AN EXUBERANT ERUPTION ON THE ARS_REAR OF MY LOVER

As the music from Swan Lake filled my abode, I got up on the tips of my toes and shuffled round the kitchen, with my slender, girlish, maidenly arms raised gracefully in the air.
As the swan popped its clogs, I went into a fit of shaking, two denote just how sick the swan was.
As the lovely, plaintive melody drifted away, I kollapsed gracefully with my long, slender neck
out-stretched and my expressive occulars gazing sadly at my hobnailed boots.
Ah, I missed my vacation, I should have bean a bally dancer, Why oh why, did they knot teech bally at St Judas primary skool? I could have bean the Margaret Fontain of Clougher.
Nature created me two be a bally dancer, I was born with wild flat toes and as a child I could stand for hours on tip-toe at the dinner table, trying to snatch some nourishment from under the noses of dear mummy and daddy, who were getting stuck into some road kill with grunts, snarls and the odd bite. Ah, hapy daze, many a cut and gash I got, but nothing that ever required stitches. They wood often regurgitate food for me, the nosey-parker social services said they were vomiting over me, As if they wood, I was their little daughter Rosie, who had sprang smiling from their respected lions.
I arched my neck, put my arms in the air and danced out the front dour on tip-toe two sea what my sun BOn Jovi was up two.
"Damn, blast and die-ah-rea" roared the wee gulpin, as I tip-toed threw the long grass and nettles. "Hi boy" I yelled "What sort of language is that for a sun of Rosie Ryans too be up two?"
"Its this auld wheel barrow" roared the humpy wee brute, "I kan't get her two go into reverse".
I gave a hi tinkling laugh, like Amy Whinehouse and said "You stupid little goose, there is know reverse in a wheel-barrow, you have two walk backwards and pull the barrow behind you".
"I never wood have thought of that" said the cub "Mammy, you must be wild smart".
I adorned my countence with a mask of pensivativity and replied.
"Well, yes, I is, my mammy always said that the forseps slipped during my birth and my guess is that they activated and stimulated a dark region of my brane".
"I herd the priest and the skool master talking about you yesterday" said Bon Jovi.
"THey were standing at the skool gate, laughing and talking about you".
"And prey what did the too learned gentlemen say?" I asked.
" I didn't heer the hole of it" said Bon Jovi "I just herd them say, Rosie Ryan and then, buck stupid".
I smiled with pride and said "You don't need two be a genie two work it out, they were saying.
"The peeple in Clougher are all buck stupid with the soul reception of-Rosie Ryan".
When I saw my true love Chuck Corona coming threw the bog, I shrieked, I literary shrieked. I no my love by his way of walking, and deer Chuck was knot walking with his full zest and vigour, he was limping like an auld mongeral dog.
Of course, being a female woman, under-carriage trouble was the first thing that popped into my head. Should I yell, "How are they hanging?" I decided knot two, "Chuck" I shrieked.
"What ales you my love? your vigiorous, robust gate, has turned into a veritable crawl, have you had a nasty accident on the bicycle my love and squashed or mangled your manly
accouterments?" "KNOW" yelled Chuck "I have a boil on my ars-rear, the size of a ducks egg"
"Is that all?" I trilled "Come away in, I know just the thing two do. Now Chuck my deer" I said
"I want you too drop those lovely pee green trousers and any drawers you may be wearing and bend over that chair. Shh-Shh-know questions my love, leave it two me, I know what I'm doing, when it comes two bum boils I am a veritable doctor Kildare"
I quickly boiled a pan of water, until it was pipping hot, then, between gleeks at Chuck's manly contours, I got a bottle with a wide neck and dropped it into the boiling water, now, thyme was of the essance, I grabbed a large towel reached for the bottle, ran to chuck and rammed the neck of the red hot bottle over the red, inflamed produrence on his arse-sorry-derry air.
The bottle neck caused a vacuume, the boil brust like mount vasavious and Green puss erupted and flew into the bottle. CHuch gave a shriek, only my plump foot was on the back of his neck he wood have fled. I held the bottle too Chuck's hairy rear until the boil was emptied, then I held him to my loving, heaving bisum. Deer Chuck cried, yes, the big tough ex Garda She-kona sargent cried. Bon Jovi came running in and roared "What have you done two Chuck Corona-NOW?" When I explained, the cubs wrath disappeated.
I held deer Chuck as the golden son settled over the bog, "Rock a by Chuckie on a tree top" I crooned into his ear. Chuck was letting little whimpers and yelps out of him like a lost puppy.
Deer Chuck slept on the sofa, I bent too kiss him before I went two bed, my matted mass of red hare obscured his lovely features. "Sleep tite, little Chuck" I murmured. "Sleep tite".
Deer Chuck lay with his thumb in his mouth, drooling and dribbling, all thoughs of gansey fisslin' put on hold, as throb after throb of pane erupted like solar flares from his mangled rear.
Ah lamore-you have turned the lovely Rosie Ryan into lover and nurse.
(I know you are in a hurry to rush out and retrive your drawers from the washing line, but why not take time to go to.......(
www, greatshowlastweekkid. blogspot. com

