Friday, 13 November 2009

Rosie Wants Menthol Stimulation

How's she cutting boy? You wool be glad too no that the fruit of my lions, my sun Bon Jovi and me listen too your show on a Daly basis. When you scatter your hi-sterical bon mots, like a Bibical sower scattering seed. Bon Jovi and me yell, "Doesn't that beet Bannager" and roar and laugh.
Your show makes me thankful for what I've got.
When I heer some of the poor craters, who come on your show. And most of them knot able to tell their Arsenal from their Everton. I thank the Lord that I am fierce compes mentos and knot dee-ficient in the marbles department. I hate too say it Gerry. Butt most of your listeners, is groveling, pathetic wretches.
It's "Oh Gerry get me this and oh Gerry get me that".
How I long for an headucated person two come on and discuss, Phill-officy, histornics, or too recite The Creamonation of wee Sam Magee.
I find, as I'm sure you do. That's it's wild hard now a daze, to find some wan who kan talk intelligenty about Arts and Kulture. I am like a kulture vulture Gerry. Circling, ever circling the barren desert of Clougher. In search of menthol stimulation. This morning I tried too talk too the postman about Proust. "Oh aye," He said. "Proust has a good turn of speed and given the chance, he wool stick her in the back of the net".
The poor deluded, illiterate fool thought I was talking about the Proust who plays for the wanderers of Wolverhampton!.
What have we became Gerry?. What ever happened to the land of saints and scoolers? When was the last thyme, some wan went into their bed room with skool jotter and crayons and rote an illuminated account of the gospels?. I am ashamed of my own peeple Gerry.
I find their roaring, yelling and guldering horrible in the extreme. I was watching, "Come dine with me" on tee-vee and it was like watching a chimps T-party. Auld course, vulgar talk. And a lot of sexual winks and nods when it came to the volly-bons. If I was giving a dinner party. I wood invite your good self. The snipe boy Seamus Heaney. Lynda Byrons and Wendy Austin. As I poured the soup out of a Cambells soup tin I wood kick start the artistic swarry by saying.
"Is it just me, or do the rest of you think that Homer was the rite auld gulpin to sell out to the Simpsons?"
Then Lynda Byrons wood regale the company by relating how every thyme she looks at a hens egg. It reminds her-and Mike to of course of the Universe.
Wendy Austin would then throw back her head. After custard and prunes and roar out an Italian Aria. That wood charm the birds of the trees and make the angels weep. Then the snipe boy, Seamus Heaney would--well, he wood recite something wouldn't he. Something that had every wan sleeping in their dinner plate. But that's the price one must pay for having a poet laurie at one's dinner table.
Then I wood put on my bally pumps and skip and leap between the fireplace and the door. Head on Hi. Ever aware of poise. I wood flutter my hands too tell a story. While buck-leaping with fierce artistic fervour. The ghost of Madman Fontaine wood be dancing at my ballyesque shoulder. The evening wood konclude with a rousing version of Maggie's Drawers. In which the delightful falsetto of Lynda Byrons wood draw admiring gasps from her fallow diners.
But it's only a dream Gerry. The lonely dream of a woman who was born out of her time. I should be strolling under cherry blossoms down the Shawns-el-easy. My tinkling laugh should be heard in the grate opera halls of Vinena. I should be looking over auld Einstiens dandruff covered shoulder. Making sure he carries the wan. I should be rowed up the Nile by ten U-nucks. It's at thymes like this Gerry. The low thymes. That I think of Lucy Jordon.
The morning son shines gently on the face of Rosie Ryan. How sad. How fierce, tarra-sad.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Rosie's no Strumpet!

