|Artist impression of the anal probing|
|Oh fuck, didn't we anally probe Flaxen, last week?|
I awoke late and wandered out of my bedroom to my well appointed and expansive/expensive deck, bedecked and regaled in a tawdry dressing gown. I greedily drew breath and was instantly rewarded with the olfactory delights of an Australasian spring; a mixture of new mown hay, tinged with the heady perfume of wildflowers, with a hint of warm dog shit.
What should I do today? I could continue my autobiography; perhaps I'll teeter down to the 'Old Folks Home' and refresh the inmates with daring do stories concerning times past. A simple world filled with chiselled jawed men of adventure and coquettish ladies festooned with bustles, ochre, and ringlets. Mayhap, I could take a walk along the coast road, watching the Pacific breakers play fume and spray and deposit seaborne detritus on a wind-scoured shore. I closed my china-blue eyes, pursed my perfectly formed and succulent lips and reflected, for but a moment..... Then revelation insinuated and grasped my inner being and related in no uncertain terms: 'Why not drink two bottles of cheap vodka and see what the day may bring?' Excellent counsel, I thought, and so I began the day by throwing myself into this worthy project, with gusto
After several belts, I started to see the world in a different light. All the world's major problems were laid out in sumptuous array in my whip-sharp brain. In turn, each problem was examined, laid bare and solved as if in a thrice. As I neared the last of the first bottle I began to sing a bawdy old sea shanty which I had learned at my father's knee. I suddenly became still, nay solemn. As if in a rush, the problems of a needy world descended upon my neatly coiffured head. Sharp featured furies were unleashed and lashed my wits with a thousand barbs. My morosity (not a real word ) held no bounds and I descended into a deep moribund pit of despair, self-pity, and despond. Before uncapping the second bottle, I thought it wise to open and drain to the end, a small bottle of baby sham. Twas, my undoing, but read some more and be aghast.
The second bottle held no new terrors. As I drained the last I noticed a strange creeping numbness assailing my every fibre and within my very marrow. The significance of this malady only became clear after certain pertinent events had transpired. Hmmm, I thought, I do believe I have half a bottle of crème de menthe left over from the Vicar's tea party, last Eastertide. Wouldn't it be a good idea to cleanse my palate with a mint flavoured liqueur? As I reached for the rime encrusted bottle my world suddenly became a rotating demon. My wits seemed strangely befuddled and the room did spin like a demented Dervish on acid. With trepidation and dread, I recognised this strange phenomenon for what it was- I was about to be abducted by anal probing aliens, again! The last occasion was during the Christmas party. I remember as if it was last week (it was last week). I had just consumed: 12 shots of Jack Daniels; 15 glasses of the finest brandy; a magnum of champagne and a single baby sham. After the baby sham, my senses were robbed by an ethereal alien cosmic force. I can only surmise that I was taken aboard an alien spaceship and viciously anally probed- this would account for the subsequent and unsightly stains permeating my underwear. After they had obtained all the information that can only be obtained by anal probing, they deposited my spent and wasted body on a park bench. When I awoke I was totally naked and my head pounded with a ferocity as if a dozen Frenchmen had taken up residence there. And so it was to be this time. Next day I awoke on the same park bench, totally naked. But this time my tumescent member was circumscribed with a neat pink ribbon, tastefully attired. Again my head was quenched/drenched in pain; damn those alien cosmic beams! They had not only festooned my racked body with a sore arse (due, no doubt, to excessive anal probing) but my head did ache abominably. Damn Aliens! Can't you leave a pert and perfectly formed Englishman alone when there are so many Americans hereabouts willing to comply with the deepest and most painful anal probing?
I recognised the connection. I will never drink baby sham, again.
Here is the news: 3.7 million Americans believe they have been abducted by Aliens/Xenomorphs.
I am a sinner, but I rest my case and sore arse (arse) on a rubber doughnut.
|Artist impression of the anal probing|