Ve haff vays of makink Xym talk...

Nein! du hast mich gefragt, und ich hab nichts gesagt!

Let's get this crystal clear, ok.

The Xym does NOT talk to people he doesn't know.

He is EXTREMELY shy, and suffers from severe xenophobia (which is fear of Space Monsters of the xenomorph persuasion, or just strangers in general. or something).

Anyhoo, however well intentioned, it is not becoming to stress out  The Xym by trying to force him to engage in converse with people of unknown acquaintance - infinitely more so if those people you try and make Xym talk to are female, and even worse if they're Pretties.

Try and set up a date for Xym - he will suddenly be ill. Tell him to go and talk at people - he will smile, agree, and walk towards the target and continue past to hide in the toilets.

Grab him, and demand he engage girls in converse, and after fleeing to a safe place of refuge you pursue him with insistent demands to interact with Pretties, you won't see Xym for the rest of the night, for he will have fled for the safety of home, where there is no pressure to interface with unfamiliar peoples.

Xym only talks to people within his social circle. If outsiders are brought along, then The Xym may grow confident enough to engage with them. But what The Xym does NOT do is approach people, especially on dancefloors where you have to bellow at folk to be heard.

So, if you're expecting The Xym to chat Pretties up, you're all outta luck, coz it ain't gonna happen.

Hey Alice, I CAN dance to that music you're playin'...

Why
    The
        Feck
            Does
                The Xym
                    Even
                        Bother
                            Bothering?

Am I bovvered? Face? Bovvered? Nah - not me!

That really is the very last time The Xym bothers making an effort with The Pretties.

See - I knew this would be how things go. Every time. Without fail.

Xym, oh Xym - Go For it, Xym!
Nah, I has no chance.
Oh Xym, Oh Xym, you has! Believe me, you HAS!

So Xym goes for it.

As predicted, Xym had no chance.

So, no longer any need to reign in the comedy lechment!

But Xym - you're such a catch! You just need to go after different bait!
No way, dude! No way am I going after some bloke's weeny maggot being dangled in me face!
Ha ha Xym - you so funny! I can't understand why you's still single!
Well, just think why YOU aren't going out with me. Got it? THAT'S why no-one else will either! Pretties with a penchant for short fat trollfaced gothboys with preposterous hair and ludicrous adornments and ridiculous accoutrements are somewhat thin on the ground!

And by thin, one means NON EXISTANT!

Still - explains why I have been furnished with a deafening silence regarding the location for celebratory inebriating beverages tonight. Seems The Xym hath once again Made Hisself Unwelcome and is surplus to requirements, and his presence is no longer required, hence venue concealment.

And there was me thinking things were going so well.

For once.

Again.

Shan't be bothering again.

Safe to say The Xym knows his place. Seeing as any confidence built up has been torn down further than God buggering Sodom to the ground, it's back to admiring married and long-term-partner'd Pretties who appreciate someone still finding them alluring, yet safe in the knowledge that there's no danger of impropriety, thus avoiding let-down and disappointment time after time.

Do we think Xym's better off alone?

Oooh

[don't bother to] Talk to me...

She Loathes me, she Loves me not...

Wise up Xymon, Post Ya Blog...

But I can't post today's blog!

Why ever not, I hear thee cry?

Well, it was all to do with repetitious omens and portents of location based synchronicity, and what it all meant.

And then, I thought - hold up, check something else out, just in case.

And well bugger me backwards if that fate driven coincidence didn't lead in the same direction too!

However, that final linkage puts The Xym in a somewhat awkward position, for after typing it all up then discovering that final coincidence, it dawned on The Xym that it could creep out Certain Pretties (or a singularity of) that The Xym (may, or may not) be enamoured of!

