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I broke No. 1 rule of nice days - wearing a white T-Shirt and eating chocolate magnum(s).
Oh dear! What a mess!
Mother would be angry.
Although, on the up-side, I gained entrance to the Scat Club's secret tree-house.
Mmmm .... fragrant.
Also:
Please re-assure my sister (aka me) that singing the music from Neighbours is not cool. Not even the theme toon - the crappy music they play in the background.
Dear dear.
Also, also:
On the subject of theme toons. Dennis Waterman should be knighted for his lovely rendition on that crap new programme. Although he's not as small as certain people would make out.
Ah well - the farm awaits. Pat the Cow needs milking.
Pat! Aha! I ween.
My cøck is still gay, though - I swear. God knows who he gets it from.
And the tramp won't marry me.
MNAAARRGHH!
Oh dear! What a mess!
Mother would be angry.
Although, on the up-side, I gained entrance to the Scat Club's secret tree-house.
Mmmm .... fragrant.
Also:
Please re-assure my sister (aka me) that singing the music from Neighbours is not cool. Not even the theme toon - the crappy music they play in the background.
Dear dear.
Also, also:
On the subject of theme toons. Dennis Waterman should be knighted for his lovely rendition on that crap new programme. Although he's not as small as certain people would make out.
Ah well - the farm awaits. Pat the Cow needs milking.
Pat! Aha! I ween.
My cøck is still gay, though - I swear. God knows who he gets it from.
And the tramp won't marry me.
MNAAARRGHH!
Page:
Im in awe.
EDIT: I also eat ice cream lollies like a toddler.
EDIT: I also eat ice cream lollies like a toddler.
*Sob*
If your intentions were honourable, and her betrothed is revealed as the skulduggering marsupial I have found him to be - then your proposal would be duly considered.
Do you come from money?
Would you be willing to write poems and serenade her on the balcony?
Is donating body fluff a big problem for you?
And so on - the moral codes in my family must be strictly adhered to, we don't want our stock being muddied by a nay-sayer who disregards tantric mongering as the work of idlers and scallywags. Which it most certainly is not.
A full bodily examination - inside and out - your down-on-one-knee technique, plus the size and both physical and spiritual properties of your ring would need to be checked by seventeen independent men-'o-beets. Then and only perhaps then, would a proposal fall to the family body of considerees.
This body consists of me, forming the head and genitalia - my mother and father, consisting of many limbs, my second sibling-child, of the torso (breasticles inclusive) - my cousin Bob, of royal stature, and lionesque qualities will also be present, spraying blood everywhere to create the needed ambience to sustain this painful metaphor.
The periphery considerationists - being them of the church, Vicar Jim, and his five sons, who have recently formed a new-funk anti-lebotinist harmony group, with Stella (local sailor, and boat-boat floater) on the hit-em-with-sticks music makers - will also contribute to the final score, in ambiguous percentiles.
You may request to see these percentiles, at the risk of losing your eyesight, hindsight, and whimsical sack-sight - which may or may not damage your chances of proposal follow-through, depending on your milk content and verbal swashbuckling.
The Mayor - unknown in quantities - will also chip in a fractional opinion of your decency and upbringing (if wolves were involved + 20.) Although he is mostly ignored, due to the unfortunate facial hair - so swinging things his way probably won't do you any favours.
Lastly - and most importantly - you will be pumped for at least seven out of ten natural, rectum-based perfection qualities, known to bring a man into handsome budding and bear his woman from the dangerous path of 'ungodly pursuits.'
If more than seven of the signs - (be warned, these may actually be signs, wooden and splinterous in the extreme) - are discovered, you will be tapped for more, based on government loans of twenty shillings and a radish to allow our most wonderful family to make the most of natural resources.
If all ten are found, a nodding donkey may well be installed and your proposal put on hold until further indications of your intentions are revealed via much curtain-swinging and / or shocked door-waltzing after no-knocker-knocking.
Minus points for:
*Undressed stalactites.
*Overcompensating on your head wear (above 10 feet, held by scaffolding, will weigh heavily on your options.)
*Moles within three feet of your (expected) four nipples
*Existing drainage ditches relating to a poor underclass social relation, unless contracted exteriorly via copper insulation fabric.
*Extra balls.
The penultimate stages mostly relate to humping speeds and gaiety of swagger. If cows are preferred, ladders will be provided - although use of these may well dictate bad, bad, bad notions of your under-whelming muscular digression.
(You don't want that)
The 'final' stage - called 'final' because it is, only in air-quotes, full of finality. In reality, this is far from final as your pulse rates, pus production and reticule magnitude will be constantly measured on the fabled Cog of Misjudgement by one Dr. Mongs (friend of family) during the quarantine proposal period during which you may only touch and NOT inseminate me sister.