FAIR DAMSON KONFINED TWO SHI-OUT HOUSE

It was with fierce gaiete de cour, that your 'umble korrespondant skipped. bally-rena-like to the out house. As I made my way threw the long grass and nettles,following the well worn path that many Ryan's had trod when in the throes of heftedness, I saw my sun, my boy child wee BOn Jovi gleeking round the turf stack. What was the fruit of my lions up too? know good I wood say.
I wood deel with my off spring later, my degestive system was warning me that a load was emminent, thyme was of the essance. I entered the small wooden structure,AH, the feeling of piece, the feeling of -haven come home, this was the plaice where all the grate Ryan's had done their thinking, generations of Ryan's had sat, head cupped in hands, thinking how they could get more income support or do the double without getting caught. My own deer mammy had contrived a cunning plan in here, two get family allowance for fore wains, she diden't even have.
It was in the early 60's and when the DHSS scent out a letter, asking the names of the fore sprogs, quick as a flash, my mammy rote down, John, Paul, Ringo and George.
Deer mammy and daddy used the extra money two buy me a dummy and get blind drunk on red biddy whine.
As I lowered myself onto the well worn seat, with my imperial purple drawers round my plump ankles I muttered, "Gemuitlich" HOw comfortable,how cosy, how homely, or as Hair Hitler mite have said, Gemutlichkeit. I sat there, with my round, plump, full-moon, maidely face cupped in my slender, girlish hands, I was thinking of the ancient Geeks.
Ah, Grease,, the home of democracy, the home of headucation and learning.
I closed my eyes and pictured myself, strolling up two the panty-thon, with a white sheet threw round me, my wax and stylus in wan hand and a big kebab in the other.
The Geeks wood be hunkered round the temple, getting stuck into principles, auld arc-ah-medes, wood be telling every one about his screw and Sock-rah-tees wood be doing wild hard sums, that wood involve a lot of carring the wan and the use of the decrepid point.
"Ah, Rosieus" a Geek wood say "Grate oracle of Grease, the number oneus vestal virgin, what say the Gods today?" I wood give a tinkling, girlish laugh and reply.
"If any of youse has any drawers on the line, get them in now, for its going two pour all day".
Ah, I was born two late, "TWO late" I muttered, as I reached round behind me for the pages of Ireland's Own that were hanging from a nail.
"Gott In Himmel" I ejaculated, as my groaping hand found the nail devoid of bum fodder.
Where had it gone? I put a knew lot out only yesterday, where did it go? and here was me, sitting in an out house, without the necessary means of bringing my le-toilet too a satisfactory and Hi-genic konclussion. What was I to do? my predictament could only be described as-some hanlin'.
It was then I herd a small "Ah-hem" outside, it was my boy child, wee Bon Jovi.
"BON JOVI" I roared "KAN YOU HEER ME?"
"Loud and klear" said the wee gulpin, with a snigger in his voice "Are you all rite mammy? wool you soon be coming out?"
"BON JOVI" I roared, from the konfines of the crapper "I need paper, go into the house and bring me out some paper".
Silence, just the loud buzzing of blew-bottles round my plump, maidenly rear.
"BON JOVI" I yelled. "I neeed some paper, your auld mammy needs some paper, go into the house and get some like a bon cabellero".
Bon Jovi give an auld sinister laugh and said "We all need something, its a we all need something world. Commercialism running riot, you need-paper and I need a bicycle, I wonder if there is anyway, we could come to some-some meeting of minds, that wood result in paper for you and a bicycle for me?"
"You humpy wee gulpin" I roared, "that's blackmail and you no what they saw about blackmail, they saw it is a dirty word"
"They say the same about a dirty bum" laughed Bon Jovi.
"Now, if you wool just sign this legal contract which I have drawn up, you wool get your paper and I wool get my bicycle". "You wee get" I roared "You took the paper out of the shi out house".
"Did I? said Bon Jovi "Oh what a bad boy I am, I wonder who I learned that from? If you don't want to sign this legal and binding contract, I'm off two the bog too count tadpoles".
I had to sign, there was nothing else for it, the wee brute had me over a barrell.
As I adjusted my bloomers, at a 45% angle, I couldn't wait two get out at the wee brute.
I brust out of the out house like a Pampas bull but the wee brute had disappeared.
"BON JOVI" I roared "WHERE ARE YOU< YOU HUMPY WEE GET?"
Far off in the bog I heard a mocking voice call, "Cock-a-doodle-do. Cock-a doodle-do"
I must get down on my knees too-night and prey two saint Dora that the monetary wee brute falls off his bike and cuts the big ugly face of himself.
WAINS--the itching powder in the gusset of life.