But Xym, no-one reads your blog! Post it up anyways for a laugh!
Ah, but, what if, by some long shot, a particular Pretty matching that coincidence catches sight of it, and thinks The Xym is some stalkerescent pervertor desperately trying to find a loose excuse to indicate that Fate wants the Pretty & Xym to be together?
Ha, Xym! Like that's'll make any difference! You don't need your Blog to creep Pretties out! Look at yerself, you great fat lecherous oaf!
But, surely anyone with an ounce of nounce can see what a top bloke I am, and can recognise the comedy lechment for what is it?
Oh, you poor deluded fool Xym! Peoples don't have sense's of humour - it's all "first impressions" and you're a short, fat, sad ugly troll perving at Pretties!
But... my blog is OTT comedy elaborations of true events, made ludicrous by the very nature of their preposterousness! Surely no-one could take this overliterate proliferation of unnecessary prose seriously and judge The Xym based on the content contained within?
Of course they do! Why do you think hardly anyone accepts your Friend Requests on The Farcebook and The Shitter? Because they check you out and read the tripe you type on yer blog first... then run a mile from the wierdo obsessed with Space Monsters, Pretties and forever bewailing his lot!
But surely, they can see it's all a bit of ribald japery? It shows that The Xym has what is knows as one of them there GSOH that them Pretties keep harping on about being essential in one of them Pardners (albeit with the caveat of also being a stud muffin six-packed hunk who's a "bit of a bad boy" and a right bastard so they've got something to moan about when they go on Jeremy Kyle for lie detectors when their bad boy BF cheats on them because he's a "bit of a bad boy" and a right bastard.. Women, eh! How fickle they are!!).
Yeah, so you have a SOH (perhaps not a GSOH), and be a Gentleman who knows where ladies bits are... but this blog puts The Fear into the womens... besides, they all think you're gay anyway!
Eh, whut?!?!?
Well what do you expect, poncing about in bells and flags with feathers in yer ear, you great poof!
Oi! I'll have you know an actual individual, I am! Unique - that's me! There's only one Xym, and no-one else remotely similar!
Except Grendel, Quasimodo, The Heffalump man,...
Hey! Turn it in!
...A vast troll of lard, a corpulent bloated balloon of blubber, a mis-shapen disfigured shambling freak of nature, a deformed denizen of...
Enough already!
Why d'ya think its only blokes wot try and chat you up down The WhatACunt, despite your less than subtle ogling up of beautiful babes? And you always wear purple at work!
Ha - not today!
That's only 'coz it's Gay Lezza Bi-Tranny Day at work¹, and they've adopted purple² as the color of choice to denote homos, and you don't want them babes on Totty Avenue thinking you're a right shirtlifter... but it's too late for that!

Well, bugger me! NO! Scrap that! Bad choice of words, there!

Anyhoo - that's why there be no blog - coz the conundrum of coincidence ended up with the fickle fisting of fate pointing at a particular Pretty who may (or, more in reality, may not) be enamored of The Xym, and the resultant shyness would cause The Xym to be unable to face said Pretty for fear of embarassment, and, as ever, having to hide or flee from The Whatacunt. Not that Pretties down The WhatACunt are involved in these shennanigans (although they might be. Possibly. Or not. As the case may be).

But if you REALLY want to know what the blog contained, what the chain of coincidences were, and which Pretty it led to, it's all here below... apart from the naming of the Pretty, which may (or may not) be deduced from the repeated occurance of the coincidental element (said coincidental element can be construed from the title of this blog... and if you can figure that rather tenuous link out, you'll impress me no end! The Big Hint is more the first, rather than the second... which will give you the title of the X-cyphered blog below! Ah, once you get that play on an 80s classic pop hit...).

So here is that blog, edited down ever so slightly to avoid embarassment:

Xxxxx, Xxxxx, Xxx xx xxx xxx(x)...

Xxxxxxx'x xxxxxx xx xxxx xx xxxxxxxxx.

Xx xxxxxxx xx xxxx xxxxxxx xx Xxx Xxxxxxx

Xxx, xxxxxxx xxx Xxxx Xxx Xx Xxxxxxx xxx Xxxxxx, xx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxx, xxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx (xxx xxx xxxxxx xxxx xx Xxxxxxxxx & Xxxxxxxxxx xxxxx).

Xxxxx xxx Xxxxxx xxx, xxx xx xxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx Xxxxx xxxxxxx, xx' xx xx xx Xxxxx.

Xxxxx... xxx, xxx xxxx Xxxxx xxxx Xxxxxx Xxxxx? Xxxxx xxxx xxxxx, xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xx, xxx xx'x... xxxxxxxx.

Xxxxxx, xx'x xxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxx xxx, xxx xxxxx xx xx Xxxxxxxx xx xxxxx xxx.

