Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Mission Acomplished

A tragedy of monumental, Machiavellian, machinations has bee-fallen me.
A tragedy of Greek peforations is the only way to descriptively, describe the horrorendous hanlin which was fated by fate to bee-fall me.
I wool now state the facts in a clear and transpicious manner.
I was in my frontal garden. I was enraged in boiling a cauldren of drawers.
I was using a nobbly, black-thorn stick to circulate and motivate the under garments.
I was arrayed in spick and span hob-nailed boots and a kakhi German world war one grate coat.
My suspences were aroused when I saw my sun Bon Jovi galloping like a wilderbeest through the bog and roaring like a demented donkey.
The cub ran towards me, too streams of snotters flying behind him in the wind and roared.
"Oh Mammy, I bring tidings of grate perplezity and termididy.
The cubs at skool say, a graphic,pornographic, caricature of you adorns the second cuticle in stall too at the men's toilet and slash house in Clougher".
"Prepare my steed" I cried.
Today I ride to Clougher to rite the rongs which have been preputated on my person by person, or persons unknown".
"Do you want me for back-up?" cried Bon Jovi.
"KNOW!" I cried empatically.
"You stay and stir the drawers".
Soon I was on my way too Clougher, bent over the handle bars of my bicycle like Frankie Dee-Tori.
When I reached the defecation containment unit I leaped off my bike and ran into the men's innconvenance.
Three men were standing at stalls having a slash.
"GET OUT!" I yelled
"And do that in the street like real men, don't be cowering in 'ere like old women".
I threw open the door to stall too and stood there shocked to the kore in horrific amazement.
"MERDE! MERDE! MERDE!" I screamed in the tiled construction manufactoried excuviously for slashing and defication.
THERE! on the wall was a large crayon drawing depicting the Bridget Bar-Doo of Clougher, Rosie Ryan.
In the drawing I was bent over like a cow displaying a massive aera of red flannel drawers.
The artist had added numerous gingham patches to my red flannelled, plump ars--derriere.
I was looking behind me with a sultry expression on my big, plump, red face.
Underneath rote in large block capitals was rote,
Driven mad by intorable menthol anguish I ran outside tearing my hare and rendering my garments.
There in front of me stood a massive digger. I leaped into the cab, turned her on and soon Clougher toilet looked like Soddem and Begorragh.
Knot one stone was left upon a stone, or a stool upon a stool.
"MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!" I yelled as I rode out of Clougher like Clint Eastwood.
Don't meddle with she who is,

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Administrative Error

Lots of head shaking and saying, "I told you so!" in Clougher this weak.
Wee Aroma McFeeters is back home in disgrace.
Wee Aroma was wan of the few to escape the clinging muck and clabber of Clougher.
Wee Aroma studied to be a doctor and worked in the kasualty department at the Erne hospital.
Last weak doctor wee Aroma found out the hard way that the way to a man's hart in knot through his stomach.
(His funeral was on Fryday)
Apparently wee Aroma couldn't stand the stress and in a fit of desperation turned to Red Bull and Terry's chocolate orange eggs to calm her nerves.
It all came to a head last weak when wee Aroma was found in the operating theatre, saw in hand, up to the ankles in fingers, toes and unspeakable appendages.
Wan patient threatened to Sue, but found to his dismay that he didn't have a leg to stand on.
Both his legs and miscellaneous bits and peaces of under-carriages were found under wee Aroma's bed.
Wee Aroma was struck off the medical register and the hole thing hushed up under, "Administrative Error"
Wee Aroma is claiming to be thrice polar and works at the weak-ends in Tiddler's butcher shop.
I saw her at the weak-end when I went in two buy a pound of special mince and six, curly pig's tales for Sonday's dinner.
Wee Aroma was working at the back of the buchers shop.
I looked on in horror as she ripped. cut, slashed and stabbed a side of beef, with a big butchers knife in her hand and a look of demonic, malevolence on her Jack the Ripper face.
I have called an X-tra-ordinatry meeting of Clougher council.
I shall propose that all knives, scythes,tin-openers, bill-hooks, nail-clippers and scissors be kept away from the disgraced X doctor McFeeters.
If the deranged medic met my sun Bon Jovi on a dark nite she wood have his guts for garters.
Wee Aroma has got the smell of blood, she won't stop now.
A Mass-acre!. A MASS- ACRE I tell you is about to befall the cunt'ry town of Clougher.
From the ever dilligent,
Rosie Ryan xxx.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

"Love is a many splendent thing"

