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Probably Hornswoggle
In a remote village (probably named Hornswoggle, though I can’t recall for sure), there is a purple door, a big rectangular paint-peeling purple door, with the number 777 scrawled just above the rusty horseshoe knocker. And behind this door there is a room, a kitchen, creamy-white with lemon-yellow fittings – (sniff): Gur, as musty as an ogre’s armpit. And within this moldy kitchen there is a MAN (pacing the grimy floor), and a WOMAN (sitting at the table as prim as a snooty poodle).
Through the keyhole of this purple door goes the nosy parker EYE of this godawful tale…
MAN (arms flailing - his general appearance that of an escaped scarecrow): So what if I invited thirteen scantly clad trollops to the vicar's garden party?! So what if I decorated the church's dreary interior with upturned crosses and various other barbarous symbols?! So what if I slipped snapshots of my favorite porn stars into the pages of the Sunday hymn books?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm leaving you.
MAN (grinning like a toss-off): So what if I organized a sado-masochistic orgy on the village green?! So what if I headbutted the nice lollipop lady in the full light of day?! So what if I led a mob of rancid vagabonds through the well-to-do suburbs chanting slogans of impending doom?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I want a divorce.
MAN (goose-stepping): So what if I arranged for ten louts to ambush the brass band parade armed with knuckledusters?! So what if I pinned messages on the town hall's notice board accusing the primary school headmaster of being a secret transvestite strip-o’-gram?! So what if I dumped the slurry of a hundred sheep onto the stage of that beauty pageant and dumped buckets of pigswill on the judges’ heads?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm having an affair.
MAN: So - facking – what?!
WOMAN: With your brother.
-Short tense silence-
The MAN (whose name is probably Giles, though I may be wrong) digs up a greenie and spits it forcibly onto the kitchen table. The WOMAN (unperturbed by the repulsive ejaculation) observes its wobbly texture.
MAN (pointing with his middle-fingers): That, my dear, is what is commonly referred to as a ‘dockyard oyster!!’
The WOMAN sighs, calmly takes out a catapult from her handbag, loads it with a seriously large marble, and then twangs it at the MAN’S head.
*THWHACK*
Bull’s-eye. The MAN slumps to the floor, unconscious (he even saw stars and tweetie-pies chirping). The WOMAN picks up a box of matches, looks down at the MAN’S dead-to-the-world face and says: Now, you disgusting little man, where did I put that bottle of lighter fuel?
The nosy parker EYE of this timid tale recoils outside to the sunny cobblestone street, where a pair of Barbiesque DOLLYBIRDS clothed in skimpy anti-fashion peer through the window on tiptoe (hands positioned like blinkers).
DOLLYBIRD 1 (as pert as a semi-peeled apricot): I can’t see a flippin’ thing.
DOLLYBIRD 2 (with a rump like two squashed-together beachballs): I ‘eard somethin’. I’m gonna get that vindictive cow! (knocking on glass) You’d better not do somethin’ you’ll regret, you b!tch!
A black shoe with a little oval mirror tacked to the tip slides twix DOLLYBIRD 1’s astride white plimsoles… It belongs to the leg (and the groin) of Mister Gander the UPSKIRTIST (an advanced Peeping Tom and heavy-breathing phone-caller), who says: “Keep lookin’ luvvies, I know he’s in there. That wife of his is dangerous hoe.” He carefully manoeuvers his shoe back on its heel so as to glimpse pantie.
Over the hills and faraway away, a lorry carrying a heavy load of badminton rackets and shuttlecocks runs out of fuel and grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder. The driver, who funnily enough is the UPSKIRTIST’S stepsister’s brother, climbs out of his cab and with arms akimbo gazes at a field of swaying wheat. “Unholy Puck!” he yelps, suddenly alarmed, “Someone has stolen the figgin’ scarecrow!”
A seagull circles high in the cloudless blue, blissfully unaware of everything to do with human toolery.
The End.
In a remote village (probably named Hornswoggle, though I can’t recall for sure), there is a purple door, a big rectangular paint-peeling purple door, with the number 777 scrawled just above the rusty horseshoe knocker. And behind this door there is a room, a kitchen, creamy-white with lemon-yellow fittings – (sniff): Gur, as musty as an ogre’s armpit. And within this moldy kitchen there is a MAN (pacing the grimy floor), and a WOMAN (sitting at the table as prim as a snooty poodle).
Through the keyhole of this purple door goes the nosy parker EYE of this godawful tale…
MAN (arms flailing - his general appearance that of an escaped scarecrow): So what if I invited thirteen scantly clad trollops to the vicar's garden party?! So what if I decorated the church's dreary interior with upturned crosses and various other barbarous symbols?! So what if I slipped snapshots of my favorite porn stars into the pages of the Sunday hymn books?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm leaving you.
