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Return Of The Son Of Twenty One Words

Started by TJ, April 13, 2006, 02:51:05 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

skibz

explode on a regular basis, causing great upset to anti-explosionists and part-time cleaners alike.

This story makes no sense

butnut

if read sequentially. However, in the future, experts will reorder it, and the world will gasp in awe at its revelations:

Mister Cairo

They will weep with pain as they realise they could never create anything as lovely as the lovely story we are

hands cold, liver warm

mining from the cliff face of vocabulary. The End.

The year is 6000 AD and Zacob has just finished reading our

Neville Chamberlain

story and has absolutely no idea what the gadzooks it's all about. The original authors who, thankfully, are all dead now,

Jemble Fred

want it to be known that any resemblance to a proper story is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved to fuck.

Now who's bored enough to edit all this shit together.....?

TotalNightmare

Meanwhile... back at Hildergaurd's School for Wayward Girls...

ahh fuck it.

Neville Chamberlain

a frog trampolined on a rhino's back and spat vomit while it...

yeah, bollocks. Sorry, TJ, we ruined it :-(

Catalogue Trousers

We've broken it and green stuff is coming out. Never mind, a successful tourniquet may yet be swiftly and successfully applied!

hands cold, liver warm

TJ was not finished yet. Powering up his scientific instruments he forced verbwhores to get back to a sensible story about

butnut

a last committee member adding their signature. This confirmed that; in almost exactly sixty three years time, a lampost would be

Jemble Fred

capable of sentient thought. Perhaps that clever lamp-post will also try to enter those mythical factory gates.

BY THE SAME AUTHORS

neveragain

Miss Marple versus The Daleks
Capturing Chickens For Fun Profit
Grandfather's Leprosy
Fantasmagoria!
Masterson Goes A'wibblin'
Sambo Sally's Frugal Quintessence Bastion

Mister Cairo

Sadly, none of these books are destined to appear on Channel Five One Hundred Most Adaptable Books, which is presented by

Jemble Fred

golly, by gosh, by gum, by George, by all the powers from which we do exist and cease to be. There.

Neville Chamberlain

Will. Now. Be. A. Short. Intermission. While. We. Decide. Whether. To. Let. This. Thing. Live. And. Prosper. Or. Die. Howwibly. Howwibly.

TJ

VERBWHORES BADGE OFFER!

Yes, you too can join the millions of readers who are proudly sporting a pin-button badge showing a

Jemble Fred

I honestly don't know if we're done or not, but thanks to the wonders of Find and Replace...

Quote from: "WE"
The Return Of The Son Of Twenty One Words

The last committee member added their signature. It was confirmed, then; in exactly sixty three years time, a lamppost would be erected in the memory of Captain Reginald Pritchard. And if anyone deserved a memorial lamppost, it was Pritchard. After all, he was the man who removed the stigma of the lamppost fetish, who was proud and open about his attraction to lampposts, and in his heyday was the third largest supplier of lampposts and lamppost accessories in Yeovil. His only regret? The enormous penis, which he would have had removed earlier if it weren't for a sagacious old lady who told him that gold blend sponsored that penis for Yeovil's Millenium celebrations. People came from around the world to see it, but the council bowed to the 'PC Brigade' and tore the enormous phallus down. They replaced it with the most splendid example of a lonely man on a hermitic onanist bender, during which he cooks genital-shaped food, smears his walls with lube and watches the confused looks on the faces of his nearest and dearest as they try to celebrate the cat's birthday.

Sanjeev Baskhar thought this was the greatest work of art he'd ever seen and tried to purchase the piece for himself. However, the six-figure salary he was getting annually from the British Broadcasting Corporation was sadly not quite enough. Perhaps if he had the number of Pritchard's elderly gay ex-lover, he could persuade him to commission another, even better, bigger, golder penis. That would come in handy, "Or would it?", he asked himself, musing like musing was going out of fashion, and it had to all make sense somehow. Gold obviously wasn't the sensible option and "silver is just too tacky", but plastic could be just what the doctor ordered!

