Disco pig – Halloween specialPosted: 31/10/2013 Filed under: Disco Pig | Tags: chart, Disco Pig, funny, halloween, music, spooky Leave a comment
Whoooooo…. WhoooOOOOooooo…. WhhhoooooooooOOOO! Nah, is not a ghost! Is me, Disco pig coming atcha like spooky pair a dungarees! Totally!
Disco pig, he loves Halloween coz he gets to do some of that Trick or Treatin’. Last year, some geezer on da posh estate, he bin tellin’ us that we not getting no treat, so we came back later and we treat us to his car keys! He be handin’ out da Haribo like a good boi dis year me think!
Disco pig also be playin’ up at the community centre lataz at the annual Monster Mosh, and here are some of da hauntin’ hoof hammerers me be playin!
The Decapitation Brothers – Don’t lose your head (down the back of the sofa)
Fright Train – Hell soulless sister
The Multifunctional Vampires – The JML bloodlust jamboree
The Clanking Chains – Comin’ off the sprocket
Day-Zee ft. Mad Fitt – Bryony, the Zombies are back again. I’ll tell them to try the Patterson’s next door
Schrilllllooricxxxx – Even monsters had mums once
Spectral Bookies – All bats are off
The Curse of Miss Malaprop – Prick or feet
The Jason Voorhees Ensemble – Why can’t I just meet a nice lady and settle down?
Pendulous – Calor gas night terrors
The Gangrenous Toads – Hubble double trouble
The Michael Jackson Puppetry Theatre – Thriller 2013 (strung-up mix)
Poetry cornerPosted: 25/10/2013 Filed under: Poetry corner | Tags: Frankenstein, funny, halloween, monster, poetry, shoddy, strange 3 Comments
The Shoddy Monster – by Chesney Flatiron
He had never seen a nose,
Look quite as strange as that,
A question to him it did pose,
A thinking under hat
Now he looked the ears were poor,
The eyes were not all there,
Feet that shouldn’t touch the floor,
And hands that were not paired
The more he looked the more he found,
The faults the fizgog featured,
The torso it was far too round,
A funny looking creature
Because the stitching was so rough,
This time he’d save the lightning,
Formaldehyde’s expensive stuff,
The next beast would be frightening
Thought of the week with the very Reverend Dr Robert CarolgeesPosted: 22/10/2013 Filed under: Thought for the week | Tags: Blue tits, grandfather clock 2 Comments
As I sit reclining in my solid oak chair with its upholstery stuffed with the fur of a now deceased troop of lowland Gorillas, I am reminded of the time when the church was regarded by the common sod as the great provider of not only spiritual, but also political guidance. That year was 1981 and I was but a youngish man who spent his time catching butterflies in a shrimping net, drinking cherry pop and bopping along to the latest record from that Sunday night’s hit parade countdown, possibly hosted by Bruno Brookes, although Bruno’s rise to become the go-to DJ at Radio One may have come much later, I don’t really recall.
The haze my father’s bi-annual garden clear-up bonfire created back in those days may also have clouded my current musings on Bruno’s rise to fame. What is certain is that the bonfire used to cause our neighbours at the time, the Fortiscue-Cummers, all manner of issues. Strictly speaking, Mr Fortiscue-Cummers was a Major, a title afforded to him during his time serving as a Chaplain in the Korean War, where he scattered pastoral comfort to the men of the Royal Artillery like a buck-toothed farmer spreads his seed.
Mr Fortiscue-Cummers and his good lady wife, Davina, took every opportunity the daylight hours offered them to praise and worship our Lord. So devout were they that they often eschewed clothing in order to be ‘close to Adam’ and ‘close to Eve’. Mr Fortiscue-Cummers would often lean over the garden fence, dressed only in a Tyrolean felt hat and a swirl of Old Virginia pipe tobacco smoke, to offer my father good-natured instruction as he bent and stooped to gather the garden detritus ready for the autumnal blaze we all so enjoyed. Given I was but a lad, the hole in the fence created when a knot of wood fell from it during a winter storm was at a rather disadvantageous height and, had I dared to peek through, it would have no doubt revealed a lot more than Mr Fortiscue-Cummers’ stance on the teachings to be found in Deuteronomy.
Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon, Mr Fortiscue Cummers would order Davina to prepare hot crumpets and tea and would invite me around next door for a bible reading. In fact my first ever bible still resides with me today in my parochial lodgings so beautifully furnished for me by my parishioners. It rests on the book shelf above the tank holding Moses, my pet Amazonian Catfish which was a gift to me from the diminutive and quite aggressive South American tribes people I spent time with during my years in the missionary position in their village. By the time I left their rare and exotic homeland they had had fibre optic broadband installed so I felt proud that my time there had helped them to progress spiritually. Being there and assisting them on their journey to find the Lord had really been all the thanks I needed, but the gift of Moses was a pleasant if slightly awkward token of their thanks to me. He is looking quite sad these days, and Gumpert, my live-in helper, has clearly decided that caring for Moses is no longer his responsibility judging by the green dankness sliding down the poor part-amphibian’s glass tank walls.
Just as I made a mental note to speak to Gumpert about Moses’ dishevelled quarters, he burst into my conservatory-cum-nook looking beetroot red with agitation. With his hair looking lank and with rather large dark circles under his eyes, Gumpert appeared to be in no better state than poor Moses, who just at that moment had glooped lazily to the surface of his slime tank to grasp what turned out to be an imaginary morsel of food. I could only think my sinewy companion was exhausted from his endeavours the day before. It had been another wet day across Biffordshire and Gumpert had plumped to spend it in his room choosing a new wallpaper and duvet set with the man from the Haberdashers in the village. They certainly had been hard at it given the thumping and banging which emanated from his quarters for the best part of the day.
My lithe South American domestic took no notice of poor Moses’ mucoid mouthings and proceeded with very little ado to explain the cause of his ire. As he did so he gesticulated that I should follow him pass the oak landing tablette, so generously provided to me by my parishioners, over the Persian carpeted stairs, past the mahogany style portmanteau at the foot of the stairs and into the living room, which was now bathed in the most glorious mid-afternoon light. Gumpert, who had managed to multi-task by walking down the stairs while rolling one of his foul smelling Moroccan cigarillos, had slumped into an arm chair and simply nodded towards the cause of his irritation. Following his gaze I could see that a small bird, a tit, if my ornithological senses were correct, had managed to somehow secure access to the house and was now sitting atop the oak Grandfather clock so kindly provided to me by my parishioners. Wisely Gumpert had already opened the large bay window, through which such excellent views of the Biffordshire Downs are afforded. Despite Gumpert’s best efforts to coax the flighty creature from its perch using a towel and an overripe avocado, a gift to the bird he later explained, it had refused to budge.
Suddenly a beam of ethereal light shone in through the open bay window and struck the face of the Grandfather clock, before it slowly moved down to reflect gloriously from the clock’s chiming mechanism. My path suddenly became clear. Why, just waiting for the venerable and well varnished time piece to strike would surely be enough to encourage the tit to accept the chance of freedom so graciously provided to it by Gumpert. As I looked at Gumpert, my heart fair burst with pride at his empathetic stance towards our unheralded visitor, particularly as small, feathery birds are quite the delicacy in his home village. Within moments, the clanging chime of the clock struck and the tit raced through the open window and into the bright afternoon sky. Verily, the Lord doth move in mysterious ways!
- The Very Reverend Archbishop Dr Robert Carolgees will be signing copies of his new book Bath time with the Angels at the Clump Cineplex, Bowling and Tiddlywink Alley next Friday. Asthmatics are asked to book in advance.
