicted canines in here.

HOLMES: No need to worry about that, Hudders, it belongs to Watson. It's entirely his fault. Toby was just helping him tidy up a bit.

TOBY STOPS DRY-HUMPING WATSON, STARTS SNIFFING THE AIR, AND HONES IN ON HUDDERS.

WATSON: Thank God, I thought I was going to be humped to death. God Lord, Holmes, I'm covered in drool.

TOBY SNIFFS THE EDGE OF HUDDER'S SKIRT, POKES HIS POWDERED NOSE UNDERNEATH, FEELING HIS WAY THROUGH LAYERS OF PETTICOATS. HUDDERS FINALLY TAKES NOTICE.

HUDDERS: Here, what's all this, then?

HOLMES: Mrs. Hudson, I suggest that you stand perfectly still.

HOLMES PULLS HIMSELF TO HIS FEET AND LOADS WATSON'S GREAT WEBLY REVOLVER. WATSON LOOKS ON IN HORROR.

WATSON: Holmes, I say, you're not going to shoot Toby, are you? We'll lose the deposit, you know.

TOBY HAS WORKED HIS WAY THROUGH ALL THE PETTICOATS AND STARTS LICKING HUDDERS' BLOOMERS. SHE STARTS TO SWOON.

HOLMES: Don't move, Hudders. Unless I'm mistaken, Toby is zeroing in on your peach basket. Watson, sneak up on the depraved creature and grab him by the hind legs.

WATSON: Are you mad, Holmes? He'll rip my throat out.

HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson, he's snorted enough Argentinian bouncing powder to render a rhinoceros comatose.

WATSON: True, Holmes. He should be experiencing rigor mortis by now. Most peculiar.

HUDDERS SCREAMS AS TOBY RIPS THE CROTCH OUT OF HER BLOOMERS AND SHOVES HIS COLD, POWDERED NOSE UP HER TREMBLING LOVE MUFFIN.

HUDDERS: Mr. Holmes, help! Toby's slurping at me!

WATSON: Probably thinks he's found an oyster, what what, what!

AT THIS MOMENT A MESSENGER ARRIVES WITH AN URGENT MESSAGE FROM MYCROFT HOLMES.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE

BEAUTIFUL SEEDS REVERSE

Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful seas converse
Beautiful bees traverse
Skyline so shrewd
Skyline so lewd

Beautiful seeds reverse
Beautiful weeds in verse
Beautiful people obverse
Skyline so true
Skyline so cruel

Beautiful seeds reverse
Oh orchidaceous universe

copyright 2011 Birdy

THE BLOB AND KNOB

BUFFALO: Any buddy home?

BIRD: Well, actually there is.

BUFFALO: Where ya bin?

BIRD: Out and about, like. Anyway, thing is, dude, we've been a bit remiss.

BUFFALO: Sorry bout dat. Blame it on da hooring.

BIRD: The hiring?

BUFFALO: Nicht, meine Pickle Schapper. Hooring. Yesterday. Today. Tomorra. Forever.

BIRD: Insatiable. Incredible. Isn't it ever enuff?

BUFFALO: Nope. Tank's still empty. More, und more und more again, ja? And what about you, dude? Ain't seen ya around since December.

BIRD: I've had issues.

BUFFALO: What kinda issues? Why didn't you Skype, e-mail, phone even?! I've been missin' ya.

BIRD: Missed you too, buddy. But I needed to get away, to find myself again.

BUFFALO: Best not to look for yourself, dude. There's only a shadow there, or a shadow of a shadow, or a little dark blob with a knob, so to speak.

BIRD: Well, I found a lot more than that. I found F sharp 9 for starters.

BUFFALO: What dafukk are you on about now, Birdman?

BIRD: It's a chord. It's great. I've been playing gee-tah again.

BUFFALO: Nice one.

BIRD: I sing whenever the spirit moves me, any time of day or night.

BUFFALO: Rock and roll!

BIRD: When I'm in the song, I'm in another world. It's a different me, ascending, descending, on the puff of a melodic wave, floating in aural delight on the musical ocean deep.

BUFFALO: Cripes! Sounds like an out of body experience. Have you been sniffing the curry powder agin?

BIRD: Dude, it's beautiful. It's just me, the music, the shapes and curves and shimmering surfaces.

BUFFALO: Hmm.

BIRD: I tell you, I saw my true blob last night, with his knob, and his knob was radiant, tall and true.

BUFFALO: You darty auld bird.

BIRD: And I said to him... knob, lay thee down to slumber. And the knob of my true blob lay down and slumbered. And then I said... knob, beware of blobs bearing false knobs.

BUFFALO: Deep, dude, deep.

BIRD: Be true to your blob and he shall be trueth to you, oh true knob. Soon, you and I shall witness rebirth. Soon, the angels shall fall, the kettle shall boil, and we shall sip tea aplenty perched high on the stars. Just one step and we shall be free. Free! No more blobs. No more knobs.

BUFFALO: No more blobs! No more knobs!

BIRD: No more blobs! No more knobs!

BUFFALO: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!

BIRD: Blobs and knobs, out, out, out!

BUFFALO: Blobs knobbed!

BIRD: Blobs knobbed!

BUFFALO: Out, out, out!

BIRD: Out, out, out!

BUFFALO: You did it, dude. You banished the blob with a knob. Maxi mummy respect O!

BIRD: Thanks, dude.

BUFFALO: Better go sort me own blobby knob out now. Blobby knob, come out, come out, wherever ya are?

BIRD: Film at eleven.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!