Xxx xxxx xxx xxxx xxx xxx xx Xxxxxx xx xxx xxxx xxxx.

Xxx!

Xxxxxx, xxxx xxxx xx xxxx, xxx xxxxxx xxx xxx xxxx: "Xxxx, X xxx xx Xxxxx", "Xx, xxx Xxxxx, xx!"

Xxxx'xx X xxxxxx? Xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx, xx xxxxxxxx'x xxxxxxx xxxxx Xxxxx! XXX xx xx x xxxx xx xxxxxxxx xxx xx x xxxxxx?

Xxx xxxx, xx xxxx, xx'x xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxx xxxx! Xxx Xxxxx xx Xxxxx xx xxxxxxx xx xxxx xx xxxxxxxx xxxxxx xx xxxxx xxx Xxxxxxx Xxxxx!

Xxxx, x xxx xxxx xxxxx xxxxxxx xxxx x xxxx xxxxxx xxxx. Xx, xx xxxx xx xxx x xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx - xxx-xxxx Xxxxxx, xxx Xxxxxxx xxxx.

Xxx xx Xxx Xxxxxxx!

Xxxxx xxxx - xxxx Xxxxx. Xxxx X Xxx Xxxxx Xxx Xxx... xxxxx'x Xxxxx.

Xxxx xxxxxxx - xxxxxx xxx xx Xxxxx.

Xxxxxxxx - xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xx Xxxxx.

Xxxxx - xxxx, xxxxx, xxx xxxxxxxxxx!

Xxxx xxxxxxxxx.. xxx xxxxx... XXXX XXXXXX XXXXX!

Xxxx'x xx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx Xxxxx!

Full, unedited version is actually on my Blog, but only in Draft mode, so I may delete this one some day and post the draft one. Or I may not. I may even have both up for comparitive porpoises. Who can say?

¹ AND BEING DIVERSITY-AWARE AND ALL PC AND THAT, TODAY'S LUNCH MENU IS MACARONI MY CAMP PONY'S [NOB] CHEESE AND GARLIC GAY LICK BREAD...
    ...GAY LICK BREAD? GÆLIC BREAD?!?!?! AYE, IT'S THE FUTURE, SO IT IS, BEGORRAH, ALL PHOENIX LEPRECHAUN NIGHTS AND WHERE'S ME GOLD YA BASTARD? PÓG MO THÓIN AND BOMB THE ENGLISH QUEEN WITH MA LUCKY FOUR LEAVED CLOVER BUTTER. OR IS IT CLOVER MARGE... OR CREAM? OR EVEN CLOVER BUTTERCREAM? WELL, IT IS GAYDAY, SO MORE LIKE BUTTOCK-CREAM FOR LUBRICATIONAL EASE OF ENTRY, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN (AND I'M SURE THAT YOU DO, AND IF YOU DON'T, WELL, OBVIOUSLY I MEANT BUTTOCK CREAM TO BUM AN ENGLISH QUEEN. OR SOMETHING).

² AND NAYONE'S SMASHING MY PURPLE BACK DOORS IN! NOT EVEN RAPEY ROHYPNOLLING TAXI DRIVERS.

Calling, Xymternational Rescue...

Departmental Xmas parties.

Drunken, bellowing cocks, trying to ply Pretties with enough cocktails for pullover removal for norkage perusal.

Loud, offensive, obnoxious twatmeisters, embarrassing themselves and creeping out the cuties.

And there's only one Pretty in the Pub!

The Xym is not a laddy lad, and cannot relate to binge drinking gormistry, and escapes being bored to tears by tales of Tablets and cost effectiveness of launch weights of cotton T-Shirts by making the now legendary Excuses And Left.

But what's this - my pickled Poringland Pretty wants me take her up the jacksy? Oh, she wants me to take her up to the taxi! Seems the wide boys are getting uncomfortably rude, and not to be trusted.

Yet Pretties feel safe with trusty Xym and all his coolness!

It's deffo the 'tasche - gotta be!

Anyhoo, once again Chivalrous Xym is escorting sexy ladies to safety! It's not often The Xym has hotties of extreme hotness upon his arm, and most pleasing it was too!

And with the beautiful babe safely dispatched to her Other Half (naturally!), The Xym can return home having done a good deed for a sozzled sexy siren, and that makes The Xym a very happy Xym indeed!

