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The Verbwhores Costume Drama

Started by Jemble Fred, January 09, 2009, 04:58:55 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

Ginyard

timber, urinated on by the less controlled inmates, did nothing to heat the courtyard, where each man eyed the other with caution and fear, a hunting ground for the rapist keenly making mental estimations as to the size of rectums and teeth ...

Shit, wrong book!!!!!. Hold on......

Lemuel placed the letter upon the silver tray and proceeded to sing a most jolly tune about britches and huntsmen.

Jemble Fred

With a thick blanket of snow covering the Cramlington crags outside, a merry fire crackled, spat and jeered in the grate

Ginyard

of the room of the house of the town's sadistic Mayor, Jack Buaer. His yellowing eyes observed his breath lancing before him as he waited for the warmth to reach him

Sexton Brackets Drugbust

. Glancing down, he could make out the ceremonial mouse-drawn cube of heat he had ordered slowly approaching from the flames

Jemble Fred

.

There was a thud. A crash. A honk. And an orgasmic rattle.

Sexton Brackets Drugbust

It was certainly the most erotic and ornate baby toy he'd ever witnessed smash through a sturdy wall. But how had

Ginyard

they managed to find him?. He was supposed to be deceased, buried in the Cramlington graveyard as far as all were concerned to protect his daughter, Kim. The baby toy began to tick

Jemble Fred

-tock-tick-tock. Mr Buaer leapt upon it like a notably brave gazelle. "GET EVERYONE OUT OF THE VILLAGE!" he roared at young Miss Braintree, "THIS FUCKER'S GONNA BLOW!"

And so everyone from the Blacksmith to the Post Mistress to Old Lala Suckdugs, the village prossie, were rounded up into the gloaming. And they waited. And waited. And waited a bit more. Soon it was autumn.

"You know who I blame?" asked

the midnight watch baboon

Sesame Street stalwart Ernie. "The letter P and the number 6. Fucking middle-of-the-road whorebags.

"JACK BUAERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR", said

Ginyard


Jemble Fred


Ginyard

tagmeister.

Now it was evident that any sense of plot had been lost amidst the master's fresh urge to rejuvenate the HS Art thread. A certain mental lethargy at keeping the story moving had set in, a point equally applicable to so many previously loved threads that had bobbed around near the top of the forum. A sense of loss may have been felt by a member or two but most probably couldn't give a toss as they ne'er frequented the place anyway. The craft of communal writing had all but dissipated amidst mongs, memes, endless political threads and a website that was clearly inaccessible 70% of the time.

However, there is always a cock story to be made, so, with this in mind, I would like to draw all's attention to the fact that the previously mentioned Mr Bauer had, indeed the most peculiar member. Not a straight, veiny affair, but rather shaped like a certain yellow carribean fruit. It had proved useful over the years for helping royal mail delivery coaches out of puddles and

Jemble Fred

frankly, this opium is the best I've ever had.

"Fipsy and Lawks!" oiled young Master Starbucks, the squire's aesthetic son, sniffing the gladioli in his buttonhole and perching provocatively on young Miss Braintree's lap, as she struggled to pour high tea. "This village is such a bore, my dear," he continued, "But now you have arrived I'll warrant

Sexton Brackets Drugbust

you'll be lapping at my prarie oysters by tiffin."

"Destiny? Fate? Oysters. The new fragrance by Tiffin." came a disembodied and cryptic American voice, echoing throughout infinity.

"I dare say some oysters would liven up the afternoon," chuckled Miss Braintree, voluptuously "But I'm afraid

Jemble Fred

I have only travelled to this tiny village to fuck Mr Hatchclaft."

Thunder rolled anonymously on cue. There on the edge of the moors stood Hatchclaft himself, naked from the eyes down, eight foot tall if he was an inch (which he was), and tumescent. Notably tumscent.

"Hatchclaft!" cried the silly girl, and

the midnight watch baboon

rogynously, drawing attention to the puppy dog's tail she'd severed and hidden as an uncovincing penis juxtapozed by her Virginia. Hatchclaft

Jemble Fred

took the shivering tipsy in his enormous, manly, craggy, testosterone-flecked claws, picking her up bodily and intoning, in deep, rough tones:


[Please help tie this up everyone so I can sleep soundly again. I love you.]

Jemble Fred

#47
Tits-Titsford to Cramlington.
A work of literary genius by Ginyard, Sexton Brackets Drugbust, Jemble Fred, Caledonian Gonzo, The Midnight Watch Baboon... you know, all them.


The letter arrived promptly in March. 'Dear Mr Memebridge,' it began, the scent of crumpets discernible in the paper, 'Why don't you recite this letter in my voice, so any 'would be eavesdroppers' will immediately ascertain from whom said document is from?

Thank you. This epistle is to introduce Miss Olivia Braintree, the daughter of the Right Rev. Raymond of Cramlington. She is beneath you in both rank and station, and is oft found in the coach rank by the station working for ha'pennies. Indeed, her velvety Strawberry Slice is quite delicious – although it is, I discovered to my cost, simply a type of cake.

On the thirteenth day of Tonymas her father reclined on a fork, and was buried a week later at the crossroads 'twixt old Newmarket and new Oldkumquat Crescent. The burial was lagubrious, but due to my paranoid schizophrenia, crazed bursts of giggles were of course unavoidable, and everybody joined in lustily.

You will have noticed by now that she also has a lovely bustle and the creaking of whalebone when she bends to tie her shoelaces quite makes ones eyes water.  Nevertheless, come evening was a great success thanks to Miss B's organisational skills, encouraging the gentlemen, holding the pipettes, and cleaning up afterwards with her pussy and a gravy boat. Mr Thistlecrevasse, a most enthusiastic fellow, had travelled the cobbled roads sodden by a recent thaw imitating the mating dance of the Phillip's Piper-crab in order to garner her considerable affections, but alas, his hopes were dashed – as were his brains. It was the cobblestones for him.

