Simo
01-28-2009, 05:15 AM
I was listening to the radio this morning, and I got all excited when I heard the secret sound competition. I reckon I know what the sound is. To me it sounds exactly like someone slapping a large fish up against the side of a shaved bull terrier.
Now the reason that I know this is because only last night while I was giving the dog his usual evening wallop, I couldn’t find the kothacking stick that I normally use, (except on special occasions of course) I suspect he’d burred it again. So I was instead using a rather large silver brim that I had purchased only that very morning, from my good friend Tony the fishmonger.
I wasn’t sure about using the fish at first. I remember only too well what happened the last time the stick went missing, and I instead used a large string of sausages, which to my horror, the dog joyously bit chunks off, each time the sharp end came around. So I was obviously apprehensive about using a food item as a weapon a second time. But Tony assured me it would be all right, and it was.
Except things went a little astray. I had the dog backed up against the lemon tree, and I was just starting to get into a really good gyrotic, orgasmic, rhythm of larry thump, when all of a sudden; one of the electrodes got caught on the hem of my yellow cape.
I teeted, I toted, I half stepped, staggered, farted, made a desperate grab for the Hills Hoist, missed, and fell smack bang blamb, into the double brick snail repository next to the old tin shed.
At first I just lay there, hurt and upset, because I had painfully twisted my left wrist, and broken one of the silver stars off my right gumboot.
But as I lay there, a warm, crisp, calmness rolled in and enveloped me, (whoosh) just like that. And in a brief but intense moment of clarity I thought, “oy, that last larry whollop I laid across Fluff’s left ear hole, sounded exactly like the secret sound on the radio”. (Ha, stapler, I think not).
So I’m going to try to get through to the competition line, because the prize is a couple of grand. With that kind of money I could build a little white picket fence to go around my lovely patch of melons, (yes, they may only be round, but circles are after all infinite). Or perhaps I could take a trip somewhere, and just sit on a beach and watch the moon rise while drinking dark Jamaican rum.
I don’t think it’s greedy to go after the cash. After all, as it’s written, in the book of S*****, chapter six, verses eighteen to seven. “Man duth not live on bred alone, for he must also haveth, cheese, and a griller. Lest he starve, or worse, lose his way. Only to find himself in the pungent sole less void, of Maces.
Now the reason that I know this is because only last night while I was giving the dog his usual evening wallop, I couldn’t find the kothacking stick that I normally use, (except on special occasions of course) I suspect he’d burred it again. So I was instead using a rather large silver brim that I had purchased only that very morning, from my good friend Tony the fishmonger.
I wasn’t sure about using the fish at first. I remember only too well what happened the last time the stick went missing, and I instead used a large string of sausages, which to my horror, the dog joyously bit chunks off, each time the sharp end came around. So I was obviously apprehensive about using a food item as a weapon a second time. But Tony assured me it would be all right, and it was.
Except things went a little astray. I had the dog backed up against the lemon tree, and I was just starting to get into a really good gyrotic, orgasmic, rhythm of larry thump, when all of a sudden; one of the electrodes got caught on the hem of my yellow cape.
I teeted, I toted, I half stepped, staggered, farted, made a desperate grab for the Hills Hoist, missed, and fell smack bang blamb, into the double brick snail repository next to the old tin shed.
At first I just lay there, hurt and upset, because I had painfully twisted my left wrist, and broken one of the silver stars off my right gumboot.
But as I lay there, a warm, crisp, calmness rolled in and enveloped me, (whoosh) just like that. And in a brief but intense moment of clarity I thought, “oy, that last larry whollop I laid across Fluff’s left ear hole, sounded exactly like the secret sound on the radio”. (Ha, stapler, I think not).
So I’m going to try to get through to the competition line, because the prize is a couple of grand. With that kind of money I could build a little white picket fence to go around my lovely patch of melons, (yes, they may only be round, but circles are after all infinite). Or perhaps I could take a trip somewhere, and just sit on a beach and watch the moon rise while drinking dark Jamaican rum.
I don’t think it’s greedy to go after the cash. After all, as it’s written, in the book of S*****, chapter six, verses eighteen to seven. “Man duth not live on bred alone, for he must also haveth, cheese, and a griller. Lest he starve, or worse, lose his way. Only to find himself in the pungent sole less void, of Maces.