I think I may just have to set up my own Pretties rescue service! 

Gigalo, night's chariot

A taxi to get Pretties home

Gigalo, Xym's chariot

perhaps Pretties will ask him back him home!

Well, you never know - there may be a single Pretty out there with a penchant for short fat ugly gothboys with preposterous hair and a recent lack of ludicrous shades that have been replaced by an outlandish moustache.

Well, anything's possible!

Escorts, Bestcorts!

There's none so blind as Xym that cannot see...

Now, there's many a Pretty of my acquaintance who cannot believe that The Xym is single. Why, they say, he's so funny, really sexy, a fabulous friend and a top dancer of the height of cool.

Naturally, The Xym laughs in the face of these preposterous claims, for they cannot see the irony of such claims, when they are unwilling to absolve me of my singularity of status themselves! I'm a short fat unpopular gothboy - I'm no hunky Adonis stud muffin!

Mmmm... Sainsbury's triple berry muffins.... (and not Georgie Girl's muffin top - that belt and a bare midriff... not a good look. Especially now I know where she's been, as I'll come to later).

Anyhoo, was The Xym in a situation where he was being pulled by hot maidens out on the prowl down The Whatacunt on Sat, and he didn't even twig?

Traversing through to The Smoking Area (despite not being a taker of tobacco, mah crew were all of a gatherance there. I may need to take up The Snuff to legitimately use the area for it's intended purpose), I was accousted by a pack of pissed Pretties returning to the Dance Hall.

"Ooooh" quoth a sexy siren, "I love the facial furniture!"
And she reached up and gave my 'tashe at twiddle on the ends, and then put forth the following statement:
"It must be great to wake up to that in the morning!"
To which I replied "Oh yes!", assuming she meant seeing the spectacular lip ferret and brazillian chin set me up for the day when I sees myself in the mirror.

And with that, me and the pussy posse parted paths.

Now, come Sunday morn, driving over to Cambridge and re-telling the tale of my impressive moustachious being again admired, others point out that maybe she was hinting at something else. Slowly, it begins to dawn on the dullard Xym that perhaps a certain young lady was coyling hinting that it was SHE who would like to wake up to that in the morning.

Surely not - Pretties find The Xym to be somewhat creepy - something far removed from alluring. UNLESS, of course, a comical facial musketeer merkin overides a Pretties natural aversion to short fat troll-like gothboys with preposterous hair (even without ludicrous shades, which appear to have taken a vacation from outings on The Xym's visage)

Could it be that The Xymn could've pulled?

Nah. Stick. Grabbed. Wrong end. After being dropped in poo.

After all, it came somewhat crashing home at the Adam Ant gig, when support band Georgie Girl And Her Poussez Posse¹ once again sang their GP checkup based ballad "When was the last time you had sex?"². And thus my Antpals turneth to The Xym and ask "So, when WAS the last time you had sex?"

To which I sadly had to reply that it was so long ago, I can't even remember. I think you'd have to get Tony Robinson in, and even then his cornish twat-in-the-hat would only turn up bits of pottery and stone wall.

On the plus side, there were adverts in Cambridge for Britney Spears Circus Fantasy. Well, if she's offering, I'm not adverse to dressing up as My Jelly and ravishing her whilst using an Anne Summers specialist hand 'attachment' up the trapeze as big cocked elephants bum the jugglers. Or something.

¹ AS IT'S CHRISTMAS, CAN I HAVE A JESSICA-THE-DRUMMER PLEASE SANTA. I'LL PUT OUT A KFC BUCKET AND A SIX-PACK OF SPECIAL BREW INSTEAD OF A CRAPARSE MINCE PIE AND CHEAP SHERRY³.

² AND WE ALL KNOW THE LAST TIME SHE HAD SEX! FOR GEORGIE GIRL TURNS OUT TO BE THAT GEORGINA. THE SATANIC SLUT HELLCHILD OF LUCIFER AND MANUEL OUT OF FAWLTY TOWERS, FAMOUS FOR LAST HAVING SEX WITH JONATHAN WOSS AND RUSSELL BRAND ON A PILE OF RADIOS AND ANSAPHONES. OR SOMETHING. AND NOW SHE'S ADAM'S "FLATMATE". YEAH - SATANIC SLUT FLAT(ON-HER-BACK-LEGZ-AKIMBO)MATE, MORE LIKELY, THE JAMMY SOD!