This is, of course, a figure of speech. There weren't now nor ever any practitioners involved. 'Thank god', thought Prichard. Five day later the phallus was delivered to his home covered in a peculiar greasy liquid that smelt suspiciously like vegetable oil. But it was not vegetable oil. It was the greasy, squalid, gruelling remains of a student play about the Beatles, which Constance had written back in Nineteen Seventy Eight. It harboured a terrible secret which proved conspiracy theorists right, that John Lennon was in fact made of silica gel. It's no wonder that the penis was so smelly!

He raced through the text, scandalised, too absorbed to notice the lamppost by his window, which right then, hilariously, dropped some scissors on a cat. The cat, looking surprised, let out one final yelp before dropping to the floor and doing sixty press ups before running up a tree. Confused by what he just saw, Prichard unsheathed his weapon and introduced its glistening, sharpened blade into his thumb. Much bleeding, much yelps of girly agony, much pooing of satin pants, much more, or should I say, many more bad feelings and emotions coursed viciously through his body and out of it. Then suddenly, the pain stopped.

A retired general who happened to be passing by stopped and looked at him, quizzically. "What's that stuff you've got scrawled on your forehead? I can barely read it, it's smeared because you're sweating. It looks like "Elephant Fuckbubble', but this may be my imagination- what is it? And why are you dicking about like this?"

Pritchard replied, "Well, I don't see anything better too do, and anyway its what I'm good at.' he chortled scratching his head. 'Is that good enough good enough good enough good enough good enough good enough good enough good enough good enough?' he repeated proudly.

The General replied, "I'm not deaf you impudent little cunt, neither am I deaf, so you needn't repeat yourself, and no, don't bother repeating yourself cos I'm not deaf you know. Blind, yes, but I'm not deaf - and don't bother repeating yourself."

Pritchard repeated himself.

The General was incandescent with rage. He darted quickly forward, towards Pritchard, and struck him squarely on the penis with his mouth. Prichard gasped with amazement, not having received any sort of penal pleasure in many, many minutes. Due to a childhood injury sustained in childhoood when he was younger, however, Pritchard's banjo string snapped and his helmet came loose.

So far, so good, the comedy show was pretty much writing itself. Jack sat back and stuck a well deserved Sodastream Success Prediction Mark onto his Success-o-meter: not quite Mainstream, but it was a start, as far as predictions went! "WHAT THE KIDS TODAY WANT IS SPED-UP SIGHT GAGS, MONKEY WHIMSY AND LOTS OF LOVELY HIP DRUGS!" he reckoned, loudly.

Meera Syal was meanwhile riding a tiny bike in the direction of the Have Your Say labs, where teams of Verbwhores were distilling gutrot bathtub liquor in some kind of ill-conceived 'tribute to Prohibition' for visiting '20s obsessed warbler Morrissey. Syal loves gin.

Coincidentally, "Syal loves gin" was also the name of an unreleased album of duets featuring Morrissey and the reclusive 80's star Jimmy Cricket. "One was in an artistic wilderness at that point, not knowing which direction one should take." Cricket said recently.

Morrissey said nothing.

The mystery of Morrissey's unending silence is the most interesting story in the world.

But anyway, 'Back to Life', a hit record for Soul 2 Soul, was cut short when distillery foreman Darrell tersely switched off the radio. "Oi!, ' shouted he. 'Not here! A sacred quiet-looking vestibule, to which people are generally unassuming. The perfect place for the completion of the story?

"Not on your Nelly!" cried Eminem, swinging on the chandelier and throwing Snackajacks down at the hungry immigrants who stared longingly at him. Little did he know, the thin cable supporting him was about to snap, sending him down a spiral of regret for sourcing his light fittings at B&Q. "The cable - is not able - it's unstable - wish I'd read Aesop's fable"

As he crashed to the ground and landed (making quite a pleasing sound), many of the people in the labs felt a shared sense of community, ended only by the blood from Eminem's leaking body seeping into the office of fair trading, which had foolishly been moved from their lovely complex to a slimy canyon down in the depths of the aircraft carrier, which at this moment was preparing to receive George Bush again.

The carrier shuddered with embarrassment as Bush lifted his winky off his sticky little ballsack, stuck a miniature star spangled banner in its eye and waved it patriotically from his position perched on the shoulders of John Culshaw and Rory Bremner. "Hooray!" he gurgled, as the impressionists waved to the audience of three people who still enjoyed their dribblings. "Ha ha!", said the audience, "the Tony BLIARS!!!". Then Chris Morris arrived.

