Monday, 25 May 2009


Something has awoken me from my nocturnal slumber. What could it be? A grey lite was forcing itself through the cobwebbed window. By it's meagure illumination I could sea my drawers hanging over a chair and the half full po with a good bead on it. I was lying-gracefully on the broad of my back. A damson in repose, a Venus of the nite. Only darkness has the power to hide my grate beauty from the eyes of men. My sweaty mass of red hare was clinging to my plump. round, fat red face. What had awoken me? My unbound bisoms lay on either side of me, like too dumplins. Why had I awoken? Why was I staring round my maidenely bouid-wah with a look of wonder and surprise on my classical Greek/Roman visage? Then too my horror and indeed-chagrin, I heard the pad of feet coming up the stares. I tried to bound up like a woodland sprite but was unable too. Looking, I could sea that my slender maidenly wrists and my plump water retaining ankles were bound to the bed by ropes. How could this be? Did Chuck Corona, my boyfriend and me indulge in a little bit of M and M last nite. It is but a playful thing Chuck and I do somethymes. Chuck ties me too the bed and pretends too be Jack the Ripper on the trail of female reproductive organs. But like any normal couple who indulge in M and M we have a safety word too keep it from going two far. Deer Chuck knows I have had enough when I gulder out--"CLOUGHER". But wait, Chuck was away in Dublin, who then was creeping up the stares to interfer with my person with fiendish groapings and diabolical futterings? "It's the-RIPPER!" I roared and I began to thrash about like a beached whale. I kicked, I flung, I threshed my slim, girlish 18 stone body from side to side-but all two no avail. The only response from my kicking and flinging was a loud fusillade of wind breaking, akin to a fire fight in down town Basra. Now the handle of my bedroom door was creaking, the fiend was without! The door opened with a creak and a small figure crept into my room. The creature semed deformed. Could it be the hunch-back of Naughty Dame looking for Esmerelda? I broke wind ferociously in the hope that the creature mite think I had a gun secreated in the bed, but still the humped loathsome figure came nearer. His ugly face was contorted and twisted with evil. Then as the dawns grey lite got brighter, I saw too my horror that the intruder was my Sun-Bon Jovi. "Please release me let me go" I yelled "Or by God Boy you'll feel my toe". The wee gulpin never answered me, he ran down the stares and came back with a big jug of water and an auld rag that I clean pee up with. Then the ugly wee brute wearing a pear of tites over his big round head, leant over the bed and hissed. "Where did you hide the packet of wagonwheels?" I glared back definately and roared. "That, you shall never know. Never, Never, NEVER". Bon Jovi giggled and said "Ah so! well let the fun begin". And before I new what was happening, the wee gulpin put the piss saturated rag over my face and began to pour water from the big jug. I couldn't believe it, he who had sprang from my fruitful lions was-water boarding me! The lump of a cub was water-boarding his auld mother. I was choaking, I was drowning. The water went up my hooter and down my throat. I couldn't breathe. The bed creaked and groaned as I thrashed about like a porpose. Then it stopped and Bon Jovi said "Once again I ask you, where did you hide the packet of wagonwheels?" I had too tell him, I couldn't take anymore torture. The cub ran down the stares and I could hear him crunching and gobbling at the wagonwheels. I lay exhausted in the saurated wet bed, then I peed myself-well, what did it matter now? After an hour, the wee brute appeared again, cut the ropes with a penknife and ran off to hide in the eggberries. What spawn of the devil have I given birth too.? A cub who wood water-board his auld mother, will soon be smoking and drinking. My egg must have bean fertlised by a demon from the hot pit of hell. But he can't hide in the eggberries for ever and when he sneaks home, Bon Jovi wool find he has a date with the water barrel outside the house. I too can water-board. I wool hold the wee gulpin in the water barrel until his face turns as blue as a ducks egg. No one water-boards Rosie Ryan and gets away with it. Knot Al-quida, knot George Bush and certaintly knot the lump of a cub kown as, Bon Jovi Ryan. I'm quite looking forward to a bit of torture. I have a mean streak in me. Maybe that's where Bon Jovi gets it from!!

