- ← Previous Story
Story No. 636
-
Group:
- Next Story →
"It's called dramatic irony..." said Greg Dyke, slowly turning to the monitor, as he pulled at his beard mutinously (yes dear readers, that IS possible) he directed his gaze on to the visage of Sophie Raworth, and laughed a low laugh. Reaching for a Ginst
he thought to himself what exactly is a ginst? Upon perusal of his dictionary he found that it’s a poorly constructed pastry parcel containing offal and vegetable trimmings traditionally served lukewarm after a brief spell in a dirty microwave. The packet
of age-old Bourbons had the brittle texture of a geriatrics bone, and an aftertaste slightly reminiscent of
his childhood in the rat infested markets of east london where he was soddomised by the elderly in exchange for cream crackers. Ever since he couldn’t even look at a cream cracker. The sight of them made him
immediately loose control of his bowels, lending him the appearance of a rather pitiful and wretched
kitten...who it should be noted was both pitiful and wretched due to an extended time on the spin cycle of the washing maching. Hugo (a distant cousin) thought it best to use this kitten as his alibi, but found that a near-dead cuddly animal was a poor
Rositatatata
coathanger fingers
Raaaa
