Cisterns Of Mercy...

It's just a pop quiz

We do sometimes

A pop quiz

Sometimes

Xym ends up writing

Every time

Pinki writes one too

But there's...

(No no no) No time to listen

(No no no) No time to sit and scribe

(No no no) Which question are we on?

(No no no) No time to write

Sometimes when the round's complex

You have to write in convolutions

Just do what Kelvin says

(whose rules are hard to understand)

It's not just writing band and artists

It's chart positions, connections

What did you expect for Covers

Original Artists as well! 

It's...

(No no no) No time to listen

(No no no) No time to sit and scribe

(No no no) Fill out that one we missed!

(No no no) No time to write

Every clip is much to short

Every answer's much too long

Sometimes I must jump back

And amend that one what's wrong

And I have...

Every clip is much to short

Everyone shouts out at once

Sometime's I still can't hear

Diff'rent answers blend as one 

And I have...

(No no no) No time for marking

(No no no) No time to add up scores

(No no no) They've marked us wrong again!

(No no no) No time to write

Cymbals clashing everywhere...

Well, not so much cymbals, more gongs.

As ever, we came fourth in the final, last ever quiz (which may end in a month or three). However, it has been an evening of much oriental mirth.

The Fu Manchu moustchios!

The audio accompanyment to pop hits not only in "club singer" style, but also in new improved stereotypical chinafolk "Crub singer" style! Fu Xym Chu performs top ten tasteless tracks...

...although I'm not sure which is more tasteless. Xym being all flied lice and pwarnee clackers in musical styree, or the Quizmaster playing a triplicity of Glittery goodness, such as, Papa Oooh Mau-mau¹, Doing Alright With The Boys² and Hello Hello I'm Back Again³.

Anyhoo, more orientalism, as a quick stop for some Duck Fried Rice and Spring Roll's to curb my anxiety attack of potential job loss this week.

So, as I sit here, stuffing me great fat face full of Daffy^4, that "tomorrows headlines in the paper" feature is on the tellybox.

Apparently, unlike Bernard Nolan, Murray Walker overcame his F1 cancer and for the first time in 77 years, won the coveted Womble's Bum. Or was it the first time since 1977 a Womble was on the telly, let alone it's bum. Although it's bum probably wasn't left alone - I'll leave that one for Operation Eeeeew Tree.

And Murray won on the 7^th day of the 7^th month too! And with that "77" yeary thing floating about, it makes him either an Antichrist or a Messiah. Or a mechanic on a Marussia when he's not commentating. or something.

Point is, these headlines were claiming that Murray's fans are demanding he's given a gong!

Presumably so he can strip down to a loincloth, and give it a good Rank bashing to get the chinese to serve up his meal of things that the everyday folk left behind that the savvy chef's gathered up and bunged in the pot noodle.

Gongs my arse! I think they mean "awards". However, I've noted that a lot of people on the tellybox say "And such-and-such a twat is up for a gong at the Shits" or "That actor (who's female but we can't call an actress because it's politically incorrect) is up for a gong for their performance of Miss Congeniality 3: Pimarché (where ♥Sandra Bollock♥ plays an undercover cop who detects dodgy dealings, this time in tight leggings showing off her swipe card reader to full effect)".

NO!

A gong is not an award. The term comes from them talent shows in the Black & Whites (60s?) when instead of Simon Cowell whacking Danni Minogues button for a big fat X, they banged a gong to stop the act coz it was SHIT.

So, you get a gong for being UTTER SHITE! And now, these so-called "celebs" are eager to get their mitts on a gong! And now, someone's fans are demanding that some scotchman who whacks his balls over a fence at Womble's Bum has to get a gong for winning? Surely you have to be good to be a winner, so deserves an award?

Honestly, these young folk today, and their dissin'!

"Yeah, he won Womble Bum - but I'd've rang that gong in round #1 and stopped the match, coz he's shit. I don't care about his number one seed... unless he spills it me strawberries, then the missus can have his cream."

Gongs my best hat!

¹ HEY JEFF - TELL 'EM T'JOKE ABOUT MAU-MAU. PINEAPPLES! UP THE ARSE! DEATH BY MAU-MAU! ON A SIMILAR NOTE, IN THIS CONTEXT, THIS SONG TITLE IS VIETNAMESE FOR "WHO'S THE DADDY? OOOH! TAKE IT UP THE ARSE, YOU UNDERAGE TOURIST SEXTRAP!". POSSIBLY. 