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Thursday, 21 May 2009


Fare indeed was the day as I dunged out the midden like a Trojan. My bulging biceps flexed as I filled the wheel barrow with good rotten manure. I leant on my fork and looked around me. A dungy smell was in the air. I opened my nostrils like the late dead Kenneth Williams and sniffed the pungent aroma up my hooter. Ah, there's nothing like the smell of manure on a barmy Summer day. Probably the first smell in the world, in the garden of Eden, was the smell of manure. I was stripped to my grey simmet, my mulberry blew gansey hung from a rotten fence post. The suction on my wellingtons was tarra, as the midden tried to pull me down into it's red hot core. Dung is a grate fossil fuel. Heel up a cart load of dung at the haggard, and a weak later you could boil an egg in the nuclear core. The government should build dung nuclear reactors. Cheep fuel for the masses and co friendly emmisions. I spat on my hands and cried. "This shi dung, won't shift itself" and went at it like a navvy. Being a female woman who could multi-task I sang as I worked.
"Another cracker Rosie" I giggled, as I squelched further up the midden.
Suddenly, I heard the swish of wellingtons coming through the rushes and nettles. I utulised my oculars and preceived that it was my Sun Bon Jovi and another cub coming through the bog. I scrutinized the cub, I had scene him before, leaping and jumping like a kangeroo with corns in the skool playground. He was a rare looking cub, thin as a willow stick, all elbows and knees and a head of the gingerest hare I had ever scene. A real carrot top. "MAMMY!" roared Bon Jovi "I wood like too interduce you to a fellow student, Fergie McBoing". "Hello Fergie" I said "Hello Mrs Ryan" said the cub in a Hi reedy voice. "Just back from skool Fergie?" I asked. "AYe Mrs Ryan" squeaked the ginger nut. "Do you like skool Fergie?" I asked "Aye Mrs Ryan" squeaked the red hared scoolar. "There are knot many Fergie's round here" I said "Did your daddy call you after Sir Alex Ferguson?" "No, Mrs Ryan" squeaked the cub, "He called me after his wee tractor. And now he tells everyone, "I've got too wee Fergies". Bon Jovi opeded his big yapper and began to laugh like a tickled hynea. "Ah,-Ha-Ha-Ha" roared the cub. "OH, Ho-Ho-Ho,--AH, Tee-Tee-Hee" "Do you get it Mammy?" roared Bon Jovi "Fergie's name is-Fergie and Fergie's daddy has a wee Fergie tractor, so Fergie's daddy can say without a devil of a lie, that he has too-Fergie's. Every thyme I heer that story" said Bon Jovi "I go into veritable-fits". I took the too cubs inside and gave them a meel of buttered heels from pan loaves and too big mugs of buttermilk. Then the too cubs went out two play. It was good to sea Bon Jovi play with someone who did knot belong too the rodent family. After wee Fergie went home, Bon Jovi and I sat down to supper. This thyme it was too mugs of buttermilk and the buttered heels from pan loaves. I broke wind, discretly and demurly like a member of the royal family and went out two bring the washing in. In the twinkling of an eye, I was back in the house, ashen faced and trembling all over like a caul-rifed eel. "BON JOVI" I roared "Did you sea my good red flannel drawers?" Bon Jovi looked up haughtly and riposted, "KNOW, I have know wish or desire to sea your auld smelly red flannel drawers". "That red hared Fergie must have purlioned the drawers" I yelled. "That ginger nut must be an apprentice pervert" Bon Jovi pointed with a rigid digid and yelled, "LOOK!" a piece of paper, it must have bean pushed under the door". I grabbed the piece of paper, it was a page from a skool jotter and on it was rote.
"My good Sunday go too meeting drawers have bean-kidnapped!" I yelled.
"If I was you" said Bon Jovi "I wood pay the ransome, these boys seem to know what they're doing. Give me the auld fiver and I'll go and leave it under the stone and I wood say you wool soon be reunited with your drawers." "Something didn't seem rite. I smelled a rat and it wasn't the one behind the sofa for it was mummified. I looked at Bon Jovi, he seemed-different, he seemed to have-changed. "Hi boy!" I yelled "Is your hump getting bigger?" Bon Jovi tried to flea, but I was two quick for him, I grabbed him by the scruff of his dirty neck and found too my chargrin that the cub had stuffed my red flannel drawers up the back of his gansey. I cuffed Bon Jovi round the ear and fell too my knees crying out to the Lord like a constipated donkey. "Oh Lord, why has the fruit of my lions, turned out too be a cub that wood kidnap his auld mammy's drawers?". Answer, there came-none. I was going to tell the parish priest on the wee gulpin, but I wood feel inhabited talking about my drawers too a man of the cloth. I hope I haven't reared another Jesse James or Machine Gun Ryan!

