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VERBWHORES XMAS STORY 09: The 21 Words Of Xmas

Started by Jemble Fred, November 08, 2009, 02:36:42 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

Ginyard

was simply a wooden stake driven in by santa where my penis had once stood, inscribed with the words:

Here lies

Cerys

.  The rest was blank.  I frowned.  Here lies whom?  Here lies what?  The answer evaded me.  Frantic with lack of closure,

Cerys

I was somewhat relieved when the aliens burst in and took the focus off my shortcomings.
 
  'Nice shortcomings,' remarked Little Green Man 1.  'Now, let's get one thing straight.  We came down in that star - '

  'Star?' I queried.

  'Yes,' said LGM1 wearily.  'Star of Bedlam - '

  'Bethlehem?'

  'Whatever.  Glad we've got that inevitably unoriginal plot-sting out of the way.  Anyway,




Come on, come on - pull your fingers out!

Ginyard

how are you?'

'Well, apart from the wooden penis stake and the fact that I've lost 90% of my blood, I'm suprisingly ok, thanks'

'Great' he squeeled.

'So what exactly brings you to our humble planet?'

'Rape' mumbled number 28. LGM1 kicked him.

'Peace. And to deliver this fellow, who we believe to be the son of god'

Out from the shadows strode


Emma Raducanu

a frail little donkey, over which draped a heavily pregnant 12 year old girl. "Jonathaann!" yellped Santa. "Noo, I'm a virgin,

touched for the very first time" - "But by who?" inquired Jonathan (hiding his boner) "The gentle hand of God" she replied shiftly.

Ginyard

'You were impregnated by God?!' everyone gasped, except the aliens who couldn't actually gasp.

'Yes, and given a token fisting'  she added

Jemble Fred

. Of course the manager was overjoyed. "Squirt that cockamamie messiah out in our bedding department, holy mother-bitch-christ-girly! Those schmoes out there hear we got the second coming in the store, we'll shift every god-damn cockamamie piece of largesse on da shelves. Hey Arnold, Jesus is crowning, ain't dat da cutest?"

Arnold Santa


Just realised this is probably at about the 40 minute mark already... however it comes out, it'll have to be edited to buggeration...

Emma Raducanu

Fuck it, we'll have to pay Apex some wages and release it on top of the pops

belly-flopped on to a bed and screamed "It's Chhristmass!" and was soon supported by a twelve strong crowd of bellowing infants

Cerys

who mewled, puked and anally intruded their way through a medley of seasonal feel-good cover versions.  Snow fell, bums froze on the street corners and truly it was a merry Christmas, Mr Titbo.


Emma Raducanu

The virgin Mary's screams of pain rudely interrupted the singalong. A request for blankets, warm water and a pot noodle

gave me chance to be centre of the story again; a story that would be written in the new Bible. I

would be like the three wise men in one. Meanwhile, Santa immediately set about removing the girl's pants - "Pants are no

Ginyard

place on da mississipi river" he crooned in the voice Little Bonaparte.

"Jesus H Gloryhole Christ!" yelled santa in both joy




Emma Raducanu

and astonishment as an alien species reared it's head; it's tentacles reaching for a mince pie. "You can rape and pillage

our women, you can murder our children and hide our wheelchairs but you will never eat my mince pies" Santa dived

across the room, all his clothes falling off mid-air, finishing with an athletic somersault, grabbing the plate with his front teeth

Jemble Fred

and the cup with his back teeth. He grinned one final figgy-puddin'-masticatin' grin at the shocked and bloodied staff of Cramlingtons,

and then, with one horrible, titanic, unfunny fart he brought the Stupid Little Green Men's UFO screeching down – RIGHT INTO MY

Cerys

LEFT NOSTRIL!  The cunt!  He knew how sensitive I was about the size of that particular orifice.  In retaliation I prepared

Ginyard

my right nostril and rapidly fired a shitload of snot at him. And then, and this is the funny thing,

Jemble Fred

I can't remember anything else that happened from that moment until the arse-end of 2009. I woke up on Christmas Eve, surrounded by children and grandchildren and little scotty dogs in tartan coats and of course baboons, and I raised a glass to

Ginyard


Jemble Fred


Ginyard

special. "To Noddy Holder!"

"Hooray for Noddy!" said the baboons.

"Ho-ho-ho" said santa, and three prostitutes promptly appeared. "MERRY XMAS CUNTS!"

Emma Raducanu

I was listening to last year's story on the bus yesterday and several times let out a loud laugh. The comedy is in the absurdity, of which there was plenty. I enjoyed people staring at me.

