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(Certain portions of this story have been altered for family viewing and dramatical purposes although it is rooted in reality)
By the way, my name is Danny.
One quiet day in a quiet place a young boy named Danny was returning home from a hard days grafting at a schooling institution. It was 26 degrees, the sun was shining, the birds were breeding and he was as happy as a bee, skipping down the road and for some unknown reason singing to himself in a twee Oirish accent. "So I got meeself a combine 'arvester" he sang innocently, no scary thoughts of Matthew Kelly or Michael Jackson even entered his mind.
He swung his bag in the air and caught it, exclaiming "This is the life, I am young and free from all responsibilities which will soon make me cower over a computer all day wondering what I am doing with my life."
When this fair Danny boy approached the corner of his street, a young, Nike-hoody-wearing youth approached him. Ignorant of the fact that anything ever went wrong in life, this young boy inquired:
"Well, what would you be wanting?"
To which the youth replied, with a suspicious looking hand in his pocket.
"Give me yo! money"
"What money would that be? I've no money ye silly boy"
"Do what I say or I'll bore you in your head"
"Bore me with what?" Danny inquired "Your stupendously accurate knowledge of how the length of words in a sentence directly affects the GDP of Tuvalu?"
"Well I got this knife"
"What are ye talking about? ye got no such thing. That pointy thing in your pocket is either your finger or just indication of how much you enjoy my company. I really do hope it's the first one"
"Gimme yo! f***ing money or you'll get bare slaps"
"I really am starting to worry about you."
Danny, pointing behind the youth says
"Look behind you, you big igit."
The youth, who was still unaware of Danny's devious plan looks.
Danny ran like the wind across the long, wide road, almost getting ran over by a brown camper van full of surfers on it's way to Newquay. His ballet lessons were coming in really handy now for he maneuvered around traffic like a young Barishnakov, his tight buttocks clenched beneath his school trousers as tightly as a camels in a sandstorm. They could have held a pencil between them, a toothpick even.
Danny, unaware that his flys were undone and that perhaps this was the reason the strange youth had been so excitable, ran into the nearest shop for safety. He began reading the various publications on offer in this particular establishment as the shopkeeper nervously twitched and sobbed.
After a reading marathon of about three hours, where he had read all he could, and frankly all he wanted to know about "Miniature Teapot Collection", he strode out of the shop, confident that he was king of kings. As he turned his face to the left however, he realised, in horror, that the youth was still there, or at least a similar looking one. Terrified with this renewed sense of insecurity, he dashed away again, across another road, and another, bumping into a one-armed hunchback dwarf who he was not at all startled by for it was his mother.
"Put yer willy away for Christ's sake!" his mother exclaimed, before running into a bus stop several times and then mumbling uncontrollably to herself.
Danny, still startled by this act of extreme violence which could have been perpetrated against him had he been a little hard of hearing, placed his manhood back in its rightful place and scampered off down the road into another similarly themed shop. Busying himself with what was a wider selection of publications, he settled down with a copy of Reader's Wives. A favourite publication of his, it reminded him of many happy occasions he had had lying in his warm, comfortable bed at night.
"Angie, from Walthamstow, 36" he said to himself quietly, after a half-hour intense reading session, and put back next to a copy of the official Gareth Gates magazine.
He got up from his seat atop of a pile of yesterdays Evening Standards and wandered out of the shop content, but still with a slight sense of fear in the back of his mind as he walked slowly down the street, looking behind him as he went.
As he reached number 121, he muttered to himself "Just twelfty more to go and I'm home." He lived at number 87 but he never was very good with numbers.
"AAAAAAAH!" He screamed as he approached his door and heard a noise behind him. Alas, it was only his mother, who had somehow become stuck upside-down in a wheely-bin, knickers round her ankle et al.
"Ye silly woman", he said, pulling her by her knees out and throwing her into another bus stop for he knew how much she loved this.
Entering his house through the backdoor, he exclaimed to the world "I am Danny!, champion of the world!"
By the way, my name is Danny.
One quiet day in a quiet place a young boy named Danny was returning home from a hard days grafting at a schooling institution. It was 26 degrees, the sun was shining, the birds were breeding and he was as happy as a bee, skipping down the road and for some unknown reason singing to himself in a twee Oirish accent. "So I got meeself a combine 'arvester" he sang innocently, no scary thoughts of Matthew Kelly or Michael Jackson even entered his mind.