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Friday, 15 May 2009


Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me stood on top of the midden like Venus and Appolo. We had our arms round each others wastes and were nibbling our respective ears like too buck goats eating ivy. I felt a shudder and a tremor travel through my slender, girlish 18 stone body as Chuck ran a rigid digit tantalizingly up the discs on my quivering spine. "Oh Chuck" I ejaculated, "please don't do that, or I shall turn into a veritable jelly and fall at your feet with a-plop".
Chuck leered at me-seductively with a mouthful of uneven nashers and said. "Mon a me, my petit gateau, zee finger up zee spine is bon-no?". "It is bon-aye" I cried. "But you know how highly tuned my erotic responses are. It is very naughty of you in the extreme, to tamper with my womanly urges with your tender groaping and Kama Sutra inspired futtering".
Chuck-leaped on me like a pole-kat, pulled up my azure blew gansey and began to tickle my protruding belly button. I shrieked like a ferret and went into fits of hysterical laughing, as blue fluff from my navel was expelled and blown away in the soft Summer breeze. "Will you stop your tickling Chuck" I shrieked, as gale after gale of falsetto giggles erupted from my pouting rose bud mouth. I was in a swoon-like state. I dug my hobnailed boots into the muck and mire to keep from falling. What a site we must have bean a top the midden, mail and female, clasped in the age old embrace of la-more. Adam and Eve, fighting over the granny smith. A seen as old as thyme itself. Man and woman, going through the ritual love dance that was but just a prelude to how's your father? is your mother still working?. Then, as I opened my jaws wide like a rattle snake to eat the neck of Chuck, I saw my boy child Bon Jovi coming home from skool through the bog. "Behold Chuck!" I cried "Yonder is the fruit of my lions, making his way home from his estemed seat of learning". Deer Chuck squinted with his deep set ferret eyes and said. "What does the boy have in his hand?. Why, I do believe it is a walking stick!". I gave a roar like a bull moose and shrieked, "Bon Jovi must be hurted. Why else wood he walk with the aid of a stick? Oh Chuck" I yelled "My only begotten sun must have broken his leg. Quick!" I yelled. "Tear up your shirt for bandages and bring me lots of hot water". By now, the fertilised egg was almost upon us. "Bon Jovi" I shrieked. "What ailes you? How many legs have you broken, that you must walk with the aid of a walking stick?". Bon Jovi stood glowering out of the weeds and nettles. He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, brainished the walking stick above his big, round cannonball head and said. "Fear knot, all my limbs are in an unfractured state. The walking stick is mearly an- affectation". "Oh Chuck" I roared "The cub has broken his affectation". "Know, know" said Chuck. "The cub is unhurt. An affectation is a, a, a,.....
"I think Chuck Corona" said Bon Jovi, "That you wood be wise to shut your big yapper, before you prove that you are as stupid as you look. Bon Jovi looked at me with his good eye and said. "An affectation is, assumption or striving after an appearance of what is not natural or real. In other words- pretence". "You wee gulpin" I roared "You scared the life out of me and you knot insured". "Tut-tut" said Bon Jovi "You really must get your nerves under control, or you will end up in a rubber room, bouncing of the walls like a squash ball" Only for Chuck holding me back by clutching the waste-band of my drawers, I wood have swung for the wee gulpin. Bon Jovi gave an auld hateful laugh and headed for the house, swinging the walking stick like Charlie Chaplin. When the cub neared the door, he turned round with an auld haughty air and said, "Oh bye the bye mater, next time you go into Clougher, be so good as to get me a top hat and a monacle". I stood there, open mouthed and speechless. Chuck held me close and I sobbed into his majenta gansey, "Oh Chuck, with all Bon Jovi's awful affectations, I feel I have given birth to little Lord Snooty". Who would be a mother? Not men that's for sure, they are too fly for that!.