Jemble Fred

"Grandad, will you shut the fuck up, we're watching Cum Swappers 9!"

"Come here, Tabitha!"

(Smack, crash, scream, punch, kick.)

"MERRY EXMAS AGAIN!"

THE END

Okay will get this to Apex by the weekend, and hope it's a quick and painless edit.

If anyone wants to kick another off....

Jemble Fred



QuoteDEBACLE ON 21ST STREET
A magical yuletide romp by Jemble Fred, TotalNightmare, Ginyard, DolphinFace, Lookalike Mark Chapman, The Midnight Watch Baboon, Dredd, Cerys.


Is there anything more magical than New York on Christmas Eve? I'm not really sure, but do let me know. This one Christmas Eve I remember with warmth in my arse was in 1938. I know, because I was that Pixie.

Snow lay shallow and soft and uneven in the shop-lit streets as a charabanc-full of intoxicated Verbwhores swung its way around the  icy bends and steamed to a halt outside Cramlington's department store. With a puff and a yelp, the door opened and I was met with the squirming vision of a mass of miserable shoppers all desperate to grab that all-important gift for their child, relative or momentary love interest. Like ants devouring a dead sparrow, these xmas zombies swarmed across the department store, throwing in toys, kitchen gadgets and foul smelling 30% off perfumes into their baskets. I felt my soul drop out of my rectum and so, head down and afraid, I plowed into the human storm in front of me, hoping to find my way to the changing rooms before... oh no, there he was... Santa.

"FACKIN' MINCE!" he roared belligerently, taking a glug of hot fizzing eggnog. "I WANT MY FACKIN' MINCE PIES" he bellowed again. A frightened dwarf actor, dressed as an elf ran over to the red faced monster carrying a tray of delicately arranged mince pies. Santa took one look at the pies and dropped his meaty fists upon them, smashing the pies and the poor elf to the ground. Santa saw me watching him watching me, and I felt a peculiar sense of peace as I charged at him in a spanking great rage.

"This is for years of horrible Christmases, bastard!" I screamed and lowered my head as I continued onwards towards my fat red target. The decrepit obese beast looked upon me with disdain, not moving an inch from his piss-stained position at the opening to the grotto. Santa merely whispered "Foolish Elf..." nanoseconds before I blacked out from the contact my head made with his oddly reinforced gut. Even in my unconscious state, I relived every horrible Christmas with that man. Every punch, every kick, every fissure, every pecan-nuts-up-the-bum-for-the-fresh-flesh-goblin game... oh god... the goblin game... why not ludo or kerrplunk you stonking great cunt?

As I lay there stewing in my warped copper pot of nightmares, I thought back to the circumstances of how I'd first come across this vile collection of bulging body parts. I'd answered an advert in the local newspaper. 'Wanted: Young man to play elf at grotto. Must have own pointy ears'. I'd been struggling to make the repayments on my new girlfriend's addiction to Lauren Bacall's perfume "Whistle" (for women) and faced another Christmas without food, water, presents or even Greta (my girlfriend). With reluctance, I cut a long story short and secured the job.

"So what kinda cockamamie douchebag are ya?" asked the manager of Cramlington's, 'Uncouth Terry', chewing challengingly on a bit of pork. "This ain't no job for a real man, dressing up in cockamamie ears and wearing cockamamie god-damn cockamamie curly slippers. You a fag?"

I assured him that I was just in dire need of the cash, and he spat me out a contract.

"One word of warning, babyballs," he drawled as I was ushered towards the Elfing Chamber, "Watch your ass near Santa, he's raped at least 15 previous employees but he's best friends with New York's highest judge and been found 'innocent' every time."

And yet, when I went in, he was as lovely as fuck. I gave him a peck on his cheeks and he put his cheeks on my pecs, so I felt we had a good thing going from the off. I pondered over whether to get my cock out right there and then but thought better of it when Mother announced herself dead. This upset me enough to keep little Thomas under wraps, but not enough to spoil the holiday. Me and Santa threw caution to the wind... and then spent several minutes trying to retrieve it. After that, he sat down, put me on his knee and told me 'I'm a bit of a cunt, to be honest,' and he let out his terrifying merry laugh. A nearby elf shat himself. Santa disdainfully looked disdainful.

Just as he did on this fateful Christmas Eve, as I came round from my cosy coma, adjusted my ears with a growl and put up the "Grotto open for bizzness" sign. The first of the long line of snotty little Verbwhores trooped up and eased his buttocks onto Santa's knee.