At once Bush's winky stood to attention, the fleshy little fiend respecting the man who brought the world such gems Carry On Peadophiling, Confessions of a 'File> New Window' cleaner and Nathan Barley, which is considered to be the most depthless thing since the z axis was invented and Kate Thornton drowned trying to snort a saucer of milk.

The body of work that Chris wished was his own was actually that of Mark Arden. In fact, Morris was often to be heard screaming the lyrics to Kate Bush songs into the ears of any passing aardvark who was foolish enough to let him get within a hundred feet. Fortunately, the aardvark had prepared a startling repartee for such an eventuality, and proceeded to wax Kate's Bush.

In the midst of all this confusion, no-one had noticed that a small door had opened in the corner of Eminem's eyes. Well, one small boy had noticed but as he was brought up to be polite, he said nowt.

This door led to the little known world of cookd and bombd, where "regulars" must do battle with trolls and make fun of people they deem to possess inferior intellects. It is a shadowy world of conspiracy theorists, lefties, and assorted nutjobs.

The door allowed the Verbwhores to skip out of their world for their scheduled "Factory Meet". The first Verbwhore to exit ran happily along the golden fields leading up to the Factory gates, until the device on their neck activated, bursting their sandwiches out of their lunchbox, as well as most of their head.

From behind the factory gates, a small fleet of Ford Mondeos, each containing one bored, frustrated and quite possibly suicidal middle manager from Luton, revved their engines menacingly. Then suddenly they heard the sound of their tormentor, the overly casual Ricky Gervais, who took one look at the disgruntled fleet and was promptly run over and killed by a fork-lift truck that appeared apparently from nowhere. The body of Ricky Gervais is now available from News International for the reasonable price of 356 million dollars.

At the stroke of noon, the factory calmly strolled down to the old graveyard to meet its almost certain demise, slinging its pistol nonchalantly and waving to the other anthropomorphic buildings doing that ducking up and down dance they do on most occasions.

Waiting at the old graveyard was David the Chameleon, at that moment a fetching shade of ecological green. "Does the Prime Minister agree that for too long I have been speaking?"

Not just the PM (Thatch as was, but not now) but everyone in Britain nodded simultaneously. So David decided to turn a delightful shade of blue and pissed all over the mausoleum belonging to the recently deceased celebrity Dennis Weaver, who wasn't very famous but did die quite recently so it still counts.

Unexpectedly, Cameron redirected his effluent towards his mouth. Due to a genetic defect Cameron wees Cresta lemonade. "It's frothy, man!" quipped a passing polar bear.

But wait!... That was no polar bear! That was Wyclef Jean, out on the razz with best mates Ted Bovis (the fictional man) and Spike Dixon (the very real man). Spike wore that shit-eating grin for which he had become famous and his Outrageous Waistcoast, one half red to symbolize the blood of the orphans, the other half as black as the Heart of Darkness writer Joseph Conrad's black shoes.

"You know what, Wyclef?" said Ted, swaying slightly, "I don't think anybody's even remotely interested in me, sexually."

"Not so," said Wyclef. " I've always thought of you as rather a fetching man. And so does my Fetching Man, Alfonso." He pointed to a small man, no taller than 3'2, who carried a bag of assorted items including His favourite Runcible Spoon, two pints of bishop's milk and a little magic mirror which made anyone who looked in it see their own reflection.

Ted, Wyclef and Spike came to the conclusion during later discussions that although they were outwardly jovial, inside them all was a maudlin little clown screaming 'love me'. Unfortunatley this wasn't a metaphor. Problems arose when Wyclef's clown started to sublet the hip-hop gentleman's left ear to sundry Russian mobsters. The bailiffs forced entry through Wyclef's gut and demanded that all the stolen artefacts from the mobsters be returned by noon the next day or they will bring an almighty - sorry, The Almighty. Being atheists, the godless Russian mobsters merely laughed in that evil Stalinist way that Russians like to do. They immediately became subject to horrific rectal prolapses, clogging up Wyclef's brain with excrement and accidentally spawning a new Fugees album called Reality Ain't No Good, Man. Their single from that album, You Gotta Keep Strong, Sister, became a massive hit in Slovakia, Serbia and the yet to be discovered UmmaGummaLand where the song stayed in the number one position for over five thousand years, as no other songs were ever released there. It's not a big college town. Disenchanted, Lauryn Hill finally took the pills she kept in a velvet sock under her pillow and, after writing a lukewarm poem about her pet afro, Graham, she mournfully pondered the plight of black women refugees everywhere and whether she could write a soulful ditty about them.