MonekyBroth classifiedsPosted: 18/10/2013 Filed under: Monkeybroth classifieds | Tags: classifieds, for sale, foxes, hydraphobia, molluscs, P.M. Dawn Leave a comment
End of the world Headphones
I’ve got a pair of P.M. Dawn branded headphones for sale. These are the noise cancelling model but unfortunately, the noise cancelling function has developed a fault which means that they cancel their own noise out. This causes an audio paradox that threatens the fabric of space and time. May be fixable.
Free to a collector – call Derrick Shambles on Skunchton 687451
Great condition with only slight cosmetic damage. Terrified of water but can be used for inflating very small hot air balloons. Alopecia forces reluctant sale.
£12 ono – email me on firstname.lastname@example.org
In only lightly foxed condition, this fox has a lovely face, can erect a marquee in only 15 seconds and has been taught proper table manners – none of that elbows on the table tat you get with lesser foxes. Due to reduced circumstances, I am unable to finish this fox but he only needs a few skills to make him the full package. First to see will buy!
Phone or Fox Sandra Spandex – Cleft 454547
Outrageously small molluscs
Due to civic unrest, I have a warehouse full to the doorstop in outrageously small molluscs for knock-down prices! ‘How small?’ I hear you ask! They are even more outrageously small than my sale on incredulously miniscule Italian grandmothers last week. Yes, they really are that outrageously small! Discount for bulk purchases over 35 grams.
Call Fred MacAspoon – Baffle 110010
O restaurante que a minha mãe atirou em um homem emPosted: 11/10/2013 Filed under: Monkeybroth cuisine | Tags: eating, funny, Portugal, Portuguese, resturant Leave a comment
Come dine at Thrunk’s finest Portuguese restaurant – right next door to Thrunk’s second finest Portuguese restaurant in Rumbelows Lane.
We cater to all shapes and genders regardless of nationality or pet ownership (no dogs please). We are also farm machinery-friendly and operate strict no groping zones at each end of the premises.
Cautious Goujons with a mudcat terrine
Little tiny Brian Blessed cakes
A surprised marmot with fried potato strips
A bilious of tarmac with flotsam and jetsam coulis
Hermetically sealed hermit with a shy salad
Fame! cutlet with live for ever fries
Flame grilled Saturn with onion rings
Pudding will be…
…having an epiphany
Please ensure that you are who you say you are and not an imposter pretending to be who you aren’t. Thank you for your understanding.
Poetry corner…. because you’re worth itPosted: 11/10/2013 Filed under: Poetry corner | Tags: bees, foxes, I've lost my cardigan no wait there it is Leave a comment
By Arbuthnot Turbo
Bees, Bees, Bees
Are quite blind did you know?
I do experiments on them see, put them all in a row
I’ve made a little sign out of wood and chalk, didn’t cost much money
In tiny writing I’ve scrawled ‘Over here if you want free honey’
I then asked them to move that way if they were able
But not one bee, not one! responded
In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have nailed them all to the table
My life is a rollercoaster
By Sue Pernoodle
Foxes, Foxes, Foxes
Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes, Foxes
My life is a rollercoaster,
Foxes, Foxes, Foxes
Rock Stars in the morningPosted: 04/10/2013 Filed under: Rockstars in the morning... | Tags: ALice Cooper, fiction, morning, rock, Star Leave a comment
Number 4: Alice Cooper
Alice Cooper’s Dad: Hey Alice, did ya sleep well champ?
Alice Cooper: Not so good Dad. Not so good…
Alice Cooper’s Dad: Is it the nightmares again son?
Alice Cooper: Yeah, the big boys were chasing me again and this time, they almost caught me.
Alice Cooper’s Dad: Aww son, I feel for you I sure do. Did you bring your bedding down with ya sport?
Alice Cooper: Yeah Dad… sorry….
Alice Cooper’s Dad: Don’t be sorry son. It’s just a phase big guy.
Bless… He was a troubled youth wasn’t he eh? More completely spurious Rock Star post-nocturnal tales soon folks!