The Lecture

Garry Johal wrote :
Derrick walked with a confident gait towards the rostrum. He set his notes down upon it and cleared his throat by hacking out a healthy wad of phlegm into the first row. He lowered his glasses to the bridge of his nose and glanced at the auditorium. Halfway through his verbiose speech he looked up and something caught his eye. He stared at the last row of people and let out a thunderous growl. He jumped from the stage and body surfed his way to the last row. Once there, he grabbed the collar of a dazed looking student and dragged him, gagging, to the stage. The poor boy had by this time soiled his pants with the contents of his colon and bladder. " I will not tolerate such a la-di-da attitude during my lecture! Ho bo ?!" With that he pulled a samurai sword from his blazer and struck the top of the boy's head. The steel went through him like a hot knife through butter, and the body fell apart, like an orange that is through the middle. Warm guts spilled over the stage. "Now as I was saying...."

Slack ah

Garry Johal wrote:
I approached the gaudy coffeehouse with trepidation. It was crowded with haughty patrons, sipping their overpriced , flavourless, mass-produced bile that was passed off as gourmet coffee. I spotted an empty table and pulled up a nice chair. While munching on my brownies, I saw , to my terror , that fiend , strolling towards me all hoity toity. The food turned to ash in my mouth, a black ooze settled on my brain and muddled my thoughts. My anus cramped up with anger. It was him, that hideous rat, Derrick, walking with a pompous swagger towards me. He was clad in a leather cape , cowboy hat and pink shirt, wearing puffy red pantaloons and swinging his gold topped cane most gaily. He saw me and gave me a smirk, which i put inside my bag. It was then he announced, "Creatures, thou soulless, brainless tramps, hark my arrival with an ovation. Your meagre existence has been enriched with my presence." He then sat beside me and proceeded to tell me jokes that overflowed the good earth with corn.

Shackness

Derrick wrote:
Sleepiness is easing its way through the myriad of elusive thoughts into my nice scrotum. The sullen murmurs of vague people talking seem to flourish through, with the occasional tonal crescendos and decresecndos, seeming to form a certain sonata piece in my surreal mind. The swirls of revulsion seems to swing me into the abyss of weariness. I stumbled. I fell. It was there and then i squalled, " WAH DAMN SHACK AH BUAY TAHAN!"

Sleepless nights(part 2)

Derrick wrote:
Dawn slowly crept past the shadows of dusk, the initial rays of sunlight peeked through the omnipresent clouds.I was devoid of energy, having had an overdoes of caffeine the previous night, mind in adverse and dire straits due to immense pressure of work coupled with a certain someone(YOU!!) lecturing me with his King's English and immaculate knowledge. My mind, body and soul wanted to skip the most dreaded and painful moment of having to report for tis immense and vile job. However, i trudged along with only the fear of vengeance that will be unleashed upon me by Tze Bags should i fail to attend this hated occupation hanging on my mind.Midway , i spotted a primitive figure which seemed vaguely familiar.Upon closer inspection, I spotted Lord Johal , with abundance of joy spread across his pink flushed face.He was clearly in 7th heaven, enthralled just to be working.In stark contrast, my face was flushed too, with weariness more than anything else. Seeing his euphoria, I scowled with menace.

Sleepless nights(part 1)

Garry Johal wrote:
I stood at the gates and glared at him. My legs rubbery from exhaustion, my mind foggy and spirit weak.Sleep had eluded me the night prior, and I stayed awake pondering the many intricacies of the human condition.By the time the Sun rose over the hills, eyebags the size of typewriters had form beneath my orbital sockers.My face was drained of colour and my pallid skin drew gawks from passersby(wide-eyed from a gentleman's night's sleep.). I considered tossing the odd MC and realised to my horror, that fiend Flea Sex was on leave. My heart fell. I promptly picked it up and rode my carriage to work, whence I saw Sir Cumcision.He rode the electric railway to his office and chided me for my lacklustre appearance."Good sir, thy colour is as faded as the paint on the ceiling of the Bastilles Church."With that he puffed out his chest and marched to work, leaving me in his wake. --> miike thats you !

