Saturday, 30 April 2011


I was sitting at home the other day with the doors, windows and my mouth open.
"PHEW! what a scorcher!" I mummered.
I was workng on my latest intervention which I planned to take to the Dragons Den.
I call it the Flatulence Forecaster.
The idea is simple. A small micro-chip is inserted just above the ars---anus. This micro chip has the ability to detect farts before they make their way down fart alley.
When the little chip detects the slightest build up of flatulent gas, it gives a Hi-pitched, piercing BEEP! This gives you plenty of time to excuse yourself and go to the toilet for a fit of farting, or perchance, even a dump!.
The Flatulence Forecaster will be a boom for the Hi-flying exective, people with a low tolerance to farts, men who suffer from fits and nursing mothers.
I glanced out at the sweeping panorama of beauty that lay before me. The bog was coming alive again with heather, wild flowers and long, slender grasses.
Hi in the air a lark sang, the plaintive cry of the curfew and a bevy of tits bobbed up an down on my clothes line.
Nature was alive! Under the kitchen table, grate big blew-bottles landed on the biggest dog turd I have every seen like menacing Apache helicopters.
"BON JOVI!" I yelled to the fetus who had sprang from my lions.
"Drop what you're doing. You and me is going on a cunt'ry panic".
There was a crash as Bon Jovi dropped my good child of Prague statue.
My only sun came running in yelling,
"I'm going on a panic!. I'm going on a panic!".
Soon mother and sun were loaded down with goodies and we set off for the wild, blew yonder.
To get to my secret plaice we had to jump three shucks and clamber over five rusty barbed wire fences.
Needless to say, trousers and nickers were snagged which lead to punctures, grazes and cuts being inflicted on us ars--rears.
Mere flesh wounds, none of which would require stitches.
Red-faced and panting we crested a hill and there it was, my Zanadoo, my Eldorado, my sleepy hollow.
This is where I used to play as a child and practice my deporation which gives me my graceful poseidon.
Many peeple have said I walk like a hangel on egg shells.
"This is the plaice!" I cried.
"We shall panic here!"
Bon Jovi took off his rucksack and laid out on an old towel, heaps of buttered heels from pan loaves.
Coke-Oh-Cola, apples, bananas, crisps, Cad-buryies chocolate and a tupperware kontainer kontaining a turgid heap of congealed curried ferret.
What a feast it was. A feast fit for the Gods.
"For what we are about too receive" I yelled.
And then mother and sun got stuck in like too pot-bellied pigs.
Soon hands were grabbing and gnashers gnawing. Bon Jovi nearly chocked when he tried to swallow an apple whole.
I tore into the curried ferret with my bare hands. I growled deep in my throat as Bon Jovi tried to steel some.
It wasn't until we realised we were eating handfulls of grass that we knew the panic was over.
We both lay on us backs and made the long grass sway with fierce, unnatural flatulence.
Stuffed to the throat like too porkers we fell into a deep sleep bordering on a coma.
It was pitch dark when we awoke!
Bon Jov screamed.
"Don't picnic!" I yelled.
Yes! the panic was over, but now the picnic set in.
Have you ever climbed over five barbed-wire fences and jumped three shucks in the pitch dark?
It is highly improbable that you have.
Well, I have, as has my sun Bon Jovi.
When we eventually staggered home, my nickers were mere flapping, ragged remments. Bon Jovi's trousers had been ripped to shreads and fallen off.
Us derrieres looked like we got fifty seven lashes from the cat-oh-nine tales.
But we made it! I got my cub home!.
The moral is, if you ever wake up in the dark after a panic it is imperitive that you don't picnic!
I am glad to retort that both ars--rears are healing nicely.
From the captivating and bewitching beauty.... ROSIE RYAN.

Monday, 18 April 2011

An Appeal To All Floaters.

