Dear premature ejaculators of Perth,
I apologise for my absence in recent weeks however I was struck unconscious by Tanya Cottons enormous studded labia while filming ‘The Curious case of Benjamin’s Cock’ and fell into a coma and have spent the last 5 weeks at Fremantle Hospital mumbling in poor Italian and asking for directions to Assisi. Even now I feel peculiar and often have no recollection of time or lateral space. Apparently it’s February and bogans throwing full cans of beer at passing strangers is acceptable behavious in Fremantle on any given weekend. The only consolation I have is my old friend Mr cheese.
I am delighted cheese has re-awakened so many pleasures of the flesh for many of the patients here at the hospice. Sex is no more a filthy act than listening to old Danni Minogue cd’s in a lubricated darkened Morley room eating poorly cooked kidney beans while watching Ben Cousins chunder all over our economy as pensioners revoly at being forced to work till they drop. Kevin Rudd will receive no hand jobs from the wrinklies with that piece of legislation and nor will he from Peter limp dick Costello – the hitman of the working class gleefully tumbling weighted dice down the rabbit hole of deceipt. Poor Peter never stood a chance and if anyone should wear a burkha right now it’s him. We’d all line up to cast the first stone or preferably Tanya’s labia.
However my friends, when feasting on loved ones my favourite cheese to nibble on is ‘Gouda.’ Let’s face it, when you think of cheese you think of the Dutch. The Dutch have a long history in cheese making and today blind dutch people are still forced to build windmills made largely out of cheese and paper mache. Indeed many historian’s claim that’s why Hitler invaded Holland, due to his perverted cheese fetish. Hitler apparently loved cheese and today nazi’s the world over eat cheese even though it’s yellow.
A traditional Dutch Windmill made entirely of cheese and clogs from 1478
In the western world we have what vegetarians term as “puberty” but in Holland acne prone teenagers are confronted with “The windmill years.” As part of their journey to adulthood, the youth have to build a working cheese windmill and then attempt to sell it to stoned English tourists who are purely there to perv at the erotic dancers who roam the streets of Amsterdam carrying jugs of Nordic beer and autographed copies of Richard Branson’s boxer shorts.
However you swing comrades when you want to impress, get the Gouda and don’t wear your hospital gown into Fremantle on a Saturday night.
J’Scro
Great to see you back, Johnny. So that’s where you’ve been! On an all-the-cheese-you-can-eat tour of Danni Minogue’s Morley mansion, with Peter Costello’s Dutch uncle for a tour guide. All I can say is that when Costello played for Howard’s XI, he batted without a box.
Costello batted without a box cause his balls had shrunk as a result of a failed testicle dropping operation to combat hair loss when he thought he would one day lead the country. Alas poor Yorrick, Warrick and Costelloick
You are the Bard of the Bawd, Johnny.
Personally, I believe Costello swallowed his own balls while bending over backwards to justify his continued presence in John Howard’s cabinet when the old bloke’s useby date expired. Soon, he will disappear up his own arse and cause a black hole to appear on the back bench.