He swung his bag in the air and caught it, exclaiming "This is the life, I am young and free from all responsibilities which will soon make me cower over a computer all day wondering what I am doing with my life."
When this fair Danny boy approached the corner of his street, a young, Nike-hoody-wearing youth approached him. Ignorant of the fact that anything ever went wrong in life, this young boy inquired:
"Well, what would you be wanting?"
To which the youth replied, with a suspicious looking hand in his pocket.
"Give me yo! money"
"What money would that be? I've no money ye silly boy"
"Do what I say or I'll bore you in your head"
"Bore me with what?" Danny inquired "Your stupendously accurate knowledge of how the length of words in a sentence directly affects the GDP of Tuvalu?"
"Well I got this knife"
"What are ye talking about? ye got no such thing. That pointy thing in your pocket is either your finger or just indication of how much you enjoy my company. I really do hope it's the first one"
"Gimme yo! f***ing money or you'll get bare slaps"
"I really am starting to worry about you."
Danny, pointing behind the youth says
"Look behind you, you big igit."
The youth, who was still unaware of Danny's devious plan looks.
Danny ran like the wind across the long, wide road, almost getting ran over by a brown camper van full of surfers on it's way to Newquay. His ballet lessons were coming in really handy now for he maneuvered around traffic like a young Barishnakov, his tight buttocks clenched beneath his school trousers as tightly as a camels in a sandstorm. They could have held a pencil between them, a toothpick even.
Danny, unaware that his flys were undone and that perhaps this was the reason the strange youth had been so excitable, ran into the nearest shop for safety. He began reading the various publications on offer in this particular establishment as the shopkeeper nervously twitched and sobbed.
After a reading marathon of about three hours, where he had read all he could, and frankly all he wanted to know about "Miniature Teapot Collection", he strode out of the shop, confident that he was king of kings. As he turned his face to the left however, he realised, in horror, that the youth was still there, or at least a similar looking one. Terrified with this renewed sense of insecurity, he dashed away again, across another road, and another, bumping into a one-armed hunchback dwarf who he was not at all startled by for it was his mother.
"Put yer willy away for Christ's sake!" his mother exclaimed, before running into a bus stop several times and then mumbling uncontrollably to herself.
Danny, still startled by this act of extreme violence which could have been perpetrated against him had he been a little hard of hearing, placed his manhood back in its rightful place and scampered off down the road into another similarly themed shop. Busying himself with what was a wider selection of publications, he settled down with a copy of Reader's Wives. A favourite publication of his, it reminded him of many happy occasions he had had lying in his warm, comfortable bed at night.
"Angie, from Walthamstow, 36" he said to himself quietly, after a half-hour intense reading session, and put back next to a copy of the official Gareth Gates magazine.
He got up from his seat atop of a pile of yesterdays Evening Standards and wandered out of the shop content, but still with a slight sense of fear in the back of his mind as he walked slowly down the street, looking behind him as he went.
As he reached number 121, he muttered to himself "Just twelfty more to go and I'm home." He lived at number 87 but he never was very good with numbers.
"AAAAAAAH!" He screamed as he approached his door and heard a noise behind him. Alas, it was only his mother, who had somehow become stuck upside-down in a wheely-bin, knickers round her ankle et al.
"Ye silly woman", he said, pulling her by her knees out and throwing her into another bus stop for he knew how much she loved this.
Entering his house through the backdoor, he exclaimed to the world "I am Danny!, champion of the world!"
Page:
(Certain portions of this story have been altered for family viewing and dramatical purposes although it is rooted in reality)
By the way, my name is Danny.
One quiet day in a quiet place a young boy named Danny was returning home from a hard days grafting at a schooling institution. It was 26 degrees, the sun was shining, the birds were breeding and he was as happy as a bee, skipping down the road and for some unknown reason singing to himself in a twee Oirish accent. "So I got meeself a combine 'arvester" he sang innocently, no scary thoughts of Matthew Kelly or Michael Jackson even entered his mind.
He swung his bag in the air and caught it, exclaiming "This is the life, I am young and free from all responsibilities which will soon make me cower over a computer all day wondering what I am doing with my life."
When this fair Danny boy approached the corner of his street, a young, Nike-hoody-wearing youth approached him. Ignorant of the fact that anything ever went wrong in life, this young boy inquired:
"Well, what would you be wanting?"
