A PANIC IN THE BOG

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.