² VIETNAMESE BOYS, IN ALL LIKELYHOOD. AND DOING ALRIGHT... UNTIL HE GOT CAUGHT BY THE PÆDO POLICE!

³ BACK AGAIN IN VIETNAM ON THE PROWL FOR JAILBAIT. ALLEGEDLY.

⁴ DUCK, AS IN DAFFY DUCK. NOT DAPPY OUT OF N-DUBZ. ALTHOUGH I WOULDN'T MIND HAVING ME FACE FULL OF TULISA! THEM TWO LISA'S BEING LISA RODGERS AND ... UM... SOME OTHER FAMOUS LISA. THERE MUST BE ANOTHER... URGH - NOT LISA TARBUCK. NOR LEFT-EYE LOPEZ, COZ SHE'D BE A BIT WORMY BY NOW. LISA STANSFIELD... MAYBE? PLEASE SEND SUGGESTIONS FOR FAMOUS LISA'S XYM CAN'T REMEMBER THE SURNAMES OF WHO HE WOULDN'T MIND HAVING A FACE FULL OF TO XYM'S EMAIL. WITH PHOTOSHOPPED IMAGES OF NUDIE LISA'S. OR SOMETHING. OOOH - LISA KUDROW! LISA FRANKEDELSTEIN! 

Three, is the magic number...

Third!

We came turd!

We ALWAYS come fourth. Even when there's more than four teams (which is rather rare now).

We actually came the runner-up's runner up!

And a can of Strongbow to boot!

Third!

AND by a huge margin as well!

Hells Bells!

Perhaps we may even venture out into other quizes again. Mayhap even get back into the ole Katie Turnstile routine of The Black Whores then The Cherry Tree.

Whoo-hoo!

She's in Panties, (she's in her pants)¹...

Oh deary me!

My once beautiful calligraphically of scriptage has almost gone!

*shakes fist at omnipotent deity of choice* "Damn you, Generic Deity To Avoid Offence, for inventing pop quizzes!"

See, once, I had the most gorgeous copperplatery of flowing glyphs, and thusly I was appointed The One What Has To Write The Answers Down That Are Being Incoherently Whispered By Several People All At Once (And Not Just For The Current Question, Whilst Everyone Is Simultaneously Backtracking Over Past Questions And You End Up Missing Most Of The Next Track Because There's No Time Left To Write Out The Preposerously Long Named Track They Chose).

As a result, my impressive handiwork has devolved into a barely legible scrawl not dissimilar to the now legendary spider trampling through and inkwell and performing Michael Jackson's Thriller all over the answer sheet.

And, as you can see by today's blog title, there can be some confusion when interpreting certain top pop goth hits.

Of course, there will be those out there who immediately cry "Typical Xym - subconsious pervature!"......but hold on... I wrote "She's In Parties" - SOMEONE ELSE read it as "She's In Panties". How come it's my comedy pervature that springs to mind, when it's what THEIR subconsious mind read, the great carpet munching knicker licker lezza!

Oh, I'm so misunderstood, me...

[Kelly's voice:} "No, Xym, you're not! We just know you too well"...

¹ THERE SHE LIES
   IN THE RAIN
   UNDERGARMENTS BY MARKS AND LA SENZA
   THEY'RE GUSSET PROOF
   NO CAMEL HOOF

   SHE'S IN PANTES (SHE'S IN HER PANTS)
   SHE'S IN PANTES (SHE'S IN HER PANTS)

   LATEX CORSET
   HOT PANTS AND A PUBIC WIG
   FOUR BRA'S TUMBLE ON THE CHANGING ROOM FLOOR
   BARE FREE BOTH HER DIRTY PILLOWS

   SHE'S IN PANTES (SHE'S IN HER PANTS)
   SHE'S IN PANTES (SHE'S IN HER PANTS)

   THERE SHE LIES
   IN THE RAIN
   UNDERGARMENTS BY MARKS AND LA SENZA
   FREEZE FRAME
   STEAM HISS
   WET T-SHIRT
   XYM'S SEWER MIND'S BLATANTLY OBVIOUS...
   ...etc, etc...

What's that cumming over the hill...

Ooooh!

Tiger, tiger, carving stripes,

In the follicle forest of Xym's hair-sides,

What has hairdresser's hand & eye,

Mapped in fearful Xymmetry?

