Rosie Beats The Bucking Bronco

Gerry Atchung! Clougher has at last broken into the 21st centurian. Knot only did the council put a big stone over the leaking shi--sewage at Hussain's corner, but on Monday Clougher's premier nite club the, "Come on yeh boy" took possession of a second-hand bucking bronco.
All weak, Billy the bucking bronco has bean tossing the Clougher boys about like rag dolls.
On Monday nite, a big crowd saw auld Pedro McTwiffle thrown time and time again, until big Maud his wife threw in the towel claiming auld Pedro was suffering from noggin concussion and two hernia's in his forkal area.
It wool be a while before auld Pedro throws the leg again. The word on the street is, big Mauld is now looking for a toy boy.
Toy boy my arse. Any boy who wood take on big Maud with the lites on is a better man that me, Gudga Din.
That strumpet Caroline McSnipe showed herself up when she mounted the bucking bronco wearing a wee, tite mini-shirt. She was thrown up in the air and ripped her nickers on the way down on auld Jethro McDingdong's zimmer-frame. The barman threw her out and told her knot to come back again without a good, stout pear of red flannel drawers.
Jimmy the jump broke his nose on Wednesday nite when he was thrown out the open dour and under the wheels of Mulligan's hearse.
Then auld drunk Bosco McSimmet slipped while trying to get on the horse and nocked out all his teeth and cut the hole face of himself.
Poor auld Bosco is sitting like a grotsque in the corner of the bar sipping Guinness through a rubber tube.
A catheter I believe that he stole from the hospital when his liver packed in last Kristmas.
"Drink is killing you" the doctor said.
"Not at tall" slurred Bosco.
"Its the wild price of it!".
But the biggest hanlin' happened on Fryday nite when the parish priest came into the bar to sell tickets for a knew weeman's toilet for saint Judas church. The auld zinc bucket behind the coal bags is no way for a woman to slash before preying to the Lord.
It is undignified and unsanity.
As the priest was making his way round the pub extorting money from people's pockets. Wee dumpy Harriet McScunner was thrown off the bucking bronco and flew through the air wild eyed and legs akimbo and wrapped herself round the poor priest's neck like a scarf.
The priest pulled wee Harriet off and threw her into a corner yelling.
"Pastor Nobbis, inter eeh boo.
Get off me you strumpet and don't try your auld garden of Eden shennigans on a man who was concentrated to God by lying prostate in front of an alter".
By the end of the weak Clougher was full of the walking wounded.
Some boys could knot tie their hobnailed boot laces or throw their legs on an auld bicycle.
The priest gave a wild hell fire and brimstome sermon on Sonday.
He called the bucking bronco a demonic, infernal machine of the devil and warned the people that all the bouncing up and down wood do grate damage to their reproducing organs.
"Because of that bucking monstresity" yelled the priest.
"There wool knot be wan Cat-lick wain kristened in saint Judas church for the next 30 years".
The priest then retreated to a retreat to denounce the snares and pomps of Beelzebub and his legions of black imps and fallow devils.
It was Hi-noon on Saturday when my sun Bon Jovi and me moosied into Clougher.
I was wearing a rhine-stone gansey and a pear of German lether-hosen by daddy had found in a crashed German plain during the war.
A hush settled over the bar as Bon Jovi and me entered.
"Oh look!" yelled auld Cosmo "The weasel" McSkitterstick.
"Its Kalamity Jane and the dirty-arsed kid".
I ignored the taunts and jeers by roaring.
"Ill burst the next man that opens his gub".
I approached Billy the bucking bronco. It was a sturdy peace of equitment.
I leaped on the bucking bronco like a blue-arsed fly and yelled.
"Turn her on! Put her up to top speed.
Why there isn't a gosh-durned horse, donkey, mule, or goat that could throw Rosie Ryan".
For the next too hours I clung on like a limpet as Billy bucked, leaped, spun round and round and kicked and flung.
The crowd was going mad.
Sweat ran down my big, red, beautiful face.
My under-carriage was taking a hell of a beating.
I knew the next time I had a slash it wood sting like hell.
I wrapped my lether-hosen, alabaster Colossus of Roads thighs round Billy and let yelps, squeels and shrieks out of me like a Banshee on Red Bull.
Just when I thought I could hang on no longer. Billy exploded in a shower of springs, nuts, bolts and hydrolic rams.
I was carried through Clougher on the shoulders of a group of cheering men.
I think I got a grope or too, but my under-carrige was that numb it was hard to know.
Once again, I had proven that Rosie Ryan was the best man in Clougher.
I lie in bed now. Legs akimbo and covered in Kar-a-mine lotion.
My under-carriage is on fire and trips to the po is torture presonfied.
Some wag has penned this ode on a gable wall in Clougher.
"Rosie Ryan is no dope
Without the use of a length of rope
With thunder thighs like redwood trees
She brough poor Billy to his knees."
One again Rosie Ryan has risen to the challenge and came out succubos!