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