Have you missed me Poo Chatters? I am awfully sorry but I've been stuck in the past with Paul "Macca" McCartney (no, I'm not referring to his set at the Brit awards) and was rendered incommunicado!
So, allow me to end the Poo Chat drought and let you back in on the excitement, we're back1966 and it's time to drop acid with everyone's third favourite member of Wings: Sir Paul McCartney.
A "whacked out" Paul writes from his silver hammock suspended over an enormous bowl of Heinz lentil soup:
Whoa, hiya guys Paul "Macca" McCartney here. Let me tell you guys that I'm high on LSD and it's one hell of a ride whhhheeeeeeooop! Was that a crow with a human bottom? This trip is whacky.
Anyway, my good chum Bertram Bum Roberts has been staying with me the last few weeks and he's one hell of a groovy guy, allot like you folks I guess? A huge appetite for tripping out.
So, Bertie and I were high as kites last Tuesday, I was telling him all about a weird hallucination that I'd just experienced when he became very exited and told me to write the whole thing down and post it on Poo Chat (we're all big fans in the Beatles, Ringo says it makes him feel randy, randy bloody Ringo: the dirty git - that's what we call him anyway.).
The acid craziness started with a huge vegetarian sausage looming over me "You'd better make some poorly thought out comments about how farmers are gay and pointless or I'll be up your bum like Kerry Katona up a cabbie's trouser leg" boomed the Cumberland. Who the fuck is Kerry Katona, I thought? But good advice none the less.
But as soon as I was starting to enjoy Mr Sausage's company, he dashed off with my pants and trousers (luckily I keep my cash in a bum bag)! Lost and forlorn I had no idea what to do next; I appeared to be in a deserted city from the future. I had aged significantly but my skin was tighter, I felt like a bed that had been to tightly tucked in. Also, my hair had turned into a cloud of orangey-brown fart that stuck to my scalp where ever I went. I don't know where Bertie had found this acid, but it was strong shit.
Suddenly a frightening high-pitched Geordie voice echoed throughout the deserted streets!
"Paul you scrotey little died haired runt! You're shit at music and you're thumbs-up 'dance the night away' wank-shop song is the shittest thing I've ever heard!"
"Help! Somebody, please help!" I shrieked. I was petrified; this was some bad acid man.
"Make me hop to the shitter would you?" The voice squealed back. "After all that charity work, you still won't let me unload my bowels under the sheets!"
Just then the voice took a physical form; a peg-legged mad-woman appeared. I turned and ran, as I did all of my lovely money started tumbling from my bum-bag. I ran, and I ran. And then I ran some more, but fucking hell that hop-along bint could move (I found it strangely saucy though, as the bulge in my bum-bag reduced the one underneath it increased).
Suddenly I snapped out of it... phew! It was one hell of a ride, but it scared the bejesus out of me. It was then I decided that I should get my twatty security-look-a-like Dan to take my place and live the rest of my life for me. This fame gig was getting too crazy for a nice scouser like me.
Besides, if that's what I've got in store I'd much rather Dan dealt with it (because he's a bit of a twat).
No comments:
Post a Comment