The Air that we breathe

The air that we breathe.

Percival and Fredrick had just got married. They were excited and after a ceremony when they were stoned by right wing radicals, who then went on to rape all three of their lesbian supporters and kick the fuck out of some ‘fairies’ as best poofters, they caught the No 69 bus home.

Giggling, and holding hands giving each other little sweet kisses, they took a double seat on a double decker upstairs. Ooohhh – they were hot when suddenly… the beast from the jungle takes the seat in front of them.

Obviously a builder. Hairy arse crack from drooping, cement smeared trousers. Perspiration stained sweatshirt. Socks humming and as he scowled - exposing nicotine stained remaining teeth of freshly drunk beer. He glares evilly at Percival and Fredrick.

They cling to each other in fear. Perhaps he does not like fairies?

Percival’s bowels loosen and whispers to Frederick, ‘I must pass air from my love hole.’ He holds hard to Fredrick’s hand and with the other spreads his buttocks cheeks to let out a long quite hiss scented with faeces and Vaseline. Covered in sweat he leans back. Frederick says, ‘I also need to pass wind from my love hole.’ Squints, squeezes his husband’s hand, spread his buttocks with one hand and releases an angst fart of sounds of silence perfumed with Lacoste anal splash cologne.

The beast has not noticed, coughs up phlegm and spits it onto the aisle floor. It was at the third stop when the beast suddenly stands up. His right hand clutches at a support pole. His eyes bulge- his mouth opens in a silent scream, Guinness beer brown stains dribble down his chin and then…

A clap of thunder shakes the beast’s body. A roar to match a lion, making his body shudder and shake – this was Blitz Krieg. His drooping trousers fluttered whilst Co2 exited to help climate change. The hairs in his bum crack fluttered like a sparrow’s wings as it was chewed in the mouth of a cat.
The flatulence was so heavy it was almost visible, its dense stench permutating in an invisible cloud of dried faeces spores.

Percival and Fredrick clutched each other and coughed lady like – ‘Ooo’ said Frederick, ‘He is a virgin! Shall I ask him if he fancies a fairy threesome?’

The End…

Short straw

Picking the short straw –

Donald did. Tough shit. 5000 metres up some goddamn mountain, he and his idiotic five compatriot climbers were stuck. Tough shit.

Serious storms of snow and ice and all that bollocks you see on TV.

Far, far below they could see a search party. They had no comms and Wally Watson had forgotten to charge the sat phone. There was only one chance. Someone had to jump into the abyss and land in front of the searchers to grab their attention to their plight.

With no straws they played paper, scissors rock. Donald lost and cleverly pushed Wally Watson into the abyss.

At his trial for murder, he was released after the judge announced ‘It’s a hard knock life’.

She

She

He, Percy, was English… well - short, overweight, balding and at 61, little chance of anything remotely of a sexual adventure. He never had one. Married at 21 to Helga, a fishmonger’s daughter whose kipper always smalt fishy, he would have to be heavily intoxicated to climb over her whale blubber belly and attempt to empty his bucket.

In other words, his life was really shit. Lost his job as a security guard at Mothercare, when the firm went tits up, leaving him no more fantasies to jerk off in the toilet after looking at pregnant women.

But – things would change when he met SHE.

She, an Australian called Matilda, walked the sea shore selling mussels and cockles alive and always waltz around exposing a length of hair from her armpits, dribbling with sweat. Oh, she smelt good, a mixture of seafood and of Brut aftershave.

Percy got something in his pants that he thought would never happen, a hard on as he asked Matilda for a fresh bag of cockles. She opened the bag and let drips of perspiration from her braless breasts salt them.

Percy shot his bolt, sneaked away, but he had a plan. He had to go shopping. If he could not have Matilda – he could make a ‘fearce de fook’ out of Helga. A visit to Iceland and Boots chemists sorted out his needs.

Getting Helga to drink non-stop 1.5 litres of Strongbow extra strong cider was easy. The warmed up bag of mixed seafood she gobbled eagerly. Percy rammed the heating up – fuck the cost – and Helga sweated. Sprinkled with Brut aftershave, she moaned as Percy fuelled with lust and a Viagra tablet fuelled stork that would made a donkey jealous, as he climbed up the mountain and rammed his porker into a sweaty, fishy kipper until his bags fired their bolt of seamen, rolled over and snored away.

