Living with Ian Botham's Pickled Fingers
Created | Updated Apr 21, 2004
"Gadzooks!" I thought to myself. Hast Brother Bradshaw lost his very mind? "Satan's teeth” Cried another. "The land of the convicts!"
The shock reverberated like an imploding star. Not immediate but a slow realisation and then suddenly "BOOM" it hits you.
Still, if the tragic writers of the Etruscan felch-lands couldn't predict it, then I don't know why I thought I could. Seventeen long years I waited for news from the catstronauts and when it came, I was disheartened.
Mild and fair said the precursory notice yet upon arrival they disappointed me greatly. The first of the trio was a hideous beast. She/he/it (I couldn’t really tell) was covered in pustulating sores, with no aesthetically pleasing features to note. I held back the bile as I surveyed the remainder of the threesome. The second was kinder on the ocular senses but the stench emanating from her upper torso could be best described as wrong. No person should ever give off that smell. Coupled with her total lack of brain power she must have been the must un-engaging individual it has ever been my misfortune to meet.
The third was French.
"At least it's not Thursday" I half whispered then with a mighty war cry of "Suck it Granddad" I unfurled my Cosby cloth and practiced my art. If only Emperor Buttmud and the five Poo lords of Clag could have seen me. I'm positive that they would have been proud.
The Frenchman got it the worst.
From that day on I've been a changed man. The glory of the Southern- Empire is solely in my hands. I feel the pressure but choose not to let it obstruct my mission. As a wise song smith rightfully noted "Discipline maketh the geez"....
The shock reverberated like an imploding star. Not immediate but a slow realisation and then suddenly "BOOM" it hits you.
Still, if the tragic writers of the Etruscan felch-lands couldn't predict it, then I don't know why I thought I could. Seventeen long years I waited for news from the catstronauts and when it came, I was disheartened.
Mild and fair said the precursory notice yet upon arrival they disappointed me greatly. The first of the trio was a hideous beast. She/he/it (I couldn’t really tell) was covered in pustulating sores, with no aesthetically pleasing features to note. I held back the bile as I surveyed the remainder of the threesome. The second was kinder on the ocular senses but the stench emanating from her upper torso could be best described as wrong. No person should ever give off that smell. Coupled with her total lack of brain power she must have been the must un-engaging individual it has ever been my misfortune to meet.
The third was French.
"At least it's not Thursday" I half whispered then with a mighty war cry of "Suck it Granddad" I unfurled my Cosby cloth and practiced my art. If only Emperor Buttmud and the five Poo lords of Clag could have seen me. I'm positive that they would have been proud.
The Frenchman got it the worst.
From that day on I've been a changed man. The glory of the Southern- Empire is solely in my hands. I feel the pressure but choose not to let it obstruct my mission. As a wise song smith rightfully noted "Discipline maketh the geez"....