This is Rosie Ryan appealing for your vote. Pleeze give your number one's and number two's to me. Rosie Ryan, is a single mother and bewitching beauty with numerous bog skills.
I appeal to all the floaters out there, gather round the canditate who, for many years was a floater herself.
I understand the mind of a floater.
If we float alone we drown. Lets come together, right now, over me.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for fierce, good headucation.
What us skools need is dedicated teechers stuffed with Hi-headucation.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for sanitry.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for free turf for the over 97's.
A vote for Rosie Ryan is a vote for peace in our time, the working man and the pound in your knicker pocket.
You'se will never have it so good if you vote for Rosie Ryan.
So to all floaters I say, let me, Rosie Ryan be the recetable for your number one's and two's on erection day.
Vote Rosie Ryan because you're worth it.
So, don't delay, vote today for Rose Ryan, founder of the "Cunt'ry Party".
Endorsed by, Kelly's Knickers, Brannigan's bread, Mulligans Poundies, Daniel O'Donnell and Gerald Michael Anderson.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Bon Jovi's picked Up By The Fuzz

I was bent over like a cow applying a liberal application of Preparation H to my throbbing rear when the police kar drove into the street.
"Holy mother of divine mercy" I yelled, as I quickly adjusted my red flannel drawers and held my finger under the hot water tap.
I ran out to the street like Groucho Marx yelling.
"Is he dead? Has the lump of a cub expired?. Tell me, I kan take it, Is my wee Bon Jovi deceased?"
A police man with jam on his shirt said.
"At 16 hundred hours today, Master Bon Jovi Ryan was taken into custard and is being held in Clougher clink".
"Holy God!" I shrieked.
"My cub behind Hi prison walls like the Yorkshire ripper or Oscar Wilde. Take me too him" I roared.
"I am his mammy. If my sun is incarnated I should be by his side. Have you shackled the lump of a cub in some dirty, cobwebbed dungen where wild, feral, hungry rats will eat the toes of him?
Does my wee doat lie on a bed of straw staring at the blue sky through a small barred window?
DOES HE HAVE A PO?" I yelled.
"Does the cub who sprang, fully formed, from my lions have unrestricted access to a PO?"
Later, at the police station I herd the whole sorry, sordit story. It was a story of infamay that wood drive any good catholic mother to the edge of do-lally madness and crazyness.
Inspector Nipper of Clougher vice squad told me in graphite detail how the filthy caper went down.
After skool, instead of going home Bon Jovi and the other members of the "Maroon September" gang made their way to Clougher.
The onslaught began at half past three, when the "Maroon September" gang, lead by Bon Jovi began to throw balls of cow dung at innocent civilians.
As the balls of hardened cow dung flew through the air, the casualties mounted.
The first to go down was auld Bertha Tibbets. Auld Bertha was coming out of Sweeny Todd's butcher show with a pound of special mince under her oxter when a ball of cow dung hit her rite on the kisser.
As auld Bertha slumped to the ground she shrieked,
"Them auld dung-spreaders are getting to be a wild hanlin' "
Soon bicycles and donkeys careered down the street while their riders lay prone on the road.
Pastor McGinty from Gortin went into a fit of effing and blinding as a ball of dung hit him on the ear and another wan got him rite in the fork.
Wee Harriet Mondeo, her with the goitre, was covered with cow dung to such an extent she looked like a walking midden!.
Above the onslaught of cow dung Bon Jovi could be herd roaring.
"Aim for the whites of their eyes".
When the Maroon September gang ran out of ammunation they tried to retreat but were picked up by the fuzz on the Hi-way out of Clougher.
When asked why they done it,the members of the Maroon September gang kept stum, but Bon Jovi explained it was a premptive strike, purely defensive and went on to say the Maroon September gang just wanted to live in peace and harmony.
Bon Jovi and all members of Maroon September had an aspro slapped on them and a curlew, which means they must be in the house 17 hours a day.
Apparently MI5 is taking a keen intrest in Bon Jovi and have put him on the terrorist list.
I'm just happy to have the wee Che Guevara home.
I cut a good sally rod and showed the wee gulpin just what a premptive strike is!
The Bin Laden of Clougher bawled like a baby.