³ UNLESS YOU WANT THE CORRIE SLAG HEWSON FOR YOUR SATYRESQUE SATURNALIAN SEXUAL SHENNAIGANS UNDER THE MISTLECAMELTOE.

Of loos & piss & time elapsed, of moustaches and minge...

All for one, and none for Xym!

Suit Allures! le Roi Charles was invited to a surprise partay in the Take That Crypt!

But what's this? Last minute telecommunicatory advices of locatory confusion - not that The Crypt, it's t'other The Crypt! Die Krüpps? Nein! The Xym must fjord yon slumber apparatus for ye quaffage!

Ah, but it seems The Xym is more suited for queefage, due to the trimness of facial foliage! For Pretties adviseth that the 'tache is ideally suited for quim based stimulation¹. Admittedly, the young, innocent rock chick was unaware of precisely what quim is, and I doubt an offer of putting the 'tache to the test wouldn't go down too well.

Which rather disproves the point (if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do!)...

Anyhoo,  more Pretties to perve leer ogle talk at!

Discourse now squeaks around combining WKD core and Goldschläger becoming Apple Pie. Naturally, I'm informed by the inebriated lady that her flange feels nothing like pie de pomme. Although I guess it depends on pie in question. 

What if it's a Maccy D's Apple Pie? All hot and covered in crispy batter... not to mention shaped like a 'Brazillian' merkin, not dissimilar to the velcro-esque strip of chinwig I now sport under my twiddly 'tache twat tickler!

Or am I thinking of the filet o' fish (with obligatory 4 minute wait for that Sir, an NO! We don't sell onion rings)?

Whatever - all I know is that eventually there was a comPEEtition² for the fastest golden shower in the somewhat 'green' toilets, monitored by young fellow-me-lads through the windows.

But, alas, today is the tumbling of toothpaste, for according to sexy sirens of Polish prettyness, although Pretties like to admire impressive 'tache's upon the menfolk, they won't not kiss 'em due to 'tache rash & itchiness induced by stubble snoggage

On the other hand (probably the hand not caressing her beautiful busoms with her five palce due to lack of a kchuk) - if Pretties prefer the tingle of 'tache on their twinkle, is entwining tongue all that important? Perhaps I need to extract my 'tache, so I can put it on to pull, whip it off to snog, then stick it back on at fish supper time!

Not to be confused with penis buttock jelly time, involving Brian in a banana suit. Probably. 

Still - she says that now. Just wait till it gets long enough to tease into a Go Cumpare stylee³ - Pretties will be queueing up to ravish me then, coz all women want a Gio Cumpario!
 

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

A joy so rare

with Xym's lip hair

on your 'down there'

With just a few licks

and clitoral flicks

and you'll thank your stars that your quim met Xym's lip hair!

Go Compaaaaarrrre!

Or something...

¹ V FOR VAG-EATER, AND INTO THE (LURVE) GRAVEE! OR FANNY BATTER, TO BE MORE PRECISE. OR JUST DOWNRIGHT OBSCENE.

² SEE WHAT I DID THERE!

³ AND IF MY 'TACHE GET'S LONG ENOUGH, I CAN DO THAT TOO!
BA'DUM TISH!
I'M HERE ALL WEEK.
THANK YOU, AND GOODNIGHT!

Come, Mr Taliban - tally up me pandas...

Yes!

There hath been no bloggage!

There hath been no bloggage

For days!

For The Xym hath been bogged down in a stagnant mere of misery, combined with much tasks of employment, the creation of eBooks, research into Things Of A Varied Nature, the catching up of the ever-growing pile of unwatched Blu-Rays and diverse other creative works. Not to mention Lord Morpheus overusing his posing pouch of sand upone mine eye.

So, alas, I fear you have missed out on tales of raping, pillaging and murdering Xmas trees on the rampage. Of nudie superwomen Saving The Day with flange-in-face muffocation breath inhibitors. Of Space Monsters traversing the Norfolk skies, abducting farming folk and bunging beets up their bots for sexual experimentation. Not to mention additional assassinatory attempts at silencing The Xym.

