Thursday 26 August 2010

What colour is your wind?

After too weaks of fierce bloatedness, which only a poisoned pup could identify with. I decided to seek medical assistance. Two say I was blown up like a balloon would be economical with the truth. I was blown up like a zepplin.
Buttons popped and zips were torn asunder as I got bigger and bigger.
As I filled with wind, my trips to the lou hovered on zero on the diddly squat meter.
"Bon Jovi!" I yelped.
"What wool I do? Every hour I increase in size and girth. Know drawers wool circumfrance me. My belly button is protruding like a veritable door knob".
The fruit of my lions laughed and roared.
"Stake yourself to the ground with ropes and keep away from naked flames".
"You ungrateful gulpin" I yelled.
"When you had die-a-rea on a grand and epic scale. Who followed you everywhere with a po in each hand?
YES! Your auld mother. And now that I am suffering grately from horror-endus constitution bordering on a complete bung up you stand there laughing.
"For shame Bon Jovi" I chided.
"For shame. I hope the devil hangs you over the hot fires of hell by the coccyx and pulls every tow nail out of your auld black feet with red, hot pinchers".
"What colour is your wind fatty?" sang my 'orribe off-spring.
I tried to trap the lump of a cub in the corner with my protruding belly, but he slipped away singing.
"POOR OLD ROSIE, WHAT A BUM RAP
SHE CAN SQUAT, BUT SHE CAN'T CRAP".
In an effort to stun my tormenter I broke yet another child of Prague statue against the wall and yelled.
"NICKERS, NACKERS AND CHRISTMAS CRACKERS!".
Then I pointed my belly towards Clougher and set off seeking medicational assistance.
After a bout of prodding and poking and prolonged use of a wee torch.
The doctor washed his hands. Dried them on the front of my burgundy twin-set and said.
"Mrs Ryan, you are suffering from irrational bowl syndrome and you also have a plastic colonic".
"By the sacred dung beetle of Luxor" I yelled.
"How could such a hanlin' have came about?"
"The doctor spun round, pointed a rigid diget at me and roared.
"Gluttony Mrs Ryan. Good old fashioned-gluttony. You Mrs Ryan have bean eating for four. You have used your stomach as a wheelie bin. Your pig-like gobbling and slurping has bunged up your large intestinal. You are on the point of brusting. You is a danger too the community. I really should phone the bomb squad".
"KNOW!" I screamed.
"Knot the bomb squad. Oh the ignomy of a controlled explosion going off at one's ars--rear".
The doctor reached me a large brown bottle and said.
"Take this Miss Piggy. It is a very strong laxative, made from senna pods, castrol oil and just a pinch of gun powder. BUT on no account take it until you get home. It is very quick acting and the roads round Clougher have enough cow skitter on them".
When yet a mile from my house I said to myself.
"Why knot take the laxative now? Then when I enter the portal of my abode, all I have to do is find a po and assume the squatting position".
"Oh the folly of a bloated woman" I muttered, from behind a whin bush.
From whin bush to whin bush I made my way home. Each squat making me weaker than before.
I brust through my door yelling to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Garner every po in the house and bring them to my boud-wah immediately!"
As I went through the po's Bon Jovi stood outside singing.
"POOR OLD ROSIE, COULDN'T CRAP
NOW THANK'S TO THE DOCTOR
SHE CAN'T STAP!"
Oh, a day of reckoning will come. And on that day the smiting will be tarra to behold

No comments: