Sunday, 26 July 2009

It May Be Sticky But I Never Complain

Poor, poor Sack Posset. Poleaxed in pyjamas after a night of smeared lipstick and slipper-cricket, midnight chicken and caterwauling to Kate Bush. Now I’m psyching myself up to crawl upstairs for a back-to-the-womb Matey bath with Dickens and a spliff. I had four rashers in my bacon butty but it wasn’t enough to salve my maculate soul. A bohemian lifestyle is all very well and good, but I must learn to buy my Lucozade the night before the morning after.

11 comments:

  1. Poor poor Sack Posset, the things she suffers to keep us amused. Wonderfully imaginative stunningly surprising original and fantabulous.

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  2. Damn! I've been telling the world my vagina has a nasty infection, and am wishing I would make business cards of my own.

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  3. Paul - thank you x

    BestGirl - I know, it's huge and full of goblins.

    Mongoliangirl - I made a mistake with the business cards, I just want to keep them all for myself. Other people will have to guess who I am!

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  4. We do not live in bags,
    We live inside your washing machine and eat your socks.

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  5. What of gentlemen who carry purses? Those are probably the most acquainted with bumgags

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  6. So, if my bag is handsewn by my own hands, with secret compartments and a bottle opener...what?

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  7. FJR - you can't fool me, I know where you live, and I know for a FACT that you wouldn't touch my socks.

    zxvasdf - whenever I see your name, I think vas deferens, is that wrong?

    Rassles - It means you are fucking awesome, and that you have a really creative clunge.

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  8. Bumbag, bacon butty and Lucozade, ahh methinks I dream of old Blighty, well at least here in sweltering Seattle I can have the bacon butty. Not so much the lucozade and I ain't calling a bumbag a fanny pack thank you!

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  9. My bag is all open and haphazard.

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  10. No. I am, as are we all, the conduit through which seminal information originating in the brain passes, on to other minds, fertile or otherwise. I find I am often infertile.

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