Friday 15 May 2009

THE FIERCE INTELLIGENCE OF BON JOVI

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!.

Get my letters to Gerry Anderson and poem books from...
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
And go now to...
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com

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