It's Oscars time. Somebody wake the Grouch.

Monday, March 07, 2005

And back to me...

Well, Stew's computer problems continue, Jorge Carlito Viejo has disappeared down a black hole (although I suspect he's wandered off to the Cartegena Film Festival although he may also have sat in on some screenings at the SEMANA INTERNACIONAL DE CINE FANT├žSTICO, the globetrotting skivver), Chico y Jose has now declared April to be his target month for "a post", and Zimpter Fiforg has been legally declared "missing, presumed on location".

What a way to run a comedy blog. I shall do my best in their absence to shamelessly grab your attention enough to where you might just want to come back and see what's on tap the next day...that is if the previous day's post on nudity didn't grab the lot of you.

This post has become far too serious, so I will conclude it with a paragraph of gibberish.

Winkle took his nine-iron and bent it into the shape of a unicorn. He was very depressed at the thought of nitroglycerine being in his bloodtream, having said all that he carmina burana-ed his way to the off-licence for a fifth of his favorite Scots beverage only to notice the queen, on her daily Jog and Shag (the name of her favorite pub) with a six-pack of Colt 45. He slowly leapt over the Eiffel Tower in an attempt to make this post more interesting than it started out to be but landed on Camilla Parker-Bowles, which saddened Bonnie Prince Charlie, but delighted the queen so much she bought two rounds for the lot, and drank until she was paralytic, to the consternation of Prince Phillip, who arrived in a submarine with his trusty valet Ringo Starr.

Winkle was arrested for high treason and sent to the block. The unicorn lived happily ever after.

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