Oh, no Xymmetry, apart from Sahara safari beastial markings! For no matching stripe, but instead the furry shell of the Leopard-tortoise!

See Xym in the bush, foraging as his follicles blend into beastly background as he hunts a fox!

Or somet'ing.

Anyhoo, new plumage is taken off to the soul-deadening atmosfear of ye Cherry Tree. Oh, ye singularity of staff slowly serving suppers of cider¹ as the endless quiz of 40 questions in three hours drags on...

...but not last night! Oh no!

Firstly - previous winnings are missing! What? No record of our 8 pints of celebratory quaffage? I demands my drinklets! And lo, inebriation was provided.

And sit...

And sit...

And sit...

And sit...

And Ooooohhhh... new quiz format! Revamped from being Shit to... A Bit Less Shit But Still Shit! Here, take our participational pennies, and enroll us whilst we persuse Round #2's Images Of Pop Tarts.

What's that? We're the only team here so far? I know the misery of past drawn-out quizzes have alienated just about everyone until just 2 teams remain (with 1 or 2 random quizzing feasters each week), but just us three? Oooh - that means we win the Top Prize!

No, Mr Quizmeister - don't go and check. We win! Simples! Look, we've done Round #2, so we're in! No don't ask if Management will offer to refund our £1 entry fee - we wants our winnings!

And sit...

And sit...

And sit...

And sit...

And Ooooh, hello Quizmeister! Has anyone else turneded up then? No? Why, we all gets great big fat feck off meals then! Whey-hay! What's this? Our £1s back? Boo! For Shame!

Oh well, we'll quaff up and sod off then!

Ah, here's me taxi. Oh, goodbye Landlady? What's that? "Sorry about the quiz. But I've just been SACKED. Dunno if there'll be a quiz in a couple of weeks, who knows, I don't, I don't care, they just SACKED me!"

Oh dear. Oh Damn. Oh more false Xympathy... HA! Serves you right for drawing out the quiz to try and dehydrate everyone in order to squeeze more hard earned pennies out of their pockets and into your coffers in exchange for beverages you miserable old witch!

Oh dear. Oh dear, Oh dear. No more quizzes then. Ain't that a shame!

No more having to trek all the way out to Costessey on a bus to sit in silence for an hour, before other team members arrive, then have to scoff a feast whilst consuming free beer, then the awful, soul-destroying slowness of the quiz that seems to last a million years (instead of just 3 hours) before the long taxi back and realising you've missed Derren Brown's Svengali and the finalé of Hell's Kitchen...

...still, at least my Tuesdays are now free again for the Bad DVD nite, and I have a Killer Cock movie...

...and yes, I mean Killer Cock as in non-Chicken cock. A murderous manhood. A detatched dongler. A self-aware, slaughterous schlong separated from the body and on the prowl.

Where the fuck do you find this Shite, Xym?

This one I picked up in Poundland!

Yes, family favourite Poundland are selling a DVD about a disembodied psychotic todger on a murderous rampage!

I wonder if they still sell Poundland Porn...

Yes... that's a man choking on another man's cock...

Hold on... weren't them kids looking for One Eyed Willie in The Goonies?
The Fratellis? The Pæedo Tellies more like!
"Come 'ere kids! I want some of yer booty, now show us your hidden One Eyed Willie..."

¹OTHER BEVERAGES ARE AVAILABLE.

I hear thunder through the floor...

Ah, the joy of pleasure followed by the inevitable downfall of a Sting in the tail.

Damn you Policeman!

Pocket pilfered by Pretties for pennies to purchase Paralympian pop performances. Well, once in a lifetime experience of closing cermenonials. There be the endorfun-filled pleasure and excitement. Rhianna & Jay-Z... well, not top of my musical taste-tree, but no matter.

But that joy be tempered with the fact I now know I'll be confined into a Stadium, and punished with pop plonker C**** M***** and his aural rapey C******y crapitudinal cacophony.

But then it's later, and it not The Black Whore's, but lose-your-Cherry Tree (whoo-hoo!, interrupts Katie Turnstile).

Alas, my regularity of tablature has been snaffled! Where to sit... ah, here on the sofa opposite the reserved for 18th birthday girlie party! Mwah ha ha ha ha!

OH MY! Here comes a Pretty and her not-as-pretty [girl?]friend. Ogley, ogley, oh god they've gone into the other section so I can't ogle 'em up!

And here come mein other quizllings for quaffage of inebriatory winnings with a side order of slow service.

