nrm fmm kuill 7 - 15.7.18

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Michael Monkhouse

  • Saturday 7th July 2018, 11:17am
  • Eternal City, Italy
  • 3,534 posts

Cule has-beans so c**tgratulations to ME for winkin'. PM me with a subject for next wank please. I won't really. It is a joke.
Hence:

Votes - Points - Name
3 -10 - me
1 - 5 - Gappy

Your next topic is MYSTERY.
Rules: One entry / vote per human being. Anywank can enter regardless of sexual preference, inside ball measurement or humidity of gums, except Matt Cardle because he has kissed my favourite Spice Girl.
Can be a sketch, one-liner, song, whatever the f**k you like, as long as 'tis humourous and in some way linked to the topic.
Edit as much as you wank till it closes, i.e. 15.7.18.

Scorebored is now:
Position - Points - Name
1 - 25 - Otterfox
2 - 20 - Gappy
3 - 15 - me
4 - 11 - Crindy
5 - 5 - LazySusan, Playfull

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Michael Monkhouse

  • Saturday 7th July 2018, 6:06pm
  • Eternal City, Italy
  • 3,534 posts

MISSED MARPLE

CHARLES and MISS MARPLE.

CHARLES Golly gosh Miss Marple, I would so love to uncover the identity of the cad who murdered poor Arabella.

MISS MARPLE It really was most simple. It started when I stumbled across the bluish-grey strand of lost fibre on Father Jenkins' chest wig in Aylesford Priory. I knew Edinburgh Abbey was only open to privates between Friday and Thursday, except Friday of course, when dear Professor Atkinson had placed a strict curfew of nine noon for visitors, shop assistants and pornographers. So it would have been impossible for Sylvia the Postman to have a key to Stanford Palace, unless - obviously - her ex-widow Miss Brent had borrowed the corkscrew from Phil Ferret the night after I died. But as my best friend and avowed enemy Clarkson pointed out, what good is Fanta without a Spice Girl to burn the lipstick traces wiped clean with fingerprints? And ever since Robbie Williams left the Beatles, poor next-door stranger Gerard Gerald had developed a beastly grudge against his female brother's four triplets and its forgotten labrador Samuel.

CHARLES So it was Gerard...

MISS MARPLE Would that it were so simple. Alas and alack and a cack. No, Patricia the Underman had always suspected the 1960's minors' strike of 1997 after before that wards. Fortunately for Attila the Hun, those miners were lord majors and only struck matches, while football matches were, shall we say, no 'match' for Geri Rugby and his talking elephants, Edward the radio VJ for literature. Simon could not possibly have deciphered the Greek prescription for classes as he had only studied classics and moderns and sociology from Harvard polytechnic, the famed nursery school in Stoke, every day for four nights at the local faraway brewery called Midnight. How did this make Alice feel?

CHARLES Um...

MISS MARPLE Ecstatic - depressed - in moderation. Adolf subscribed to the school of hard knocks, whereas James was a strict Buddhist with leeway, unlike Jackson, who tended to Oriental religion - hardly welcome in the Zen Monkhouse founded by Islamic fundamentalist Dave, who didn't believe in God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit, only the Trinity of the Holy Ghost, Christ and Jahweh. I can't believe I didn't think of it before.

CHARLES You mean...

MISS MARPLE Yes, it never was! Multiple suicide head inflected knife arsenic sliced spliced Spice Girled bitten repeatedly, only once mind, blow jobs to the neck and inner toes over jealousy revenge money reinherited unmarriage sports award paranoia debt mortgage illicit.

CHARLES I don't quite understand.

MISS MARPLE Let me run through it again. It was after Brother Imam the croquet commentator encountered the must hated, highly popular Eric the mistress plumber in Bedford...

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Otterfox

  • Monday 9th July 2018, 1:23am
  • Tipperary, Ireland
  • 1,011 posts

RADIO PRESENTER:
Good evening and welcome to another edition of Reginald Cassidys Histories Mysteries. As always I'm your host Reginald Cassidy...s brother Ray Cassidy - good evening.
Tonight we're going to stumble back through the annals of time and trip over some intriguing events indeed. In fact this is a unique occasion as you find me standing on quite auspicious ground. You see the feet belonging to the body that is talking to you now is firmly planted in the one and only Woodraven Park. A park so auspish that it has been closed to the public for the past ninety years.

The government has very strict no-access security measures in place here but luckily we were granted access by a pine marten who ate his way through some wire on our behalf.

Many strange and momentous events were believed to have taken place here and I felt that breaking into the park to tell you about them directly from source could best outline them.

