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!
Showing posts with label bird and buffalo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bird and buffalo. Show all posts
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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...
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...
Thursday, August 11, 2011
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!
“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!
Friday, August 05, 2011
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!
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!
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