Perchance to dream...

The Weedy Shack is a place to play and to dream. Come see for yourselves what delights lie within. Click HERE

Revelation in Flirty Peter's Wood

I was strolling along through Flirty Peter's Wood the other day, when - among the dappled sunlit beauty of it all - I had this thought - 'my life is shit, and I'm a cretin.' It took some time for me to adjust my being to the implications of this revelation. After that time, I decided to kill myself. Yes, clearly I failed, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this.

Running very fast into trees hurts, but it does not kill you.

Aldo Ciccolini - I. Lent

Music Code provided by Song2Play.Com

Have you heard the one about...

Have you heard the one about... no, nor have I.

Anyway, this guy walks into a shop and asks for a packet of fags. The shopkeeper goes to get them; then, for no good reason, shoots him in the nuts. The man falls down screaming, shouting, moaning, groaning... eventually, he looks up at the shopkeeper and asks,
"Wodja do that for!"
And the shopkeeper, shrugging his shoulders replies,
"I did it cause this is a joke gone wrong, and my author is a twisted cunt."
Boom boom!

Up Front With The Weedy Shack

Pilgrims, strollers, stumblers, anons; mumblers, bumblers, fumblers, etceteras - we've been busy at the front of The Weedy Shack. Click HERE to take a look at what has been going on.

The Bearded Tit

Take your choice...

Shack Star 'H'

The late 1990's saw a remarkable flowering of British musical talent. Think about it: there was S Club 7; Hearsay and, of course, Steps. I think every sane commentator would agree that Steps are the pick of the bunch. Not least because they showcased the remarkable talent that is 'H'.


That's 'H' at the top of the picture, in the centre (good ole H, always at the heart of the fun!). Ya gotta love H. He's a right chirpy little chap, and he could throw some shapes. He had, if you'll excuse the pun, the Steps (stop laughing Uncle Lucy, it's not that hilarious!) Last week I went out on to the streets of London, in order to capture what the British public think of him. Here's what I found:

DeBunkem: 'What d'ya think of H from Steps?'
Anon: 'Yoo Englees an yor fuckin bacon an eggs!'
DeBunkem: 'What d'ya think of H from Steps?'
Mandy: 'Ooo, I'd put im in between two bitsa bread an eat him all up I would - he's lurvely, innee!'
DeBunkem: 'Excuse me Sir, what d'ya think of H from Steps?'
Right Wing politician, John Redwood: 'I have to say, I am an S Club 7 man myself. I like Hannah... so sweet and blonde. She'll make some lucky chap a smashing little wife...'
DeBunkem: 'What d'ya think of H from Steps?'
Homeless Person: 'He's a right c... arghh... gnuffn... what ya doin' ya nutter...
I fink he's great. Very talented. Wonderful dancer... is that alright? Can I go now?'

Yes, admittedly I did place that last chap in a head-lock, just as they taught me to do in my Journalism degree; but at least we got an honest opinion out of him in the end. I think you'll agree with me, that H is friggin brilliant, and we love him here in The Weedy Shack.

H looking well sultry.

Trouble in The Shack

There's trouble in The Weedy Shack. Go round the front, to 'Rambling in The Weedy Shack' to check out the story.

ANONYMOUS MOUSES

Hello there, my name is Abraham DeBunkem and I'm a co-author of this blog. Now, one of the things Dan (the other half of our team) and I like to do, is piss about commenting on this and other blogs on the Blogger network; often making up fictional identities for a laugh. Quite frankly, this is often a puerile endeavour - but then we are both fickle, frivolous, irreverent tossers (yes we are!). In other words, there is a (twisted) rationale for our invention and anonymity in this context - we're trying to be funny...

However, something really puzzles me: why do 'serious' commentors leave anonymous comments? Who are you people? Come out of the shadows please. Are you gutless little mice ? (Or 'mouses' as we like to say, here in The Shack) Come on, don't be so timid. Let people know who you are.

Caro Zen Spiderpeace

Hippy lovester, Caro Zen Spiderpeace, says that his, 'head is in a bad space right now', following the attack on him in London's Charles Hawtrey Community Centre, right in the 'ert of the ole East End. When asked if he felt love for his attackers, Caro responded with an extraordinary barage of expletives (which we will not repeat for fear of offending the weak-minded).

Hours later, our roving reporter photographed him after he had paid a visit to the barbers, and signed up to the Right Wing United Kingdom Independence Party (or 'U Bastards', as they are sometimes referred to as).

Caro, leaving the UKIP headquarters.

