THROW ANOTHER FAGGOT ON THE WICKERMAN

I stood outside my cunt'ry cottage, drinking in the splendiferous, grandiferous beauty of-Spring. Ah, Spring, a thyme of renewal, a thyme of rebirth, a thyme of reproduction. The sap was rising and everything was at it. The birds were fluttering, the animals were jumping and leaping and even the insects were running round in a sexual frenzy, knot scene since the nite auld Nero set a match to Rome and then reached for his fiddle. The pregnant buds were swelling in the trees, the peacock was walking like Max Wall trying to attract a mate. Nests were being built quicker than houses in a monetery bubble. All that flew, ran, walked, crawled or wiggled was at it. Down in the green pastures, the very rabbits were at it like rabbits. There was a feeling of sexual tension in the air. A strange musk premenated all living things. Caught up in the all prevailing, all enveloping rite of-Spring, I ran round the midden, kicking out my sturdy legs and shrieking at the top of my voice. "The flowers that bloom in the Spring, Tra-Lah, the flowers that bloom in the Spring". And just for a moment, I wished I was a stoat, ferret, or weseal and knot a Cat-Lick who was only too aware of sin and had too confess all in confusions.
Oft in the blue misty distance I saw a figure. It was my only begotten Sun Bon Jovi who had rented my womb for nine months before he was born. As the cub approached, I could sea he was bent over, carrying something on his back. I adjusted my oculars into scrutising mode and perceived that Bon Jovi had a bundle of faggots on his humped, rounded back. What was a foot? That was the seventh bundle of faggots the cub had brought home this weak. What was the miscreant up two? What construction was the cub going too construct with-faggots. Was the wee brute going to build a consernation camp and inprison me within? I watched as the fruit of my lions approached, threw the bundle of faggots down and broke wind with a fierce, penetrating dunder. "Bon Jovi" I vocalised, "I must ask you, pray tell why you are fetching and hoarding bundles of faggots. I command you by the sacred twinset of Saint Lizzie who was marthered by the Normans in the fifth centary for refusing too play football on a Sunday. I command you SPEAK! what are the faggots for?" Bon Jovi peered at me through too puss filled eyes and roared, "I am going two revive the cermony of the WICKERMAN in clougher--and surrounding districts". I was--thunderstruck! I staggered back, my legs turned too jelly and my gizzard gave an involantry leap. My head was reeling, my vision blured and the sounds of the cheeping birds came from far, far away. "In the name of all that's holy and sacred" I yelled "How did you find out about the Clougher--WICKERMAN?" "I know all about it" said Bon Jovi with a smirk. "I know the wicker field was behind auld Juan McTwirdles barn. I know the wicker cermony was held on the last Saturday of March and I know that-YOU" yelled Bon Jovi "Was the wicker woman who set fire too the wickerman". My pagan past had come back to haunt me. "It was just a bit of fun" I stammered "Just some ignorant cunt'ry people setting fire to an auld heap of sticks". "LIAR!" screamed Bon Jovi. "Was it just a bit of fun for the poor crater who was burned alive in the wickerman?" I fell on my knees and groveled like a groveler. "It was a different thyme" I cried "You must understand, the harvest had failed for the third thyme and we were desperate Dan, I mean desperate Bon Jovi". Bon Jovi looked at me with scorn and said, "It may have escaped your notice, but Clougher has had too bad harvests in a row. Did you sea how small Padraig Mcwarblers wurzels were last year? why, they were mere shadows of their former selves". "Bon Jovi" I yelled "Don't meddle in what you don't understand. The priest said it was a sin, maybe even a mortal sin, too pull strangers off bicycles and donkeys and burn them in a wicker cage". Bon Jovi snorted and said "Korrect me if I'm rong, but does knot sacrifice lie at the hart of all religions? Listen mother and listen good, "I bon Jovi Ryan wool revive the wicker religion in these here parts. Building the wickerman will be easy peasy, but the difficult part wool be finding a stranger too sacrifice". The cub looked at me with a queer, malevelent look in his eyes and muttered, "Unless you were willing to lure Chuck Corona too the wicker field". At the mention of deer Chuck's name the scales of the old ways fell from my eyes. Burn my boyfriend? knot on your Nellie! I grabbed Bon Jovi and yelled "Begone you spawn of the devil" and I rammed the cub head first into the water barrel under the spouting. I water boarded the cub until his face turned blew and the eyes were bulging out of his big head like a frog. When I eventually dragged Bon Jovi out like a drowned rat, all thoughs of wickermen were erased from his evil, demonic, satanic brane. Later that night, I used wan of the wicker sticks to leave welts on his malignant derriere. Burn my boyfriend Chuck Corona? Knot when there's blood and piss in the veins of Rosie Ryan.

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www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
You know I was just thinking last nite, it's hard to beat the heat from a WICKERMAN!!!