Monthly Archives: April 2007

Free repairs to flammable toilets

Original article

The toilet from Toto had come
and Tommy was ready to plumb.
A bathroom bonanza
shipped in from Japan’s a
magnificent treat for the bum.

This Toto loo really is swell –
it has entertainment as well.
Whilst receiving your turd,
it plays Beethoven’s Third
and releases a seasonal smell.

But, best of all, Tommy thought, this’ll
be super: a kind of a pizzle
to jet-wash your rectum
(you must disinfect ‘em)
and leave your butt clean as a whistle.

He’d put up for days – no, for weeks
with crap craps and second-rate leaks.
But no more, for he owns
this most regal of thrones!
He sat down and parted his cheeks.

Oh the comfort, distinction and class!
That first poo was a pleasure to pass,
’til instead of a squirt
he was suddenly hurt
as a flame-jet flambéed his bare arse.

Trolley book wins odd title prize

Original article

We’ve been enthusiasts for fourteen years,
since fourteenth April nineteen-ninety-three
when first I heard you laud, through joyful tears,
the virtues of the Walmart seven B.

You spun its wheels; I watched with fascination.
You showed me how their alloy construct gave
the pusher an entirely new sensation,
so different from a steel-built Shop ‘n’ Save.

From Florida to Hudson Bay we’ve trekked;
recall the near-orgasmic thrill we got
on flying to Virginia to inspect
that priceless nineteen-fifties Save-A-Lot.

Of course, it hasn’t always been so merry;
there’s sacrifices everyone must make.
Although it hit you hard, that beri-beri,
at least we saved that K-mart from the lake.

We’ve spotted in all seasons and all weather;
we’ve checked out every Eastern shopping cart.
Our wonky wheels spin perfectly together
and, I confess, you’ve carted off my heart.

Come roll with me across these Lazy Acres,
my Acme Angel, Target of my life,
my Tom Thumb Thumbelina: will you make a
poor trolley wally jolly? Be my wife!

Rogue Seal Menacing Man, Beast in Calif.

The punks around here call me Nibbles:
they think that it’s purty and trite.
Well, suckers, I just gotta quibble –
from now on, start callin’ me Bite.
Original article

Y’all think that a seal’s so darn fluffy
and balances balls on his nose.
Well, punks, I got news, I’m a toughie;
from now on, what I say’s what goes.

Ya reckon a pit-bull’s a bruiser,
could deal with a seal on a whim?
Well, kids, guess what? Fido’s a loser;
from now on, I’m chowin’ on him.

I’ve chomped on the leg of a boarder;
I frighten folks outta canoes.
So, pussies, embrace the new order:
from now on, I win and you lose.

Beijing’s penis emporium

Is your kettle of lust stuck on simmer?
Is your phallus no longer immense?
Is your flaming desire just a glimmer?
Does erection mean putting up tents?

Is your cock acting more like a chicken?
Is your boner devoid of its bone?
Is your prick in no state to be pricking?
Is it seventeen years since it’s grown?

Are you potent as watered ribena?
Can you not make your wife’s pussy purr?
Does she say it’s so long since she’s seen a
solid cock, she forgot what they were?

Then call Nancy, the Penis Purveyor:
delicious discretion assured.
She can promise, with pecker sauté, the
most iffy of stiffies restored.

There’s a willy for every occasion:
enough to delight any man.
And soon, with a little persuasion
you’ll be wolfing down wolf cock-au-vin.

But no genitals boost your erection
like the dual hemipenes of a snake,
and a donkey dong brightens complexion
and looks great decorating a cake.
Original article

Chewy testicle tart looks intriguing,
as does fried perineum on toast.
And there’s certainly nothing too vegan
about Nancy’s new narwhal nut-roast.

But the dick of the greatest distinction
is the tiger’s gargantuan schlong.
It’s a shame that he’s facing extinction
but delightful devouring his dong.

So you needn’t feel limp or a failure
for help is, at last, on the way.
Get a mouthful of fresh genitalia
at old Nancy’s knob-noshing café.

Dentist guilty of urinating in surgery sink

Original article

The prosecution counsel cried,
“This fiend’s a filthy fink!
He cleaned his ears with dental tools
and wee-weed in the sink.”

“Your Honour,” begged the dentist, “Please,
don’t listen to a word.
I pray you, don’t pass judgement yet,
until my side’s been heard.

For earwax can be useful: just
employ imagination.
You can make it into candles, it
can age a dead cetacean.”

“Who cares?” the counsel snorted.
“It’s irrelevant,” he said.
“Your customers are humans, sir,
not whales, alive nor dead.