The first case is of full-time relaxer and part-time scarecrow Redmond Skillet. In 1794 Redmond sat under this mighty oak and began thinking about crows and ways of scaring them. As he hit upon the idea of roaring into their nests he stretched and cracked his knuckles. It may have seemed innocuous at the time but this was the first time in history that anyone had cracked their knuckles out of habit and not as a result of walloping them off a barn door or getting trampled on by a horse.

Suddenly, yet very slowly Redmond became acutely aware of his discovery and ran to the village to spread the news.

The next story is of one of the nineteenth century's most beautiful women. Lady Valentina Boccanero would swan about in her walled garden just a few hundred metres from here. Unfortunately we couldn't gain access as sometimes pine martens are useless and just not up to the challenge. It was in this walled garden on 18th May 1879 that Lady Valentina, unbeknownst to her, was about to accomplish a world record. You see, a Milanese tailor who had an infatuation with her sent her a chest of summer dresses. Amongst these was a light dress with elasticated fibre that lend itself well to flouncing for if there was one thing that this tailor loved it was the flounce of a young lady. She sauntered around the shrubs and trees, spinning as she went. Mid-spin the wind picked up which rose her dress eighteen feet in the air. A record to this day for any dress.

She found herself dangling from a tree, her dress all but ripped to shreds. It took all of nine seconds for a couple of dozen men to arrive and assist her in clambering out of her record.

The third event involves that of the elusive tartan duck. Once just believed to be the result of a drunken Scotsman's ramblings, it is now widely believed that the duck did indeed exist and the only reported grounded sightings place them in the very lake that I stand in now. The ducks plumage had an unusual plaid design, which allowed them safe passage through Scotland when they would; strangely, fly north to frigid climes for the winter. As a result the mortality rate was high and their numbers were low. In the summer of '22 a male returned to the lake, being monogamous squared he waited for his two mates, amongst others to arrive. After a month he was still the only tartan duck to return, he was the last of his species. He drowned himself in the lake in August of that same year.

So there you have it. Three fascinating tal-

FX. DISTANT SHOUTING.

RAY:?Can you hear something?

TOM:?That pine marten is pointing over at us.

RAY:?Who are the suits with him? It's MI5! The bastards after tipping them off! Quick, run out of the lake!

TOM:?I'm swimming for it!

RAY:?I can't swim! Here, help me run to the surface!

TOM: ?No way!

VOICE (GRUFFLY): Grab him!

RAY TRIES TO SPEAK CALMLY BUT IS OBVIOUSLY BEEN LED AWAY AS SOUNDS OF BEING DRAGGED OVER GRAVEL AND THROWN INTO A CAR ARE HEARD AS HE SPEAKS.

RAY: ?(GRAVEL) Three fascinating tales from a truly wonderous location....

(THROWN INTO CAR) It's been an amazing adventure but we must bid you adieu....

(CAR DOOR CLOSED) (VOICE IS MORE DISTANT) Until next week, I've been Ray Cassidy and this has been Reginald Cassidy's Histories Myst-

FX: CAR SPEEDING AWAY.?

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gappy

  • Friday 13th July 2018, 8:22am [Edited]
  • Oxford, England
  • 1,941 posts

QUEEN: Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

MIRROR: It is you, my queen. You are the fairest.

QUEEN: And yet, I o'erheard a courtier yestereve say that Snow White is the fairer. Had him killed, obviously. But, just checking, it's not true?

MIRROR: No, you're far fairer than her. She's the opposite, if anything.

QUEEN: Well spoken, O, glass of truth. We are satisfied that we remain the most beautiful in the land.

MIRROR: Yes, that's - what? Sorry?

QUEEN: I said, well spoken, O glass of-

MIRROR: OK. So [CHUCKLE] I think I know what's happened here. There are actually two meanings of the word "fair".

QUEEN: What mean you?

MIRROR: Well, you see, I thought you've been asking who was the blondest. So I said you. Because your hair's really blonde. I mean, I've not done, you know, exhausting research, but to all extents and purposes, you're the most blonde - your hair's basically white, is what I'm saying.

QUEEN: So, when you said Snow White was less fair than I...?

MIRROR: Less blonde, yeah. Snow White's got really, really black hair. That's why they call her Snow White. On account of her black hair. Which makes her skin look more white. I know it's counter-intuitive.

QUEEN: So you thought I was asking whether I had the lightest hair pigmentation? For all these years?

MIRROR: Pretty much.

QUEEN: But that's imbecilic, foolish mirror!

MIRROR: Well, at least blondeness is quantifiable. You definitely have the fairest hair (probably). Whereas, it's impossible to say who's the most beautiful, it's a matter of consensus, not an empirical fact.

QUEEN: Oh. I see.