He was awoken by Helga kissing his still tender end. She flustered – ‘that was nice. Can we do it again?’

And they did – once a week and lived happily ever after – until…

They fucked themselves to death.

The End.

Jane Bond

Jane Bond

Mr and Mrs Bond wanted a son but got the opposite and named her Jane.

Jane was to be trained to be a spy in MI5 or 6 or 7. Her parents were not that bright and Jane was an imbecile.

At the age of 15, both her parents were murdered by a Muslim madman and Jane was put into a home for useless idiots.

Jane then met Erich. He was stupider than her but had a massive phallus that worked and filled Jane's womb with the next generation of useless taxpayer’s hang alongs.

Jane threw the baby in the bin and sent her CV to MI 5,6 and 7. She wanted to be a spy.

They in turn realised they had won a mango.
Not only was the dumb bint drop dead gorgeous, but thicker than shit. The perfect spy.
Easier to train than a blind person's guide dog - she was taught parrot style Russian.

Kicked out one night from a low-level reconnaissance flight, she landed up in Valadamir Penismonsterski's garden.
He thought this was manna from heaven.

He took advantage of her.
They got married and lived happily ever after and MI 5,6, or 7 never heard a peep from her.

CPR

CPR

A bloke comes out the pub.
Very drunk.

He collapses onto the pavement.

‘Oh my lawd’, shout passer byes, ‘I think he is dying!’

He has stopped breathing and has no pulse.

‘Give him mouth to mouth and hit his heart.’

So say the audience as they take pictures to post on Instagram.
BUT…

In this moment, a man of sense turns up.

He pulls his pants down to expose a 22-inch, rock solid penis, and states-
‘I stick this up his arse, it will make him catch a breath and re-start his heart.’

The End

Mugged in London

Wandering down the street one day.

On the way to the shops. Uphill all the way. So I presume I will be wandering back down again on the way home.
But – three youthful muggers were hanging around outside the shop.

‘Give us your wallet, or get a knife in the gut.’

Now, this is common stuff in London. You can get stabbed clearing airport security.
Yawn – Rhodies always make a plan.

‘I have no wallet, have no cash, I buy my booze and fags on tick and transfer electronically my debt every month.’

The leader of the muggers scratches his head, and says

‘Wot. Wot the fuck? We want booze, get us some or we stab ya.’

‘Sure’, I say and enter the shop. I wink at the owner. He is well rigged for such an occasion.
He goes into the back, returns with a chilled 20 litre keg labelled – Karl Greenberg Special Brew – 99%.

I hand it over to the potential muggers. They wander off laughing, giving each other five highs etc etc.
Next day- all over the news
They found their corpses in a nearby park. It seems they were preparing for winter and drank anti-freeze.

Jenny Rainbow and her dog Porker

Jenny Rainbow and her dog Porker.

Wandering through a beautiful orchard of oranges and peaches and marijuana plants.
A lovely day, the sun shined and butterflys flitted here and there.

Jenny was 15 and still a virgin. But that has nothing to do with this story.

As she wandered with Porker, a 5 year old Labrador,and whom would she come across?
The local priest. Dressed in his black, glad holy rags and ponging worse than Porker could fart.

'Hello Jenny. What a lovely day for a walk. is that your doggie? What is his name?'

Jenny had no fear as the priest was not Catholic.

'Hi Father, this is Porker.'

Porker jumps around wanting to play.

'Jenny, such a strange name for a dog.'

The bees are buzzing between the blossoms, the heavens are clear. All is perfect.In fact - paradise - get a suicide vest.

Jenny replies -
'His name is Porker, because he likes to fuck pigs.'

The End.

A Frozen Flying Blackman

Sunbathing in London

This bloke, dunno his name, was sunbathing in his garden:
All of a sudden a suddenness happen suddenly,
‘Splat’

A frozen black man lands in his garden. Only one metre away. Dropped out the sky.
Left a crater 50 cms deep.

Dring dring.
999
‘This is emergency 999. How can we help?’

‘There is a frozen blackman whom fell out the sky who nearly killed me.’

‘Er…you state, as this is being recorded, a frozen Blackman fell out the sky and nearly killed you?’

‘Yes – I am traumatised. Can you send someone to remove him.’

`Hmm – what medication do you take?’

‘Ahh you nuts, you stupid cow! Imagine if he had landed on my car. Oh, great. My car is wrecked because a frozen Blackman fell out the sky!. Try telling that to your insurance..'

