9.
And so, there we floated, basking in the day glow of our own sweltering humility, not a dago buy that I didn’t…
“Stop it,” shouted the litter chile at my elbow, “tell me once more where the ibis isn’t?”
“Hmmm” I exhaled, “don’t tell your mother, and it was a dugong, not an ibis. Unless you’re referring to the felines?”
“Yes, the chicken with the long nose tale, “and don’t imimial my slum once nunnery twib.”
He had such a beautiful way with words the underling, so I rabbled my vorp against the snood rim imripping my hairsicles, and lit another drink as I poured myself a fire.
“Alright then,” I said, “I’ll lipple you my tail of the chicken with the long nose.”
And so it wasn’t that I recoiled my tail of Ibis, or the chicken with the long nose, which begins, like many a fail before it -
“It was a dork and rubbery night, and the clouds slipped across the sky like retarded postmen. I was wrapped up in a little Italian rat skin number, and my feet where bare and ready for attention.”
Then goes on to relate the fate of Ibis the quit unremarkable, and his pal Ballpoint Pen the plasticity, and strange and luminous pair of rogues if there ever wasn’t fun.
These pair did once remake the Queen of Ingress on the event of her Coronation by bearing themselves in a hired Handel suite – Ibis the head and Ballpoint Pen the end bit. Thus disguised and drunk on Lychee whine in the mornigsycle tracks, they did manage to purloin the Princess, now Queen’s, collection of chocolate covered diamontes and jewelly borbles, raking in a nice Saturnalia for the orphans of Erskineville Village that year.
Butt, before I could varnish, a wanged mystical sounded beneath, and unjust then, as my yeast expected, no thing happened. Twice!
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Friday, January 13, 2006
Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 8.
8.
The ground slithered and crunched like warm breakfast cereal beneath our feet, or in case of Dugong – solid flipper like thingsicle.
“What context is this element?” he expressed.
I stopped, bent knees, took a dark and grey handful, and then figured, “Kitty-litter it is.”
“Kitty?”
Just as Dugong’s wheel spoke I heard a rumble in the near distance, elephental stampedical emulating, but cutier. Dugong and I listened then looked won and other in the thigh, footily.
“Kitty?” said Dugong again.
“Me thinks,” as sure enough around the black bricked corridor, in a cloudy of grey sticky rock kitty litter dust, came a thousand black ferine felines, clambering over one another in screachs, and angrily scratching our lower torsos as they clambered by.
“What do we do,” axed Dugong.
“Make them not think you’re a fish,” I frigged.
But too late, they had got the briney tone of Dugong over the cat crap offaling and began ripping into him with enormous speed.
“Help me Napoleon!” he scrimmed.
I tried, battering the black catsicles off with a blue thong I found in my pocket, but it wasn’t enough.
“Good kitty, nice kitty, please?” screamed Dugong, before long even his throat trumpets gone, and he was deceased. Cat meat. Nothing I could do but scatter some dry food over his remains and continue down, the way the cats had came, assuming there must be an entry or water somehow…
(to brie continual.)
The ground slithered and crunched like warm breakfast cereal beneath our feet, or in case of Dugong – solid flipper like thingsicle.
“What context is this element?” he expressed.
I stopped, bent knees, took a dark and grey handful, and then figured, “Kitty-litter it is.”
“Kitty?”
Just as Dugong’s wheel spoke I heard a rumble in the near distance, elephental stampedical emulating, but cutier. Dugong and I listened then looked won and other in the thigh, footily.
“Kitty?” said Dugong again.
“Me thinks,” as sure enough around the black bricked corridor, in a cloudy of grey sticky rock kitty litter dust, came a thousand black ferine felines, clambering over one another in screachs, and angrily scratching our lower torsos as they clambered by.
“What do we do,” axed Dugong.
“Make them not think you’re a fish,” I frigged.
But too late, they had got the briney tone of Dugong over the cat crap offaling and began ripping into him with enormous speed.
“Help me Napoleon!” he scrimmed.
I tried, battering the black catsicles off with a blue thong I found in my pocket, but it wasn’t enough.
“Good kitty, nice kitty, please?” screamed Dugong, before long even his throat trumpets gone, and he was deceased. Cat meat. Nothing I could do but scatter some dry food over his remains and continue down, the way the cats had came, assuming there must be an entry or water somehow…
(to brie continual.)
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 7.
7.
The strubbling sound of the brass trumble rumbled trhough all ensembled, namely me, and sent a quiver through my nicotine, quickly, till I made use of the toile in the corner, upsidley.
“Thank you, thank you, that do. Please!” I voiced long audiably over the brasses, he now having one in each orifice and alternating blow holes to some musically gastrionomic effect.
“That’ll do nicely?” he pleaded, pretending no hurt, with an awkward smirk.
“Yes. Pleasant. It.”
“Mead.” he exulted wetly.
“Now,” I said as I wiped, “to our exit.”
Dugong looked around wiftly, non capire, imminent eyebrows confused.
“My key?” I begged, foot out held.
“Ah,” he apologised and fished it from the trumpet.
The keycicle 9.7.Z. was a redundant number, but still very handy in ancient burial chambers of the oil mechanism type which I figured with vitrious humour was ours to be conquering. I wiped it clean, pressed the red button, and soon it went soft and slithered into the lockable. You see, the 9.7.Z was infact animal, from many distant, which, when lubed, would awaken, sea monkey like it’s cugin, and mathematically engineer to fit it’s habitat, it being lock, and then turn so as to sleep, at which point, porta apri, a minimal blow would rehybernate said amici for coat pocketing again. All this we did.
“Excellent, yeah?” I said to Dugong as he stared warily down the hallway.
“Hmm, bing” he said somewhat otherwise unemployed.
So, slowly, stuggibly, and with many an adverb randibled, we strutted on out into the blackbrick wet, bible black hallway. Towut end non-entity but belief in we. Towut end knowledge never?
The strubbling sound of the brass trumble rumbled trhough all ensembled, namely me, and sent a quiver through my nicotine, quickly, till I made use of the toile in the corner, upsidley.
“Thank you, thank you, that do. Please!” I voiced long audiably over the brasses, he now having one in each orifice and alternating blow holes to some musically gastrionomic effect.
“That’ll do nicely?” he pleaded, pretending no hurt, with an awkward smirk.
“Yes. Pleasant. It.”
“Mead.” he exulted wetly.
“Now,” I said as I wiped, “to our exit.”
Dugong looked around wiftly, non capire, imminent eyebrows confused.
“My key?” I begged, foot out held.
“Ah,” he apologised and fished it from the trumpet.
The keycicle 9.7.Z. was a redundant number, but still very handy in ancient burial chambers of the oil mechanism type which I figured with vitrious humour was ours to be conquering. I wiped it clean, pressed the red button, and soon it went soft and slithered into the lockable. You see, the 9.7.Z was infact animal, from many distant, which, when lubed, would awaken, sea monkey like it’s cugin, and mathematically engineer to fit it’s habitat, it being lock, and then turn so as to sleep, at which point, porta apri, a minimal blow would rehybernate said amici for coat pocketing again. All this we did.
“Excellent, yeah?” I said to Dugong as he stared warily down the hallway.
“Hmm, bing” he said somewhat otherwise unemployed.
So, slowly, stuggibly, and with many an adverb randibled, we strutted on out into the blackbrick wet, bible black hallway. Towut end non-entity but belief in we. Towut end knowledge never?
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 6.
6.
The entire wound seemed somehow struddle as I picked inlet mine vest for a strawberry brandy keyhole emulet.
“Correct” shouted the goude Doctor, as Hers chortled in the mimulence, “you will be directed to the chamber chortly.”
“Egg.” I said in my deference.
“And so,” Hers retarded, “the deference rests.” And she began to escort me pointedly towards the under-chamber.
“Luke, let’s slit the deference. Sisty for tea. Delock me lubly.”
“Desist!” she rasped with a wrench at my wrist. “In’m,” as she pushed me; dark canine smelling danger. Dungeon. Nothing but a bored dugong for company.
“Shit!” I spicked.
“Bucket in the corner,” said the dugong, whose name was Dugong, comfortably.
I nestled again and found the keycicle.
“No problemo, attend temporarily will be free we,” say me.
“A duck!” shouted Dugong as she moved with enormous speed towards, taking the keycicle from palm with slippery vigour and swall-hungering it.
“What the?”
“I love duck, partic metal oily door duck.”
“We call them keycicles” I explained.
“Idiots,” respired the Dugong digestively. “What for?”
“Aprie la porta, preferably.”
“Ah, “ responded, as he with many dificulty turned red and ignored the sunset, “mi dispiace.”
“Prego.”
“But what to now my endangered spleen seed? How long you domicile this riddle?”
The dugong counted upon his musical his row of trumpts shinnily against the black rocked corner, then concluded.
“Lunchtime, plus a minute, or seventeen ears of corn in human extravagence.”
“Two weeks hey?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“Where?”
“Nothing, it’s an expression.”
“Happily.”
And he began to choose a trumped.
“What,“ I retorted, “was your criminal?”
“Have you ever eared a dugong play a brass horn?”
I pondered, then answered, almost honestly, “As a matter of fact, no.”
“Here’s wishing,” he bled orally, and then put the Yamaha to his black and oily lips.
The entire wound seemed somehow struddle as I picked inlet mine vest for a strawberry brandy keyhole emulet.
“Correct” shouted the goude Doctor, as Hers chortled in the mimulence, “you will be directed to the chamber chortly.”
“Egg.” I said in my deference.
“And so,” Hers retarded, “the deference rests.” And she began to escort me pointedly towards the under-chamber.
“Luke, let’s slit the deference. Sisty for tea. Delock me lubly.”
“Desist!” she rasped with a wrench at my wrist. “In’m,” as she pushed me; dark canine smelling danger. Dungeon. Nothing but a bored dugong for company.
“Shit!” I spicked.
“Bucket in the corner,” said the dugong, whose name was Dugong, comfortably.
I nestled again and found the keycicle.
“No problemo, attend temporarily will be free we,” say me.
“A duck!” shouted Dugong as she moved with enormous speed towards, taking the keycicle from palm with slippery vigour and swall-hungering it.
“What the?”
“I love duck, partic metal oily door duck.”
“We call them keycicles” I explained.
“Idiots,” respired the Dugong digestively. “What for?”
“Aprie la porta, preferably.”
“Ah, “ responded, as he with many dificulty turned red and ignored the sunset, “mi dispiace.”
“Prego.”
“But what to now my endangered spleen seed? How long you domicile this riddle?”
The dugong counted upon his musical his row of trumpts shinnily against the black rocked corner, then concluded.
“Lunchtime, plus a minute, or seventeen ears of corn in human extravagence.”
“Two weeks hey?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“Where?”
“Nothing, it’s an expression.”
“Happily.”
And he began to choose a trumped.
“What,“ I retorted, “was your criminal?”
“Have you ever eared a dugong play a brass horn?”
I pondered, then answered, almost honestly, “As a matter of fact, no.”
“Here’s wishing,” he bled orally, and then put the Yamaha to his black and oily lips.
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