Chronobramulator

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Chronoconsimplohyetocamstothermohygrobaranebramulator!

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Chronoconsimplohyetocamstothermohygrobaranebramulator,

you must first pass The Test. The Test contains questions about the glorious National Geographic Magazine. It is written by the editor, who knows all. Unlike any other test, you need at least 87.2% to pass The Test.

Here are some easy samples to get you started!

1. What was the main feature of the May 1984 National Geographic Magazine?
2. What famous person endorsed the “Big Expensive Rolex”™ on page 15 of the January 1975 National Geographic Magazine?
3. In the September 1992 National Geographic Magazine, you read about Andorra. What did the annual rainfall amount to?

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Chronoconsimplohyetocamstothermohygrobaranebramulator

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When you receive next month’s issue don’t forget to disconnect your phone line and barricade your house and read it for the full month. There is a free map of Ruhr stat in north east Germany. (But what’s, like, wrong with that, that’s ya know like, a statement. What’s the development? Ok fine, ya know, if you don’t wanna learn, ya know, that’s fine, ya know.)

The way things go.

My granny playing Rachmaninoff as the midgets have sex in the background.

A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.

A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.

But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.

Well done!

Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.

This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?

Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!

That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.

Claps.

Kisses.

O Shite.

Poor old Alvin Absolom. Apart from having a stupid name he had a terrible problem which was very embarrassing for all involved. He was fat. Very fat. In fact, he'd put B. Mulvey to shame with the amount of pure and utter flab that was to be found around his middle and surrounding areas. But not only did he have a massive stomach (even larger than Bill Ten Thousand Stone, God rest him), he also had a gi-normous arse, slightly larger than a small country. (Fair play to Neil Hannon for that one, and also to Liam for inspiring me to talk like him for some reason.) Thus it was very hard to get by him if you met him in a corridor or something. In fact it was well nigh impossible. And imagine meeting him on a bus. God, it was desperate. And this is just like a Mr Men book.

Though Alvin sounded like he was, he wasn't actually Jewish, though it would have been very hard for him to prove it considering he had so much pure flab around that area. I mean to say, he could have had a Star of David branded onto his arse or something, like a lot of them Jews do be doing these days. As a matter of fact he was baptized as a Catholic, but he stopped going to Mass a few years back because it was bad for his health, but in particular his presence was hazardous to small childs whom he regularly sat on (completely by accident, of course), forgetting that the fat around his arse was so voluminous.

But the reason we mention Alvin to you is because a few months ago he came to the attention of Brenda O'Donoghue of the Gerry Ryan Show, who was investigating the various shite phenomena of Ireland (that being shite as in "Gerry's Cup Lán de Shoite" as in excrement as in poo poo, and not just shite as in rubbish as in not-very-good). Alvin's particular problem with shiteing stems from the fact that due to his enormous body mass the sheer volume of his shite is very difficult to deal with. After a particularly heavy meal Alvin's shite was very often of catastrophic proportions. One particular day he visited Eddie Rocket's only to find himself caught very short indeed after a meal of triple hamburger dripping with blue cheese followed by five Oreo cookie malts and three bowls of disgustingly cheesy garlic fries, all washed down with a nice bottle of Gaviscon and a few Rennie Deflatines. Feeling the shite coming ever quicker, Alvin dashed for the jacks but could only manage a rather hasty plod. Once he had squeezed through the doors he sat his enormously fat arse awkwardly onto the toilet bowl and awaited the explosion. As a matter of fact, he shat so fast that he caused a sonic boom which shattered the mirror and knocked the door off its hinges. The black guys at the door were just ready to call in reinforcements, fearing the angry customer had returned to throw another few punches, but after inspecting the loos they realized poor Alvin's most embarrassing predicament and left him to clean up the lava-like shite which now plastered the walls of the gents' jacks.

Such is the way with fat people and shite. But God love them, it's not their fault really, it's just the gland in the back-passage that has them that way.

A prayer for peace.

Dear God,

You might think that all we're about is mickeys, Ryanair and general durt, but you know that's not the troot, Gráinne. In fact, we are very intelligent and deep-thinking people who have a lot going on in their heads. Really. (Hee hee.)

As a matter of fact we care deeply about education in the use of the Chrono[...]bramulator, which, after all, according to Garro, is, like, didlee (D-I-D-Y). That and learning about Penneys, especially when you have dreams that you leave your shoes there and have to go back through all the security barriers to get them. Why on earth would you leave your shoes in Penneys? And why on earth would Penneys waste their money on security barriers when all they have in stock is complete and utter bollocks? The mind bogglels [sic]. Sicut erat in principio, et in saecula saeculorum.


AaaaaAAAAAAAAAA!!!---MEN. !