Well folks, it's me again, Angus Thripshaw. Old Green Arse is coming back from vacation today so I thought I would return for one more post and see if there is anything else worth stealing around his place that would lend a touch of class my filth encrusted tar paper shack. No such luck. He was apparently invited to a wedding by a sad friendless couple who either felt sorry for him or decided that the presence of a six foot drunk Irishman with a mohawk would lend some tone to the proceedings. Again, no such luck. For those bleary eyed sentimentalists out there, Mr. Fish Finger has posted his photos of the event on the interwebs. Nice. I guess he forgot to take any pictures of the guys.
Anyway, down to the business at hand. I seem to remember requesting entries some time ago for The 2007 Guild Award For The Years Worst Poem. I could be mistaken because I had been partaking heavily of Jim Beam, Banana Liqueur, Scrub 'n' Flush, and industrial varnish. I have a faint memory of sipping my pint, gently raising my left front buttock (I have four buttocks as a result of a batch of tainted botox) in an attempt to release a small fart, and someone asking for a light. My next memory is me waking up on a Grey Hound bus bound for Tulsa, clad in a pink taffeta evening own, hip waders, the right side of my body totally hairless, clutching a bottle of Drambuie and a picture of Sammy Davis Junior. You know how it is when your having fun.
As you are all well aware the response has been overwhelming. Through endless debates, several heated arguments, a few fist fights, and a mysterious smothering, I have managed to draw three nominees from the 47 million entries. The final three are as follows:
NOMINEE # 1
My Poem, entitled 'In 60 seconds written.'
Sex with Jesus makes me pee
And pooping with Hoff brings me glee
Tomkat, Arses, Willies, Boobs
I rub these on me with no clothes
Life & death, a disease that's demented
Winning this award I have cemented!
Now hand it over you crazy Hibernian bastard!!
This vulgar little entry dripped from the pen of The Writer. He is famous for his biting pop culture satire and lengthy treatises on arse wiping. The poem's strengths lie in it's brevity and sheer volume of disconnected vile imagery. It's only weakness it the fact the the author is more than capable of far, far worse.
NOMINEE # 2
Ode to the Greenfish
Oh, Greenfish. You are green. You are a fish.
You swim in the water. Your tail makes a 'swish'.
When a worm takes a dip, you eat him all up.
Then you go to the pub and you order a cup. (of soup)
Oh greenfish. So green. So fishy. So stinky.
Let me introduce you to a swanky octopus named inky.
Nice to meet you)
Good with lemon and spice. Pan fried or grilled.
Oh Greenfish, dear Greenfish... do you feel fulfilled?
This mad little ditty sprung from the fevered mind of Elizabeth. This young lady is well known for presenting foul, profane, blasphemous, obscene, and profoundly demented flotsom and jetsom of human expression, served up with a sweet smile and a touch of whimsy. It's strengths lie in the hints of foul odors, erotic cannibalism, and a subtle wind breaking, happy ending, bodily excreting sort of motif. It's weakness lies in the bold similarities with the early works of Walt Whitman.
The Chicken Fucker's Fable
I am the Chicken Fucker
born to a feather plucker
aka Ms. Chicken Tucker;
see, Mama had a fetish for
a chicken up her pinafore.
Around the barn I'd gravitate
to woo the hens out for a date
on which my firey loins could sate;
all this against Ms. Tucker's warn "hen dates'll bring your pecker harm!"
A silly, horny lad was I
for rubbing chickens up my thigh
all to the shock of passers-by
(I did, I forgot to mention,
enjoy a crowd for cuckold sessions).
I should have heard my dear old Ma
who's a scar on her vagina
from just this sort of whoopala
(which, by the way, I do no more
my pecker still is mighty sore).
T'was a sunny day the air was warm
the same as most on our chicken farm
when my favourite hen did bring me harm;
She mistook my long and pinkish nob
for an ear of corn still on the cob.
So if you want to fuck a hen
you might want to stop and think again
of what could happen to you then.
For a penis that's been pecked by hens
a penis that has seen the end.
This relentless, cathartic, brutal experiment in the mockery of decent mores and deeply held taboos was presented by a very odd force called Kat. This young lady is the final word in pee, poop, weird shit, David Hasselhoff, and cooking. It's strengths are manyfold. Vulgarity, perverse sexual acts, cruelty, the sheer length for Christ's sake. This is an early favorite hampered only by the fact that it is quite good.
Alright sickos. I have to get my but out of here before Fishymon gets home and starts asking pointed questions about the smell in here. The winner will be announced in the new year at The Foul Arts Academy Social Club And Terror Suspect Holding Area. I will be presenting the award if I am still alive and the entire event will have a special guest celebrity host . So good bye and good luck from your old pal Angus, and say hi to Green Fish for me when he gets back. Piss off.