Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The End Of An Earache

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Following his much-publicised arrest at the weekend for supplying illicit broccoli to the British Nude Underwater Pole-Vaulting Vicar, Exegesis Palimpsest, the estimable Norbert Trouser-Quandary will henceforth be unable to continue with this… this… whatever it is.

Consequently, as Mr Trouser-Quandary will be unable to continue with it, whilst detained at her majesty's pleasure, this… this… thing will no longer be updated for the foreseeable future*.

Therefore we would be most obliged - if there is actually anyone bothering to read this drivel - if you amend you blogrolls, feed readers, manservant, lad with a cleft stick or whatever, accordingly**.

However, my organ will remain standing proudly here until Blogger come to their senses and delete this complete waste of space. So, until that glorious day, please feel free*** to peruse the archive - and deeply probe its back postings – for your edification and satisfaction until you are completely satiated.

Thank you for your custom.

Good night.

 

*However, as I probably said somewhere up above, the… er… whatever it is itself will not be deleted and will remain here - mainly as a warning to others - for as long as Blogger wishes to keep it.

**This also, of course, means that the @Trouserquandary Twitter account will no longer be updated either.

***But make sure your hands are warm first.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Sequestration And Its Pitfalls

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Even though your string collection and your most precious aardvark have been sequestrated by the debt collection agency because you defaulted on payment for your latest shipment of wallaby spleen oil, there is no reason at all to be downcast. For was it not said by Rupert the Inconsequential (1799 – 1654) that all sprouts look alike to someone who has no interest in such things? Therefore, anyway, my love let us sellotape bananas to the upper inner thighs of some semi-naked sales representatives and then sail off into the sunset on our tandem built for seven.

There are marmosets in the wainscoting once again, dear heart, but do not let us be troubled by such peccadilloes at this time of the morn. Let us get naked together and recite our favourite entries from our book of Logarithmic And Other Four Figure Tables whilst you pour pancake mix over the naked and lightly-restrained body of our very own Little Frigging-In-The-Wold cake shop manageress and I fetch the ready-warmed spoons.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Take-Away Strumpets

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Of course, there are many both in this country - and in foreign parts - who will extol the virtues of fast food, the delights of the burger with cheese, the various parts of chickens, all fried and heaped together in one convenient bucket. The village of Little Frigging itself contains a fair selection of traditional English Chinese, Indian and various other takeaways that provide the hungry late-night gourmands with something to have with their chips.

However, we in Little Frigging have taken the concept – we believe – in an exciting new direction with our Takeaway Fast-Trollop service. This is a takeaway where anyone feeling that familiar urge when out perambulating or promenading the High street after closing time can avail themselves of something to slake their rude and naughty appetites. Such as, say, a double assistant librarian with cheese, a hot spicy-thighed post mistress, or for the ladies, and/or those gentlemen with an interest in musicals and soft furnishings, the extra-hot foot-long fireman, or a warmed-up Danish plumber in chocolate sauce.

Of course, there are many other such delicacies available on the menu should anyone wish to avail themselves of our hot strumpet service, not only that, there is a free delivery service available. This delivery option is ideal for those in the village who dislike venturing out of their own homes when there is a chance – however remote - of there being ‘something good on the telly’, but would like say a cake shop manageress with her hot baps out delivered directly to their eagerly waiting laps.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Handy With Their Tools

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Of course, it does tend to go without saying that many of the gentlemen of Little Frigging are rather adept DIY enthusiasts. People who tend to reside in rural areas are - of course - more likely to be self-reliant that their more urban counterparts. Therefore, it is not surprising that when you do come up a male resident of Little Frigging, you do often find him with his tool in hand and often about to enjoy some of the solitary pleasure that comes from a good solid bout of DIY.