And much more besides.

I shall try and find the time to regail you with more tales of the wonder and excitement in the life of The Xym (as he now seems to be eye-candy for nubile cleaning maids, sexy serving wenches, office strumpets and passing Pretties! In fact, Pretties in general seem to be taking A Shine to The Xym!).

And that's despite the Blue Tongue of Skink (not to be confused with the Blue Waffle of Skank. Although getting the blue tongue of skink from the blue waffle of skank... now that would be a result! Or something).

Anyhew, to compensate for the lack of recent words of wisdom, here's a picture of a bunch of baby pandas on a pink blanket in an oversized cot for you to coo at. And if you're not a pigeon, they're there for you to Awwww at. Especially the one top left what just wakey up.

Awwwwww!

I won't go if you won't...

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All my days, am I moulding your clay...

In order to gets me grubby mitts on a potential £50, I did one of them there Surveys work about transportation into the office, where I had to justify my refusal to car pool.

So I thought I'd double check my condition. 

It's more than just aggro-phobia, it's actually xenophobia, with strong Caligynephobia.

So that's me fucked.

Actually, not fucked at all, on account of the Caligynephobia. 

Anyhoo, realising I has xenophobia made me realise James Cameroon's Aliens was wrong with it's depictions of H.R.Gigery genital-based grotesqueries.

"All we know is that there's still no contact with the colony, and that a xenomorph may be involved"

So, naturally, you would think xenomorphobia is a fear of space monsters. But think about it... if phobia is a fear of something, and xeno is strangers, then xenomorphobia is a fear of strange stop-motion terracotta colored plasticine blokes.

Which is nonsensical, as Morph was quite a nice chappie. It was the creamy colored Chas that caused all the havoc.

Ripley Foiley and Hicks Morph, going up against the Alien queen Grandmorph in the Sulaco Pencil Case, surrounded by multiple alien warriors plasticine Chas's!

Somewhere, in the dark and nasty regions, where nobody goes, stands a terraforming colony. Arriving in this dank & uninviting place comes Carter Burke ("Adiós, muchachos"), overworked servant of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. ("BURKE! Bring back a specimen!"). But that's nothing, compared to the horror that's powerloaded out the airlock. For there is always something out there. In the dark. Waiting to get in!   ♪♫  Don't you open that airlock (you're a fool if you dare!)  ♫♪  Don't you open that airlock (Coz there's something out there!)  ♪♫

Oooh, globbits! 
  

Good boys never win, they all run away...

Alas, social ineptitude is one again enforcing The Fear upon everyone's most unpopular gormster!

Get to zee chopper, be the order of the day, for it was not too hot for extraction.

The welcome relief at the loss of fifth wheel presence may well be tempered by wails of loss at the extrication of the ever-popular ludicrous shades (not to mention the shedding of tears at the sudden absence of ridiculous headwear).

However, an ever increasing sense of apprehension overcame the desire to remain and engage in lecherous fingering Skills, and exits of the sharpened end of the vacatory variety had to be made.

So, I apologize to those desirous of my presence (0), those who gained not the chance for millinary adorment (1), those who desired further shades skills (1) and thems happy to see the back of me hastily racing from the venue (100s upon 100s).

But I did put in an appearance and helped the fundraising effort (despite an attack by a table, a gallant helpful gesture resulting in a drenching,  and general embarassment by my very appearance.)

Of circlatures of social gatherment, I am but an orbiting satellite of asteroidal barren-ness.
   

Welcome to the pleasure clone...

An acquaintance of the lady variety has mentioned that she's getting her twin tubs out.

Seems my pervotic imaginings in the norkal exposure direction were incorrect, as twin tubs are apparently Olde Wurlde washing machineries.

And having a reputation to live down to, my mind started to wander further afield towards a preference for Twins In Hot Tubs, such as The Cheeky Girls in their QD budget binkininies.

But not The Twins out of Pat Sharpe's Fun House.

Or Arnie and Danny DeVimto.

But then I thought - hold on! They clone sheeps, don't they!

Not that I'm in favour of sexual shennanigans with sheep in steamy sheepdip showerage. Instead of sheep, why not clone Pretties to populate the bath?