And here comes 18th birthday babe and her gaggle of girlies....

...oh. Forget that. It's Jeremy Kyle family fodder. Gobbyarse mother with a brood of facially repellant feral piglets with a birthday swine in an ill-fitting almost transparent tent.

Walking about with cake on a plate. Frequently replenished.

Ah - happy 18th birthday... on the basis that each 14lb has it's own celebratory "birthday"! And we all know women like to lie about their age, so she's probably knocked a few stone off for good measure. With her waist measured in feet, not inches.

"Go on Xym, " quoth the Drake, "Haggard old-before-her-time 18 tonne drunken porker... I mean Bubbly 18yr woman! You're right in there! Go over and slip her a birthday present"
* notes the ripple rings in the pint glass as it stampedes by *
"Nah, think I'll give Jurassic Pork a miss. Just looking at the troll has blown my candle out"
"Just bend it over the table - don't have to look at it then!"
"Yeah - just have to do it like they do on the Discovery Channel. On that Coal show. A huge drilling excavator to bore my way in and shore it up first"
"Any port in a storm, Xym, any port in a storm"
"That's no moon.. .that's an arse the size of a space station! That's no port - that's an entire harbour with a docked tanker. And a cruise ship. With several lorries full to the brim delivering cream cakes to the galley for the voyage."

Even the mammoth mater is voicing doubt at her parentage whilst her hog in amoré is off at the bar, snuffling for truffles and more cake (they'd only had 2 huge gateauxs). "I don't believe she's mine, " says the Behemoth to her gathered Gorgons "she looks nothing like me¹. I think there was a mix up at the hospital, and my baby was switched. My child is probably having her 18th with some other family and not squealing behind the bar."

For said offspring had been encouraged to find a rôle in life - a worthwhile job.

Mum's suggestion - pull pints in pubs.

Hence the tubster being trained in handpulling on a pump.

But what's this - pub prostitutes! Some lone harlot, sat at the bar, sipping on a pint. I've seen them American TV shows like Columbo and stuff - whorebait often sits on stools at bar to pull a John for 10 mins.

And lo and behold, if the slack-drawered strumpet didn't keep nipping off for a "fag break" with some bloke in the car park. Or the toilets. Puffing on his personal cigarette for money, the dirty cow!

"50p to you, guv'nor!"
"Go on Xym, chat up that... thing!"

No way dude - I'm too busy with this quiz.

A quiz made somewhat difficult for lack of a stereo. A replacement stereo being somewhat worse for wear. A psychic stereo that channelled the spirit of Normal Collier of "comedy" fame. The talents of:
● WALKING about like a CHICKEN;
● TALKING whilst WINDING up an imaginary CAR WINDOW so his voice gets quieter to silence;
And last nights stereo recreation
● The MICROPHONE that keeps skipping and cutting out!

A stuttering mic, a "hotel lobby wine bar" Lady Of The Night weeping into her beer, the birthday Brachiosaurus and her sauropod siblings stampeding about the place as the brontosaurial breeders what bred 'em on pie, cake and beer.

Still - came out with another 8 free pints for next time!

Result!

¹EXCEPT SHE DID. THEY WERE SO OBVIOUSLY MOTHER & DAUGHTER. SO SIMILAR. LIKE TWO IDENTICAL VAST CONDOMS FILLED WITH CUSTURD...

"Quiz" they cried "at the pub in Costessey!"

So long, since last time
Sit here in the pub at night
Forsaken by Curtii
Slow, Slow, Slow
Plead for speed!
Sitting here in the pub all night
t'go home would be so nice

Pace o' this Quizzery

Such a mistake

Slapping my face, t'keep me awake

So slow, so slow, f-f-f-fuckin' slow!

Sip our beers, Bored to tears
Should start at 8
Starts at 9
Sitting here I can hear the cries
Of fat birds, oversized
Sitting here I'm just wanting to die
Ancient tunes plague me hour after hour
I'm sat here in a quiz that's so dire
All I hear: Why'm I here?

Poor old Xymoni

With both o'the Drakes

Speed of this quiz

Won't keep us awake

So slow, so slow, f-f-f-fuckin' slow!

Slow

Don't go!

Don't go, please don't!

Don't go!

Don't go...aaaarrrggh!

So slow, so slow, f-f-f-fuckin' slow!

Bury my face into my hands

Weep.

