Heil Ceasar Salad...

Canapés?

Canapes.

Can apes?

'kin apes.

Coming over here, rising up and overthrowing man into Servitude!

Marty? Chris Pellow! Wet, Wet, Wet...

Now, someone at work was bewailing their lot, for they purchased a three part wafery treat for 75p. 

75p! Apparently, that's a rip off, coz you can can get about 6 Freddo bars for that!

But I reckon the price was just a show. The real reason is that his choccie bar was...

...a Crispello!

And we all know what that means - his other half is shagging his dad!

I've seen the advert. Family wanking in the woods, when girlfriend ruffles boyfriend's hair, and he's like all "gerroffmehair. Bitchfucker". To which, she turns, in front of his parents, and sings: 

♪ You think your cock's impressive but it's not

Your Dad is nice, he wets my... slot

I wish he'd poke my lubed up buttocks

I love the way he parts my beef (curtains)

The ole pork sword

Virile and sweaty

I ride him when he's un-der-neath ♪

Or something.

Anyhoo, once the senior serenading seductress has finishered her ballad, all aflame with lustful desire due to cocoa consumption, Dad simply grins and says "Lovely!"

Mom is a seething jealous hag, glowering at the youthful succubus and giving Dad evils. Soon to be ex-BF just stares, open mouthed in shock.

But Dad - Dad has a well big smirk on his face. Lovely - I bagged me a Lolita! No more the withered dugs of the ancient leathery wife and her dried up old flange - it's wanton teenage trollops all the way! Frothing at the gash with their pert breasts... and all for the hormonal arousing price of a 75p bar of chocolate!

Who needs Bacardi Breezer Pant Remover, when you can ply your son's nymphomaniac girlfriend with a Crispello.

Crispello? Crispy gusset of fanny battered knickers, more like, eh Dad!

I'd be well miffed if I finally got a Pretty of my very own, bought her a Crispello, only to find her copping off with my Dad. Mainly coz me Dad's dead, so he'd be a bit wormy. Not even that, being cremated, so the nearest she could get to giving him a blowie would be smoking his ashes in a roll-up.

That reminds me - must remember to take Crispello's down The WhatACunt to lure in the Ladies... although me & my Wife/Sister may need to adopt a son so I can nick his bird with my confectionary trap!

Mwah ha ha ha ha!

* Twirls twiddly moustache, swirls cape with stylish élan, and heads off to engage in damsel based melodramatic villainy *

What has it gots in it's pocketses...

Riddle me this

Riddle me that

Don't pay attention

To that fucking twat!

I was reading Stephen King's The Dark Tower: The Waste Lands on Friday, and it had an alleged riddle in it. 

"Out of the eater came forth meat,

and out of the strong came forth sweet"

Now, this was a riddle posed by Samson to Tom Jones so if he solved it, he could marry Delilah instead of having to sing about her in front of knicker flinging women whilst thrusting his groin about.

Anyhoo, even Xym with his vast intellect couldn't solve it the riddle, but at least the answer was given.

Lions and honey! 

What the absolute fuck?  How the hell do you get Lions and Honey from that? Well, at least the riddle is explained...

Samson was wandering about, tossing his strengthing barnet about like a poser in a posing patch, when he came across the skeleton of a dead lion, and some bees had made a hive in the skull.

Sorry Samson - that's not a riddle. That's just something obscurely random you alone have seen, and expect people to identify this unique vision form a cryptic couplet of nonsensical tosh. How the hell was anyone going to fathom out the answer was a beehive in dead lions skull.

And as if by magic, another conundrum appeared, albeit of a photographically nature:

What is this? 

Clearly a statue of some sort? Somewhat eroded... Seems to a cowled head... Possible an animal head... A deformed nun? A sheep peeping out of a nun's habit? What the heck, it's a horsey face - mayhap a Tesco Burger front the future, re-morphing itself into equine form a-la the T-1000 from Terminator 2: Fudgement Day?

But the owner of the misshapen carving denied all answers, until he informed us just what it was.

Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire Pudendum batter, overspilling and forming battered stalaglüft trees on the bottom of the oven!

Naturally, that was the first thing that sprang to mind. 

I'm going to have to right a book of riddles, as it seems you can write any old bollocks only you know about.

Round I'm found o'er eternal flame

and stem babe population stain.

Which would obviously be my emergency bus fare & nail varnish on t'fireplace. 

Samson. What a hairy bellend.

Although I wouldn't say that to his face. Unless he was all baldy. Then I'd kick him in the nuts too.

Och-aye the boobs...

Ladies, if you find yourself enamoured of The Scotch and want what the sporran suppresses beneath his kilt concealment, then you need to lure your prey with Glaswegian catnip.

Said catnip being pressing your prey's facial element within the valley of your unclean bed based head rests (to whit; dirty pillows), and encourage the highlander to turn his head from side to side at great speed.

In other words, motorboat your McVictim into a catatonic kitty-purring state of mindless bliss, allowing you to take advantage of your haggis fuelled sex slave's bagpipe.

Catnip indeed!

Of course, this does help if you're a big bird with mahoosive babies lunchboxes that cannot be measured in weight due to impracticality of scale based assessment of assets.

A big bird with a man's face.

A rubbery face at that - not unlike facially challenged puttyface Phil Cool.

With extremely tiny feet (albeit sexy due to tinyness)

Who also snacks on the scrotal contents of diminutive dwellers of Endor. ie, she who feasts on Ewok's balls. 

I thought I hadn't seen Warwick Davies for a while! Wicket's love spuds gnawed off by man faced big birds with the dwarven feet of sexyness rendering him unavailable for Ricky "as funny as James Corden" Gervais.

Now THAT's something you don't read everyday (but now you can. Right here. Right now)!

