Sunday, February 28, 2010

Communications officer, me

Friday night at the Riddled office can get a little fraught as Smut wants to show off his new boobies what he bought on the internet and Brett's all "Listen I can burp the national anthem of Zambia". Luckily my cooler head prevails and I distract the lads from seeing my man Murchison leaving with the week's takings in a sack.
It's funny how blogging has affected our hands, no one told us about this. A quick pint down at the Old Entomologist and we're good chums again

6 comments:

mikey said...

That's what the fucker brings? He stands there, hand on hip, asking, nay, DEMANDING that the sadsack wad of fuck hand over the gold? And the BEST his wingman can do is paroxysms of Beggery? Why, he'd be better offering buggery, sez I.

Tellya what. If I've got two sacks of realm coinage and some dandy with a satin bow tied over his junk reached out his hand? He'd get his arm back, sans hand, and he'd lose ALL the teeth in one side of his jaw, just for the asking.

But that's not why we're here. Unfortunately, I have a more serious question. And it's GOT to be answered, for to try to go forward without clarity is to live a lie. So.

Here it is. Is the dood in the background, somewhat grayed out as he is, nonetheless sniffing his own armpit? And if he is, which seems the likeliest outcome, the more important question is WHY??

Substance McGravitas said...

Good lord, the Kiwi is a MUSLIMOFASCIST. Or suffering from a terrible terrible head injury.

Smut Clyde said...

To be a full account of Friday night's festivities, the description should continue as far as the point where Another Kiwi took his shirt off to reveal the hornrim glasses painted around his nipples with lipstick. Combined with the cravat tied around his waist instead of his neck, these allowed him to perform his Don Surber impersonation. Hilarious it was.

Another Kiwi said...

Too kind dear Smut, too kind. I like to think that I have a talent to amuse. Do not overlook your own devasting rendition of Sade/ Marat for sock puppets.
Ahem, Mr Mcgravitas (if that is your real name) have you not heard of Casual Friday??
Sir.

Smut Clyde said...

Is the dood in the background, somewhat grayed out as he is, nonetheless sniffing his own armpit? And if he is, which seems the likeliest outcome, the more important question is WHY??

Harsh inflexible experience has taught him that it is almost impossible to get other people to sniff his armpit for him.

Big Bad Bald Bastard said...

Luckily my cooler head prevails and I distract the lads from seeing my man Murchison leaving with the week's takings in a sack.

I thought that was the black pudding delivery for the post-hangover feed.