To which the youth replied, with a suspicious looking hand in his pocket.
"Give me yo! money"
"What money would that be? I've no money ye silly boy"
"Do what I say or I'll bore you in your head"
"Bore me with what?" Danny inquired "Your stupendously accurate knowledge of how the length of words in a sentence directly affects the GDP of Tuvalu?"
"Well I got this knife"
"What are ye talking about? ye got no such thing. That pointy thing in your pocket is either your finger or just indication of how much you enjoy my company. I really do hope it's the first one"
"Gimme yo! f***ing money or you'll get bare slaps"
"I really am starting to worry about you."
Danny, pointing behind the youth says
"Look behind you, you big igit."
The youth, who was still unaware of Danny's devious plan looks.
Danny ran like the wind across the long, wide road, almost getting ran over by a brown camper van full of surfers on it's way to Newquay. His ballet lessons were coming in really handy now for he maneuvered around traffic like a young Barishnakov, his tight buttocks clenched beneath his school trousers as tightly as a camels in a sandstorm. They could have held a pencil between them, a toothpick even.
Danny, unaware that his flys were undone and that perhaps this was the reason the strange youth had been so excitable, ran into the nearest shop for safety. He began reading the various publications on offer in this particular establishment as the shopkeeper nervously twitched and sobbed.
After a reading marathon of about three hours, where he had read all he could, and frankly all he wanted to know about "Miniature Teapot Collection", he strode out of the shop, confident that he was king of kings. As he turned his face to the left however, he realised, in horror, that the youth was still there, or at least a similar looking one. Terrified with this renewed sense of insecurity, he dashed away again, across another road, and another, bumping into a one-armed hunchback dwarf who he was not at all startled by for it was his mother.
"Put yer willy away for Christ's sake!" his mother exclaimed, before running into a bus stop several times and then mumbling uncontrollably to herself.
Danny, still startled by this act of extreme violence which could have been perpetrated against him had he been a little hard of hearing, placed his manhood back in its rightful place and scampered off down the road into another similarly themed shop. Busying himself with what was a wider selection of publications, he settled down with a copy of Reader's Wives. A favourite publication of his, it reminded him of many happy occasions he had had lying in his warm, comfortable bed at night.
"Angie, from Walthamstow, 36" he said to himself quietly, after a half-hour intense reading session, and put back next to a copy of the official Gareth Gates magazine.
He got up from his seat atop of a pile of yesterdays Evening Standards and wandered out of the shop content, but still with a slight sense of fear in the back of his mind as he walked slowly down the street, looking behind him as he went.
As he reached number 121, he muttered to himself "Just twelfty more to go and I'm home." He lived at number 87 but he never was very good with numbers.
"AAAAAAAH!" He screamed as he approached his door and heard a noise behind him. Alas, it was only his mother, who had somehow become stuck upside-down in a wheely-bin, knickers round her ankle et al.
"Ye silly woman", he said, pulling her by her knees out and throwing her into another bus stop for he knew how much she loved this.
Entering his house through the backdoor, he exclaimed to the world "I am Danny!, champion of the world!"
By the way, my name is Danny.
One quiet day in a quiet place a young boy named Danny was returning home from a hard days grafting at a schooling institution. It was 26 degrees, the sun was shining, the birds were breeding and he was as happy as a bee, skipping down the road and for some unknown reason singing to himself in a twee Oirish accent. "So I got meeself a combine 'arvester" he sang innocently, no scary thoughts of Matthew Kelly or Michael Jackson even entered his mind.
He swung his bag in the air and caught it, exclaiming "This is the life, I am young and free from all responsibilities which will soon make me cower over a computer all day wondering what I am doing with my life."
When this fair Danny boy approached the corner of his street, a young, Nike-hoody-wearing youth approached him. Ignorant of the fact that anything ever went wrong in life, this young boy inquired:
"Well, what would you be wanting?"
To which the youth replied, with a suspicious looking hand in his pocket.
"Give me yo! money"
"What money would that be? I've no money ye silly boy"
"Do what I say or I'll bore you in your head"
"Bore me with what?" Danny inquired "Your stupendously accurate knowledge of how the length of words in a sentence directly affects the GDP of Tuvalu?"
