Straightforward Saucy Seaside Postcards
Nos. 1 & 2 in a converging infinite series.
No. 1 “Judging The Vegetables.”
Let the postcard show a village fete and let the illustrator show the judging of the garden vegetables upon a table.
And to avoid any misunderstanding, let there be a sign upon the tent canvas saying: “Village Fete. ~ Vegetable Competition“.
And let the judge in this case be a cleric: A Church of England vicar or curate or somesuch.
And let him be in dog collar and black weskit and have a rosette upon his lapel with the word “JUDGE” upon it.
And let him be shewn standing close to the table such that a cucumber, recumbent upon the table, is in absentminded contact with the fly buttons of his trousers.
For good measure, let the vicar have a beatific smirk upon his face.
Now, let there also be a lovely young woman in a red polka dot, low-cut, summer frock barely restraining her “rack”. And let the illustrator shew her resting her clammy little hand upon the aforementioned cucumber. And let her full red lips be parted in a saucy smile of overpowering fecundity.
She should speak thus: “Ooh Vicar, is it as big as yours?”
And let the cleric reply: “That’s not a cucumber Miss ~ I took some camouflage paint from the cadets and disguised my penis to look like a cucumber and that is what you are stroking now.”
And, if there be space still upon the card, let all reply in unison: “Stop the fete! The vicar is a filthy pervert!”
No.2 At The Greengrocer.
Let the card show an array of ripe melons in a greengrocer’s shop and to avoid confusion let there be a sign upon the wall saying : “Nudist Camp Shop” or some such.
And let there be a beautiful naked woman holding two ripe melons prior to making their purchase.
Now let there also be a shrunken, naked man leering at her, and let there be a pile of soup tins hiding his member from view and he should spake thus:
“Gosh, Darling! What a lovely pair you have!”
Now let the beautiful woman reply: “Yes, I intend to make melon boats with ginger at dinner tonight.”
And let the leering man reply to that: “No Poppet, I meant your breasts. They are fabulous. They would look so good with my dick between them!”
Now let the greengrocer shout: “Get out of my shop you filthy pervert!”
Perhaps you can think of more ideas for straightforward saucy seaside postcards?
That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.
Monday, August 03, 2009
“Without the inclination towards philanthropia, man is a busy, mischievous, wretched thing; no better than a kind of vermin, Maroon.”
“Well quite, but I did give at the office.”
“You gave at the office did you?”
“To The West of Scotland Red Crescent?”
“No matter, roll up your sleeve. Still smoking?”
Today, Dr Al-Abri, company medic, is being a royal pain in the ass with his raffle tickets and charity tins. His manner is a disgrace. When you go in, he is always reading a newspaper or eating a Kit Kat. He just riles me. For some reason he is wearing a brown leather protector over his middle finger and he keeps touching me with the fucking thing, so, to take my mind off it while he straps me up, I read the little acronyms he writes across the cover of my file. The latest is HIBGIA; no, not a wasting of the liver, but “Had It Before, Got It Again”.
“Hypertension: it's the silent killer, Maroon.”
And, sure as Death, the examination rumbles on to The Display And Consideration Of The Maroon Private Parts and I follow like a lamb, knowing he’s going to have his hairy fingers pressing up on my sweaty groin while I look down into his liquid brown eyes. Thankfully, there is nothing like a biennial finger to fetch out the racist homophobe.
“Did you bring a sample?”
I take it out my pocket and because I have just done it in the disabled toilet, it is still hot. He holds it up to the window, quite fascinated; then he turns it over like an egg timer, spellbound,
“Is this what I think it is?”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks fine, but I was expecting pee not semen.”
“No way! Your letter is all about a “Well Man” examination. There is a whole paragraph on prostate and testicular cancer, and em, fertility, erectile problems, discoloured ejaculate, and then, then it asks for a sample in the Sterilin bottle provided. This is your bloody fault, not mine.”
I am scanning the letter as I blurt all this out and for the first time in 10 readings I see the word urine.
“How did you get it in the bottle?”
“Get lost Ali, I ain't in the mood.”
And then he snarks away to himself for a full minute.