Now go to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com and see what's there. JP.

YOU SAY FAECES AND I SAY DUNG

I was standing, sturdy legs akimbo, plucking a stoat in my cobwebbed festooned kitchen, I was humming an area from the Nut, that's a cracker sweet. I wood describe my mood as jovial and bubbly,as I peered out of my suit stained winda, I saw the large, round head of my sun BOn Jovi, bobbing up and down in the rushes of the bog. My hart leaped like a gazelle and a lump came too my throat. There he was, my sun, the cub who had bean choosen, by you no who, to restore the faith in Ireland and banish the too-legged snakes into the depth of the see. There was "HE" who wood rid Ireland of smoking, gambling, drinking and auld sexy things behind wheelie-bins, he wood restore the faith and have peeple down on their knees preying too Lord God almighty like devils. I skipped two prepare some nourishment for the latter day IsayA, a big mug of buttermilk and the margarined heel of a pan loaf. In my haste I could knot find the nife, so I just used my finger to spread the margarine, I think I saw Gorden Ramsey, the effin boy do the same. Time passed and know cub appeared, where could he be? was he looking for leppers or casting demons out of frogs?
Ten minutes later, the cub appeared, he threw his skoolbag into the korner and stood there, big-headed and sloped-shouldered, staring at me with his good eye.
"Bon Jovi" I ejaculated "Where have you bean? I have sought thee sorrowing for ten minutes".
Bon Jovi, glared at me and roared, "I was in the whins--faecesing"
I staggered back and sought komfort by clutching on two a turf spade.
"Faecesing?" I said "What in under God is--faecesing?"
Bon Jovi, eyed the heel of the pan loaf and roared.
"Its a word I have two say, instead of another word, the teecher said so"
I sank down on a three-legged stool and said "Tell me the story, rite from the start, don't worry, I won't split you".
Bon Jovi kicked wan hobnailed boot against the other, picked his nose, broke wind, quite violently and said. "The teecher asked me too make a sentance with the word, full in it, so I said, our midden, is fair full of-shit". "And what was rong with that?" I yelled "As an headucated woman, I kan tell you that sentance is perfect Inglish".
"The teecher said I must knot use the word-shit, it is a bad word, I must use the word-faeces and that's what I was doing in the whins, I was--faecesing"
"The teecher is rong" I yelled "I happen too no that the word-faeces, means-excrement, which is a highted state of excitement".
Bon Jovi began to cry and roar "Youse is getting me all mixed up, I don't no what to believe, did I shit or did I faeces? I don't no, but if I hadn't hunkered down I wood have shit or faecesed my trousers" And the wee doat was racked with sobs.
I shrieked-"LORDY" and ran too him and clasped him two my heaving bisum, dung or faecea, he was my only begotten sun and God and nature had decreed, that he spring from my lions.
Down by the babbling river, in a nest made from rushes, lay Chuck Corona my boyfriend and me. Deer Chuck loomed over me, forcing M-and M's into my girlish gub like a fruit machine, my cheeks were sticking out like a chimpmonk with mumps.
Deer Chuck looked-sublime in olive green kargo pants with a clatter of zips and a lovely magenta gansey with a line of yella ducks across the chest. I was-languid, suppline, like a boy with his back broke, I smiled seductively, fluttered my eye-lashes and pouted my cadalic-pink lips, like the dead and buried Marlyon Monroe.
I eased up on wan hip, and broke wind softly, demurly and with grate gentility, I leered at Chuck and whispered low "Is that what I think it is in your pocket?"
Chuck smiled, revealing his Stonehenge nashers and replied, "Yes, it is".
"Well, take it out" I simpered, like Dorthy Lamore or Dale Winton.
Chuck smiled, whipped out his mouth organ and got stuck into an Irish melanie.
As the music drifted over the bog, My demure, gentile roars of "FINE GIRL YOU ARE, scent korncrakes flying into the air, like a veritable flock of crows.
Ah, Ah, Lamore-truely you are the scallions in the poundies of life.
Hey, want to buy a real genuine Irish ghost in a bottle? Google Spamount Mill Ghost and contact me at jpmcmenamin@gmail. com
Now have a cup of good strong tay and go to........
www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com

BATTERING ART'S AND KULTURE INTO A THRAN CUB

Bon Jovi and me sat at the kitchen table, the lite from the tillie lamp, illuminated us feces like wan of auld Van Goff's pictures, lots of shadow, kontrasting with pure,yella lite.
I was teeching the cub about art and kulture, so important in a world of filth, dirt and sex in the city. I wanted to expand the cubs horizons, open his eyes and ears two the beauty and refinement of the klassics.
"Are you ready Bon Jovi?" I said "Let her rip" roared the wee gulpin.
"Wan, too, three,fore" I yelled and both of us, put paper and comb two gub and got stuck into Vereman's, Nacht en morgendontwaken aan de Nete, wan of my favourite peaces.
As the shrill sound of paper and comb filled the house, the kat gave a Meew and leapt over the half door. Bon Jovi's eyes were bulging out of his head like a startled bull frog but the cub kept up with me, A trio of triplets, a clatter of crochets, diminished, minor, the flattened fifth and into the cresendo, with feces brusting and the sweat lashing off us. I finished with a flourish, spat out some fleas and said to my petite accompy-us. "Bon, Bon Jovi, that was gratis, you stuck with me like a veritable bandaid".
Bon Jovi, gasped and roared "It was some ride, full of sharp korners and dangerous bends, I nearly lost her a couple of thymes but I just put the foot down and kept going"
"What a lovely peace" I gushed "history tells us on the nite that auld Vereman rote that, he was so hapy he went out and got drunk and on the way home, he fell over a dead kat and cut the hole face of himself".
"What next" said Bon Jovi "more klassics, Hi-Den? Rack-man-enough? Burr-ach?".
"Know, my petite scallywag" I said. "Now we move on to art, look at this picture of a woman by Pee-saco and tell me what you sea". The cub took the drawing and squinted at it, then he held it upside down. "Well" I said "what do you think?".
Bon Jovi looked up and roared "The boy who drawed this, knot only could he knot tell his own arse from his elbow, he could knot tell anyones arse from their elbow".
I bridled, bristled and blustered, "You igorant,uncivilized wee Palestine" I roared. "That picture is a master-peace, look at the use of colour, look at the compesation"
"Look at the wan eye" roared Bon Jovi "its half way down her face, know women looks like that, knot even the weeman in Clougher".
"Its knot supposed to be a foto-graph" I yelled "its impressionism".
"Well, my impression" roared Bon Jovi "Is that that head-banger, should be locked up for his own good and indeed the good of the community".
"You-you-wee Pleb" I roared "Kulture is wasted on boys like you, you are an uncouth gulpin, an ignorant phesant and a-a-barbarian with the manners, looks and habits of a red-arsed babboon".
"I no what I like" roared Bon Jovi "and I don't like auld shitty Vereman or auld head the ball peesaco".
"What do you like?" I yelled "Pleese inform us what pleases the grate Bon Jovi Ryan".
Bon Jovi broke wind with a dunder and yelled "I like-Hugo Duncan, I grately admire his artistic use of the diddly-dee, I like komics and I like poems about bums and asses".
"Wholly mother of God" I shrieked,falling back against the up-turned wheel barrow.
"What have I reared, what malignat spawn has sprung from my lions?
"Ah, shut you big laddy-dah gub" roared the obnoxios gulpin "come down from your ivory tower,who do you think you are? Mervin Blagg? look at you, sitting in a bog outside Clougher, going on about art and klassics, like you no what you're talking about, you're kommon mother, kommon as shi.. muck, stop making a fool of yourself, sure the hole cunt'ry is laughing at you and it reflects on me. I am just a lump of a cub, let me henjoy my childhood and stop trying to make me out something I'm not. I no what I am, I am scum, kommon, you kan't make a silk purse out of a pigs ear, so desist please, desist and leave the lump of a cub to find his own way in life".
I stood there-speechless, all my dreams, all my ambitions for the cub, turned to clay. He wood never play the piano at the Albert Hall, he wood never don his hose to play auld Shakespeare-and me--me his mother, would never bask in his reflected glory, I wood never rite an article for the Thymes litteerary supplement. The fowl taste of ashes was in my mouth and the stench of disappointment was wafting up my hooter.
I turned sadely away and muttered "you kan stick that pee-saco painting up in the press".
And the ungratefull gulpin roared, "And you kan stick your paper and comb up your arse".
What have I reared? What wool be the end of him? I blame the skools and-Steven Nolan.
(Now go to-www.greatshowlastweekkid.com--for something completly different)