Or I'll ave yee - yee little shee-ite.
Eloping will be highly frowned upon, but the ruckus and romantic appeal of this two-fingered salute towards my faaameeerrleee will cause such a stir in the village of Little Kriztofple we shall be held in high regard. Although are regards are almost constantly held at the moment, everyone needs a boost from time to time. Esp. Granny, who’s run out of soup of late.
If you pass. Ahar. IF you pass. Then the ‘fiancee’ stage will commence, whereby we will wheel you around local functions of never-ending up-ass grandiose and marginal crumpet tossing. If - again, IF - you are met by such approval as to be invited to further events on your own accords, not by your fortunate relations to said sister - then, the proposal shall be justified, line-tied and boot-stamped into stage 81: possible marriage.
On the subject of affairs:
Aha, just try it mate. Unless she’s a right bit of hot totty, which is given full wavering rights under family policy - as long as she is ‘passed around’ the manor like an frisky bim-bob shocker.
Affairs with men will be dealt with by Big Ron, the village pimp.
He’ll know if you’ve touched “one of t’gays” from their pens. And may or may not be happy, depending on (priorly mentioned) ring test results.
Notes:
You will not, under any circumstances, be allowed visual access to the bride-to-be. This may be because: 1) she’s spleen-splittingly hideous, 2) so as not to spoil her perfect virginity (a-hAR) or 3) because we’re obviously upper class, so you do as we say.
The traditional marriage bed sheet-inspection will be upheld, in the presence of a lame ostrich for recordential credence. This time around, we have updated the tradition to include DNA testing - if the fluids discover relate to all members of the animals kingdom, and fish - plus equal amounts and grass and flower stains, not forgetting the elusive slender loris and Nigel from Eastenders. Thora Hird samples will do great things for your future fortunes. Buddha’s liver seepage is optional, but preferred.
You will be stripped of all titles, land ownerships and shiny foil - all these given to me, and any gumpblings or crack to Granny.
No giblets to be worn inside the house.
Please close the whøre on your way out.
Thankyou.
Optionally:
(aka me) is always an easy lay.
Do you come from money?
Would you be willing to write poems and serenade her on the balcony?
Is donating body fluff a big problem for you?
And so on - the moral codes in my family must be strictly adhered to, we don't want our stock being muddied by a nay-sayer who disregards tantric mongering as the work of idlers and scallywags. Which it most certainly is not.
A full bodily examination - inside and out - your down-on-one-knee technique, plus the size and both physical and spiritual properties of your ring would need to be checked by seventeen independent men-'o-beets. Then and only perhaps then, would a proposal fall to the family body of considerees.
This body consists of me, forming the head and genitalia - my mother and father, consisting of many limbs, my second sibling-child, of the torso (breasticles inclusive) - my cousin Bob, of royal stature, and lionesque qualities will also be present, spraying blood everywhere to create the needed ambience to sustain this painful metaphor.
The periphery considerationists - being them of the church, Vicar Jim, and his five sons, who have recently formed a new-funk anti-lebotinist harmony group, with Stella (local sailor, and boat-boat floater) on the hit-em-with-sticks music makers - will also contribute to the final score, in ambiguous percentiles.
You may request to see these percentiles, at the risk of losing your eyesight, hindsight, and whimsical sack-sight - which may or may not damage your chances of proposal follow-through, depending on your milk content and verbal swashbuckling.
The Mayor - unknown in quantities - will also chip in a fractional opinion of your decency and upbringing (if wolves were involved + 20.) Although he is mostly ignored, due to the unfortunate facial hair - so swinging things his way probably won't do you any favours.
Lastly - and most importantly - you will be pumped for at least seven out of ten natural, rectum-based perfection qualities, known to bring a man into handsome budding and bear his woman from the dangerous path of 'ungodly pursuits.'
If more than seven of the signs - (be warned, these may actually be signs, wooden and splinterous in the extreme) - are discovered, you will be tapped for more, based on government loans of twenty shillings and a radish to allow our most wonderful family to make the most of natural resources.
If all ten are found, a nodding donkey may well be installed and your proposal put on hold until further indications of your intentions are revealed via much curtain-swinging and / or shocked door-waltzing after no-knocker-knocking.
Minus points for:
*Undressed stalactites.
*Overcompensating on your head wear (above 10 feet, held by scaffolding, will weigh heavily on your options.)
*Moles within three feet of your (expected) four nipples
*Existing drainage ditches relating to a poor underclass social relation, unless contracted exteriorly via copper insulation fabric.