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Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Bon Jovi's Opinion Of Uncle Gerry's Show

Deer Gerry, on banked holiday Monday the rain was pissi--pouring down, so me and my Sun Bon Jovi sat on too three legged stools two listen too your show. I roared and laughed and slapped my plump, maidenly knee, but Bon Jovi sat as still and as silent as the Spinx. "You never laughed Bon Jovi" I said "I thought you liked Gerry". "Of course I like Uncle Gerry" said the cub, "Uncle Gerry is a riter and a broadcaster, I was using the show as a form of headucation. I two may be a riter and a broadcaster, so I was picking up some tips". I marvelled again at the ambition that dwelt in that large, cannon-ball head. "How did Uncle Gerry do?" I asked. Bon Jovi crossed wan dirty and grazed knee over the other and said, "Quite good. I was impressed by his diction". "What's-diction Bon Jovi?" I asked "Diction" said Bon Jovi, "well, it's the foundation of speech. If your diction is up the Swanny, no wan no's what you're talking about". "What else did you like about Gerry" I said throwing too turf on too the fire and blowing my nose on the hem of my skirt. "I greatly admired Uncle Gerry's use of-nuance" said the cub. "What in under God is-nuance?" I said "Bon Jovi sighed and replied, "Nuance, is a delicate or subtle degree, or shade of difference. Imagine you were painting a barn door puce, you mite want too add a nuance of burnt umber two bring out the Hi-lites". "What will your books be about Bon Jovi" I asked. "The subjects wool be many and varied" said the cub and I plan to bring them out in trilogys of four" The cub looked at me and said, "If you're good and behave yourself, I mite well rite a book about you!". I clasped my hands too my bleezing face and cried. "Oh Bon Jovi wood you? And what wood the book be called?" Bon Jovi leant back, went into a state of 50% pondering and 50% ruminating and said. "I shall call the book, "The woman who made me the man I am today". "And how many books do you plan two rite Sun?" I asked "57" said Bon Jovi, "Yes, 57, if it was good enough for Heinz, it's good enough for me". "And tell me Bon Jovi" I said "What wool you do when you have the 57 books wrotten?" Bon Jovi looked at me with contempt and said, "What a stupid, ass-in-ine question. When I have rote my 57 books, I wool sit down on an armchair and reed them of course". I felt so--stupid. So stupid, thick and old. You no you're cubs growing up when he makes a complete fool of you, like what Bon Jovi just done to me. But just think.....
Bon Jovi Ryan, Author. And too think he sprang from my fruitfull lions!!!