THE ANCIENT HISTORIONICS OF US RYANS

The day beeing wet and damp I was sitting in front of the fire cursing Frank Mitchell the wether oracle. "Damn you Francie McCrory" I roared. for that's his real name you no, Frank Mitchell's real name is--Francie McCrory. Why Frank changed his monicker I don't no, but I have a good repression that he was caught as a cub riding a bicycle without a rear lite and changed his name, so as knot too damage his career prospects. UTV wood have never taken on a boy with a police record, you wool find know hardened criminals round Paul Clarke.
When my sun, the possitevely adorable wee Bon Jovi herd about it he went into fits, "Francie McCrory" he roared "Ah God, Francie McCrory".
I glared at the cub and said "Cast knot your slurs and inuendos on poor Francie McCrory, maybe the cub thought his religion was against him"
"There used to be a talking mule called Francis" roared Bon Jovi "How come it got a job on tee-vee without changing its name?" "I don't no" I said "the law is different for animals, peeple make allowances for the fact that they're knot kuman".
"I bet next week" roared Bon Jovi, Lynda Byrons wool give a wee smile and say "and now we go over too Francis the talking mule for the weather four-cast". In spite of myself, I couldn't keep a straight face, the cub is a real comedian, I kan sea him as another Les Dawson.
After supper, a good tightener of vole in a whole, knew spuds, the heels from pan loaves and too mugs of Cremola Foam, served at room temperature, I found myself at a loose end, I had nothing two do, a big pot of drawers were boiling on the fire, the floor was devoid of dead insectos, deceased vermin or rodents, the too po's stood against the wall, glittering in the glow from the fire and ready and willing for what ever the nite should send.
I deceided two climb up two the attic and bring down the big trunk that kontained all the history of the Ryan's. I threw back the cob-webbed lid and smiled, there was the wee envelope, with the flakes of grey paint, the same paint I had clawed off the hospital bed when I was having Bon Jovi. The disappearance of the Titanic, mite have been A Nite Two Remember, but the first apperance of Bon Jovi Ryan, was a nite two forget.
Birth certificates, death certificates, old brown fotos of mammy and daddy holding on two a donkey, know, wait,-that's me, that's me in my skool pinafore and my hare cut like a cub, two try and shift the nits. Ah, there was a sad wan, it was for a grate, grate uncle of mine, it red,
"Having wilfully and dishonestly dressed up as a sheep and enticed real sheep too follow him home, Henry Longfellow Ryan is sentenanced too life in Van Dimens land".
Poor auld Henry and he was only in Australia a month, when he was nocked down and run over by a drunken kangeroo. Ah, look at that, it was the thyme the government give out land to peeple two try and keep them from fighting each other, each family was too get 40 acres and a mule, but dew two some mix-up with red tape and beareaucracy, auld Pedro Elvis Ryan ended up with one acre and 40 mules and they wouldn't change it round, they said he had signed for it with a big X and there was nothing they could do. The upshot was, that the 40 mules ate all there was on the wan acre and then strayed on two other peeples land and were shot. So that is why today, us Ryans have nothing, zilch, diddly-squat.
Oh, what a gem, it is my birth certificate, I have never seen it, mummy always said it was lost.
Then I looked at the dates and my face went white, it didn't add up, it couldn't bee, that would mean I was a Ba-Ba-Ba, I couldn't say it, I fled the house like Joan Crofford yelling-Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba" An auld pear were going bye, I herd the wife say to the husband "That big lump of a Rosie Ryan takes after her grate uncle Henry"
Now I know why mammy is wearing her good brown duffle coat with the wooden toggles on it in her wedding photograf. I am a Ba- Ba-Ba-Ba
Oh, the shame-the eternal shame, to be-a-a-a, ba-ba-ba-ba-ba.

HAVE I BEAN CLASPING A GULPIN TWO MY BISUM?

