View Full Version : Waffle: Fleeing the humble scissors

18-09-2002, 10:55 AM
"Seventy five and a half young man and not a drop more" said the shop keeper as I asked him to tell me how many jugs of dry cement it would take to fill his old trousers which he wore while working in the mill, at the end of the street, when he was but a sprog.

At first, he seemed bothered by that question, but his answer reminded me that the people who come close to feeling fluffy hardly ever neglect the finer things in life, things like the look you get from a washing machine as you ram your dirtiest pants into its mouth and say "wash these you git!".

So, armed with the knowledge, and the truth of Purple, I went my way, and sought my first ever deception..... my deception of the Old Man of Gorth.

He was a tall man, with orange har, three arms and a huge clacker. His face was fixed onto his head and his head was fixed onto his neck. As I stared at him, he asked why. I told him it was because the Pudding of Barnyard Chore was becoming too hostile and something needed to be done before it ground the hen into the horse. This was my deception, for I knew that the Pudding of Barnyard Chore was nowhere near the hen and the horse was long dead, because a jolly hammer was knocked into its head.

All I needed was one word from the Old Man of Gorth. Just one word. He took a breath and whispered; "agree".

I had deceived him, so I ran from the house, laughing and calling him a silly saucepot. Faster and faster I ran, with him bounding after me. His long legs carried him faster than I and as I looked back, I saw his clacker banging the back of his neck as he shouted abusive recipes at me. I ran as fast as I could, but he covered in one step what I could only cover in ten.

My only hope was to call upon the dreaded Cow of Doom who had long been made as naught by the Goose of Gordon's Uncle. I knew that were I to call upon this creature of terror, the Chubbergotts would be again enslaved and the Plops of Integral Joy would be at risk of capture. No, I wouldn't call upon the Cow if Doom. I would have to try and manage as I was.

I wished at this point that I hadn't drank all the fizzy orange pop because I felt so bloated and kept belching up bits of beefburger. I truly regretted that moment of greed as I refused to share the joy of my Fanta.

Just as the Old Man of Gorth reached out to grab me, I stopped and sang him a song of old;

"In this house, I shall be no hare
For south is the river, north is the chair!
I think upon the trees and the way the leaves are cast,
Old man of Gorth, when fartest thou last?"

As he heard this he cried in agony! His head broke out in boils, his armpits dried and his clacker fell out of his mouth.

"Why?" he asked.


I replied.

18-09-2002, 12:34 PM
These stories may be all well and good in Welsh mate, but don't use Babelfish to translate them ;)