Thursday, 17 June 2010

Wordy Thursday

Me and Robin had a good moan today over a couple of pints in a sunny beer garden. This reminded me of the long email I sent him in reply to another long moan I got from him one evning back in 2003. Clearly, I was just in the mood to write something preposterous and offensive. And obsessed - again - with bowel movements. Aye me. Somethign tells me I will lose more friends than I will gain through this blog.
Hello Mr Misery,

I can't think of anything amusing to say to cheer you up, except a little poem:

'I have a fuzzy tummy,
It makes my bottom runny.'

The Queen told me that. Dear Her Majesty. It's a very little known fact, because the Royals hush it up, but Her Majesty was born with a terrible affliction. She had her bum where her face was supposed to be, and her face where her bum was supposed to be. It was very awkward, and of course she was teased unmercifully at school. All the children called her Bumface; which was most unkind, yet unimaginatively accurate. Still, it hurt poor Lizzie every time she heard it, and a little tear would escape unnoticed into her knickers.

There were many difficulties inherent in having a bum for a face and a face for a bum. Lizzie could hardly see where she was going and kept bumping into people - the first thing they'd know about it was when a pair of cold buttocks were suddenly stuffed into their face. She'd get nylon burns on her nose and was the only girl at school who left green skidmarks in her underwear. At the other end, everyone knew if she'd farted, because you'd see her pucker up beforehand, and the smell would hit you right at nose level. She would often have a poo forgetting to go to the toilet - she always looked like a fat man smoking a cigar when she did that. (However, this did mean she won the Alfred Hitchcock Lookalike contest at Butlins Bognor Regis one year).

The shame was that the Operation she needed to cure her disfigurement was hellishly expensive and her poor parents, a jobbing bog-scrubber and battered fishwife, simply could not afford it. They did buy an 'Operation' game at a car boot sale once, and were convinced that if only they could get the little wishbone out of the red-nosed man's body without it going 'beep' once then their unfortunate daughter would be miraculously cured. But they were always so pissed on rancid potato juice - which they brewed in their own guts and regurgitated for consumption after mealtimes - that their wobbling hands always failed to achieve their goal. At last, after an especially drunken and bleeping evening, poor Lizzie broke down sobbing, and blew big brown bogies into her lacy handkerchief, while her knickers got all wet.

But the very next day, the miracle happened. Lizzie won Being Queen on a Lottery scratch card and the crucial operation was paid for by a stupid nation. A Greek millionaire called Philip had already fallen in love with the deformed girl after seeing her on a TV Windsor documentary about her plight - he had been immediately attracted by the idea of being able to bugger a woman standing up. He was too late to indulge in this convenience, however, but honoured his pledge by marrying her anyway, and buggering her in the mandatory fashion - bent over the back of a polo pony while a pack of wild corgies licked his bobbling bollocks.

So, all ended happily. Except for those of us who thoroughly enjoyed laughing at Bumface and were sorry to see her cured (but relieved that her real face turned out to be almost as ugly). Personally, I feel sure the seething proletariat would have been delighted to lick a stamp with the Queen's bum on it, so I feel they should have left well alone.

But at least she was still able to appreciate a good bum joke, God bless her.

And that's my little story, which I didn't know I'd write. Thank goodness for the fat man smoking a cigar joke, which I first heard when I was nine years old or thereabouts and still makes me smile.

See you tomorrow or the next day.

Hugs and pisses,


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