After hours spent tossing and turning encased in her wheatgrain sheets, she threw her hands up and then began to write the true facts about where the story was going...

"Back at the factory gates, Wyclef, Ted, Spike, Lauren, Eminem, Sanjeev, Meera and company decided that life really was going nowhere and committed mass sucicide by jumping into a ditch.

Jack Black's cat was the first to die.

Just then, the factory gates opened wide and the most beautiful music filled the ears of all the poor and ugly children of Chav Valley. As the Fugees descended down on a cloud of white and began to expound on the hardships suffered by downtrodden black people the world over, the "chavs" started to guffaw, spit, and vandalise the factory gates, as an army of funny little men ran out and tried to stop them. Suddenly, the mysterious Nelly Nicker came out and swapped Peter Piper's pipes for a nickle. "Do you mind" said Peter "I need those pipes for procreation."

Piper Piper made a large arm gesture and the funny little men stopped hitting chavs and turned on Nelly Nicker with their armoury of Tibetan anus flutes and Somalian scrotal saxophones. Nelly Nicker screamed as the funny little men removed their trousers. Then he sang a little song all about the magic of the imagination. Everyone listened, and cried. But fuck that, after all it was nearly time for Neighbours, and this week Paul was preoccupied with sanding down his clanking testicles to create a wind chime, Toadfish was preoccupied with shoving chocolate bars up his arse, and Libby was preoccupied with her vaginal secretions.

I went to the park with my mommy and my daddy. Daddy bought me a great big ice cream. It was a complete non-sequitur.

What was this madness? It must have been the music sploshing around in everyone's ears. Wyclef drowned out of view of the rest of Humanity. No one heard. No great loss. His assailant grunted with satisfaction and put down a rabbit using a giant syringe and with a maniacal laugh.

Wyclef felt things were getting out of hand. Only one way to stop drowning – learn to fly. This he did, with vim and aplomb. He flew through the factory gates and was fatally machine-gunned by the lurking shape of Captain Zeppo. Wyclef was no more.

*Sob*! The Captain grinned evilly and congratulated his shape on a fatal machine-gunning well done. 'One thing I don't understand though old boy", said the Captain – "how do you get your plus-fours to hang like that?" "Well," said the shape, "It's a long story, and it starts  right now, over on BBC3!"

Over on BBC3, however, the evening's programming had not gone to plan. The trouble had started when a joke was spotted in one of the sketches in Fuck My Disabled Corpse, a new risky sketch show starring a piece of lino, a disabled capuchin, and Noel Fielding. Just as the first "flogging a dead otter" joke was made, the stars realised that now was their chance to ask for another skip full of licence payers' money, which would enable Fielding to buy a dragon for his stage show "DAGRON WHIMSY!!!111' and the piece of lino to record a duet with another piece.

BBC Three then closed down forever. Everyone turned into flowers. Water became solid. The air disappeared. Nothing else happened.

Apart from Toadfish's deep groans, all that could be heard was the sound of a ticking clock located somewhere in Africa.

Meanwhile, in Hitler's secret bunker, Adolf was almost near winning his third game in a row of Connect 4 against the International Business Machines laptop given away free due to him being such a good customer of theirs. After a while Hitler lost the war and evaded capture with a cunning disguise: he shaved his moustache off and frizzed his hair up a bit.

He looked just like popular children's presenter Barry Chuckle, but without the moustache, so he grew it back again to present "Adolf Hitler's Monday Morning Marmite Gang", a wacky kidz show with lots of gunge, silliness, crazy cartoons, music, and Jew-baiting. Rather like Eddie Monsoon's "How Pure Was Your Grandpapa?", it did very well in Austria, but struggled to find an audience – going so far as to kidnap kiddies and force them to watch.