The rain lashed at the winda and the wind howled round my house like a demented demon. It was a Winter day that learned Metallurgists would describe as, wild bad and tarra. Inside my rural rustic abode. Nellie Granite and me sat in front of a big roaring fire. Nellie and me both had us legs akimbo to funnel the heat towards us respective under-carriages. The sweat was running down Nellie's big red bleezer of a face. As she shoved paris buns into her gaping gub. Nellie broke wind with fierce ferocity and said.
"Rosie how lucky we is too be sitting in front of a big roaring fire on a wild day like this".
"We is Nellie" I said. "My hart goes out to some wee nuck of a man, who is peddling a bicycle up hill. Wet to the arse and filled with metaphicial fury and undiluted anger, ire and unrequited moroseness".
"Happiness" said Big Nellie. grabbing for another sugar coated paris bun.
"Hapiness is heat, food, good company and a good husband. Take my wee Willie" said Nellie. "I love my wee Willie more that a feed of drink. A good arse scratching or a comforting breaking of wind. Rosie" said Nellie.
"Pleeze enlighten me as too how much you love your boyfriend Chuck Corona". I felt a wave of passion swell up in my bisom. My legs began to tremble and I said with fierce passion, love and wild devotion.
"I love the very ground that Chuck Corona's feces fall on".
Big Nellie broke wind again, spat into the fire and said.
"Every nite when I sea my wee Willie climbing into bed. Wearing a pear of grey drawers. With the alluring, sexually provokitive flap at the back. I say to myself.
"Nellie Granite, you is wan lucky woman, to have landed a wee beauty like wee Willie" "Then I grab wee Willie too my bisum. And squeeze and squeeze until his face turns blew and his tongue is lolling out of his toothless gub".
"What you have stated Nellie" I said.
"Sums up love in a nutshell"
I looked sexily askew at big Nellie and said. "Let me tell you a sexy bon mot about the love of my life Chuck Corona. Chuck two, like your wee Willie wears long drawers with a flap at the back. But sometimes when deer Chuck is fare brusting with love, lust and fierce passion. He removes the long drawers and puts them on with the flap at the front!".
Big Nellie gave a shriek. Screamed, "In the name of Bannager" and threw her too big fat legs up in the air. Giving me an unwanted flash of too big mottled thighs and an auld pear of brown drawers with a frayed and torn gusset. I reverted my eyes. Until big Nellie had dealt with her wardrobe malfunction. It's knot something you want to sea after a feed of paris buns.
Then big Nellie and I crouched over the fire. And in an old traditional, christian, God like way began to tear reputions apart like paper tissues. We started at Pig Lane in Clougher. Where the drunks and winos roam. And ended up in Micky Bradly park where the Hoi-Popi reside. Nellie and I koncluded that all the weeman were nothing but tramps and strumpets. And the men nothing but dirty, snottery nosed, lazy good for nothing gulpins.
I looked at big Nellie and said.
"Nellie, is it not comforting in the extreme to know that you and me is the only too pentagons of virtue in Clougher and surrounding districts?"
Big Nellie himed and hawed and said. "Well, I wood hardly call YOU a pentagon of virtue. After all you do live over the brush, in a state of moral sin with Chuck Corona".
I leaped to my stunned feet and roared.
"Get out of this house two hell. You Nellie Granite is nothing but a big fat strumpet with a face like a dogs arse. And as for your wee Willie. Every wan knows the wee nuck is deficient in the fork of the trousers department".
"Strumpet!" yelled big Nellie.
"That's what you is. A strumpet, a harlot, a tramp and a woman well known for lying, legs akimbo in wet rushes. God only knows what auld disease I have picked up in this-this-knocking shop".
I lost the head and went for Nellie. Head down like a Pampas bull. Big Nellie raked her nails down my face. I head butted big Nellie. And heard the comforting sound of gristle breaking in Nellies big nose. Big Nellie went into a fit of kicking and flinging. The big brute took lumps out of my shins. I broke the child of Prague over big Nellies head. Big Nellie responded by smashing a picture of the sacred hart of Jesus over my noggin.
I would up a heymaker and let big Nellie have it rite on the chin. Big Nellie fell into the coal bucket. Giving me a prolonged view of her auld brown drawers that were probably crawling with fleas. I grabbed big Nellie by her bull neck and ran her too the door. "Get the hell out of this house, you big, ugly fat Hallion" I yelled. As I gave big Nellie a riser that wood probably require a good dose of surup of figs in the coming daze.
I was sitting shaking and trembling in the korner when my sun Bon Jovi strolled in whistling. The lump of a cub stopped and roared.
"What happed too your face? Did the dog go for you?"
"Know sun" I replied weakly. "It wasn't the dog. It was a kat. A wild kat with the morals of a rabbit on Red Bull".
The moral of the story is..Don't call Rosie Ryan a strumpet in her own house!.
May the piece of the Lord be with you now and forever-AMIN!