MIRROR: But it definitely wouldn't be you.

QUEEN: What?!

MIRROR: Come on, you look about 80. The white hair doesn't help.

QUEEN: But that time I asked whether I was the hottest bitch in town.
MIRROR: Ambiguous again! You had on a very tight corset, and lots of make-up, and you'd just slaughtered, like, 60 peasants, and I thought, yes, that would probably put you in the top percentile of those feeling warm. And, also, confirm you're a bitch.

QUEEN: But this cannot be. What about when I asked whether I was the primo mackable whooty?

MIRROR: To be honest, I have no idea what those words mean, I just took a chance on "yes". Fifty-fifty innit? Worth a shot.

QUEEN: And so, tell me true, is Snow White the most [OVER EMPHASIS] beautiful in the land?

MIRROR: Well, as I say, I don't think it's possible to categorically identify an individual who fulfils the variegated qualities of female attraction so - no, basically she is. Bloody gorgeous. Black hair. Pale skin. Great figure. Legs up to her armpits...or her dwarven friends' armpits.

QUEEN: So, how would I fare-

MIRROR: Careful now.

QUEEN: [TUT] How would I *succeed* if I try to kill her?

MIRROR: You'll basically fail. In a kind of ironic, symbolic way. Ooft, just nasty.

QUEEN: And what would I get if I smashed my mirror?

MIRROR: Seven years bad luck.

QUEEN: I'll take it! [SHOUT] Seneschal, my royal hammer!

MIRROR: Oh, what? You are *so* unfair.

(OK, so by the end that sketch wasn't about a mystery after all. But, you know, it was a question, so...No, I don't think it fits the theme either).

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Crindy

  • Friday 13th July 2018, 12:19pm [Edited]
  • England
  • 96 posts

INT. COUNTRY MANSION, LIBRARY - NIGHT

A dark and stormy night. A brilliant DETECTIVE chews on a PIPE as he paces in front of the glowing embers of the fireplace. Six SUSPECTS sit nervously around the room, watching him intently.

DETECTIVE
This was, I have to say, one of the most fiendish mysteries I have ever been tasked with solving. A murder so wicked and grisly that it took I, Scotland Yard's finest, to apprehend the vicious devil that was responsible!

He whirls around dramatically. The Suspects gasp in unison.

DETECTIVE (Cont'd)
At times, I feared that even I would not be able to crack the perplexing conundrum that this piece of foul play presented. So many possible suspects, so many plausible motives, so many potential scenes for the murder. For so long, I must admit I was bewildered. So much so, that I was forced to turn to that most comforting of my oldest and dearest friends: Opium!

He takes a long drag on his pipe and smiles in blissful satisfaction.

DETECTIVE (Cont'd)
Ah, that's the stuff.

SUSPECT 1
So, you have solved the case?

DETECTIVE
But of course! For, you see, like so many evil-doers before them, the murderer made one fatal error!

With a flourish, the Detective produces a small envelope in his hand.

DETECTIVE (Cont'd)
They placed a card containing their name, the identity of the murder weapon, and the room in which the murder was committed in this tiny envelope!

Gasps from around the room. A crack of thunder from outside.

SUSPECT 2
But...why?

DETECTIVE
For the same reason that the architect responsible for designing this mansion inexplicably built a secret passage from the kitchen to the study and failed to include any bedrooms in the floorplan! To confuse and beguile me!

SUSPECT 3
So, who was responsible for the murder?

DETECTIVE
Ah, truly that is the question at the heart of the matter, is it not?

SUSPECT 4
Well...yes?

DETECTIVE
Hah! Yes, indeed! You see, my investigations were already progressing remarkably well even before the discovery of this envelope. I had already ruled out the ballroom and the conservatory, and I knew for a fact that the crime could not possibly have been committed with the candlestick!

SUSPECT 5
Ok, so, who did commit the crime?

DETECTIVE
Aha! Wonder no longer, my dear colleagues, for this diabolical scheme was carried out by none other than...

The Detective dramatically pulls the cards from the envelope and looks them over. His face sags.

DETECTIVE
(normal voice)
Oh, no. Sorry, I was way off. Guess I'm out.

He throws the envelope back onto the table and sits down. Suspect 1 picks up a pair of dice.

SUSPECT 6
(sighing)
Next Christmas, can we just play Risk instead?

The others nod in agreement.

DETECTIVE
Ah, perfect! I'll bring my musket!

THE END

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gappy

  • Tuesday 17th July 2018, 1:24pm
  • Oxford, England
  • 1,941 posts

Crindilicious.

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Crindy

  • Tuesday 17th July 2018, 5:49pm
  • England
  • 96 posts

Otterfox this week :)

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