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Story No. 1093
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The black cat crossed my path, somewhat smugly, but as I doing 50mph, it wasn't smug for very long. I lashed the flattened corpse onto my fender and drove dinner home, ready to casserole.
There was a shout through the window, "Casserole my fat smelly arse." I looked and it was the vicar, drunk as usual on a Tuesday morning. He had recently taken to shouting abuse at the villagers through their kitchen windows. Usually the abuse was
from my mother and father but today grandad McGee joined in with some senile insult " you mah boi
......Well! he couldn't have said it any more perfectly. The accent had us all in stitches. Gregory, the young boy who had gotten a splinter in his eye last winter from Mrs Roftersons wooden leg explosion, was throwing up his marshmallows.
I however was throwing up small indian midgets, throwing them up into the air that is, catching them on the way back down then
firmly pulled back the four skins.
- Contributors:
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Crowfeeder -
The Bishop of Southwark -
ultimatetaffy -
Vern Acula -
the butcher
[ See who wrote what ]