As the evening son filtered through the cobwebbed winda, it illuminated a seen of harmony and domestos bliss. Bon Jovi, my boy child and me, were sitting at the kitchen table getting stuck into a good tightener of roast wesal, knew spuds and the buttered heels of pan loaves, all washed down with too big mugs of Iron Brue served at room temperature. A big cloud of black flies, blew-bottles and little midgets flew round our bent heads, but we didn't care, they wern't getting any.
I demurly and gentilly broke a femur with my strong nashers, wiped the greese from my face and said. "Sucelent, oh so secelent, the flesh of this vermin or rodent, be it what it may, simply falls away from the bone". "It's the best wesal I have ever tasted" roared Bon Jovi.
"And I think I detect a sutule flavour, it mite have bean dinning on baby mice".
"Its a dog eat dog world" I said as I sunk my willing nashers into the are-rump of the weseal.
After the meel, we both cleaned our hands on our ganseys, broke wind with grate volume and ferocious verosity and roared "UP TYRONE".
After the meel I noticed a change in Bon Jovi, he who had sprung from my lions, had a funny looking auld face on him and he was gleeking at me from under the wan big eyebrow that covered both eyes. I looked at him, sitting there in a hi chair, with his hobnailed boots swinging under the table. His grate big, round head, the slope of his rounded shoulders and the queer look that brought a spark too his jet black eyes. What was a foot with the boy child? why did he sit there glowering at me? was he still hungry? wood he eat ME? his own mother? I eased round, so I could grab the poker if the gulpin came at me.
Bon Jovi broke wind again and roared "Pearhaps I am labouring under a missapprention, but is the heels of pan loaves getting smaller?"
"Knot at tall" I cried "your mouth is getting bigger, so ergo, you perceive that the heels of pan loaves are getting smaller"
"Ah, so its all a matter of-perception?" said Bon Jovi.
"Yes" I said "remember the auld saying, into every life, a little change must fall, you are growing up, so you sea things differently".
Bon Jovi clasped his fingers and said "I'm glad you brought that up, lately I have bean thinking about my position here, I have bean thinking about my prospects and what I want out of life".
"What the hell are you going on about boy?" I yelled "are you going to join the Moonies?"
"Nothing so-drastic" said Bon Jovi, swinging his hobnailed boots with grater vigour.
"Know, its like you say, everything changes, we do knot live in a stationery, static world, we move on, we evolve we seek knew horizons, in short-we change"
"Hauld on, hauld on" I yelled "I don't like this auld talk, so I don't, you're talking like, like-Eamon McCann, say your prayers and go too your box" I roared.
"Sit down mater" said Bon Jovi, with a hint of menace in his voice.