"Well I got this knife"
"What are ye talking about? ye got no such thing. That pointy thing in your pocket is either your finger or just indication of how much you enjoy my company. I really do hope it's the first one"
"Gimme yo! f***ing money or you'll get bare slaps"
"I really am starting to worry about you."
Danny, pointing behind the youth says
"Look behind you, you big igit."
The youth, who was still unaware of Danny's devious plan looks.
Danny ran like the wind across the long, wide road, almost getting ran over by a brown camper van full of surfers on it's way to Newquay. His ballet lessons were coming in really handy now for he maneuvered around traffic like a young Barishnakov, his tight buttocks clenched beneath his school trousers as tightly as a camels in a sandstorm. They could have held a pencil between them, a toothpick even.
Danny, unaware that his flys were undone and that perhaps this was the reason the strange youth had been so excitable, ran into the nearest shop for safety. He began reading the various publications on offer in this particular establishment as the shopkeeper nervously twitched and sobbed.
After a reading marathon of about three hours, where he had read all he could, and frankly all he wanted to know about "Miniature Teapot Collection", he strode out of the shop, confident that he was king of kings. As he turned his face to the left however, he realised, in horror, that the youth was still there, or at least a similar looking one. Terrified with this renewed sense of insecurity, he dashed away again, across another road, and another, bumping into a one-armed hunchback dwarf who he was not at all startled by for it was his mother.
"Put yer willy away for Christ's sake!" his mother exclaimed, before running into a bus stop several times and then mumbling uncontrollably to herself.
Danny, still startled by this act of extreme violence which could have been perpetrated against him had he been a little hard of hearing, placed his manhood back in its rightful place and scampered off down the road into another similarly themed shop. Busying himself with what was a wider selection of publications, he settled down with a copy of Reader's Wives. A favourite publication of his, it reminded him of many happy occasions he had had lying in his warm, comfortable bed at night.
"Angie, from Walthamstow, 36" he said to himself quietly, after a half-hour intense reading session, and put back next to a copy of the official Gareth Gates magazine.
He got up from his seat atop of a pile of yesterdays Evening Standards and wandered out of the shop content, but still with a slight sense of fear in the back of his mind as he walked slowly down the street, looking behind him as he went.
As he reached number 121, he muttered to himself "Just twelfty more to go and I'm home." He lived at number 87 but he never was very good with numbers.
"AAAAAAAH!" He screamed as he approached his door and heard a noise behind him. Alas, it was only his mother, who had somehow become stuck upside-down in a wheely-bin, knickers round her ankle et al.
"Ye silly woman", he said, pulling her by her knees out and throwing her into another bus stop for he knew how much she loved this.
Entering his house through the backdoor, he exclaimed to the world "I am Danny!, champion of the world!"
"it was intended to be a serious take on social deprivation and crime"
Genius. Just wonderful.
This story is complete lies, except the bit about the oirish accent.
Genius. Just wonderful.
This story is complete lies, except the bit about the oirish accent.
A reply. Finally. It only took thre hours. Jack Bauers.
Three Jack Bauers.
Cat slater.
Cat slater.
That is good
I laughed on many occasions... especially about the GDP from somewhere...
ye
I laughed on many occasions... especially about the GDP from somewhere...
ye
SHEEPY wrote:
> That is good
>
> I laughed on many occasions... especially about the GDP from
> somewhere...
Tuvalu!
A little history from my geography coursework:
The island of Tuvalu is at a risk of complete submersion as a direct result of climate change.
A little fact:
The island of Tuvalu sold the website ending thingny .tv for £50million pounds, three times their GDP. Amazing.
> That is good
>
> I laughed on many occasions... especially about the GDP from
> somewhere...
Tuvalu!
A little history from my geography coursework:
The island of Tuvalu is at a risk of complete submersion as a direct result of climate change.
A little fact:
The island of Tuvalu sold the website ending thingny .tv for £50million pounds, three times their GDP. Amazing.
Tuvalu, the home of the sausage, apparently.
And the pigmy shrew.
And the pigmy shrew.
gerrid wrote:
> Tuvalu, the home of the sausage, apparently.
> And the pigmy shrew.
Who's been doing their research.
> Tuvalu, the home of the sausage, apparently.
> And the pigmy shrew.
Who's been doing their research.
You.
I really do have no idea how this genius didn't win. No idea whatsoever. None. No idea. Whatsoever.
*dies*
*dies*
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