After all, the only reason the Greybeards want to invest in cloning is to get their grubby mits on celebrity skin! Why go out of the lab and interact with strange, unfathomable feminine types when you use your fierce scientific skills to clone a Firm Bottom or Carol Phwoarderman of your very own?

Or even tailor your desires into a firm bottomed Carol Phwoarderman. Celebrity splicing!

The one drawback is when The Clone mutates, and a rapey Milla Jovobitch species escapes.

Ever wondered what barbers and hairdresses get up with your swept up follicles, or beauticians with your naily bits after a manicure/pedicure? It's all genetic material for cloning their own compliant sexbot at home!

Of course, you can't (yet) buy a Claudia Wankleman or a Lauren LabiaVerne down the chemists, so it's off to Toys 'Я' Us for a My First Chemistry Kit and the collecting of DNA from various Pretties.

Unfortunately, I haven't yet perfected my diabolical, maniacal laugh. My "Mwah ha ha" is more like "Mwah Mwah", as if giving a Lady a peck on the cheeks.

And if I'm pecking at Pretties, that surely means I have a beak for the pecking? In which case, am I actually Cloned Xym, and Master Xym cloned me not to realise I've been cloned with some beaky bird's beak, like some experimental hybrid of Man and Chicken?

Dammit, why couldn't I have been cloned by a sex-starved Pretty with a thing for short fat ugly gothboys with preposterous hair and ludicrous shades (with occasional ridiculous headwear) who wanted to ravish the real me behind his back.

Just my luck I gets the Mad Scientist with a Chimera fetish!

Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot...

Oi, Wiggers! Shut yer face!

The air be very coldsome indeed!

I should be out admiring Alices, but I think I'll stay all snuggly warm inside.

But not, alas, inside a lass in Ann Summers Alice attire.

Warm indoorydoors, with the heat from the numerous appliances on charge toasting the domicile up nicely.

The Terminator winking at me and blowing me kisses, Jurassic Pork on the telly and a vast quantity of cidiferous quaffage with a giant Toberlone from Poundland!

If asking "Who's THAT!!" is sexual harassment, being let loose in a harem honey-trap of copycat Alice Lidls is just asking for trouble. Throw in a few Bellatrixes, Mrs LoveIts and Alictorias* and I'll be sat on and duffed up by the burly doorfolk in no time, before being cast into the night for castration by a cackling coven of costumed cuties, offended by the sexual harassment of some misshaped short fat gothboy daring to find their visual allure appealing.

* female equivalent of Jedward. What a choice - Beastiality with the Jakewolf, or Necrophelia with the Eddievamp. And that sicko Isabella is into both, the dirty slag! And this is aimed at lovelorn, sexually frustrated Chastitty Ring type 13yr old tartlets. Shag a dog, or fuck a corpse. Still, whatever floats yer boat. Said boat apparently floating in embalming fluid, given Bella's preference for intercourpse. 

Who's that girl, running away from me...

Well, shiver me timbers, splice me mainbrace and split me beaver, I gives up on even attempting to show interest in Pretties now!

As all know, I am the shyest of shyfolk, and the thought of approaching some Pretty and talking with them one-to-one is a most terrifying prospect! And so I remain within the confines of my barricade of friends, engaging in lecherous banter and much digitary dexterity of the Rik Mayall persuasion (or legging it to the safety of the Dance Floor if a Pretty dare approacheth the group).

However, it seems even that is too much these days!

Apparently, if a single, hetrosexual male finds a member of the opposite sex attractive, and innocently asks who they are, it can be classed as Sexual Harassment!! It's PC gone mad. Or Laptop gone mad. Or something.

And people wonder why I don't chats up women*!

As if anyone could accuse me of Sexual Harassment! If anything, I'm a total void of sexual harassment, hence the singlature of status and lack of a Pretty of my own.

And now, I can't even ask the identity of unknown Pretties, for fear of being put on registers of pervosity for daring to even think of Pretties as potential partners!

And on top of all that, comparative portaiture identification to enable clarification via visual medium between two people is also verboten!

And for those who say "Oh Xym, there's someone out there for everyone. Even you. There's plenty more fish in the sea!", I, for one, am not going to acknowledge such accusations of aquatic beastiality! Apart from the fact that there aren't more fish in the sea coz it's been overfarmed by quota-abusings foreigners, who want to cop off with watery fishfolk?