"And what's your name, little... boy?" belched the scarlet ogre.

"Fry."

"Cunt, more like!" bellowed Santa, and the surrounding elves obediently laughed, more from fear than the obvious accuracy of the statement.

"And what would you like for Christmas, Cunt?"

"Action man!" said the young British fellow, startled, confused and yet still filled with wonder.

"You want some action, man? Over there. Two elves, one goblet, and ten dollars for the knife and ear-protectors..." The little limey ran off bawling his minute eyes out onto the elegant shag.

"NEXT!" roared Santa. "And what's your name?"

"JEMBLE FRED!" roared back a man who was literally louder than Santa.

"ARE YOU TAKING THE PISS? ARE YOU TRYING TO OUT-ROAR ME?" roared Santa.

"NO. I ACTUALLY AM THIS LOUD!" roared Jemble Fred.

"NEXT!" roared Santa, throwing a cum-soiled teddy into Jemble's trembling, grateful mitts.

"I'm mook", slivered a half-human, fish-cocked fishuman, making even the nefarious Santa feel like a grape among a field of apples. "I'd like a Cavolo Nero to go with my spatchcocked redlegged partridge," he demanded. Santa thought, and then produced a burger with the words: Don't waste my time you brussel-boiling, parmesan-pruning, ferret-fucker stenciled on it. He was about to hand it to mook but was punched in the face before a panel of judges. 

'Pitiful,' remarked the largest judge, wearily shaking her head.  'Where's the zing, the zest, the cockamamie pizzazz?' That was the final straw for this satanic Santa. Nobody places a rosy punch on Saint Nick and walks away alive. "Judge this you plastic wankers!" machine-gunned from his lips and I watched an angry fat man dressed in red turn a panel of judges into a thick red bubbling human paste with his fist before my horrified eyes. I couldn't have given a tinker's leathery nutsack about them, really. But the NYPD could.

And in they came, all dressed as shepherds. 'Fuck me, Agnes!' I whispered, aghast.  For there, in the arms of the leading cop, lay a quiet, woolly, utterly beautiful sex offender.

"BEHOLD!" whispered the detective holding him, "the king of kings. At least that's what he said. There's a chance I may have been made deaf by the noise of yelling cops and deformed prop sheep. Arnold Pretend Santa, you're going to Sing-Sing".

Soon the cop was crying with a twitching prop lamb poking out of his bottom. Arnold Santa was untouchable and reigned over all in the grotto. With the last ounce of my strength, I swore I would end his reign of terror once for all. I would free this apartment store of his tyranny, betcha by golly!

Several Verbwhores were by now singing the latest hit number by Louis Armstrong, "I don't care what the weather man says, when the weatherman says it's raining, you'll never hear me complainin'...'"

Interestingly, the song itself was one piece of music that really got to Evil Arnold Santa. I caught him listening to it late one night after the store had closed. He was filled with tears and cried out "Hortence" with pain. As I stirred from my unconscious state, I wondered if I could use this 'Hortence' as some kinda word weapon that would stun and hypnotise the slow and the Welsh. I noted some perverse creature of the latter, watching the ensuing mayhem ensue, and enquiring about penis size of all participants in the mayhemessence. "HORTENCE", I cried in her valley, which held her rapt and tagged with the legend 'Merry Christmas Uncle Philip'. One mention of that name and Santa seemed to swell to fourteen times his size, though it was only nine times.

"WOAH, FELLA!" cried the Chief  Shepherd, "We don't want no trouble here, y'hear? It's the time of peace and goodwill to all goddamn scum-sucking-jay-walking assholes. Cool it."

Everyone looked at everyone else, except mook. Then... silence. Devastating silence. Santa pulled from his pocket a device with a big red button marked simply 'Apache Spunk Hose'. Everyone took a nervous step back, hoping they weren't going to be the one to get spunked on by Santa, who was panning the aim of his spunk hose across the room, as if playing an evil game of spunk roulette, then mook leaped forward and presented to the room a stick of fresh celery, which he used to conduct a wonderfully Christmassy orchestra of "Oh Hortence, oh Hortence, afforded me the greatest glee". The whole room sang, Fry even started dancing like a bloke in a dress (pale mauve silk, encrusted with diamonds, pearls and fossilised frogspawn).  A hush fell upon the crowd, killing the quiet, woolly sex offender who was so at peace with the world, in the safe arms of the head cop; his eyes gently closed, smiling happily, as what was left of his brain slithered from his crushed skull and fell to the shop floor with a splat.

