F**king Hell! C**segnalazioni to Gappy for wanking it. PM me with a subject for next wank please.
Meanwhilst..
3 - Gappy
1 - Otterfox
Next topic: Storytelling
Leg closed: 18.2.25
Runners are nowt...
Position Score Name
1 - 4 - Otterfox
2 - 3 - Gappy
2 - 1 - APlate
JACKAWHORY
PRIMARY SCHOOL.
Sweet MISTRESS and KIDS.
MISTRESS (with book) Good morning children. Hello boys and girls, hello, hello and good afternoon. I am Miss Staines and this evening I'm going to read a nice, lovely and - well, just nice and lovely bit from The Liar, The Bitch and The Whore's Moan, so shut the f**k up and f**king listen or I'll kick your f**king heads in. Yerse, this piece of shit was written by Clive Staples - what kinda f**king name's that, Staples? What are you, a writer or a f**king household appliance? Ah, stop laughing, mate: I could piss myself over your name too, little Johnny Cocksucker - whare the f**k was I? F**k. Anyway, shut the f**k up 'cos this is like sex. Anal sex. F**king shit. But at least it ain't Harry f**king Potter. So, like you after Sunday School, I shall clear my throat as this leaves a nasty taste in the mouth:
Chapter 69: A Day With Some Beaver (and don't laugh. I know that's Yankee for minky, minge or c**t)
And Peter, Susan, Lucy and the c**ty one all eye-tittied each other, totally f**king gobsmacked and shit.
"F**k me," ejaculated Susan. "Looks like this shit-hole's gonna be one great big f**king - well, shit-hole."
"Don't f**king swear, you f**king cockpig," Peter repri - recipro - said.
"You can f**king talk, c**tie-hole,'" interjected Edmond.
"Of course I can f**king talk," retorted he. "I've been talking since I was a child."
"You must be f**king tired," japed Edmond.
"Oh f**k off Edmond, you f**king little f**king - f**ker," returned he.
"Will you two twatnoses shut the f**king f**k up?" requested Lucy presently. "You're f**king kids."
"No that's your dad, Pete," japed Edmond.
"F**k off, Edmond," retorted he.
"Everybody f**king f**k off," smiled Susan. "Anyway, who is this Queen, Lu?"
"Sounds like your dad, Pete," japed Edmond.
"F**k off, Edmond," retorted he.
"She isn't a real queen at all," maintained Lucy.
"Sounds like your dad, Pete," japed Edmond.
"F**k - OFF, Edmond," retorted he.
"She's a beastly, gruesome and f**king well c**ty witch," affirmed Lucy.
"Witch?" inquired Susan "Sorry, I thought you said bastard."
"Shut the f**k up, Susan," ordered Peter. And he turned to Lucy. "Fill me in."
"As you say to your dad, Pete," japed Edmond.
"FUCK - OFF, Edmond," retorted he.
"Well, everyone - all the wood people..." began Lucy.
And Peter couldn't resist it. "Your mum's a wood person, too, Edmond," he joshed.
"F**k off, Pete," Edmond returned presently.
"They all f**king hate her f**king guts," insisted Lu. "She's made this sort of f**king encha - enchon - spell over the entire f**king country..."
"Glad you remembered the last syllable there," smiled Susan. "Or you'da said 'c**t'."
"... So that it's always Winter here and never Christmas."
And they all stared at her so it was all silent and shit like that.
Finally Peter ejaculated in despair. "Sounds f**king shit to me," he surmised.
And Susan nodded. "Yes," she ascertained solemnly. "Total and utter f**king shit."
And even Edmond, the c**ty f**kpig one, had to agree. "Total and f**king utter total f**king shit," he concurred. "Imagine freezing your f**king bollocks off and never getting any f**king presents or getting rat-arsed and jerking off to that Spice Girls video to while away the f**king hangover next morning."
"And imagine no Father Christmas," wept Susan. "No fat old man breaking into your room and offering sweets so he can unload his sack all over the place."
"Sounds like your dad, Pete," japed Edmond.
"FUCK - OFF; EDMOND," retorted he.
Well, children - boys and girls, and you - I do hope you've enjoyed tonight's bit of tale. Will Peter get his hands on some beaver - don't even think about it, you? Will the boys stop making that stupid f**king joke about Pete's dad? And will Edmond undergo a profound, metaphys - metty - nice epiphany whereby the fellow transforms into a spiritually aware, transcendentally cognisant, judiciously perspicacious pedagogue and not such a c**t? Most importantly, does anyone give a f**k either way?
She looks around: One kid, asleep.
1: So sorry for your loss.
JAN: Thank you so much.
2: Bob was good man, we'll miss him.
JAN: We all will. Glad you could make it.
3: Sorry to hear about Bob, he was a fighter.
JAN: Yes, he was.
3: He was a warrior.
JAN: Mmmmm.