He's no good, he's no good, he's EbAviva Scrooge...

Thievery!

This fair morrow, I was expecting my Dividend from my Shares Awared In Lieu Of Bonus so I could afford the horrendous expense of The Cult, The Damned and Hazel O'Connor, which (including booking & postage fees) came to about a million squids.

Now, first of all, how can they UEA justify a booking fee per ticket? I'm purchasing three tickets in one go - one postage charge, one booking. It can't cost £6 just to shove 3 bits of paper into an envelope!

Why not be honest - just include the booking fee in the ticket price!  £20 + £2 fee... just say £22 a ticket ffs!

Grrrr....

Anyhoo, hoping to recoup the thousands of pennies spent, I looked for my meagre dividend. Yay - doesn't cover the cost, but goes some way to... wait a minute... it's not in my account! It's been "reinvested"!

Since 2001, I have had an annual deposit - and suddenly, that bastard Stamp Gnome has inveigled it's way into the accounting system and is embezzling my financial rewards to fund his own private investment scheme in cobbling. Or is that elves? yeah, elves and showmakers...

Actually, what do gnomes do, apart from sit in gardens, thieve stamps and right royally bugger up Xym's life?

That's it - I'm writing to Matt Allwrong, Ann Robinsonsjam and Nigel Shaver to get Watchdog on their Rogue Trading asses!

Gash in the attic...

It had to happen at some pointt.

So, you've run out of ca$h, so to raise funds you call in them there bargain cunts to ransack your upper edifice in search of loot.

And so the BBC arrive and rummage about and come across what may be a valuable old Persian Kilim....

And it's at that point you remember you really should have removed the body of your husband you murdered 30 years ago before inviting Aled Jones in to hunt for treasure.

What's makes it even better is the village in Somerset - the village of Quimm!

Now, you're probably expecting more minge based pervatoricality, but you' be wrong. For death in Quimm (f'narr f'narr), Somerset pit me in mind of Midsomer Murder, and thus Midsummer and gormsters.

Not so long back, I was despairing at the lack of gaia's seasonal phases. Now, someone else has stared being as dumb as a sett full of post Gordon Ramsey sex dwarf twin consumption badger defacations.

Anyhow, the clueless wonder was blathering on about how it's officially Summer, as 21st June is mid-Summer, like middle of Summer.

Dumbass!

Firstly, it's not mid-Summer, it's Midsummer.

Second, Midsummer comes from ye olden dayʃ, and in olde Engliʃh, mid meant ʃtart,  beginning, geneʃiʃ, etc. ergo, ye olden feʃtival of midʃummer denoteʃ the ʃtart of ʃummer!

Honeʃtly, do they teach kidʃ nothing theʃe dayʃ ?

Dreamboats and Petticoats? Bustle and Busts...

Now, yesterday I was discussing the poise of parasitic Pretties of the HemoGoblin persuasion.

To whit; Vampire ladies in flimsy dresses hanging all oops-ups-eiderdown, and encouraged this method of hanging about in clubs.

And to get the craze off the ground (and a-dangling from the ceiling), I proffered this picture of a Pretty performing the pose on a club bog doorframe.

After discussion with the Vampire Pretty¹ in a Hundersbyesque proud and prejudicial fashion, and some mild mis-interpretation of ankles² for pantaloon pythons, It suddenly hit me.

That Pretty is upside down in a dress... and yet the dress has not obeyed the laws of gravity and descended over her lithe body, hiding her visage and prominently portraying her pants to the public.

Or pubic. or something.

So that kind of put the mockers on my Get To See Almost Nudie Babes In Clubs By Getting Them To Wear light, Airy Dresses And Dangle Upside Down With Their Flange In Xym's Face plan, as the photogratification opportunity has the Pretty clad in a Stealth Dress!

Anti-Gravity raiment!

Perhaps that picture is not of some drunken lush larking about in the loos, but a necessary position to retain a lady's modesty!

Mayhap she needs to stay upsidey-down so that the anti-gravity reactors in her hem keep the skirt at a respectable, less labia-revealing level. If she were to turn through 180° and stand upright, perhaps her hem would shoot straight up to the ceiling, leaving her all a-dangle and neck-down nudie!

I don't know - them young womens and their fashions. Out and about in the city, a short breeze, and it's a-clutching of the short, flimsy skirt to stop it billowing up in the wind and flashing yer arsefloss that passes for pants. And then they put on these anti-Gravity dresses and have to hang from toilet doors, or walk upon their hands!

Ooooh wait - perhaps them Giant Flying Jellyfishies and UFO's are, in fact, just Anti-Grav skirts! Giant hooped skirts, powered by astronautical womens in Victorian bloomers to preserve their dignity. Directional traversement powered by farting forwards, queefing to reverse, and a cheeky lifting of a buttcheek to move left or right!

♪ Twinkle Twinkle, little star

how I wonder what you are

up above the world so high...

...Wait a minute, that's hair pie! ♫

It IS a twinkle! Oi, missus! Yer petticoats have parted resulting in anti-gravity gusset revelation!

¹ ONE WHO FAVOURS THE WHALEBONE ENTIGHTENED ENCASEMENT OF THAT WOMANLY BOWER THAT INCARCERATES HER ADMIRABLE ASSETS, AND THE VOLUMINOUS KNICKERBOCKERS OF DRAUGHT PREVENTION (WHICH ACCOUNTS FOR HER HOT, FLAMING CHEEKS THAT NEED COOLING FROM THE RED HOT FLAME OF SHAME... OR WAS THAT FROM THE SPANKING?)

² AND NOT, ONE HASTENS TO ADD, CANKLES. THOSE POP-SOX'D TROTTERS DANCING PIGS DISPLAY WHEN "AT THE HOP" DOWN THE WHATACUNT OF A METAL NIGHT...