But on the plus side, we did win 8 pints of inebriage betwixt the three of us... which means another punishing session of o'erlong repeated snippets of snooze. At least alcohol will help us get through the long... drawn out... interminably dull... harpy screeching... pause-ridded... never-ending quiz.

Won't it?

NB: I JUST REALISED THIS SHOULD'VE GONE UP YESTERDAY. FOR SOME REASON, I THOUGHT THIS WAS LAST NIGHT - IT WASN'T. IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE. SO WTF DID I DO LAST NIGHT? I HAS NO MEMORY OF IT! I COULD' VE SWORN THIS WAS LAST NIGHT! I REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP HALF WAY THROUGH AUDITION, BUT THOUGH I STARTED WATCHING IT AFTER I GOT IN FROM THE NON-CHEERY TREE! CLEARLY I DIDN'T... MUST'VE PASSED INTO A TEMPORAL FUGUE ONCE I LEFT WORK... OR GOTS ABDUCTED BY SPACE MONSTERS ONCE MORE, AND MY MEMORY WIPED! OR MY BOTTOM WIPED, AFTER THEIR ANAL PROBINGS. OR SOMETHING.

Foul, whose fiery eyes burn deep into you busom's core...

and Xym's eyes have all the seeming

of a demon's that is dreaming

Urgle - Nightmare yesterday! Awakened to find my eyes are 50 Shades of Eyeshadow...

NO! STOP!

Apparently, I'm obsessed with 50 Shades of [random item]. Not that it matters, coz people don't read any of this coz "It's a bit weird innit. Goes right over me head, it does! Can't be arsed with it. Nor the great fat fool what writes such drivel. Mental, he is. And a sex perv. Steer clear of The Xym!"

As if!

I know it's still called Blogger Obscura, but it ain't half as impenetrably obscure as it used to be¹

Oh well. Anyhoo, in other news - I has a licence to lech at work!

Team Meeting this morning - announcement by The Big Boss Bloke: "We need to be looking at the rump of complicated stuff."

Now, to me, there's nowt more complicated than them there Womens. And I believe the rump is the rear end. The hindquarters. The derrière.

So, I think it's safe to say that going forward, our brief is to be "looking at the arses of women".

YES! My job now has a requirement to perve at Pretty's pert posteriors! Look out Totty Avenue!

Hold up - I work in IT! Think I'll have to move down to The Basement, and then join Roy for a lech on fifth!

"Look, I know that normally this would be very funny but he's been up there too long for reasonable explanation. If that woman looks down she's going to assume he's a desk rabbit."
"What's a desk rabbit?
"I just made that up. But that's probably going to be what they start to call people like Xym. But Xym's not a desk rabbit, he's your best friend"

¹NOTE TO SELF - REMEMBER, I STILL HAS THE REST OF THE BACK CATALOGUE OF BLOGGER OBSCURA TO MOVE OVER TO BLOGSPOT

Richard the turd...

WTF!

We ALWAYS come fourth. No matter how many teams, we always come fourth.

If there were only 2 teams, we'd still come fourth.

But not tonight! Oh no!

We thought we had a late surge, then presumpted it was in actuality a splurge. But, it was indeed a surge, for we boosted placement up two places...

To SECOND!

Which means MORE BOOZE! Yay!

Hold up... don't the prizes usually include Cider wot I drink, for I drink not the Ale, Bitter, Lager, Beer, etc?

Ah, the one week that Xym gets a prize... is the one week they don't bring any Cider.

Piss buggery fishflaps.

Relax, don't do it...

...coz the fecker's been cancelled!

Shitbuggeryfucknuts!

Tonight, it's the pop quiz down The Black Whores. But not now. Oh no, it's just been re-scheduled.

To Tomorrow.

Now, today, a friend of mine was going to see a vicar baptizing a baby in a font¹, followed by a posh do at The Black Whores. Coolio, me thinks. I can pootle about this fair morn, tart meself up, pootle on to the pub, have a few beers and a pub lunch. Relax with a few bevvies² and me kindle until quiz time!

But no - now the quiz is tomorrow night... when I has a date with an Angel!

Well, celebrating a birthday Babes anniversarial spawings.

Hmmmm.... quiz or booze up with a Hot Pretty?

Just have to give the quiz a miss then!

