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Story No. 1015
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Oliver was a precocious youngster. By the age of 6 he constructed a scale model of Angelina Joliet's inner ear. By 8 he'd scaled the mountainous peaks of Aberystwyth. By the age of 9 he had composed
none could compare to Scarletti's sonata in D-Major for the keyboard. Entranced, we put our hands in our armpits and, as a fart ensemble, played along to the slower bits with our very best fart sound effects. The critic from the Times
who had naff-all idea about classical music what-so-ever. I once owned an accordion playing orangutang, but I discovered it was fake, when I found it
up the vicar's arse, covered in jizz, and with a note from the Bishop scrawled over it saying, 'thankyou dear for a loveley time.' Hmmm...I thought, ticked all the boxes there.
"Dont mention ticking boxes! I've had several bad experiences with mailbombs. Just bad luck I suppose"
...'yes just bad luck, but for that you must die'. There was a gunshot and whatsisname went down, dead. Dead as a dodo, or some other extinct species. Was it fate? I scratched my arse as I pondered these events. Bugger! I said and got the bus home.
Vern Acula
Crowfeeder
The Bishop of Southwark
grundylezimbra
