Actually, this is a post I wrote years ago for another site. But, hey – recycling means I’m doing MY bit to save the World.
What are YOU lot doing for our planet, hmm?
Today I had an appointment with my dentist.
He breeted me with a hube brin on his ubly mub.
“Hello ratty, how’s it boinb” he said, addinb “just lie gack in the gib chair and – - O-P-E-N – - W-I-D-E”.
“Boodness bracious” he exclaimed, fanninb the air “you’ve bot really gad greath, and it’s all down to a groken tooth”.
“It’ll have to come out”.
“I’ll just bive you a little prick in the bum.”
“It’ll only hurt a little git.”
“Cheeky gubber,” I thoubht!
Anyway, to cut a lonb story short, ever since that jag of novocaine in my bog, I’ve geen confusinb my “B’s” and “G’s”. I think it’s affected my grain.
This is the cause of a lot of emgarrasment.
Later that day, after I’d cashed my Biro (and with a pocket laden heavy with grass) I decided to visit the Gooky’s, the Getting shop on the corner, and place a few gog on the bee-bee’s.
Gloody Nora, my nabs came in. I couldn’t fuckinb gelieve it.
This is a cause for celigration, I thoubht, and with my ill-botten bains made my way to the pug.
With hindsibht, I would have geen getter off boinb home and havinb a shab with the old birl.
Gut anyway, – off to the gar I went.
“Bood afternoon” I said to the buy gehind the gar, Rogert.
“What can I bet you?” asked bood ol’ Rog.
“A dougle bin and a blass of geer” I said, “and grinb it to my tagle.”
“You ibnorant little gastards are all the same” he said, roundinb on me, “you bet a few gog in your pocket and you think you’re Bod – you take it to the tagle yourself,” addinb “one of these days I’ll bet me a bun and gury you bits in the bround!”
His outgurst made me really anbry and I struck him a glow to his upper gody. Rogert responded with a punch up my gracket and tried to knee me in the boolies, gut I floored him with a head gutt.
Soon, the goy’s in glue were called.
Now I’m up on a charbe of assault and abbravated gattery.