¹PROBABLY ARIEL, BEING AN ANGEL NAME. NOT, I PRESUME, HELVETICA. THOUGH WHY PEOPLE MAKE A FUSS ABOUT PRIESTS DUNKING BABIES IN TYPEFACES LIKE A BISCUIT IN A CUP OF TEA, I DON'T KNOW. PROBABLY SO IT LOOK IMPRESSIVE ON THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE. WHY COULDN'T I HAVE BEEN CHISTENED IN CASLON ANTIQUE, SO IT LOOKS ALL SISTERS OF MERCYERY.

²PREFERABLY A BEVVY OF BEAUTIES!

Have I got booze for you...

NO!

What? We had an octagonality of pintage! How can there be a quadrility of quaffage left?

Someone has thieved off with half of our inebriating beverages!

Hold on a minute...

Can't be taken on a Tues...

Revelation from pissed off barbloke that miserable old managerial miseryarse to deliberately run the quiz slow to get more people at the bar...

Our drinks have not been taken at all! The haggard hag-ridden harridan has simply marked them up as "taken" so we have to buy more!

And they wonder why there's only 2 teams now...

Oh, hold on - quiz may be cancelled due to the teams comprising of just us. And we want to pull out due to being denied out previous prize!

Oh great. More revelation. That hot barbabe no longer works there.

Aaaaaand... another revelation. "The Missus" has backed out of seeing Gaz Numan, can Xym go in her place. More expense! 30 Squids!

And now more bad news - the other teams aren't playing coz the quiz takes too long.

Even badder news - the Manager has formed a team, so quiz in back on.

Oh, and the googling gits have decided to play after all, seeing as we're guaranteed to win if they don't play.

And many another revelation of gloom.

Shitnuts, fucknuggets and pissflapped fishflange. Damn you lucky Th13teen pen, accidentally clove in twain and ruining the luck thou wert previously reknown for!!

We could be watching Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game Of Shadows, Borat, Underworld:Awakening, In Time, Sanctum and another humourosity. Instead, we're stuck with almost empty pints with a refusal to buy more till we gets our full quotient of beverages back, a sulky Pretty, her mardy hubby violently bashing the table at sheet thieveries, sulky Pretty's sister wanting to defacate all over the bar, tables, and over everyone in general, and Xym insulting every loud mouthed bellowing fishwife and piss-stenched fogey in the pub.

But what's this... we've won?

By criminy! We got a free meal!

Best eat it very soon before some thieving lardbucket thieves that too!

And the bonus spot prize is £126. Hah! As if we'd win that.

WTF! We've won THAT too?

Well, bugger me old brown dog with a bottle of Newcastle Brown! We're quids in!

£31.50 squids each!

Bless you, Dame Fortuna of the once-lucky-then-shattered-and-thought-useless-but-proved-it's-worth-in-the-end-pen! Yay! My luck has turned at la... Oh, cuntbubbles.

There go my hard won winnings paying off The Numan...

And now ABC aren't answering their jellybone...

Oh, damn and blast...

I'm gonna wait 'til the midnight hour...

Then I'll put the washing on

Coz it's cheaper after midnight

As the rates comes tumblin' down.

Or so I'm led to believe.

Tumblin' down?

I don't even HAVE a Tumble Drier!

Rumblin' Tum - deffo! Cure that with a Chinese as I watch The Killing.

And then it's Washing Hour.

And I cry more, More, MORE!

And I don't even HAVE any peanuts either!

Cure THAT tomorrow with a trip to the new Sweetie shop and some Reece's NutFiddler bars.

Or them new Mars Triple Choc Limited Editions.

And I just bet as soon as I bite into the chocolatey treat, it'll drop & smear all over me nice new washed top.

Then people will be wondering why I've got all shit down me shirt.

Good job it ain't toothypegpaste! It'll be like Midge's jizzmouth lippy all over again.

I don't need a mirror!

Black Whores and The Cherry Tree...

Whoo-ho!*

I am so great!
I am so great!
I am so marvellous,
I am so great!

Go Xym!

Return of the Attack of the Solitary Fluffy Bunny Part II in 3D rose to the dizzy heights of 2nd place, and 8 free pints of booze!

All on me own!

2 points behind first plaice.

One being my fault for confusing a back-to-front Tiffany "I think we're Alone Now" Mega-Pirahna with Tracey "Sunglasses" Ullman.

Another being a passing flufferel popping by with questionage of Granny Smith mobility lockage preventative measures via SIM (not Xym) to fauns & Satyrs, making me change my mind on them there En Vogues.

And if I hadn't mixed up Dave Lee Roth with David Coverdale, I'd've trounced the lot of 'em and won a free feast to feed upon.