A letter from the Isles of Boramoth by Garry Johal

Dearest Dereke,

I write to you from the far away land of Boramoth. I hope this letter finds you well, but not too well. Indeed, the distance may be tremendous, but laughter is the medium which bridges mankind. Thus, I trust you have maintained your levels of mirth. If you have not, I have enclosed in this envelope of manila vellum, a vial of mirth, that you may imbibe so as to replenish depleted mirth. Consequently, I trust your girth is in extents equal to your mirth.

Forgive me, for I write off tangent. If the tangent is a straight line which leads to Piccadilly, I am afraid the previous paragraph will take you promptly to Pompeii.

I shall get down to the subject of his script of verbs: Manbearpig. I shudder at the mere mention of that vile word. As you may have already heard, there is a heinous beast which plagues Mankind today. Many do not believe it exists, but those who have felt its scourge know better. It has left in its wake, economies crumbling, morals eroded, manners forgotten, babies without blankets, dogs without fleacollars and perhaps worst of all, men without scarves. Calm down, do not heave voluminous floods of sick at this occurence. You are safe. Manbearpig has yet to cross the Indian Ocean, due to its properties of inflicting severe procrastination to its swimmers. Daniel is a morbid example of this. I remember the days when he would arrive at our town meetings punctually, on the dot, in full suit and cape, but once he took a dip in the Indian Ocean's waters, he was afflicted with that terrible malady which made him loose all sense of time and urgency. The commoners refer to this as Indian Timing, a phrase which hardly illustrates the evil of this affliction.

If you are unaware, Manbearpig is half man, half bear and half pig. Before you start pulling out your pubic hairs at the ridiculous fraction, open your mind. No, it is not a mathematical error. This beast is so monstrous that it exceeds its own limits - it is one and a half times a monster. The hairs on the crack of my arse are trembling in terror. I have heard horrendous stories of its misadventures. It roams the forests in day, catching small rodents and harvesting random fungii, which it deftly stews into a most rank smelling broth. Then at night, it comes to the edges of human encampments, sneaks into houses and makes off into the night with children in its evil trotters. It then brings the children home, skins them, drains them of blood, pulls of their nails and teeth, burn off their hair and fries them on a low heat with olive oil and garlic. When their tender skins have browned, it quarters them and promptly dunks them in the broth, to cook overnight, much like that Asiatic delicacy, Bark Coup Teh. When it sits down to dine, the meat slides off the bone.

This is a horrid account of its dining habits, as told by my manservant, Dassant, a man of Creole-Indian dessent. I hardly think it is exaggeration as he assures me he has seen Manbearpig perform this ritual countless times. In fact, my manservant has a carriage, forged in gold which contains Excalibur itself, strategically placed in the jungle, which he will one day use to slay Manbearpig. Now my manservant is down the pub, telling his mates about the time he slayed a fire-breathing pony. He assures me it was a harrowing adventure. He even has a lock of hair from the pony's mane, which looks incredibly similar to 'Sapu lidi' fibres.

Anyquest, Dereke, oh man of Iceland, fear not this vile, fetid beast(I refer to Manbearpig and not Dassant). You are safe in your Nordic lattitudes, while I am marooned on this godforsaken, humid island. Why, it is nothing but sunshine, sand and clear waters here. How quaint. I'll tale good old cloudy, foggy Hampshire anyday. Why, one cannot even stand on the beach for half an hour without sweating profusely. I swear, this climate is not suited for Englishwear. But I insist on it. Why, I see heathens and harlots, frolicking on the golden sands of the beach, wearing nothing but loincloths and walking barefoot. How uncivilised. Not me however, I proudly pace the sands in my linen suit with kevlar vest, leather tophat, coat, jacket, bowtie, pinstripe trousers, pigskin leather shoes and cufflinks. It is most pleasing to the eye. However I did not carry my gold-tipped cane, after all I am not foolish, this is my casual wear after all.

Oh, I hear my manservant calling. He is shouting about how he stabbed someone down the pub for taking his lucky cigarette. Ah, I must hear this adventure. Ta-ta old chap. Hope you can come down to my neck of the woods, Ha Ha(haughty laught). Tis only about 4, maybe 5 years by ship. Do come and we shall read Chaucer and sip port and take long walks while discussing politics and the monarchy(our usual wild Friday Men's night out).

Regards Sir Gobbart, Sutvenpious Poptricart, Mrs.

P.S. Lay off those fermented shark testicles that you are so fond of eating. They really do smell like sperm.