Friday, 1 May 2009

Deer Fans, friends and familiars, 'tis indeed a pleasure two put pencil to jotter and correspond with youse through the art of calligrephy. Over the years I have told youse many things about myself, my Sun Bon Jovi and my boyfriend, Chuck Corona, who was asked to leave the Garda She-Cona in Dublin. Youse are aware and compes-mentas of my grate beauty, grace, poise and helagance. I model myself-dilligently on model Kate Moss. When I walk, I put wan hobnail boot gracefully in front of the other, as I was told too do in Kate's book, "How too walk down a kat-walk without taking a spalter". Of my only begetoon Sun Bon Jovi, what kan I say? Nature fertilised an egg and chose my womb, to shelter and nurter, he who in thyme would be kristened Bon Jovi, with a good splash of H2o and the laying on of hands. Every thyme I look at Bon Jovi's big head or sea his ring-worm spreading, I no I am blessed among women.
My boyfriend Chuck Corona is the lite of my life. I love every pox on his pox-marked face. Chuck is knot the tall, dark and handsome hero you wood read about in Mills and Boom. Chuck is low to the ground, squat and his hare stands up on his bullet head like a pork-a-pine. And yet, this man on the run from the Free State has stolen my hart and I love him like be-damned.
But I have talked about Chuck and Bon Jovi before. What I want to talk about today is.....Wait 'till I sprinkle the house with holy water, what I want too talk about today is--CLOUGHER!. Clougher is a neon lit city of sin, perversion, depravity and debauchery. Clougher, that sprawling city among the whins and rushes, is a plaice of demonic evil, pagan values and unholy shennagins. No wan no's the amount of futtering, grabbing and groaping that goes on in Clougher when the son goes down. Another thing about Clougher, it has more gulpins per square inch, that any other town in Ireland or surrounding districts. The fly boys in Clougher, hang round korners, smoking, cursing and abusing the passer-byes. You kan tell a fly Clougher boy, from the indents left on the back of his donkey jacket by the pebble-dash wall.
Their insults are legandery, take wee Boris McDump. Wee Boris had a row with the priest about catholic teeching. Boris asked the priest where the crowd got the baskets to take up the crumbs after Jesus fed the five thousand. The priest, who was stumped for an answer, told wee Boris to sling his hook. Some say he told Boris to, piss off, but I don't believe that. Boris immediately went and joined the Jewish religion. Now a male man who becomes a Jew, has too go through a wee intimate, opperation pertaining too the reproduction organs. People in the no, say that wee Boris went through the opperation with flying colours, he only screamed seven times. But when Boris got back on his feet and was walking splay-legged round Clougher, it was then he came in for the vulgar, foul-mouthed retric of the fly Clougher boys. As wee Boris walked slowly up the street, with his legs akimbo and his teeth gritted, wan of the fly Clougher boys roared out, "Here comes the croppie boy".
I myself have knot bean immune from the rude and mocking multitude. The other day, as I sauntered down the street too buy a pound of special mince. Wan of the gulpins began too bawl, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".
I shuddered too a halt, I could knot believe my ears. ME? Rosie Ryan, a paradox of beauty, grace, poise, and sultry passion, was being harranged by a vulgar roar of, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". People smirked as I stood there, with my plastic shopping bag in my hands, full of grate ire and anger and on the verge of brusting someone's face. I walked on, hoping the vulgar wretches had their fun, but-KNOW, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS" rang out over the accursed city of Clougher. I minced into the butchers, purchased a pound of special mince and made my way out again. "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YOUR DRAWERS". I noted where the sound was coming from and made a detour to come up behind the yelling gulpin. As I crept up too a korner, I heard the sound again, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS,MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". I -leapt round the korner and grabbed the ruffian by the scruff of the neck. "BON JOVI!" I shrieked "MAMMY!" yelled the mystery voice who had guldered, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". "I didn't no it was you mammy" snivelled Bon Jovi "I thought it was some old bag". I drove the cub home before me like a bulloch. Everytime he stopped, I came off him with a black-thorn stick. Oh the shame. Oh the indignity. To have one's own child, roar at one, "MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS".
No more watching Aunt and Deck for Bon Jovi, them too has got the cub ruined.