But still - I wons! Well, runner-upped! All by myself...

Don't wanna be... all by myself.

Like Celine Dion (whom I may have put down as the lead singer, if the question was about Dio and not Whitesnake).

Probably.

* NOT FUNKYPIGEON.COM WHOO-HOO, KATIE TURNSTILE WHO-HOO AS SHE PUTS HER EYE TO THE TELLYSCOPE AND SUDDENLY SHE SEES SIXPACKED NEIGHBOURS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD (OR STREET) FROM HER BEDROOM AS SHE PLAYS WITH HER GLAMOURPUSS.

OR SOMETHING.

Hair! I wanna take you to a Gay Bar...

One's new coiffure made much impressive impressions upon the populace of popular pop quiz popquizzers!

It seems universally approved as being sooooooo much better.

And I thought my previous magnificent mane was fabulous and loved by all (Well, by gay blokes down The WhatACunt and drunken strumpets envious of my luscious locks at least).

But it now seems that I need one final improvement - I need some plum directions on me barnet.

Or was it directions to High Barnet? Nah - my plumage is no longer so tall. It could've been directions on me plums... but surely I shouldn't have to direct any Prettiers there, and I'm not dying my scrotality just so collars and cuffs match.

Or is it coiffures and muffs that are supposed to match?

I don't know - I got distracted when a Cleaving Heavage started shining my torch down her top and offering to photographicate her heaving cleavage for my own personal pervy persual.

That's the power of purple plumage combined with an offer of rampant shaggery!

But the follicle gaydar has minced out from The WhatACunt and into the Black Whores.

Round 1 - We're in 2nd place! Oooooooh!

Round 2 - Back into our usual just-losing-out 4th place

Round 3 - Chappy comes to collect scores
          Blokey: "What's your score"
          Me: "52"
          Blokey "62"
          Paul: "Yeah - 62!"
          Me: "no, 52!"
          Blokey: "OK - 62"

Round 4 - Blokey: "Score please"
          Me: "59"
          Blokey "69"
          Paul: "Oh, 69! Whey-hey"
          Me: "No - 59!"
          Blokey: "I'll put  you down for 69"

So, 2 rounds, he's giving me a total of 20 extra points. Am I ennunciating clearly? Yep - he's just giving you an extra 10 points. You're in there Xym! Feck orf - I ain'n't gay!

Blokey comes round for Round 5 points... he ups my total by 10 points again! We're still 4th, but By The Power Of Colored Cranial Forestry, I've earned our team an undeserved 30 extra points!

Round 6. Right, Miss Foxatronic, YOU tell him the scores. See if he gives you an extra portion of points. 
          Blokey: "Score please"
          Foxicle: "37"
          Blokey: "37 then"

So there you have it. The pulling power of the purple pompadour. Now, I only I can make it work on Pretties...

...but I think I need purple plums for that.

Or something.

I got something to blog about...

"Oh boy, am I gonna have fun in me blog with THAT!"

Thus spake the purple porkster.

But canst I remember what I's supposed to be bloggering?

Can I jizzwipes!

I recall getting blown by The Lady C in the pub, but it weren't that. Nor was it Twelvety and the card. I think Je T'aime came into it somewhere, a 500 squid trip to Laura (Palma), and the rohypnolling of  Lady C by dodgy doggers to satisfy their lecherous libido whilst perusing Peruvian paedo porn of Paddington Bare.

Or something.

But I forgets, so no blog today.

Return of the Attack of the Killer Fluffy Bunnies (Part II) in 3D...

Spur of the moment last minute popsicle with additional blokement.

Honestly, why couldn't Midwitch dredge up her Pretties for me instead :(

Oh well, new moniker for The Return.

Alas, no scoffage - but what's this? The presence of non-existant peoples?!?!

For The Midwitch once invented a male Pretty for betrothal upon ye olde BaceFook, and apparently, from her invented mind he manifested at The Whatacunt. And now, he's manifesting himself all over the place.

So, it would seem that Xym needs to invent a pretty of his own. Buy that there Photoshop and blend together a montage of my Pretties to get Ultimate Pretty. Set my ficticious femme fatale up on FaceFuck and announce our courtment. Then all it needs is of to The Whatacunt and Bingo Wings! I'll have created a Pretty of my very own to exact specifications who shall appear in my presence!!