Outside in the cold, a small befreckled orphan gazed in at the warmth and jollity of the proceedings, and wept a big, salty, tear. He gazed up at a star shining brightly in the sky, and called out, "O, Mama, why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Don't you be talking 'bout no chicken now, son. We gotta do us some shopping, y'hear?"

"But doesn't shopping involve a monetary transaction? You're just taking things and stuffing them down your pants, look your arse is the shape of a doll's house and your boobs are playing a nursery rhyme, I was better off on the streets."

"Shutcha face you shit, this is a Christmas miracle and you ain't no orphan no more, you better get used to this life. C'mon, we gotta see Santa about a dog."

The pair walked in through the main doors and up the small ladder to the attic. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they became aware of the scene confronting them. A grim, graceless, grotesque parody of the nativity - the 'Bible' one - featuring a soiled manger containing none other than Jonathan King, who clutched the baby. "Put the baby down", commanded a cop - "It's not real". The orphan hid himself behind his vast erection. Jonathan King continued greasily - "There's nothing wrong with buggering plastic Jesus."

"Well actually, sir, under the Blasphemy act section 2.13, anyone found buggering plastic baby Jesus must be crucified and stapled to the top of the town's Christmas tree," growled the cop. At the same moment, Santa, disturbed by the lack of storyline he was getting, decided to mount the ladder.

"Watch out, Santa!" I remember crying, but he just purped an ocean of digested-turkey gas in my eyes and carried on roughly stripping the varnish from its rungs and thrusting his vast, impossibly festive hips in time to the rhythm of the shite. However, his shoulders were too broad for the loft, and his stomach too podgy. In rage he shouted   'Shoulders? Stomach!'

And there he appeared, riding a helicopter, laughing mutanically, firing rice crispies at Santa who now straddled a pole on top of the Empire State Building, clutching a Barbie doll and roaring incoherently as he swatted at aeroplanes, BASE jumpers and other figments of his figgy imagination.

Through all this the Christmas Non-Orphan kept up an ear-splitting wail of sadness which quite put a downer on the cheer that had developed in the grotto, where Verbwhores shared mulled wine and old stories of the week before. The kindly white-haired man who oversaw it all - Neil - looked down, quite literally, on the Verbwhore elves. He took a popgun pellet to the eye and decided to leave the little shits to it.

On the far side of the Bronx, Harold Lloyd was greasing up for a stunt when he heard the non orphan's wail. In a sudden rage he took off his straw boater, putting his fist right through it. The wail reached as far as the Reich Chancellery building in Berlin. Adolf Hitler was in his office, playing Peggle on his laptop, when a knock-kneed person of semitic appearance called Ira Baddiel brought him his elevenses.

"Your eggnog, my dear führer!" he beamed, winningly.

"EGGNOG??? I want breast milk, macht sie verstehen?! Fetch me the finest Jewish breasts money can afford...with a straw!"

Instantly, I realised that these scenes could only be the mental result of a face full of Santa's homicidally pungent colon-blasts, and within an instant I awoke on the store floor, surrounded by passing shoppers and with Santa perched on his throne handing out presents to children. All at once seemed normal again except for the fact I had no clothes on, so I asked some of the smaller, more easily impressionable little Verbwhores to cover up my embarrassment with their tiny Verbwhore hands. It was not to be though.

'DEMON SEED!' he screamed at me, the vodka in his phlegm spraying my particulars, making everybody look at me. Cramlingtons erupted into laughter as my two-inch cock hovered near a passing boy's face. People came rushing in from the streets to see what was happening and more and more people joined in the laughter; some pointed, others made impersonations with their little fingers and before long, people were joining hands and breaking into song; it reminded me of Idi Amin's reign of terror, only with more singing and less soul-crushing terror and mutilation of the dead. 

Now that I came to think of it, it was about time for an extended action sequence. Crashing through the skylight came the Fuhrer's personal zeppelin, the Bohemian corporal himself descending into the throng on a zip line, "Yippy kai yay, mutter fokkers! You tink you hat zeen ze last off me? Now, vere is Herr Claus? Must be to delivering my Christmas list, ya?" Patting his pockets, a look of desperation crossed his face. "Ach! Who hass stollen my liszt? Answer me!"

Neville Chamberlain stepped forward, waving a piece of paper but was swiftly gunned down by another pixie with a grudge and a bauble cannon. 'Dumkopf!' spat the Fuhrer, showing his feminine side and in walked a midget who immediately began performing a tap dance routine, while everybody scrambled for the list of death with a veritable truckload of disdain.