"Bertha, lovely Bertha, sometimes I think you're a dream and when i wake up damp, it proves it"

... Went the song.

It was written by a mad Frenchman who often dreamt about animated British children's cartoons from the mid 1980s featuring the voice of Roy Kinnear and music by Bryan Daly.

Oh right so look, Hitler's doing his thing, everyone else is flowers, there's the song, and so on it goes. Life. And, if I may be so bold as to point out, albeit with due trepidation, Jemble, don't forget the mad Frenchman.

Jemble the mad frenchman had his own motives for trying to break into the factory, and get past Nelly Nicker's security underpants, which were specially reinforced with barbed wire, a laser grid, guard dogs, and to top it all a bloody big    bouncer called Jeff who, despite being nearly seven foot tall and well over 20 stone, resided in Nelly's bomb-proof gusset.

But the artful frenchman had love to guide him, sex to power him, and gin to block out all the danger. Having donned the protective clothing and rubber gloves, he took his courage in his hand and started to peel away the lovely threads of processed cow-juice from his emergency Cheesestring ration.

BOING!!!

"Now look," said Zebedee commandingly, "let's try and stick our courage to the screwing point and infiltrate this factory!" The Frenchman nodded.

Just then Ted Bovis let out a rattling    rattle snake, still angry at his recent gusset imprisonment. The frenchman and Ted were frightened and stepped backwards, failing to notice the snake, which was actually just behind them. "Bulles de baise!" the frenchman exclaimed, before noticing the snake was made the nicest lace you could buy. What lovely lace! Elizabeth Windsor would have been proud to wear the lace as she performed her saucy Lebonese knives and midgets juggling act. The display occasionally becomes so raunchy that weekender is known to explode on a regular basis, causing great upset to anti-explosionists and part-time cleaners alike.

This story makes no sense if read sequentially. However, in the future, experts will reorder it, and the world will gasp in awe at its revelations: They will weep with pain as they realise they could never create anything as lovely as the lovely story we are mining from the cliff face of vocabulary.

The End.

The year is 6000 AD and Zacob has just finished reading our story and has absolutely no idea what the gadzooks it's all about. The original authors who, thankfully, are all dead now, want it to be known that any resemblance to a proper story is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved to fuck.



TJ was not finished yet. Powering up his scientific instruments he forced verbwhores to get back to a sensible story about a last committee member adding their signature. This confirmed that; in almost exactly sixty three years time, a lamppost would be capable of sentient thought. Perhaps that clever lamppost will also try to enter those mythical factory gates.

BY THE SAME AUTHORS
Miss Marple versus The Daleks
Capturing Chickens For Fun Profit
Grandfather's Leprosy
Fantasmagoria!
Masterson Goes A'wibblin'
Sambo Sally's Frugal Quintessence Bastion

Sadly, none of these books are destined to appear on Channel Five One Hundred Most Adaptable Books, which is presented by golly, by gosh, by gum, by George, by all the powers from which we do exist and cease to be.


There. Will. Now. Be. A. Short. Intermission. While. We. Decide. Whether. To. Let. This. Thing. Live. And. Prosper. Or. Die. Howwibly. Howwibly.


VERBWHORES BADGE OFFER!

Yes, you too can join the millions of readers who are proudly sporting a pin-button badge showing a

Catalogue Trousers

graphic image of Ricky Gervais being roasted over an open fire while ELW10 looks on laughing in triumph, and Bernard Manning's Y-Fronts is

(NB: "(censored)" is a well-known troll. See if you can guess which one, win a Verbwhores button badge which lovingly depicts!...)

Neville Chamberlain

[The total number of words contained therein - 3,348 - is sadly not divisible by 21, which means someone's fucked up.]

Neville Chamberlain

busy telling everyone what time it is, what time it isn't, and the kind of food he doesn't eat on Tuesdays.

Catalogue Trousers

All of this below a rampant Purple Tentacle screaming "FUCKING NODDY????" at the top of his voice and a bloody big

Jemble Fred

[Does anyone remember how we did that story about the headless knight? That couldn't have been a 21 words one, surely? Just odd how that one held it together somehow. Well, certainly in comparison to this one, now I've been crrrrazy enough to read through it. But then, as the story itself says, we're reading the words in the wrong order.]