Apologies for the continuance of the blog hiatus, for The Xym hath been busy catching up on work, projects and televisual treats.
And now the fat boy is ill.
Oh, so very ill.
Cough! Splutter! (Cor, an exploding front door!)
So futher bloglitude may be delayed as I snuggle up on the sofa in my Jack Skellington fleecey throw with a mug of milky coffee and a box of tissues, ploughing through flameybummed insecture, easily mistaken for mountain hooterage, 5 wobbly headed warblers, simian seekers of enlightenment and the reign of bovine munchery.
However, time must be taken to marvel at Norfolk Nazi's of Third Reich Yarmouth, terrorizing people in their string vests with electro-dildos in the gob as they parade round in their pants and tights.
Whart the facking heoulll? Give me the Spear Of Vaginas ewe cawksuhkahr! Get that fahking thing oot moy face, ewe pervahrt!
And that was just Saturday! Further visual carnage lacking thesbian ability is the delight of Sunday Night!
Filth based preposterous rock nonsense! A pretext for boobifications of the highest order and the lezzing up thereof. Truly, 10 minutes of Goth Porn is enough for anyone - betentacled rapage by cartoon gothicles due to self-Rohypnolization, and more juggage than a jugged up juggler juggling jugs in jiggling jugfest of jugs.
Not to mention the most gratuitous of Obligatory Nudie Shower Scene.
But the creme de la gateaux is yet to come! The finest trailer in the world! A kid by a door... A face of an him-out-of-supernatural-resemblance... a slamming door... then... a single tap of a nail into the wall.
Oh, the terror! The terrible, terrible, terror!
And of course, being in a shuttered living room, it had to be watched. G'aaah! Trans-dimensional window displacement and the playing of Ye Olde Musick Of Ye Spheres through a french tarts arms. Not to mention Le Harry Potteur getting nobbage from Ye Olde French Serving Wench as some French trollop dissolves into spunky concrete for a young French lad to dip his balls into (who's actually her French husband when he grows up)
And back home to watch some Old Skool 80s classics - Ah, Angela's dance to Stigofthedump Martyr . Gloriously atrocious acting, wonderfully appalling script, Spectacularly bad FX! Oh, the joys of so bad it's brilliant!
"I'd rather take Stooge."
"What? You gotta be kidding!"
"You heard the lady! She wants a REAL man guarding her charms!"
"But... Stooge is a fat pig!"
"Maybe I'm in the mood for pork tonight!"
"OINK! OINK!"
And now, The Xym is all woeful in the snuffles and headaches and coughage that is The Plague. And (I got the poison, I got) the remedy to be ready for Nephage on Sat is to infect the workers during the day, and spend the evenings up at The Great Northern & Packards Saw Mill.
Norwich really needs a One Eyed Jacques, with all my Pretties contained therein.
Maybe I'll have to have a word with Starbucks... get my St Stephens perving perch converted to a brothelesque boudoir for my harem to frequent in as little dress as possible.
Or just a little dress.
With big black leather boots.
Or something...