If my mammary serves me rite it was Alexander the Grate who said.
"Love is a many splendent thing".
Alexander was known as the, "Grate" because of his rag time band and obsessive panchant for open fires.
Wholly nuptials were knonfirmed by a bona-fido priest at "The last Stop" old folks home in Clougher this weak.
The konsenting adults were auld 94 year old Clint McTavish and auld 89 year old Shelia "Toots" McSplatter.
Apparently the pear of ancient love birds had bean caught traversing the corridor to wan and others bedrooms at nite and the priest said.
"We'd better splice them too auld muppets before they burn in hell for all eternally".
On the morning of the wedding, auld Clint looked almost human wearing a mustard coloured soot from War on Want.
The contrasting Celtic football club trainers gave auld Clint a dapper, jazzy, playboy apperance.
The blushing bride, for auld Shelia does have a big, red, bleezer of a face was dressed in green, which complimented her teeth.
"DO YOU" said the priest.
"I DO!" yelled auld Clint.
"Hauld on yeh boy" said the priest.
"You're a bit quick of the mark there.
"Hauld on until I give you the nod. This isn't an auction you know, its a wedding".
Then wan of the alter boys fainted as he gazed into the feces of the ancient lovebirds.
It took quite a while too konfirm nuptils on the auld relics what with leering and drooling, breaking wind and falling down.
No sooner had they got auld Clint up on his feet than auld Shelia was down on her arse.
There was an outbreak of boking in the church when the priest said with a look of distaste on his blessed and concertinaed face,
"You may now kiss the bride".
The too auld wrinklies came together with a clash of zimmer frames and SLURPED the face of each other like too conger eels.
Nurses and carers threw bits of cut up toilet roll over the 'appy couple in lou of konfetti.
Wan carer who didn't like them flung handfulls of rice with such ferocity it stung like shotgun pellets.
Then back to "The Last Stop" home for a feed of ox tale soup and spam sandwitches with the crusts cut off.
The marriage was consumed later that nite it the morgue which had bean turned into the honymoon sweet complete with matching po's and Chinese lanterns.
The next morning a nurse found auld Shelia lying on the broad of her back with her mouth open and beside her auld Clint with his mustard trousers round his ankles.
Apparently auld Clint couldn't get his War on Want, mustard trousers over his Celtic football club trainers.
The last I herd the ancients were talking of going to Bundoran for a few daze in the Summer.
When I came home from the wedding I said to my sun Bon Jovi.
"Oh Bon Jovi, never let me grow old".
"Too late" giggled the grotesque gulpin.
"That day has came and gone".
Only I was hefted I wood have raced the cub up hill and down dale.
I is your 'umble korrespondant.
Rosie Ryan xxx

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Marathon Advice From Rosie

Deer Gerry,
Its Rosie Ryan 'ere, she of the flashing eyes and thunder thighs.
Winter has at last loosened its icy grip on Clougher.
It was a sore wan Gerry.
My lips and hips is badly chaffed.
During the worst of it, Brannigan's donkey frooze to death looking out over a gait with a look in its eyes that defiled all komprehension.
Last Sonday in Clougher was nice and mild.
Some couples who are still talking to each other headed out for a walk and one or too brave soles threw caution to the wind and had a slash down Milligan's entry.
And I am proud to say, I was one of them.
Al-Fresco slashing is a sign that Spring is on the way.
Gerry, your God-sun Bon Jovi is wild worried about you and this marathon thing.
"Uncle Gerry wool never do it!" yelled Bon Jovi, banging his fist on the table for emphatic emphasis.
"He wool be dragged off the street like road kill while the boy's of the NYPD choir keep singing, "Galway Bay".
I don't no much about running. The only things that run in the Ryan family is noses, bladders and bowls.
The only marathon runner we had in Clougher was Bosco "The Flash" Romano and he didn't aquire the nick-name "The Flash" for running!.
I remember when wee Bosco was training for the Gortin marathon.
He just couldn't get his speed up, so what wee Bosco did was superglue too big, juicy, raw steaks to his hips and then run by auld Morphine Mumbles house who owned six big, firece Doberman Pichers.
Well, that got wee Bosco's speed up, but apparently not enough and he suffered severe cuts, scratches, gouges,bites and lacerations around both derriere and under-carriage.
When the starting gun went off in Gortin wee Bosco was still in the Royal in Belfast getting skin grafts.
I don't no how to advice you Gerry.
I no you have your hart set on running the marathon.
What I suggest is, you strip naked in front of a mirror and then ask yourself, Mr Coyle, Emma, Janet, the Undertone and Ken
"Kan this body carry me 26 miles?"
Coyle may try and mislead you, but Janet and Emma wool tell the truth and probably take plenty of pictures with their wee kamera fones.
What ever you do boy I'm rite behind you willing you on.
From buck-some beauty and delectable honey bun,
Rosie Ryan xxx
SP, Poor auld Jane Russell is dead, she was nearly as good looking as me!.