Although, having said that, many of the ladies of Little Frigging, when they see that a gentleman acquaintance of theirs is about to get his tool out, or has adopted that stance that suggests that he is about to engage in a solitary act of DIY, will often enquire if they may offer him a helping hand. This can be anything from merely holding his tool for him while he gets into an awkward position, such as atop a set of step ladders, right up to and including joining him for a long screwing session or a damn good hammering. Sometimes quite possibly with both of them atop that set of stepladders, hanging from the chandelier or any other way she can assist in aiding him to come to a satisfactory conclusion for them both.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Postman’s Knock

One of the common sights each morning is the Little Frigging Postman, Andy De Liver, striding down the streets of the village with his bulging sack; ready to hand his package to the keenly waiting ladies of Little Frigging, who are always eager to see how big a handful he is going to thrust into their slots each day.

It is true that the ladies do like to see a man in uniform, and will always be ready to offer a hand (or two) in order to help him out of it. The ladies also like a man who comes regularly and always has a broad smile and an interestingly large package to thrust into their waiting grasp. So, Andy De Liver is always ensured of a pair of warm welcoming hands to help him unburden his sack.

Of course, some games and pastimes, such as the infamous Postman’s Knock, can often be dated back to origins far more ancient than we in the modern world realise. The figure of the postman may to us seem like an invention of modern communications. However, those of us with some knowledge of the rural past, realise that the modern postman is but a contemporary manifestation of an ancient tradition that stretches back into the mists of history. For throughout history there are tales told of young women finding themselves knocked up in the early morning by a mysterious male figure who comes and then goes, leaving them with a mysterious package, and that only months later do they realise the full significance of his strange visit.

Monday, November 8, 2010

So Many Well-Lubricated Sheep

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If you were to come with me and if I were to take you to places you have never known the wot of, then that would – indeed – be that. But I’m not, so you won’t and let that be the end of the matter. We’ll say no more about it and carry on as if nothing had happened, and I hope you will have the decency to never mention the matter again, certainly not in mixed company and in the presence of so many well-lubricated sheep.

If one of those sheep had happened to overhear you mention… er… (whisper) mint sauce in such a context, we would have had a stampede on our hands. You may wish to explain to the authorities why there are so many sheep in stockings, suspenders and split-crotch panties rampaging through the streets of Little Frigging, but I – for one – do not.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Sausages

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"Shall I get the sausages out?"

"No. I'm not in the mood today."

"Oh…."

"Don't look at me that way. I'm just not in the mood. Anyway, I'd tired of being splashed with hot fat. You ought to try standing next to frying sausages when you're naked. See how you like it."

"I'm sorry… I never realised."

"No. I don't think you ever did, did you?"

"No. No, I didn't. But you never said, either. I used to look forward to the sausage game, though. I thought you enjoyed it too."

"Oh, I did. I did. Back in the early days, I did. I thought I'd tried every possible sexual deviation, that is, until I met you. I never realised you could do that with sausages and just one adjustable spanner. And I never, ever, thought it could be so… so… intensely erotic. But… well, I suppose you can get used to anything, after a while. It just doesn't have that… that thrill, anymore. I no longer get that charge of excitement you get from doing something so wild, so perverse, from doing something that would shock and outrage almost every person who heard about it."

"Oh, right. So, do you fancy just an ordinary shag, then?"

"What? Oh… okay then. I'll get the mountain goat lubricated, then, shall I?"

"Yes, please."

Thursday, November 4, 2010

The Mind-Body Problem

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Now, or - of course, if you feel more comfortable with the notion - then, is a moment in time, and - if you are fortunate enough to be enjoying full bodily integrity at this time - space.

Speaking of bodily integrity - and why not, after all we are all freely-consenting adults gathered together here to snigger like excited children over rude things…. So, anyway…. Bodies, then… eh? Eh? Know what I mean? Eh?

Of course, I do not - and I presume you do not too, merely see this… this… whatever it is… as a place for like-minded folk to gather together in order to discuss rural perversions in a full and frank manner (before descending into giggles and sniggering, then retiring to another place for fresh cream cakes and oral stimulation). But, I also feel that it should be a place of, and for, the mind too. I know that, in what can be best described as, the English-speaking world, matters of the mind are regarded as some of the most foul and disgusting perversions imaginable. In these places, intellectual stimulation is regarded as far more abominable than un-consensual congress with an un-lubricated aged wallaby wearing mismatched spats and a bowler hat, but here, I feel, should be a haven for those willing to let original thought pass through their minds without fear, self-castigation or feeling the need to take a thorough wash afterwards.

So, if you are the kind of pervert who enjoys having thoughts gambol and dance through your mind. If you delight their full pulchritudinous terpsichorean dalliances in your thoughts, without feeling a need to hit yourself firmly and repeatedly in the genitalia with the religious tome of your choice before taking a shotgun to your head to rid it of such untoward happenings, then this here – my splendid organ – is the ideal place for you to sit.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Perversions Re-Birthing Ritual

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As couples get older sometimes it seems as though the lady’s melons are not quite as firm and juicy as they once were, or perhaps the gentleman may find his plums growing wrinkled and shrivelled. If so then maybe the couple should consider taking part in a Perversion Re-Birthing Ritual in order to perk up themselves and become proudly upstanding and freely swinging perverteers once more.

If a couple, or more, wish to go through a Perversion Re-Birthing Ritual, they must both first dress up in their ideal fetish gear of choice. Such things as a vicar, a supply geography teacher, an ordinance survey assistant mapmaker, a fireman or cakes shop manageress and so forth.

The putative re-birthers must, once suitably bedecked, make their way down the village High Street towards the village hall. First, they must – of course – visit the village pub The Pervert’s Appendage for the full immersive experience of ‘Taking the ale’. Only when they have sampled as many ales and ciders as they can manage (or closing time, whichever is the sooner), they then must visiting each Take-Away in the village and order their personal favourite meal from each one. All through the ceremony, they will be encouraged by the re-birthing fetish mistress ‘to feel at one with their perversions’ and to have a damn good feel of each other’s oneness too.

Once inside the Village Hall the ceremony of the re-birthing nice cup of tea and selection of cream cakes will follow, along with the Holy chanting of ‘nice weather for the time of year, considering….’ before the spiritual rubbing down with the Holy unguents takes place and the ceremonial assistant librarian takes them both in hand in turn. She will then take them over to the dildo rail where they can pick their devices of choice before being led towards a selection of fresh fruit and then onto the traditional ceremonial re-birthing all-village orgy.

Afterwards, it is guaranteed (not legally-binding) that they will once again feel at one with themselves, their perversions of choice and their partner(s) and once more be ready to face the world and its tribulations with a uplifted heart once again.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Unspoken Kitchen Utensil Misuse

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Well then, if the season of your marmalade indifference turns into a Thursday of unspoken kitchen utensil misuse, then who am I to call into question your lack of under-utilised Strawberry Flavoured Assistant Bank Managers?

It may - of course - seem, at first sight, one of those questions with a too obvious answer*. But sometimes these things are not quite as straightforward as they seem, at least at first glance. That is why it is always worthwhile to look both ways when you are poised to get astride your naked lady from the cake shop.

As you may not know, the Small Rotating Device shop in the village has been taken over by a newcomer to the village, who intends to turn it into different kind of shop.

The new owner of the shop, Miss Deplorable Moistgusset, has promised those many concerned villagers that she will, however, meet all the village's Small Rotating Device needs. As well, she intends to offer a brand new Small Rotating Device service and repair facility - something the village has needed for a long time. We have not had such a thing since the sad death of old 'Mad' Ginbreath Widdlepants, our original local Small Rotating Device repairman, at the gentle age of 104 while receiving the non-too-tender ministrations of Moll Splendidthighs in a roadside ditch early on Easter Sunday morning in 1987.

So, while this new service and repair facility is no doubt reassuring there is still some trepidation in the village as to what else Miss Moistgusset intends to do with the shop. For example, there is still a - well-justified in my view - mortal fear in the village of the spread of Estate Agents into rural areas, despite the eradication program that does keep their numbers down to manageable levels. Luckily, we haven’t had an outbreak of Estate Agents in the village since 1979, when we managed to immolate the last remaining estate agent in the village in the traditional wicker man ceremony.

 

*In this case, Norman the arc-welding budgerigar, of course.