"You alluded to-perception earlier, but what is-perception? wood ones man perception, be another mans, OR womans-perception? Bon Jovi smiled, well it was more of a girn and said.
Take that cup and that tee-pot, which in your mind is subservant two the other?"
"The cup" I yelled "And why mater" quizzed the wee gulpin. "Because its-smaller" I said.
Bon Jovi leaned back in his chair and hissed, "Exactly, its smaller and it wool always be-smaller but take our position now". "What do you mean" I yelled.
"Well" said Bon Jovi, "At the moment, I am smaller than you, (most people are) he muttered under his breath "but I wool knot always be smaller than you, because I an knot a tee-cup, I am a kuman-being" "Listen, listen" I roared.
"I wood prefer if you wood just keep quite now" said Bon Jovi "I really wood.
So, we are agreed that perception kan change, thyme kan change perception, look down at the table, you are the tee-pot and I am the tee-cup, the subservant, the lesser of the too, a mere satallite orbiting the greater mass, but-things change, I am getting bigger".
"So am I" I yelled. "True" said Bon Jovi "But as you get older, you get, how shall I put this? you get more-stupid, more thick, more retarded, more do-lally, more.....
"Hauld on boy" I yelled "hauld on just a cotton-pickin' moment".
"KNOW, you hauld on" roared Bon Jovi, jumping too his feet. "I am tired of being the satellite, orbiting your big, gasseous mass, soon I wool hold the reins of power, soon, I shall be the boss, soon, I wool have you put you in a home for the konfused and bewildered, but I wool visit you twice a year and bring you a bottle of orange dilute, the cheep kind and a packet of fig rolls or jaffa cakes, depending on the state of your auld, withered gums, you may knot know me, but I wool know I am a good sun and as your next of kin, I wool have kontrol of all monies, deeds, insurance policys and of course-this house, soon, this wool be mine-ALL MINE"
I looked at the gulpin with a glint in my eye and said "Oh wool you? you have it all figured out, haven't you? but you forgot one thing my boy"
"What's that?" said Bon Jovi, with a tremble in his voice.
"CHUCK CORONA" I roared "If I marry Chuck, HE wool be my next of kin and you wool be thrown out into the cauld of a Winters nite, to fend for yourself, what do you think of that--perception?"
The cub bit his nails and wailed "I was only letting on mammy, I wood never put you in a home, I like being the--tee-cup".
"Get into your cardboard box" I roared "and if you show your big, turnip head too-nite, by the wholly shroud of saint Elmer, I wool bend that poker across that big thing you call a head".
In the silence I smiled, oust me wood he? launch a coo-de-tah against Rosie Ryan? I think knot, I'm knot called the Pol Pot of Clougher for nothing, but--deep in my hart I was brusting with pride, Bon Jovi, was his mothers sun all rite.
Perception??? I'll give the humpy, wee brute perception with my tow.