*Extra balls.
The penultimate stages mostly relate to humping speeds and gaiety of swagger. If cows are preferred, ladders will be provided - although use of these may well dictate bad, bad, bad notions of your under-whelming muscular digression.
(You don't want that)
The 'final' stage - called 'final' because it is, only in air-quotes, full of finality. In reality, this is far from final as your pulse rates, pus production and reticule magnitude will be constantly measured on the fabled Cog of Misjudgement by one Dr. Mongs (friend of family) during the quarantine proposal period during which you may only touch and NOT inseminate me sister.
Or I'll ave yee - yee little shee-ite.
Eloping will be highly frowned upon, but the ruckus and romantic appeal of this two-fingered salute towards my faaameeerrleee will cause such a stir in the village of Little Kriztofple we shall be held in high regard. Although are regards are almost constantly held at the moment, everyone needs a boost from time to time. Esp. Granny, who’s run out of soup of late.
If you pass. Ahar. IF you pass. Then the ‘fiancee’ stage will commence, whereby we will wheel you around local functions of never-ending up-ass grandiose and marginal crumpet tossing. If - again, IF - you are met by such approval as to be invited to further events on your own accords, not by your fortunate relations to said sister - then, the proposal shall be justified, line-tied and boot-stamped into stage 81: possible marriage.
On the subject of affairs:
Aha, just try it mate. Unless she’s a right bit of hot totty, which is given full wavering rights under family policy - as long as she is ‘passed around’ the manor like an frisky bim-bob shocker.
Affairs with men will be dealt with by Big Ron, the village pimp.
He’ll know if you’ve touched “one of t’gays” from their pens. And may or may not be happy, depending on (priorly mentioned) ring test results.
Notes:
You will not, under any circumstances, be allowed visual access to the bride-to-be. This may be because: 1) she’s spleen-splittingly hideous, 2) so as not to spoil her perfect virginity (a-hAR) or 3) because we’re obviously upper class, so you do as we say.
The traditional marriage bed sheet-inspection will be upheld, in the presence of a lame ostrich for recordential credence. This time around, we have updated the tradition to include DNA testing - if the fluids discover relate to all members of the animals kingdom, and fish - plus equal amounts and grass and flower stains, not forgetting the elusive slender loris and Nigel from Eastenders. Thora Hird samples will do great things for your future fortunes. Buddha’s liver seepage is optional, but preferred.
You will be stripped of all titles, land ownerships and shiny foil - all these given to me, and any gumpblings or crack to Granny.
No giblets to be worn inside the house.
Please close the whøre on your way out.
Thankyou.
Optionally:
(aka me) is always an easy lay.
I fancy your sister.
No. 1.
Not aka you.
Would you be willing for us to be married?
No. 1.
Not aka you.
Would you be willing for us to be married?
My sister (aka me)? Or my actual sister?
I have 2 you know - 2.
I have 2 you know - 2.
I quite fancy your sister.
Why's that now? Did I spell something wrong?
You actually worry me sometimes.
I fear for your mental stability.
I fear for your mental stability.
I broke No. 1 rule of nice days - wearing a white T-Shirt and eating chocolate magnum(s).
Oh dear! What a mess!
Mother would be angry.
Although, on the up-side, I gained entrance to the Scat Club's secret tree-house.
Mmmm .... fragrant.
Also:
Please re-assure my sister (aka me) that singing the music from Neighbours is not cool. Not even the theme toon - the crappy music they play in the background.
Dear dear.
Also, also:
On the subject of theme toons. Dennis Waterman should be knighted for his lovely rendition on that crap new programme. Although he's not as small as certain people would make out.
Ah well - the farm awaits. Pat the Cow needs milking.
Pat! Aha! I ween.
My cøck is still gay, though - I swear. God knows who he gets it from.
And the tramp won't marry me.
MNAAARRGHH!
Oh dear! What a mess!
Mother would be angry.
Although, on the up-side, I gained entrance to the Scat Club's secret tree-house.
Mmmm .... fragrant.
Also:
Please re-assure my sister (aka me) that singing the music from Neighbours is not cool. Not even the theme toon - the crappy music they play in the background.
Dear dear.
Also, also:
On the subject of theme toons. Dennis Waterman should be knighted for his lovely rendition on that crap new programme. Although he's not as small as certain people would make out.
Ah well - the farm awaits. Pat the Cow needs milking.
Pat! Aha! I ween.
My cøck is still gay, though - I swear. God knows who he gets it from.
And the tramp won't marry me.
MNAAARRGHH!
Page: