Post Number Twelve

“A Wordless Werdspert”

Having recently discovered that it’s possible to launch what– in legal terms– is known as a (quote) “Reverse Class Action” (i.e. an “action” where one person sues an entire “class” of persons {like the “Working” Class. Or the Drinking Class} instead of the other way around) I have decided that suing Neanderthal Man on his own is a bit wasteful. Because after all, tattoo guys are always chummy with motorcycle gangs. And so I’m launching one of those abovementioned Reverse Class Actions against Neanderthal Man’s entire motorcycle gang, the BROTHERS-IN-HARM as well (as him). It’s a decision I’ve made without prejudice (unless you count my deep feelings of prejudice towards Neanderthal Men) and furthermore, it’s a decision I have made freely (as in, free of unhealthy fetters like “legal advice” or “common sense”) because I figure that– after I’ve sued that Monster of the Blemishing Arts into the very gutter– his (quote) “Brothers-in-Harm” will have to (perhaps begrudgingly? at first? I dunno) pick up the legal tab.

Sure, there could be a spot of harmless grumbling from the good-natured scallywags. I foresee one Bearded-Ruffian-with-a-heart-o’-gold playfully nudging another Bearded-Ruffian-with-a-heart-o’-gold, and saying to him (or her) “You pick up the legal tab!” At which the second Bearded-Ruffian-with-a-heart-o’-gold will nudge the first Bearded-Ruffian-with-a-heart-o’-gold back, and say: “No, YOU pick up the legal tab!” Then after several more minutes of good-natured nudging, both Bearded-Ruffians-with-hearts-o’-gold will fall (exhausted) onto the grass (because I foresee this happening in a pleasant park) (or a daisy-filled meadow), laughing in harmony, before finally coming to their senses and settling with me out of Court. Like the loveable Cro Magnon persons they are.

If only those differently-abled folk at the SUING CIRCLE were so fucking loveable!

I mean, REALLY! Where oh where oh WHERE they got their chips on their shoulders from (i.e. those who actually still had both shoulders) I will never know! So I think suing those assorted “amputees” and “eyeless” folk for all they’re worth (which, I suppose, won’t be much– but it’s the principle) should, I’m hoping, teach them that– in this world (that is, the real one)– we don’t always get things our own way. Oh, and when it comes to my defamation action, I’m including the pointy Head of the suing circle, DIGBY WERSPERT himself, who– in a delicious reversal of… y’know… a thing that normally happens only one way– will also be sued until (figuratively-speaking) his pants fall off. Or come off. Or whatever. This I promised him, before escaping that differently-abled lynch mob he had in his office.

Of course, even before then I got him to point me in the general direction of a primo quality Defamation Lawyer. Which he did. Namely, his own sister, WENDY WERDSPERT. Yes, folks, coming soon to a Defamation Court near you, a family drama will be played out that will be so dramatic and so family-orientated that it would probably be better if it were played out in a FAMILY Court. Near you. Instead of a Defamation one.

Those words (Above) were the ones that bounced around inside my skull while I waited for Wendy Werdspert in her office (which was {and is} conveniently perched above the blemishing boutique where my man-boobs were disfigured).

Another thing that happened while I waited for Wendy Werdspert was a discussion I had with Wendy Werdspert’s weceptionist, Fwank. “She” (because Frank is a “girl’s name” now. Apparently…) told me that Ms. Werdspert was once a chain-smoker, but cured herself by chewin’ gum. Unfortunately, this led her into a new habit: she became a chain-CHEWER. Not (I hasten to add) someone who chews on a metal chain, but rather someone who chews gum-stick after gum-stick after gum-stick ad infinitum (which is Latin for “et cetera”). I told Frank this didn’t bother me. “As far as I’m concerned,” I said, “she can chew her gosh-darned cunt out.”

But Frank the Receptionist gave me a knowing frown which told me one thing: this girl knows how to frown. I praised her on that skill, but all she said (with a follow-up frown) was: “Aren’t you curious to know exactly why I’m giving you this knowing frown?”

Frank was the Keeper of the Gate. I had to humour her.

“Why?” I yawned.

She then went on to explain that some types of chain-chewer don’t actually spit out the flavourless gum in their gobs, instead preferring to keep on adding fresh flavours to the original wad, all the live long day. And because we were now in the twilight moments of this (i.e. that) live long day, I was gunna see some seriously BULBOUS CHEEKS on this chick when I walked into her office. Furthermore, the hundred ‘n’ fifty grams (yes, grams) of gum she would now have in her swollen face would make it virtually impossible to understand anything else that came out her mouth. Like words.

Which brings us to the really freaky part.

For– in the twilight moments of the live long day, when her speech had gone beddy-byes in a massive cradle of cud– the only way Wendy Werdspert could possibly communicate was (and is) via Morse Code– with her BARE BOSOMS. That’s right. A swing is a dash and a jiggle is a dot.


This whole consultation suddenly had me worried (with an UN-knowing frown) from that point on. My fears were well-grounded (or founded. Or whatever) because when I walked through the office door and saw bulgey-faced Wendy cudding away while she sat astride a grand piano which doubled as her desk, I couldn’t help noticing she was (as promised) bare of breast and– here’s the grounded fears bit– also “blessed” (or cursed?) with a dynamic duo of human head-sized AUREOLES!!

Double gulp.

This meant she may not be so sympatico re: my own small-yet-perky tattooed niplets. Indeed, she might even actually say (through “Norks Code” as “they” call it): “So! You think you got probs in the chestwear department. Well, have a look at THESE fuckin’ dinner plates!”

As I stood in the doorway, I tried averting my gaze from “those fuckin’ dinner plates” by staring at her snatch. But it wasn’t easy– especially when she swung her pendulous bosoms in the direction of a chair, “telling” me to be seated. Reluctantly, I did. Then she got straight down to business. Took me a while to translate the weird lingo, but luckily the receptionist gave me her own personal autographed copy of “An Idiot’s Guide to Morse Code with Tits” (AKA “Norks Code”. As “they” call it). By diving regular into this helpful tome, I was able to (wait for it) KEEP ABREAST O’ THE SITUATION!! Ka-ZAM!! Heh, heh. Okay…

Basically, the woman said I had no case to go on.  Then she told me to wind up the conversation and leave. Either that or she was doing some sort of weird, swirly-titted Stripper thing– minus the tassels.


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