The said reporter then proceeded to challenge Caro regarding this remarkable volte face, but Caro simply punched him in the face five times, saying, 'we're not fascists in blazers, you little Commie cunt!'

Quite extraordinary!

BACK TO THE FRONT OF THE WEEDY SHACK

Chop

Have you ever chopped a body part off of yourself? If so, why?

Click HERE to go to the front of The Weedy Shack

Test

Look

Body-Warmers...

Today, we are going to be discussing Body-Warmers. I have a good friend who is now a man of considerable influence. Here he is:


Many years ago his dad bought him a body-warmer for Christmas. Not wanting to offend his old man, he wore it throughout the festive period, meeting with regular choruses of approval from elderly relatives - "doesn't Michael look smart in his body-warmer." Trouble was that Michael might've looked 'smart', but he also looked a complete pratt.

Not only that, but experts agree that it is impossible to be sexy in a body-warmer. Naturally Michael was quietly distraught at the prospect of being neutered by such insidious means.

An otherwise desirable couple, de-sexed
by highly powerful quilted anarok-style
body-warmers.

I have it on good authority that the American military are currently experimenting with the Body-Warmer as a means to diffuse sexual tensions between the ranks. Anyway, Michael became more and more frustrated at the 'straight-jacket' he was constrained within; until one day he snapped and cut all the sleeves of off his parents' coats, and burnt them in a fire full of fierce redemptive flames.

I am glad to say that his dad was very understanding, and sat down with Michael, only punching him five times in the face. Michael, bleeding, said to his father:
"Dad I will never bare my arms in public again. Instead, I am going to design an all-in-one bodystocking and campaign against the scourge of the Body-Warmer. Now I'm leaving home to seek refuge with Abraham DeBunkem. He's just built a Shack and it's a happening place where all freakoids and outsiders are welcomed. Bye dad."

A short fight followed during which Michael was elevated into a shadow of his former self. That night he left home and was dragged into The Shack, unconscious, by Wee Davy. He lived with us for one year one month and one day, before one night moving on to new challenges. This is a story...

Back to BlogStream

Colonel Hampton's Lawn

There it is, Colonel Hampton's typical English lawn. In the distance you will observe the anaesthetized white bench where he sits in silence with The Wife, Keith. He insists that they always maintain a strict two-and-a-half inches distance between them.
"We're not blasted Frog's ya know!" booms the Colonel, shunning any hint of intimacy.

Just look at those stripes and the manicured madness of those borders. This is the law of order which the Colonel demands -
"A place for everything, and everything in it's place!"

I have to say, I think he's a right old cunt, so I am glad that Wee Davy broke free from his bindings (once again!) and did this:


















*PLEASE NOTE: It would please us greatly if you leave comments below. You don't have to belong to this network to do so, and you are free to create characters under the 'other' option. Have fun dudes!

Also, if one wishes, one can pay a visit to the front of The Weedy Shack, and catch up with more ramblings, by clicking HERE

The Corruption of Shopper's Minds!

Asda's 'Rollback' campaign... will their smutty innuedo ever stop!!!

*PLEASE NOTE: It would please us greatly if you leave comments below. You don't have to belong to this network to do so, and you are free to create characters under the 'other' option. Have fun dudes!

Also, if one wishes, one can pay a visit to the front of The Weedy Shack, and catch up with more ramblings, by clicking HERE

DeBunkem's Tips for Shack Living - Bath Toy Tips

I know that today's young person tends to prefer the convenience of the shower, to the laid-back leisurely enjoyment of a good hot bath. Myself, I love a nice bath - mmm, bubbly bubbly. Quite often I find myself inspired to take things into my own hand and work up a bit of a lather. For quite a long while there was a serious drawback to this pursuit, however. For what is a chap to do with his issue at the conclusion of exertion. Messy business, flinging the string! Recently though, I have devised a really handy solution to this dilemna. This is how it goes:
1/ Approach your 'moment' - go on, give it some!!!
2/ Cup the man-fat in one hand (the 'seed hand')
3/ With the other, pull out the bath-plug
4/ Now, lower the tightly cupped seed hand below the water and open the hand and you will be amazed as your gene juice is sucked down the plughole.

There you are, lovely clean hands.

Try it.

*PLEASE NOTE: It would please us greatly if you leave comments below. You don't have to belong to this network to do so, and you are free to create characters under the 'other' option. Have fun dudes!