Sure you can take a manatee to a matinée, but you wouldn't want to get amourous in the back row with some great big fat whale**, would you!

I can't do anything right these days! Oh waily, waily, woe and misery!

* NOT that that means I chats up men. Heavens no!!! Oh well, just have to remain lecherously leering at the back of nightclubs then, and hope that someone has a penchant for short fat gothboys with preposterous hair and ludicrous shades! Well, anything's possible...

** And as the great big fat whale in question, I can attest to the fact that many a sexy cinema siren seated alongside has no wish to grapple in amourous engagement with lardy tub-buckets. Although that could be down to the presence of partners, whose presence prevents Pretties ravishing me in the aisles. See - I'm all up for being Sexually Harassed meself!
   

Oh yes it's Hades night, and the feelin's right...

Oh no it bloody ain't, fuck jizzerry shite!

Due to the homely, intimate Fritzlesque cellar of Rock being closed off from the public (due to them forcing away custom by stopping cidiferous stockings of Jacques), Run With Us has relocated to The WhatACunt.

And although one had pledged to present my portly presence in person, aggrophobia* and extreme scaredy-catness may take precedence, and prevent public personal appearance!

And then there's the social armour required to venture forth, and do battle upon ye olde dancefloor.

Depite near-universal acclaim for the flat, fallen flowing follicles, the love of long lank locks is not one I is enamoured of. The legendary Preposterous hair and ludicous shades would lack the popular preposterousness necessary to pull off such a look. And such a popular, iconic look it is too!

However, the long, lank locks of a reverse Hitler flickover does leave the new nail in the noggin free of any form of mankyness getting in, whereas The volumous barnet of crimpage and backcombing involves what is known as 'Product', resulting in knottage and follicle fall out.

And thus, a half-coiffure has been attempted of unproducted half-temp crimpage, giving the benefit of a visage obscuring hairy helmet. Better armoury, but more than a hint of dulux dogerry about the upper frontispiece of facial physiognomy.

But is that sufficient to braven the craven fellow? Perhaps, as the cutiepie cutter of the cranial forestry suggests, I need a pipe to sign off that look and thus bolster my confidence an exude an air of authority! That one, missing element that will kindle affection in the hearts of Pretties, as opposed the present curdling of affection as I arsonate Jeff Bridges left, right and centre.

As Paul Simon (of the curtains and blinds) and Art Garfunkel (of the popular eatery) once said "I am a cock. I am an Island". Probably.

* Fear of going outside and interracting in a social manner. Also, fear of going out and getting cought up in a spot of aggro and getting duffed up after being set about with a stout stick).

Touch my bum, this is afterlife...

Much dauntage ensued this fair morrow with the prospect of being laden with literature and lugging the lot along long lanes.

Imminent collision may also be on the cards, due gravatational disadvantagement of blubbery bulkage and bookesque burdenment reducing the necessary speed of movement to avoid autovehicular interaction.

And so, waddle on down for public traversment, and be sensortially assaulted by the Pits of Stench, the Flatulent Seatage of Standees, the Foetid Fragrance of Overperfumery and the Ammonia Aroma of Bloomer'd Biddies.

Which would please a certain maternal felchery fetishist of my aquaintance no end!

But, oh! The aural rape upon the senses!

Apart from portable telephonic communicative devices tinking out Tiny Tempura and giggling gossipy gormsters (pupil porking pædo pedagogues prominently prolific, it would seem!), there's the trials and tribulations of life.

Such as the supernatural spectral sphincters of schoolgirls.

There was me thinking it's all mingewaxing,  plastic surgery juggery and anorexia, when the main worry of the young women of today is paranoid posterior possession, requiring some buttock botoxing exfoliating exorcism before you get Amityville arms*!

They didn't have ghostly glutes on the silly bus when I did O-Level Biology. Hmmmm. May have to advance my education and take late night classes in haunted hooters and scary marys.

* Arms with fingers. Or at least, arms with hands with fingers. Fingers on arms would be just wrong, like having giant carterpillar for arms. Not arms as in weaponry. Although both arms were used in Amityville by the DeFeos, as was the Long Arm Of The Law when beating a confession out of Ronnie. And in Amity, when Brody shot that shark right in the compressed air!