‘Have you thought of phoning your physiatrist? `

‘What?. What the fuck is a physiatrist? Listen, you dumb bint - I have a frozen Blackman buried in a crater in my garden that fell out the sky whilst I was sunbathing. How clear is that!'

'Is this a prank call?'

'Jesus resuscitate me. Have I not made it clear to you.I am going to phone the police and get you arrested. Did you ever get an education? Do you earn money by doing grunting and moaning on the phone?

'Actually, yes. Would you like my number? I accept PayPal, American Express and Visa.'

The End.

The 69 Bus

This bloke, can't remember his name, and

I am sick and tired of writing sketches about some blokes whom I can not remember their names!
Who cares? Not me. They all tend to die. Fucking wasters.

Ahh, such power - to dictate the life and death of no one that never existed.

So..anyway- this bloke, is standing at a cross road wanting to cross it but he was cross because he had just been fired for being a lazy bastard,

He starts to cross. he has ear phones up his nose as being deaf - that was the only way he could sniff some vibes.

And?
Just like all previous sketches, he gets fucking wasted by the number 69 bus to Trafalgar Queers.

Turn it on again

This bloke, can't remember his name, but I met him whilst visiting a lunatic asylum. I was to be 'analised'- which sounds disgusting.

They filled me with magic drugs. Then popped me into the garden to contemplate my future. Next to the fish pond.

It was there I met this bloke. He was crying. (Fucking loser.)

The Doctors had given him a smart phone in a vague hope it would sort of wake him up out of a semi-conscious state, where he believed he would be the next British Prime Minster.
(This rings a bell?)

Anyway, he was crying because he didn't know how to turn the phone on because he was an idiot.I knew how to turn it on.

Snatching the phone out his hand, I stated to sing that Genesis hit, Turn it on, turn it on, turn it on again
Turn it on, turn it on, turn it on again.

I just threw the phone in the pond. The idiot dives in, and promptly chokes to death on a goldfish.

THAT was the final straw. I was thrown out the place, let lose in the public domain for being far too clever.
So here I am.

Going on holiday

In 1979, Erich van Ghollsen Tesorius Wacker Penisis, the third Duke of FekenHall, died in a bank.
He was to go on holiday.
In Africa

So...
in those days...no credit cards and the best way was American Express traveller cheques.

So, he orders 2000 cheques at 10 US dollar worth.

Well, he did not know that he had to sign them at the bank - for later use of counter signature.

So he started -
After signing 500 with Erich van Ghollsen Tesorius Wacker Penisis, he had a heart attack and died!
Stress related

The short history of Adam Pollit's life.

The short history of Adam Pollit's life.

Adam was brought up in a middle class family.

On the left of the caravan park were rich people, on the right was a slum full of African migrants.

He went to a good school.

It was classified as good, as only one teacher a month was stabbed to death by a pupil.
He liked maths. was quite good at it.

After leaving school he decided to become a self employed accountant.
The problem is that self-employed accountants are similar to whores - ugly and boring and only after your money.

Clever to con enough idiots out of some serious dosh, at the age of 35, he was still a virgin, never paid for sex, never had a girlfriend and lived on baked beans, a slice of toast and a boiled egg.

Which meant he suffered from severe flatulence.

It was a rainy day and Adam was waiting for the 69 bus.

The 69 bus has an appalling history of killing people. Drivers would cause a riot if picked to drive the route that ended in Trafalgar Queers.

It seemed every loon managed to get run over at one stop or another.
The Mayor of London actually contemplated cancelling the service. Hardly any 'normal' people took it because of the constant delays of squashed bodies, brains splattered on windows and other gory stuff.

So... just as the bus pulled into the stop, dead on time - 17 minutes late -
Adam had a huge, and huge -
gaseous explosion from his anal food rest abstracter.

According to the police report, three witness also at the bus stop, (in hospital recovering from severe methane poisoning), that -
the pavement was wet. Adam had an open umbrella and the force of his own wind and natures wind
pushed him direct into the path of the 69 bus.

Yawn.. the usual happens. Loads of screams, squealing brakes, brains on the windscreen, guts hanging off exhaust pipes, skin and meatless bones crushed under back tyres.

And some serious pissed off customers for not keeping his appointments.

The End... But wait - there are more incidents coming with bus number 69.