“I’m getting there – have patience, man,
and let me get across
the detail of its dental use
in lubricating floss.

I’m not inspired by unwaxed wire;
with wax is what I favour.
And several men find cerumen
a most unusual flavour.”

“Well, that’s as maybe,” mused the judge,
“but what about the piss?
A witness smelled it: pray do tell
the reasoning for this?”

“Oh witness, you’re insane, for urine
that was surely not.
Because I am a dental man,
I clean my teeth a lot.”

“So what was seen was Listerine,
you say? Then tell me why
she saw you tucking something in
and zipping up your fly.”

“My willy wasn’t waggling;
it’s just, for extra care,
I keep my brush and dental tools
inside my underwear.”

“Disgusting!” cried the judge. “Good Sir,
you must have lost your mind.
If ever you had wisdom (teeth)
it’s long since left behind.”

‘Trashballs’ turn rubbish to art

Original article

Our quarter’s in, we pull the knob,
a ball’s dispensed, but we conclude
that, if there’s any gum inside,
the chances are it’s ready-chewed.

What wonders are contained within
protected by this plastic crust:
a Barbie’s hand, some silly-string,
a ring-pull that’s begun to rust?

This beetle must have seen such sights;
he buzzed through hazed Manhattan skies.
On whose coiffed heads did he alight?
Which sidewalk brought his stomped demise?

What gawky teenage fumbling,
what practised love, what weekend fling
made Central Park be littered with
discarded Durex packaging?

What cuckold penned these broken lines
on crumpled notebook (wide-ruled, blue)
all torn along the right-hand side –
directed to a faceless “you”:

I never really liked the way
the wrong way round. Your ass looks like
repulsive face, I hate that bitch
eventually to be a dyke

And who one day will pull the knob,
release another trash-filled ball,
and find the left-torn counterpart
and find it makes no sense at all?

you always hung the toilet roll
a hippo’s rear. So does your mom’s
but mostly hate how you turned out
and screw my sister at her prom.

Poll campaigning begins in France

The voting starts on April twenty-two
though, chances are, the French are voting twice.
In case you’re not aware of who is who,
don’t worry, ‘cos I’ll give you some advice.
Original article
To start with, twelve potential rulers run,
so vote for anyone you choose that day.
Assuming half the votes don’t fall to one,
the first two fight it out on sixth of May.

Perhaps you favour Chirac’s choice Sarkozy,
or Segolene Royal, who likes things fair.
Buffet thinks that a commie future’s rosy
Schivardi is an anti-EU mayor.

Besancenot has a taste for revolution,
Anarchic Bové once knocked down McDo’s;
Laguiller favours Trotskyist solutions;
environment’s what Madame Voynet knows.

Nihous thinks pigeon-hunters need a chance;
Le Pen thinks racist’s just the ticket now;
de Villier’s a mover just for France;
Bayrou sure knows his way around a cow.

So there you go – that’s all there is to know.
Twelve candidates to pick from on the day
Who knows how this election day might go?
Who knows who’ll be le Président Français?

‘Boyfriend’ taken in by girl’s family was not all he seemed

Original article

She loved him for his liquid orphan’s eyes,
his boyish grin across the mall that day.
Just seventeen: nobody was surprised
to hear her mom invited him to stay.
Although – she must admit – he’d get annoyed,
he always knew what women liked to hear.
Mind, fingers, teeth – he touched her; he enjoyed
her parents’ hospitality all year.
He even had a car; but when they parked,
policemen left the teenage girl confused.
“Who’s that?” they asked.
“My boyfriend, he’s called Mark.”
“He’s not,” they said. “She’s Lorelei Corpuz.”

So if your teenage boyfriend’s not that dirty,
it might be ‘cos she’s female and she’s thirty.

Humane Society Holds Dog Yoga Class

Original article

When your pooch is feeling pooped from
licking balls and sniffing arses;
when your dog’s in a mess and he’s hounded by stress,
join some canine yoga classes.

If your deerhound’s in the doldrums
or your mutt lacks motivation;
if his ears start to sag and his tail’s lost its wag
try the dachshund salutation.

Need some mastiff meditation?
Not a problem! Make a note: as
speedy-quick as a sneeze, you can bow-tie his knees
and just pop him in the lotus.

If your foxhound’s fierce and fearsome
or your peke’s a squeak too meek, a
dodgy balance of yin versus yang is the sin:
study Yoga Pradipika.

If your labrador feels sore from
too much walkies or from parties,
he can stretch out his paw on the floor, and much more,
doing puppy-dog pilates.

But when Rover’s keeling over,
heed the yogic mystagogue.
For it’s time to fall flat with a splat on the mat
in the downward-facing dog.