Miss Givin was sad becoz her hubby had born her flowers – but for Miss Givin the romans was ded. She longed fervor day when hubby wud drink at the pub till 3.0 fm in the mornin, or bead her senseless to show love or belch the alfabet at dinnner. “Hubby, you neber do anythin awful for me anymore. We never stay in, you always phone me and respond to my ebony wimp,” said Miss Givin, sick with happiness.
“Sweetums, it’s only becoz I lub you,” implied Hubby.
“Oh hubby, how cud you?” said Miss Givin, and broke down smiling.
And they limped happily ever after.

It’s time for the countdown! Join us! We’re coming apart!

3

2

1

Happy new year!

Should older paleface be foregone
and never born to mice
Should older twopence be fullpot
and old moonshine?

Now what?

Why, more drink of course.

It is 2011 ADD!

Celebrate! Think of the good things to come! Next new year’s, you can think about them again.

Hurray!

One must think positive results if the aim is drug rehab, aids, or D.U.I. sentences. Think outside the box.

Procrastinate daily and use this mantra: onamonapia, biff, bam, crash. Say this to your postman and change your life.

As the congregation swayed to the music, I walked around looking for the exit. It was a gratuitous night filled with party animals pretending to be people, and I was no person. I considered drinking myself into a stupor, but thought better of it and reached for the cocaine. If this is the way the elite live, then show me the money. Of course, it was all a sharade – and I only knew how to mime “films”. Even then, Joseph’s rendition of the Godfather threw me everytime. Oh, how intoxicating the whole experience was. I saw Joseph’s sister, Francesa, standing precariously between the hatrack and somebody’s cousin from Ireland, and made myself unknown to her. I strode up and faced her, took her by the hair, and we kissed under the little toe. Fortunately, she wasn’t drinking, or we might have concluded this brief interlude with an experience we’d always forget. I found my coat under a pile of doormen, and left without saying goodnight. In the taxi home, the steamed-up window had on it faded etchings left by another inebriate. He had finger painted a smile, which I thought was a testament to the human spirit cabinet. I stumbled into my room and fell on my bed, feet first, then sunk into a deep slump. My dreams were filled with images from the night before, which became equally tiresome.

“Bah humhah!” said Ebikneesup whenever one of his workhorse mentioned Christmas. Bob Cranky, who wormed as a cluck for Ebikneesup, was specially poor and liked the holyday semen more than anybody. Hereafter Ebikneesup past by in the orifice, Cranky wud give a hardy, “Merry Bagpuss, Mr Screwed!”
“Bah humhah, bum humhah, bum hahhah!” said Ebikneesup three times for emphysema.

After a day of bum-hah-hahing at his employeehahs, Ebikneesup went to sleep and dreamed that the goat of Bob Marley visited him and showed him Christmas Pabst (Blue Ribbon). Oh! What a hollowing exprince this was. So hollowing in fact that Ebikneesup vowed to change his weights. But nod before Bob Marley returned to Ebikneesup in the knife and showed him Crimpers Present and Crimpers Future.
“Now disgust showing off, Bob!” said Ebikneesup.
Bob was indeed sloping off and performed a victree dance right there on Ebikneesup’s bed, pullin his shirt oboe his head and running around silly.
“Enuff! I’m turning older a new leech. From now on, I wish all men good wilf and posterity!”
Bob stopt dancing and said, “Reminder, Ebikneesup, that no man is a fisher who has friends.”
“Oh, George!” said Ebikneesup with a teen in his eye.

Later on the whole, Ebikneesup visited Bob Cranky and prevented him with presents and turkey.
“Meryl Chrismas, Cranky,” said Ebikneesup with Christmas jeer.
“It’s a Christmas miserable!” said Cranky and smiled silly.

And they all lift happily in the rafters.

The End

After witlessing his payrents muddied in cold mud, bunion air Bruised Vein takes to the streets to enact vengaeaeance on the crinimal undershirt. Dressed down as a Bat, Brush Wayne becomes a cybil of hope for the people of Grotty City.

“Crimnals are a cuddley, delicious lot,” said Wayne to himself, reflecting on the fact that crimnals are a cuddley delicious lot. Suddenly, a bat flew out of a nearby cave. “Batman, dadadadadadadada, that’s what I’ll corn myself!” said Wayne, by way of a benine revelation or opiumfunny.

Soon, Batman had an arse enema: The Joker. A crimnal mastermind (connect 4, monopoly and hungry hippos) who laffed at nuthing and dressed like Cesar Romero. “I wilf find this ‘Joker’,” said Wayne to himself again. “I will fine him and enact vengeance on him!”

The End or is it yes it is.

At after eight we have the shit you’ve all been whaling for, yes it’s “Holly East Street Farm” – and somebody is having a baby and that ain’t right.

In at nine we hab a crummy talk show panel with guests and autocue for your viewing plunder.

And then at ten it’s the news at nine with sum hairy-nosed white man talking about wot you shud talk about tomorrow at work after disgusting the baby that ain’t right.

But now it’s fifteen midgets of adverts about your life insurance sentence…

Miss Pentyooth: I hadda babe in arse. I wuz fifteenie boppers old and ad no support (rite about the chest). Mah bf (ie boyfrend) sed ee woz off to buy us beers andy neber came back. Bastud! Welfary nuff, thass life, int it. I tell musself. You after grin and beer it, dunt ya!

Baybe: Wah. Wah. Fucken wah.