MAN (grinning like a toss-off): So what if I organized a sado-masochistic orgy on the village green?! So what if I headbutted the nice lollipop lady in the full light of day?! So what if I led a mob of rancid vagabonds through the well-to-do suburbs chanting slogans of impending doom?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I want a divorce.
MAN (goose-stepping): So what if I arranged for ten louts to ambush the brass band parade armed with knuckledusters?! So what if I pinned messages on the town hall's notice board accusing the primary school headmaster of being a secret transvestite strip-o’-gram?! So what if I dumped the slurry of a hundred sheep onto the stage of that beauty pageant and dumped buckets of pigswill on the judges’ heads?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm having an affair.
MAN: So - facking – what?!
WOMAN: With your brother.
-Short tense silence-
The MAN (whose name is probably Giles, though I may be wrong) digs up a greenie and spits it forcibly onto the kitchen table. The WOMAN (unperturbed by the repulsive ejaculation) observes its wobbly texture.
MAN (pointing with his middle-fingers): That, my dear, is what is commonly referred to as a ‘dockyard oyster!!’
The WOMAN sighs, calmly takes out a catapult from her handbag, loads it with a seriously large marble, and then twangs it at the MAN’S head.
*THWHACK*
Bull’s-eye. The MAN slumps to the floor, unconscious (he even saw stars and tweetie-pies chirping). The WOMAN picks up a box of matches, looks down at the MAN’S dead-to-the-world face and says: Now, you disgusting little man, where did I put that bottle of lighter fuel?
The nosy parker EYE of this timid tale recoils outside to the sunny cobblestone street, where a pair of Barbiesque DOLLYBIRDS clothed in skimpy anti-fashion peer through the window on tiptoe (hands positioned like blinkers).
DOLLYBIRD 1 (as pert as a semi-peeled apricot): I can’t see a flippin’ thing.
DOLLYBIRD 2 (with a rump like two squashed-together beachballs): I ‘eard somethin’. I’m gonna get that vindictive cow! (knocking on glass) You’d better not do somethin’ you’ll regret, you b!tch!
A black shoe with a little oval mirror tacked to the tip slides twix DOLLYBIRD 1’s astride white plimsoles… It belongs to the leg (and the groin) of Mister Gander the UPSKIRTIST (an advanced Peeping Tom and heavy-breathing phone-caller), who says: “Keep lookin’ luvvies, I know he’s in there. That wife of his is dangerous hoe.” He carefully manoeuvers his shoe back on its heel so as to glimpse pantie.
Over the hills and faraway away, a lorry carrying a heavy load of badminton rackets and shuttlecocks runs out of fuel and grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder. The driver, who funnily enough is the UPSKIRTIST’S stepsister’s brother, climbs out of his cab and with arms akimbo gazes at a field of swaying wheat. “Unholy Puck!” he yelps, suddenly alarmed, “Someone has stolen the figgin’ scarecrow!”
A seagull circles high in the cloudless blue, blissfully unaware of everything to do with human toolery.
The End.
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Paradox: wrote:
> There's no such thing as badminton balls, they use shuttlecocks
> (teehee, shuttleCOCKS)
Doh, I've changed it. Badminton balls !!
Hornswoggle is an old America word meaning "cheap deception", which I suppose what this failed story is.
> There's no such thing as badminton balls, they use shuttlecocks
> (teehee, shuttleCOCKS)
Doh, I've changed it. Badminton balls !!
Hornswoggle is an old America word meaning "cheap deception", which I suppose what this failed story is.
Very unusual, and if I'm right on saying this, quirky. Still, this is a good read.
UW.
UW.
There's no such thing as badminton balls, they use shuttlecocks (teehee, shuttleCOCKS)
I liked that, it was deliciously bizarre
Thank you for that, it made me feel drunked.
I liked that, it was deliciously bizarre
Thank you for that, it made me feel drunked.
Have to say, I love all this individuality by Black Glove, but sometimes it doesn't really work. Weird, but kind of wonderful.
Thumbs up.
Grix Thraves wrote:
> So for hell's sake affect me, make me laugh cry orgasm fall into
> depression and kill myself and VIBRATE IN ABSOLUTE FEAR or
> something
Sounds about right, no?
> So for hell's sake affect me, make me laugh cry orgasm fall into
> depression and kill myself and VIBRATE IN ABSOLUTE FEAR or
> something
Sounds about right, no?
Have we someone that followed Grix's specifications to the word, here?
One stupid story too far, eh?
Was that supposed to make me laugh, or was it jsut so crap that I did laugh anyway.
Hmmmmmmmmm.
Hmmmmmmmmm.
Erm can't say I liked that, sorry.
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