Although, knowing my luck, even a manifestation of mine own mind via the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic antimatter (precipitating a flexi-tangenital spatial interflux within the symbiotic parameters) would instantly loathe the loathesome lecher that is Xym!

Anyhoo, beaten by spatially perception impaired rapscallions. Boo!

Perhaps next time we'll be The Classic Special Limited Exclusive Ultimate Extreme Collector's Unseen Director's Theatrical Extended Edition of the Revenge of the Return of the Attack of the Killer Fluffy Bunnies From Outer Space (Part II) in 3D Triple Play Blu-Ray, DVD and Digital Copy steelbook boxset with lenticular sleeve, poster, postcard set and colletors booklet (includes both the Original and the remake) with replica prop from the movie and sculpted figurine by a world renown artist, plus 4 sets of Red/Blue Stereoscopic 3D glasses with cute bunny ears and optional twitching nose.

Or something.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday...

Bloody Bloody Bloody!

Having no friends desirous of my company for Saturday Night pant swinging, I made the mistake of solacing myself with the Denizens of Roysten Vasey followed by a journey into the fifth dimension beyond which is 
known to man.

Unfortunately, all night screenings do put The Tiredness upon thee.

All very well being hoisted by my own pet toad (we don't say the F word here) and indulging in metaphysical mystical meanderings, but it meant a slight dozing off in the early hours with an awakeing beyond teatime!

Which gives me a lack of bloglature to draw upon.

So a quick rinse around the key areas, and it's off to The Black Whores to come 4th in The Quiz.

But alas, alack, prizes for 4th place have been withdrawn.

Mayhap we can do better than 4th place.

Oh, we came 4th,

C'est La Vie, as the lovely B*Witched once put it.

And who wouldn't want to put it into B*Witched?

Uh-oh! I'll show 'em mine of they show me theirs!

Or something.

Hey hey, waddaya say, had me a woman, she ran away...

"I think I've got  tinnitus"
"I dunno - they look quite a fulsome pair to me!"

Oh, how we laughed!
Well, I did.

Laughed like a drain, I did.

"Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle", I went, whilst rotating in a clockwise manner and disappearing into a hole in the floor...

First you take a dump in your pants...

Now I know where I's been going wrong with The Pretties!

Dancing in the kitchen sans trousers will attract many a nubile harlot into your domicile!

And pant dancing leads to massage, and thence to the bedroom!

BUT, whatever you do, before getting jiggy with it, do not attempt to boil a can of soup, for the pretty will hastily make her exit as your toil away at you culinary consomme escapades, resulting in burnage and the call out of burly beefcake for the Pretty to run off with.

Still, a trip from Bare Minge Ham to Nuggets in the Ukraine will soon fill the belly! 

If you wanna know (soup soup soup) if he loves you so (soup soup soup)...

...he'll find excuses to return, hoping you'll return the favour with your own special Cullen Skink.
"Tomato? A fine choice, madam"
"Sorry - There's no Tomato! How about Vegetable & Parsnip!"
"Sorry - I meant Vegetable OR parsnip!"
"Sorry - we do have Tomato! Tomato or Parsnip?"
"There you go - and you, pretty as you are, ain't getting no ice-cream."

Ahhhh, the aromatherapy of botty gravy vinegar and salty jizzbutter.

And what's do you get? £2 short of winning One Hundred & Twentitty squids, that's what :(

Of course, who's to know the flaky flesh and pubic lice of scabrous scrubbers amounts to 46 million tonnes of putrescent peelings?

But that's nothing, compared to Lord Mayors who get inebriated on NYE, then have to spend NYD in NYC because their quaffage led to oral punchification and disease ridden strumpetry, hence using their public powers to get an 10:35 appointment at the dentist, followed by a guy knackerologist for cock unblocking @ 10:37.

But not unblocking the legendary length of the sizable sword of porkage belonging to Errol "The Hamster" Flynn (not to mention our Kelly nobbing Marilyn Monroe. Or Marilyn Manson. But not Charlie Manson. Or Charlie Sheen - although who knows what'll happen when you're on charlie... those lines of salt and pepper are soooo tempting!).

And with a despectacled Anastacia masquerading as Shakira (who you know is "on" tonight. Presumably "on the blob" with her hips that'll allegedly pass a polygraph on Jeremy Kyle), all that's needed is rapey arachnids and excrutualingly embarassed turtles of awkwardness.

Still, another night spent being swamped with sexy sirens, so not all's lost.