YOU SAY FAECES AND I SAY DUNG

I was standing, sturdy legs akimbo, plucking a stoat in my cobwebbed festooned kitchen, I was humming an area from the Nut, that's a cracker sweet. I wood describe my mood as jovial and bubbly,as I peered out of my suit stained winda, I saw the large, round head of my sun BOn Jovi, bobbing up and down in the rushes of the bog. My hart leaped like a gazelle and a lump came too my throat. There he was, my sun, the cub who had bean choosen, by you no who, to restore the faith in Ireland and banish the too-legged snakes into the depth of the see. There was "HE" who wood rid Ireland of smoking, gambling, drinking and auld sexy things behind wheelie-bins, he wood restore the faith and have peeple down on their knees preying too Lord God almighty like devils. I skipped two prepare some nourishment for the latter day IsayA, a big mug of buttermilk and the margarined heel of a pan loaf. In my haste I could knot find the nife, so I just used my finger to spread the margarine, I think I saw Gorden Ramsey, the effin boy do the same. Time passed and know cub appeared, where could he be? was he looking for leppers or casting demons out of frogs?
Ten minutes later, the cub appeared, he threw his skoolbag into the korner and stood there, big-headed and sloped-shouldered, staring at me with his good eye.
"Bon Jovi" I ejaculated "Where have you bean? I have sought thee sorrowing for ten minutes".
Bon Jovi, glared at me and roared, "I was in the whins--faecesing"
I staggered back and sought komfort by clutching on two a turf spade.
"Faecesing?" I said "What in under God is--faecesing?"
Bon Jovi, eyed the heel of the pan loaf and roared.
"Its a word I have two say, instead of another word, the teecher said so"
I sank down on a three-legged stool and said "Tell me the story, rite from the start, don't worry, I won't split you".
Bon Jovi kicked wan hobnailed boot against the other, picked his nose, broke wind, quite violently and said. "The teecher asked me too make a sentance with the word, full in it, so I said, our midden, is fair full of-shit". "And what was rong with that?" I yelled "As an headucated woman, I kan tell you that sentance is perfect Inglish".
"The teecher said I must knot use the word-shit, it is a bad word, I must use the word-faeces and that's what I was doing in the whins, I was--faecesing"
"The teecher is rong" I yelled "I happen too no that the word-faeces, means-excrement, which is a highted state of excitement".
Bon Jovi began to cry and roar "Youse is getting me all mixed up, I don't no what to believe, did I shit or did I faeces? I don't no, but if I hadn't hunkered down I wood have shit or faecesed my trousers" And the wee doat was racked with sobs.
I shrieked-"LORDY" and ran too him and clasped him two my heaving bisum, dung or faecea, he was my only begotten sun and God and nature had decreed, that he spring from my lions.
Down by the babbling river, in a nest made from rushes, lay Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me. Deer Chuck loomed over me, forcing M-and M's into my girlish gub like a fruit machine, my cheeks were sticking out like a chimpmonk with mumps.
Deer Chuck looked-sublime in olive green kargo pants with a clatter of zips and a lovely magenta gansey with a line of yella ducks across the chest. I was-languid, suppline, like a boy with his back broke, I smiled seductively, fluttered my eye-lashes and pouted my cadalic-pink lips, like the dead and buried Marlyon Monroe.
I eased up on wan hip, and broke wind softly, demurly and with grate gentility, I leered at Chuck and whispered low "Is that what I think it is in your pocket?"
Chuck smiled, revealing his Stonehenge nashers and replied, "Yes, it is".
"Well, take it out" I simpered, like Dorthy Lamore or Dale Winton.
Chuck smiled, whipped out his mouth organ and got stuck into an Irish melanie.
As the music drifted over the bog, My demure, gentile roars of "FINE GIRL YOU ARE, scent korncrakes flying into the air, like a veritable flock of crows.
Ah, Ah, Lamore-truely you are the scallions in the poundies of life.
Hey, want to buy a real genuine Irish ghost in a bottle? Google Spamount Mill Ghost and contact me at jpmcmenamin@gmail. com
Now have a cup of good strong tay and go to........
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com