Tag Archives: word doodle

Poim

I think there was too much!

I think there was too much!

You can direct my question, direct my question.

Oh boy.

Detachable manners all know how to play.

The ball still nearly broke hobby and Sindh.

Hobby and Sindh.

Hobby and Sindh.

But I have almost my ticket hobby.

Oh, the lineup was shot!

The lineup was shit!

I think there was too much!

.

The right way to play all season.

Praise be to the squirrel god.

A shorts story

Why the hell was I wearing shorts in the middle of February after a snowstorm?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I didn’t care for Trump, I didn’t care for “the resistance”, I didn’t care for Claudio Ranieri, I didn’t care for anything. I mean, for a start I was British and still am. Trump would never my direct leader unless he took over Britain by force. I was neutral as neutral could be.

I finished my pint of water and went to the gents. I was the delightful grey covering the walls, the scrubbed-out graffiti saying Don’t Trust Anyone. I whipped my cock out. 3.5 inches flaccid. I didn’t particularly want it to be 35 unlike some of the men talking at the urinals about how their wives were shit in bed. I shook, zipped my shorts back up and went out to laughter.

I turned around. “How fucking DARE you insult my shorts!” I slammed the door.

More laughter.

Still stand by what I say.

The shorts are my god.

Whirling tiptoe strangers (inspired by my journey home today)

Humanoid clouds float around my presence, talking about everything from football to anal warts.

I try to sleep but the god of such is on vacation.

Graagh.

I doze into the music in my ears. Bowie tells me to read more into reality. Alice tells me to be just that little bit more anarchist. Freddie tells me to become larger than life. I construct a new reality from these distant echoes, one more involving than the various discussions.

Finally, I awake. I gargle with Super Cola™ and eat milk. Sugaaaar.

Counting the particles of food between my teeth

I need a dentist, I sing.

Oh lord I need a dentist.

They say the Brits have awful teeth, well I’m the poster child.

I look like Shane McGowan’s lovechild.

Oh to have those Osmond-sparkling teeth.

I brush every day but my teeth don’t magically turn into a perfect set.

Or a rabbit.

Or a rabbi.

Or a Robbie.

Or a Ronald McDonald acid trip featuring Grimace in lingerie.