Also, if one wishes, one can pay a visit to the front of The Weedy Shack, and catch up with more ramblings, by clicking HERE

LATEST - Shocking revelation!

DeBunkem reveals a shocking revelation in his rambles on the other side of The Weedy Shack.
Click here to check it out.

The Colonel's After Us!!!!

Shit! Monty tells me that we have really pissed off old Colonel Hampton (that's him, there).

He's the old duffer who lives in the Hall at the back of our Shack. He's a right miserable fucker, always going on about our noise; our "mess"; our weeds - and, especially, the laughter. Not only that, the tweedy derelict old bastard hates Sylvanian's. Calls them "little devils", and blasts his twelve-bore at them, indiscrimately. Whenever he sees me out in my bikini he shouts out "Communist! Faggot!" and the like. Perhaps he is also a little riled seeing as an entirely sober Dan thieved a pair of his tweedy underpants in a moment of clarity...

This could spell trouble for us. I'd better tell Dan!

BACK to front of Shack.

*PLEASE NOTE: It would please us greatly if you leave comments below. You don't have to belong to this network to do so, and you are free to create characters under the 'other' option. Have fun dudes!

Letter to Stanley Clarke

"Dear Stanley,
It is November 2006, and I am listening to your album, 'Journey to Love' - had me dancing in my leotard earlier, it did! Anyway, I noticed on the cover reverse that you want people to write to you, so here we are.

My name is Abraham DeBunkem and I live in England, in a magical place we call, 'The Weedy Shack'. I hang out here with my best buddy, Dan, and all our other menagerie of friends and characters. In particular, we are graced here by the presence of an incredibly precocious three inch high wise weasel called Monty. He is (metaphorically speaking) a huge fan of yours, and, indeed, turned me on to your funky bass licks.

You may recall that you have met Monty, Dan and I back in 1975, when your were sitting by the window. In case you need your memory jogging a little, I was the one wearing a black crush-velvet bikini; you know, the geezer with the beehive hairdo (composed from back-combing my shoulder hair, incidently!). It really was a pleasure to meet you in person, and I'd just like to say that we think that your reaction to 'the incident' was very gracious. We agreed that you were one seriously classy cat Stanley, sitting there so patiently and tranquil. You the Man!

Salutations!
~ Abraham DeBunkem"

*PLEASE NOTE: It would please us greatly if you leave comments below. You don't have to belong to this network to do so, and you are free to create characters under the 'other' option. Have fun dudes!

BACK 2 BLOGSTREAM

Our Stern Uncles

Our Shack is a great place to hang out, generally. But like everywhere, we have our 'dissident elements' (as Monty puts it). These are our two Stern Uncles. They are inseperable, and stand in the shadows, scowling and bringing down the vibe. Many a time has one of Dan's hilarious potato jokes fallen splat on their miserable mugs! It's like they're the humour vortex or somethink. Many a time I've urged them to stop being Stiff Herberts and to put on a slinky little bikini, but they just beat the living crap out of me for that. As for poetry nights - well, you can forget it.
"Poetry's for poofters son," they snarl.
Uncultured oafs! Still, we don't let the Stern's get us down. We laugh whilst they punch us, and do all our silly shit, regardless.
BLOGSTREAM'S HERE

Right Wing folk

The Land of Azerbaigum

The land of Azerbaigum is a black and white place, where everyone is permanently exhausted through walking too fast - you know, like in the old movies. It is where we Shackers go for our holidays (we have a dacha there!).

One thing they have there though is oil. And it is this that allows them to do what ever they fucking well like. When quizzed about their abyssmal human rights record, officials simply growl, "cockska" (Azerbaigumbian for 'fuck you'). A recent report by Amnesty International describes a litany of abuses, including prolonged exposure to Manilow. Referring to this venal practice, an Amnesty spokesperson said - "Along with Hucknell, exposure to Manilow is a completely inhumane practice; one which we condemn in the strongest probable terms."

Finally, in common with Iraq, Azerbaigum loves the moustache. Everyone wears them - even the menfolk.

Here's to Blogstream

Tuten Tiger (cont.)

I wish this was my own inspiration. In fact, it was an observation made by British comedian, Alan Davies. It made me laugh!

Here's back to Blogstream

Amen

Here in Heathen we play with our toys and dance The Potato. Our resident monkey writes poetry and does not wear a suit; nor gets off by telling everyone else how, or who, to BE.

Here in Heathen we put our heads together and say 'whizzy whizzy' in arbitary acts of irrelevance (which we know to be irrelevant, and are, therefore, amusing to us).