"HOI, IT'S ME WHAT DOES STUFF WITH DISDAIN YOU PRICKY FACES!" roared Arnold Santa, desperately attempting to work out who was naughty and who was nice.  Now, does anybody remember that I, the narrator, am a pixie? The orphan remembered and was somewhat distracted by me being a pixie. I had to repeatedly fend off his advances when tying my shoelaces - a feat made all the more bizarre by the fact that I was wearing slip-ons.  He would keep trying and I would keep ignoring him.

"HUNGRY!" Santa decided it was time for lunch so produced a sword called 'Keanu Reeves' – which was, as its name suggested, made entirely out of wood.  Sadly it had also been infested with both termites and woodworm during its time in Santa's undergarments, and crumbled away to nothing but a sad pile of dust and insect corpses, unlike the one next to it which was a very happy pile of dust and insect corpses. Indeed, it was so happy that it sung a song to us all:

"Happy insects, Happy Dust
Filled with zest and oomph and lust
Hark the herald angels frot
Only fifty cents the lot
What a bargain!  What a prize!
Mother Claus, avert your eyes!
Happy insect corpses we
Buzzing to Infinity
Happy joyful dust and grime
Bring you nowt at Christmas time."


Rising into the air, the pile of dust and corpses formed the shape of a face and started eating the Verbwhores; firstly Fry, then he was quite full. In fact, he couldn't even finish off all of Fry, and the limb, shoulder, stomach and head that remained got an extra candy cane from the manager of the store.

"Why thank you, governor!" beamed what remained of the lad, Englishly.

"YOU COCKAMAMIE PANTS-MEANS-SOMETHING-FUNNY LIMEY MOTHERFUCK SCHMUCK!' bellowed the manager, just as Oliver Hardy had said to Stan Laurel in that classic car of his, but more disdainfully. Santa was angry now. You thought he was angry before, and he was, but now he was even angrier, probably. His blue eyes turned red, his red suit turned green, his white hair turned white, and he tore his perineum into seven equal shards. Walloping these shards of shattered bone at not just all, but also sundry, it was no picnic, I can tell you.

Fry - who had just miraculously transformed into a real boy - leapt up and placated Santa by gently rubbing his shoulders and running his penis up and down his spine. Santa sighed "yeebedy dabady dooo", his pants getting closer and closer together as he got more and more 'relaxed.' Fry had done this before.

"That's it!" Santa ejaculated.

Indeed it is!" smiled mook, producing a laguiole spoon from his thermometer pocket then stirring Santa's jizz into his boulette d'avesnes. Spreading it thickly on some crackers, he offered them round like the gentleman he is. The salvation army were particularly keen to acquire the lot, wishing to stuff them into the bells of their brass instruments as an aid to avant-garde musical effect. I thought, "If only my Mama could see me now!" But sadly she was a thousand miles away, and dead and buried, and had always been blind. So she didn't. At all.

It was at this point, for want of a better opportunity, that the spaceship landed.  The alien that emerged looked well familiar. "Where's that fucking Clement Freud got to?" The head alien, known as Little Green Man One, pondered. "This isn't Olden Days Tits-Titsford!"

"Sorry, Sergeant Little Green Man One!" trembled Ensign Little Green Man 28, "This is New York, Christmas 1938."

"CHRISTMASSSSS? Fuck's sake, didn't I tell you I never wanted to hear that word again?'

"Well ... no, Sarge.  You didn't," remarked 28. Little Green Man One swung a foot through the air, taking 28's head clean off. "Well I have now, cuntslop!!"

Well I had had quite a Christmas Eve. All the visions, the comas, the drugs and toys, the whatever... and now an alien invasion? I turned to Santa, and had to admit, "I baked my momma in a pie last Thursday."

You could have cut the air with a knife.  Specifically the Slashatron 500, with its vibro action, adjustable handle and pulsating vagina made for soldiers for when they had to spend the night alone in the fields during WW1. I puked. As I began to pass out, I was aware of the sound of sleigh bells, and the fuzzy image of an animal with a red nose. It was Santa having a piss in my face, while the reindeers waited on the roof eating carrots and pot noodles and holding auditions for 'Santa Baby' - a gruesome porn film that would, no doubt, take the box offices by storm when released in several decades' time. I do remember at this point that I got a bit of a stiffy, but it was simply a wooden stake driven in by Santa where my penis had once stood, inscribed with the words: Here lies...  The rest was blank.  I frowned.  Here lies whom?  Here lies what?  The answer evaded me.  Frantic with lack of closure, I was somewhat relieved when the aliens burst in and took the focus off my shortcomings.
 
