Unwise Words
As I wandered home at the end of an exhausting day, it struck me with uncommon force what a peculiar set of occurrences had overcome me in the last 24 hours. The day had started as usual, nothing much to report as I set out on my regular journey to pick rose buds next to the convent school. I always did this on a Wednesday morning, and then wandered into the centre of town to distribute them among such people that passed who would allow me to take their fancy.
My first stop was a rather quaint pub which was notable for the curious nature of its doorway. Whereas normally when one is trying to gain access to the warm inside, there is a solid block barring your entry, but in this establishment something strange had obviously happened. Two pieces of canvas were stretched across the door-frame, meaning before you could enter and claim your prize you had to pass through these rather taut flaps, glistening slightly with morning dew.
Once inside the drinking den I set about espying suitable candidates for my horticultural largesse. All at once I was almost bowled over by an astonishing looking bar-maid, who was in possession of a huge pair of jugs, the creamy white tops of which it was almost impossible for me to tear my fevered gaze away from.
When this fine specimen had put down the two pitchers of foaming ale, I immediately sidled up to her, and with my best foot forward, I entreated my two other feet to glide me serenely into her presence.
Saying nothing, but holding aloft the finest of my blooms, she seemed delighted. Yet I was undone, and slipping on some juice on the floor I cannoned into the lovely woman. She let out a small shriek and I wondered what grave ill I had done her as I crashed into her, the bloom pressing hard against her. She soon settled my fears though with a tittering laugh and a tinkling voice explaining that it was "just a little prick".
To this woman I gave head, because she explained she did not like stalks, and with that I went off to explore the other regions of the ale house. Round one corner I found an incredible bird who created a most disgusting mess by regularly spilling his seed on the ground. Apparently this was the pub mascot Onan, a Macaw with a filthy habit, but immediately I noticed not his poor personal hygiene, but the astonishing timbre of his voice. Slapping on a Sinatra karaoke tape I immediately had My Way with him. He couldn't be satiated, so we had New York, New York and Somethin' Stupid too.
Leaving the bird exhausted but happy, I decided to investigate the outside of the premises. It was one of those places where the encourage inner-city adolescents to come to, because of the farm-yard animals sitting in pens round the back. However, these seemingly innocent creatures were to be my undoing, as they were not as secure as thought, and when my back was turned, I was struck by a huge, fiercely insistent cock. All I could think of before I lost consciousness was the incessant probing of the beast.
When I awoke, it was with a sore rear, and a heavy heart. As I walked home I reflected on the events of the day, and concluded that it had been a quirky one, but no less enjoyable for that.
25th May 2000