Anyway, by now you will have attracted quite a crowd reading this as loudly as you can muster. I also hope you have winked and grinned at the assembled throng when instructed, and chastised them thoroughly, especially the Hindoos and Mohammedans."

Memebridge put down the letter.  The Reverend Tom Charles Raymond?  That name chilled the very blood within his internal bloodpipes.

It had oft been said that the mercurial Reverend was as fiery an orator as Plutarch himself – though it may have been 'Pluto'. Any product of his loins was unlikely to be a fit suitor for Ms Moletits, the village postmistress.  Raymond was renowned for his etchings, wherein he would mock downtrodden guttersnipes in utterly filthy clothes using only his various disfigured finger puppets for paint brushes, causing alarm and distress to otherwise placid-tempered Placido Domingo, who oft' travelled back a few score years in time to watch Raymond growling "Spunkfritters" and flicking paint around. Having not a fraction of Hogarth's draftmanship, another wag essayed it 'A Harlot's Progress' (wherein all the harlots look the same). Nevertheless, all were agreed that his attempts at arabesquian obsessive humour in his art were clearly the work of a mad prize marrowed fuck of the first order. But now he was dead. Dead and gone. The same could not be said, of course, of his daughter Miss Braintree.

Man Nips, that fine cerebral village oak, who advised fine and trusted folk from Chigley, Trumpton and Deptford as to what fine things could be achieved in the fine fine. Fine, though Mr Fine, a man renowned for using the same words in the same sentence like a blithering idiot and then forgetting simple rules like counting in the process.

FAGGOTS! BAGS! RANDY!

***

At this juncture, the original author, Sir Giles BigKnockers, was stung in the kidney by a vicar and died with all froth everywhere. The original manuscript was taken up by his nephew, Lemuel LargeBreasts.

***

"So can I come in then?" asked Miss Ssssss - pronounced Ssssss - "Only, I've already come in, so if you didn't want me to, it's a bit late for that."

"Then why ask, you vast, sexy abortion?", said Lemuel before bedding, marrying and murdering the mass of s's of a woman who did. This was Lemuel the butler, who ushered Miss Braintree into the scullery while the Man of the House carried on reading that letter from her Mum, remember.

"... so I hope you put her to good use.
Sexy kisses,
Ermintrude B."

Burning timber, urinated on by the less controlled inmates, did nothing to heat the courtyard, where each man eyed the other with caution and fear, a hunting ground for the rapist keenly making mental estimations as to the size of rectums and teeth...

Shit, wrong book! Hold on...

Lemuel placed the letter upon the silver tray and proceeded to sing a most jolly tune about britches and huntsmen.

With a thick blanket of snow covering the Cramlington crags outside, a merry fire crackled, spat and jeered in the grate of the room of the house of the town's sadistic Mayor, Jack Buaer. His yellowing eyes observed his breath lancing before him as he waited for the warmth to reach him. Glancing down, he could make out the ceremonial mouse-drawn cube of heat he had ordered slowly approaching from the flames.

There was a thud. A crash. A honk. And an orgasmic rattle.

It was certainly the most erotic and ornate baby toy he'd ever witnessed smash through a sturdy wall. But how had they managed to find him?. He was supposed to be deceased, buried in the Cramlington graveyard as far as all were concerned to protect his daughter, Kim. The baby toy began to tick-tock-tick-tock. Mr Buaer leapt upon it like a notably brave gazelle. "GET EVERYONE OUT OF THE VILLAGE!" he roared at young Miss Braintree, "THIS FUCKER'S GONNA BLOW!"

And so everyone from the Blacksmith to the Post Mistress to Old Lala Suckdugs, the village prossie, were rounded up into the gloaming. And they waited. And waited. And waited a bit more. Soon it was autumn.

I would like to draw all's attention to the fact that the previously mentioned Mr Bauer had, indeed the most peculiar member. Not a straight, veiny affair, but rather shaped like a certain yellow carribean fruit. It had proved useful over the years for helping royal mail delivery coaches out of puddles and frankly, this opium is the best I've ever had.

"Fipsy and Lawks!" oiled young Master Starbucks, the squire's aesthetic son, sniffing the gladioli in his buttonhole and perching provocatively on young Miss Braintree's lap, as she struggled to pour high tea. "This village is such a bore, my dear," he continued, "But now you have arrived I'll warrant you'll be lapping at my prairie oysters by tiffin."

"Destiny? Fate? Oysters. The new fragrance by Tiffin." came a disembodied and cryptic American voice, echoing throughout infinity.

"I dare say some oysters would liven up the afternoon," chuckled Miss Braintree, voluptuously "But I'm afraid I have only travelled to this tiny village to fuck Mr Hatchclaft."

Thunder rolled anonymously on cue. There on the edge of the moors stood Hatchclaft himself, naked from the eyes down, eight foot tall if he was an inch (which he was), and tumescent. Notably tumescent.

"Hatchclaft!" cried the silly girl, androgynously, drawing attention to the puppy dog's tail she'd severed and hidden as an uncovincing penis juxtapozed by her Virginia. Hatchclaft took the shivering tipsy in his enormous, manly, craggy, testosterone-flecked claws, picking her up bodily and intoning, in deep, rough tones:

"I am desperate, darling. Can you not see my desperation? I don't care anymore, no matter what occurs, this must end."

THE END.

Commission X50, BBC1, Sunday evenings.


the midnight watch baboon