'Nice shortcomings,' remarked Little Green Man 1.  'Now, let's get one thing straight.  We came down in that star..."

'Star?' I queried.

'Yes,' said LGM1 wearily.  'Star of Bedlam - '

'Bethlehem?'

'Whatever.  Glad we've got that inevitably unoriginal plot-sting out of the way.  Anyway, how are you?'

'Well, apart from the wooden penis stake and the fact that I've lost 90% of my blood, I'm surprisingly okay, thanks.'

'Great!' he squealed.

'So what exactly brings you to our humble planet?'

'Rape!' mumbled number 28. LGM1 kicked him. 'Peace. And to deliver this fellow, who we believe to be the son of god.'

Out from the shadows strode a frail little donkey, over which draped a heavily pregnant 12-year-old girl.

"Jonathaaann!" yelped Santa.

"Noo, I'm a virgin, touched for the very first time."

"But by who?" inquired Jonathan (hiding his boner).

"The gentle hand of God," she replied shiftily.

'You were impregnated by God?' everyone gasped, except the aliens who couldn't actually gasp.

'Yes, and given a token fisting,' she added. . Of course the manager was overjoyed. "Squirt that cockamamie messiah out in our bedding department, holy mother-bitch-christ-girly! Those schmoes out there hear we got the second coming in the store, we'll shift every god-damn cockamamie piece of largesse on da shelves. Hey Arnold, Jesus is crowning, ain't dat da cutest?"

Arnold Santa belly-flopped on to a bed and screamed "It's Christmass!" and was soon supported by a twelve strong crowd of bellowing infants who mewled, puked and anally intruded their way through a medley of seasonal feel-good cover versions.  Snow fell, bums froze on the street corners and truly it was a merry Christmas, Mr Titbo.

The virgin Mary's screams of pain rudely interrupted the singalong. A request for blankets, warm water and a pot noodle gave me chance to be centre of the story again; a story that would be written in the new Bible. I would be like the three wise men in one. Meanwhile, Santa immediately set about removing the girl's pants - "Pants are no place on da mississipi river," he crooned in the voice of Little Bonaparte.

"Jesus H Gloryhole Christ!" he then yelled in both joy and astonishment as an alien species reared its head; its tentacles reaching for a mince pie. "You can rape and pillage our women, you can murder our children and hide our wheelchairs but you will never eat my mince pies" Santa dived across the room, all his clothes falling off mid-air, finishing with an athletic somersault, grabbing the plate with his front teeth and the cup with his back teeth. He grinned one final figgy-puddin'-masticatin' grin at the shocked and bloodied staff of Cramlingtons, and then, with one horrible, titanic, unfunny fart he brought the Stupid Little Green Men's UFO screeching down RIGHT INTO MY LEFT NOSTRIL!  The cunt!  He knew how sensitive I was about the size of that particular orifice.  In retaliation I prepared my right nostril and rapidly fired a shitload of snot at him.

And then, and this is the funny thing, I can't remember anything else that happened from that moment until the arse-end of 2009. I woke up on Christmas Eve, surrounded by children and grandchildren and little scotty dogs in tartan coats and of course baboons, and I raised a glass to the man who made it all so special. "To Noddy Holder!"

"Hooray for Noddy!" said the baboons.

"Ho-ho-ho" said Santa, and three prostitutes promptly appeared. "MERRY XMAS CUNTS!"

"Grandad, will you shut the fuck up, we're watching Cum Swappers 9!"

Come here, Tabitha! (Smack, crash, scream, punch, kick.)

"MERRY EXMAS AGAIN!"

THE END[/b]

There.

Here.

https://dl.dropbox.com/u/2890165/VWXMAS09.mp3

MERRY MITHRAS!

Cerys

Nice one.  It's winging its way into my 'VW stuff' folder as I type.

Emma Raducanu

Favourite bits inclue Santa singing "Pants are no place on the mississipi river" and the alien's accent. How can this be downloaded?

TotalNightmare

Yay! I was finally involved in something popular on CaB!

Lovely stuff and, if i may quote Apexjazz, "Snarkle"

Ginyard

The voice of mook saying "I'd like a cavolo nero to go with my spatchcocked red-legged partridge' is possibly the funniest thing I've ever heard in a radio play.

Apexjazz is a fabulous narrator. He sounds rather a lot like Paul Gambaccini.