3: He was a military pilot. You don't expect them to die.
JAN: In some ways it's more likely, but-
3: If he'd lived, he could've bombed Dresden.
JAN: What?
3: Spiritually speaking, I mean. Just bombed the f**k out of that medieval ceramics town. Because he was the pilot of an F-22 Raptor - oh how he wrangled that Raptor in the steely sky.
JAN: Thanks for those words. I'll, erm, think about them a lot in the future. I literally mean that.
4: There's a little story that I always think of when anyone mentions Bob. It was back in about '87, and it was a Sunday, I think. I recall that I was in Halfords looking for screen wash and Bob...was the greatest man who ever lived!
JAN: Erm...
4: Without him, the world is a husk. I don't want to go on living.
JAN: Well, it affects everyone differently, but -
4: A HUSK!
1-4: [CHANT] Husk.
4: He was a god. An actual god, who could literally control the universe and bend reality to his will. He could do anything. Except stay alive, I suppose.
JAN: I suppose.
1: Bob was a tiger. A vast, flaming, winged tiger.
JAN: Was he?
2: He was a majestic coypu, was Bob, just chewing through the rhizomes of life with his giant orange teeth.
1: And his wings.
3: He was the north wind.
4: He was a scimitar.
1: He was the boiling point of platinum.
2: He could eat more garibaldis than any man on earth
3: He was clouds.
4: He was the scent of hope.
JAN: What the hell are you all talking about!
1: We just liked Bob.
2: And we're going to miss him.
3: Sorry if we upset you, we're just trying to find the words.
JAN: No, I'm sorry. We're all grieving, it makes us emotional, I apologise.
3: Thanks. So...now he's dead, can I have his leaf-blower?
JAN: Yeah, I suppose.
3: Yes!
1: Shit.
2: Game's up, lads. Let's mosey.
1,2,4: [FADE, MUTTERING DISSAPOINTEDLY]
Old Irish storyteller (seanchaí) with rural Irish accent.
Bill:
Whisht up a while let ye. It's Bill O'The Brannigan here and I have another tale to tell. If you ever find yourself wandering home late on the rural byroads of Ireland, I'd keep an eye out as to what's going on at all times even if nothing at all is going on. For when darkness descends all quare and unusual occurrences can...um, occur.
Now, Umbrastics Hogan was fond of a drink and loved his cards. He'd be out mosht nights drinking his drinks and playing his cards, but rarely did he do it the other way around. No, he could lay his hand on any bible and swear that he never gulped down a single card in all his life. This particular night, Umbrastics was estastics, I mean ecstatic. He was jolly from the drink as it was but didn't he have one of those unusual nights where he won all around him. Every hand dealt was a winner, every decision he made was the right one. It was well after midnight when he bounded out the door of the pub and although his pockets were heaving with coins, as he set off into the night he felt as light as a feather.
The moon was bright and full and hung low in the sky. As such, he had no need of a lantern. Up the bendy bridge he went; around the straight bridge, across the wooden humpback bridge but as he stepped off it he took a bit of a tumble and down the embankment he fell. He righted himself, then wronged himself but quickly re-righted himself. He stood, and there in front of him was a bridge he'd never seen before. It glistened in the moonlight and it seemed to float over the stream, suspended by nothing. "That's strange", thought Umbrastics, "I never knew nothing could hold up something."
Even in his merry state his coordinates were intact and he knew that this bridge would take him in the direction of home. On he stepped and was soon out the other side but he then found himself in a forest he never remembered being in before - or since. The moons light was shining through the foliage, lighting his path, when all of a sudden he noticed a (rapidly) flit in corner of his eye. A dart, a sort of movement. Then he noticed another on the left hand side. Then nothing, then something. A few more nothings, then a rustle of a something through the undergrowth.
'Someone now is after hearing my coins jangling and wants me to part ways with them', thought Umbrastics.
The man who told me this story is not given to wild tales and swears that this story is true. From the shadows emerged fourteen moorhens. They had in their possession a shlip of paper. One moorhen shtepped forward, Pairic I believe his name was, and began to shpeak. He offered to Umbrastics what was written on the shlip of paper for all the coins in his pockets. Umbrastics couldn't believe his ears and thought that the drink had had much more of an effect on him than he first imagined. As the moorhens has shurrounded him in an ominous way, he thought it besht to agree to the exchange. Coin after coin tumbled out of his pockets and the moorhens ran around at an alarming rate piling them into a big canvas sack. But what was writ on the shlip of paper? Only the recipe for the finesht whiskey the world has ever known and the one that now proudly displays Umbrastics Hogans name - Moorhens Irish Whiskey....Be Jaysus no actually they got him there too.
Jaysus They made a right haimes of him altogether. And what did the moorhens need the coins for you may wonder - I haven't- a-clue. Is mise Bill O'The Brannigan, slán abhaile.