IT WAS ALL GREEK TWO THE TEECHER

I sat at the kitchen table with the heel of a pan loaf stuffed into my facial orifice, as my nasheres went up and down like a combine harvester, my sun, the adorable wee BOn Jovi crawled out of his cardboard box. "Bojuour my bon a-mee" I yelled, through a hail of bread crumbs.
"Good morning mammy" said the cub in efeluent Inglish. "You are well today-yes? I said.
"The naughty le-skitter has gone". "Aye" roared Bon Jovi, "the skitter has gone but the memory and the smell remain". "A good squirt of floral air-spray will fix that" I said,
"You are ready two go to le skool-wee?" "Aye" roared the cub "but I wool need a note two explain why I was abscent yesterday". "A mere bagatelle" I said "I shall write you a note, detailing all the various facuets and symptoms relating to and appertaining two your skitter".
THis was my chance too impress the teecher, with my grate knowledge and fierce intelligence, but how? THen it hit me like a turnip up the gub, I wood rite the note in Latin and impress all the teechers at the skool with my master of Latinese and the wild, fierce height of my IQ. I got crayon, paper, latin dick-sean-ree, stuck out my tongue and began.

Salutare Collega, (Hello Boy)

Ter (Three thymes thrice) Bon Jovi (Bon Jovi)
inflex (unlucky) flere (To weep and cry) juventus (cub) excitare "waken" cum skitter,
(Wake with skitter0) Skitter diuturnus, (Skitter long lasting) Skitter erumpere fluere circumdare. (Skitter burst out, flow and encircle Bon Jovi".
Sic (Thus so) nallus discere, (No learn). I singed my name with a flourish and put the note the the envelope that the red letter from the lectric board came in.
"Here Bon Jovi" I said, "Take that note and nock the sox of them impudent, wild, big hi-up teechers".
About half sat three in the afternoon, fate again decreed, that I be found with the heel of another pan loaf sticking out of my rose-bud mouth. I herd a rattle and looked demurly up, It was the skool teecher, coming up the lane like a bat out of hell and Bon Jovi sitting on the carrier, like Billy Bunter's fat brother. The teecher leaped off, threw the bike again the white-washed wall, pulled out my Latinese note and roared.
"What the hell is this? is it a joke? How dare you rite a letter of gibberish too a man with the future of the cubs of Clougher in his hands"
"Hauld on, hauld on, "I yelled "Do you mean two tell me, stood standing there, sprouting out of a pear of bicycle clips that you kan't reed Latin? For shame Sir, for shame".
"Latin, my ars--ant Fanny" he roared. "Its rubbish, gibberish, it wood fit you better too learn Inglish first, before you go dabling in foreign dead languages"
"Its knot dead" I roared "Me and the Pope speak it"
"I have informed the parish priest" said the teecher, "You must butt out of your suns headucation and leave it two the professionals, or the cub wool grow up as thick and stupid as you" And with that, he jumped on his bicycle. I looked frantically for stones, to throw at him but all I found was a big dog turd, I picked it up and threw it after the learned gulpin, but it fell short, it didn't have the velocity.
Then Bon Jovi got stuck in "You grate big, stupid lump of a gulpin" roared the cub.
"Always going on about how smart you are and the hole of Clougher laughing at you behind your back. Let me tell you now, missus Dumbo, you never were smart, you're knot smart now and you'll never be smart, you are a big ignorant, hallion, a stupid big gulpin , thick is what you are, thick as too short planks, you big stupid, ugly gulpin"
I took off after the cub, over the bog we flue, Bon Jovi was out in front like a hair and I was thundering behind like an Arab stallion.
"Cogito ergo sum, cogito ergo sum" I yelled, as I leaped a shuck like Red Rum.
"Cogito ergo sum--I think -therfore I am"
In the balmy zephyer breeze that blue from Gortin and surrounding districts, I could heer Bon Jovi yell,
"Big, stupid, igorant gulpin"---Wah? Rosie Ryan? Surely knot, the cub jests.