Here in Heathen we close our eyes and think wude thoughts. Sometimes, we allow ourselves to become lost in the swirl of our minds. We pity the Stiff Herberts who pretend to have answers to everything in the name of a 'God' or a creed.

Here in Heathen we like to swear and fuck about in all manner of ways. Now I go and eat a nice slice of Fickle cake... yum yum.

Clickerty click here to return

Beneath the SerFACES(cont.)

Back 2 Blogstream

Elvin & Cloth Sue (cont.)

Here's a cloth Dan. Dan with a cloth body. Doll Dan, the cloth body man.

Yikes! Where's the Way Out!

Monty's Transgression (cont.)

Completely out of the blue, Monty let out a cowboy cry of, "YEE-HAH!" There was silence... followed by further silence; which, after some considerable time, was crowned by... silence (of the stunned, not stoned[!!], variety).

I don't know how he summoned up the power of speech in the shadow of such an appalling transgression as this, but then Dan - still lying prone on the floor of The Shack (and bleeding from the corner of his mouth) - spoke.
"Oh no - no, no, no Monty. That won't do at all - not at all! We won't have that kind of thing here. You see, we are English and that kind of thing really isn't part of our cultural tradition. Isn't that right Wee Davy?"
We waited for a second as Wee Davy lay down his blood-stained hatchet and composed himself to speak.
"Click, clickerty click click clickerty. Cli-ick, clickerty click click click... clickerty!" (for, following our friendship dating back to days of school, the evil axe-weilding muchkin speaks in a language of clicks, which, strangely, only I understand).
The assembled folk looked to me to translate. So, lactating nervously, I did:
"Hmm, very true Wee Davy. He says that Monty's attempt at a rodeo shout is merely a pale cultural pastiche, akin to English white boys in rural Norfolk wearing baseball caps and speaking street jive in their country accents. He posits the opinion that, although we welcome diversity, it is important that this is done with integrity and authenticity. Furthermore, he feels that Monty's position is akin to that of the inflatable boy who, attending an inflatable school with an inflatable Head teacher, brings a pin into school. This scenario reaches its inevitable conclusion with the Head Teacher saying to the boy,
'You have let me down; you've let the school down - but most of all, you've let yourself down Son.'"

Suddenly going all dyslexic in a homage to Dan, let me say that all kinds of kayoss ensued in the wake of this here pronouncement - shear mayhum!
Such extraordinary scenes, my only remaining memory of this night are the cries of, "be true to oneself - true to the YOO!" which echoed long into the night from our Weedy Shack.

(I swear to you that I am not currently taking any drugs whatsoever. All of this is the fruition of a lifetime of applied irrelevance - the power of the MYND!)

Return to The Steam?

What a snorkel!

"It's as plain as the face behind my nose" - easy listening giant, Barry Manilow.

HEAVENS!

We're On Our Time Travels Again!!! (cont.)

There she is - our lovely Time Machine. Created by Dan, Wee Davy and I in a drunken outburst of unlikely inspiration, we chanced upon the key to Time itself. Quite a responsibility, yes; but trust us, we shall abuse it (at this point I recline on my couch, absinthe in hand, look out at the scrubby weeds and laugh like a Mexican bandit in a Spaghetti Western).

RETURN TO THE STREAM

Snippet of my conversation... blah blah (cont.)

... sentient water bags
























[Click photo twice to enlarge] CLICK HERE TO GO BACK

The Silence of Mandy (cont.)

The Silence of Mandy
Speak to me Mandy
Break this fucking agony
Just a single poxy word like
a stone in the pond
to make things - any fucking thing! - ripple
with life....

Please don't just stand
there shagging well staring
like stone
like statue on parade
Break this cunting agony
Break this cunting silence

Isn't it

(Source: Gavin, J. [1989]: 'Why isn't it that no-one Loves me! Isn't it', Faber, London)
RSVP

The Truth about Aunty Gary's Breast Milk (cont.)

You see, the truth is that we Shack dwellers continue to enjoy the delicious bounty of Aunty Gary's man-titties to this very day. Indeed, just this afternoon I sat with Sally No and savoured a delicious shake made from his fecundent man mounds (and highly yum yum in my tum it was too!). In fact, I would go so far as to say that Aunty Gary's milk - mmm, so thick and creamy - is one of the very best things about hanging out in the Shack. I'm forever shouting out,
"First class nip nips Aunty!" - praise which is greeted by a threatening sneer of pleasure from the dignified old gal.

You want to return - click HERE

Introducing Uncle Lucy

Uncle Lucy in the shadows of the shack, putting Wee Davy to bed. Ain't that sweet!

MAMA, I WANNA GO HOME!

Our Kind of Shack

Oh yes, this our kind of hangout - a nice weedy shack if ever I saw one! And, I think, that is Uncle Lucy lurking at the window. You'd like Uncle Lucy - he's cool... clammy even.

RETURN

Singing in the Brain

"Braindrops are fallin' on my head
 And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
 Nothin' seems to fit
 Those Braindrops are fallin' on my head and they keep fallin'"

GET ME OUTTA HERE!

There's something about my Aunty Gary...

No, it can't be! Could this be another one of our time-travelling mishaps? Hmmm.... Monty! Monteeee!

GO HOME

Shack Heros cont.

Spike Milligan1918-2002....

Writer
Poet
Artist
Musician
Comic
Humanist
and...
Occasional miserable bugger

A perfect candidate for the shack commune!

Eye Queue

IT'S MY EYE QUEUE. Did you pass my eye queue test? I have a small eye queue - do you?

Here's HOME

Hes Fat, He's Back - Fat Northern Bastard

"Aye, arm reet famished ar am. Need t'get fookin bacon n'eggs doon me neck, eck as like. Ar gotta eet mon or ars fade away, like. Nun of yor filfy southern pooofs food fa me mon! Nah, good ole British foods the stuff reet enough."
(Translation*: "Yes, I am really famished I am. Need to get [some] fucking bacon and eggs down my neck, so I do. I've got to eat man or I will fade away. None of your filthy southern poofs food for me man! No, good old British food's the stuff for sure." * Translated by Sir Kenneth Nobchops of the Department of Cultural Perversity)


To get the fuck out of here, click LINK

The Tortoise & the Hare (cont.)

... why, the silly old tortoise was publically humiliated of course - lost by a country mile! Furthermore, it being quite a chilly Autumnal day he fell into hibernation on route; and because he had depleted his fat reserves in this futile enterprise, he subsequently died. Now that seems more plausible, doesn't it.
RETURN HOME

Wee Davy's Sister

... you see, if you go through here you come face-to-face with Wee Davy's sister, and...


... that is NOT for the faint hearted! Wanna go back - click HERE to return home.

Ray Mear's unfeasibly large thigh cavities-Fun for the whole family

I packed Ray Mear's thigh cavities for Paris and in them I put:
YOU ARE ALL CUNTS, The Collected Works of Jurgen Gavin and..
Aunty Gary's recipe for fickle cake





(Bored? Then hit HERE)


(Or to see an example of Gavin's work, touch this GENTLY)

(Or to find out just exactly what has happened to Ray's eyes, then touch THIS)

DeBunkem's Cultural Corner (cont.)

Enema Bucket

G.M Food is a fucking cunt
A dessicated old piece of washed-out shit
His mouth is an enema bucket
His mouth is an enema bucket

G.M. Food is a piss-wreaking Wasta Space
A worn-out wrinkly tortoise face
His mouth is an enema bucket
His mouth is an enema bucket

G.M. Food
A dessicated old piece of washed-out shit

Isn't it!

[Gavin, Jurgen (2006): from, 'My Life beyond Polly Perkins', Faber, London]

PLEASE NOTE: TO RETURN TO THE FRONT OF THE WEEDY SHACK, PLEASE CLICK ON THE FOLLOWING LINK - This is disgusting!

Eeeek! Another outbreak of prawn-eye...

Manchester United star, Ryan Giggs - victim of psychopathic prawn-eye disease (click here to return to 'safer' realms: here).

The Rationale - by Monty Weasel

I am Monty, an incredibly wise Sylvanian Families weasel, and it was my idea to set up this blog as an adjunct to another one already in existance on another network. You see, I am a genius, whilst my authors, Abraham DeBunkem and Dan the Man of Many Coats, are imbeciles. In fact, the creators of my persona are inadequate in so many ways that it defies belief. It is just a good job that I have taken on a life of my own, as these fools would never be able to dream up such erudite thoughts as I am able to display. However, I digress...

This is that patch of scrubby piss-stained weeds behind their Shack (see, The Shack, for the front door). The material posted here links to that other blog, 'Rambling in the Weedy Shack' (see link, above). The posts here will seem particularly incoherent, as it is nearly always the second part of a post, lacking the introductory context provided by their primary blog (again, see link above).





Me (Monty) , addressing assembled members of the Sylvanian Community