“Return of Le Coq That Crowed”
When the Ganoosh family put their microcephalic heads together and realized the “unlawful” surgery performed on their twins was done at- and/or by the hand(s) of one Alistair Vivekenanda, they went a-questing for same. The combined I.Q of this family would’ve surely– surely– been close to triple figures, and so they were too brainy (when they put their thirteen heads together) to go lookin’ for their ex-neighbour (Alistair) in the house that he (and his own family) had scarpered from.
Anyhow, not long after they fled the scene of Alistair’s (more or less “alleged”) crime, I got news (on The News) of a (quote) “spate” of drive-by bazooka-ings in different parts of town. Mostly those parts of town where people wi’ the surname “Vivekenanda” lived.
But if it was the Ganoosh family displeasuring the frontages of other people’s homes, then they were blowing off bazooka-steam in vain. For it was also “true” (if you believe the rumours) that their own twin sons had already told me that Alistair (et al) had fled for a certain out-o’-the-way place called “Siam” (translation: Thailand).
As it turned out, though, there was a slightly different vibe in the air pertaining to the Ganoosh family’s reckless (yet partially justified) bazooka-play. I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I was only hoping the family would keep forgetting to visit their twins and ask them who did the nose-hair surgery, because much of the so-called “evidence” pointed at me. And if they found that out, then the bazookas would’ve probably been pointed in a me-wards direction also. Which (in turn) would mean that I would (prob’ly) soon die (again) before I had the chance to square up with Vivekenanda– and all because of the Ganoosh clans barbaric thirst for Vengeance.
“Luckily” my penis was there to settle me down (I’m being sarcastic). It folded up its shrink-wrapped paper (“The Hard Economic Times”, where it studied the ups ‘n’ downs of the Cock Market) and said:
“Relax. Them Ganoosh boys have prob’ly caught some sort’a pain-related amnesia. Very common. Had it m’self once.”
“I know,” I said. “That filthy pink ribbon would’a choked a few good memories out of ya.”
“Actually, that was nothin’ compared to all those years YOU throttled me until I vomited,” my Dick lied. “Sometimes you did it four times a day.”
“Aw, SHUDDUP, cock!” I ejaculated. “Didn’t I hear the last of you when I stopped hallucinatin’ the other day?”
“YOU shuddup, Dooligan!” my Penis counter-ejaculated. “I’m tellin’ the truth. For years upon years you strangled me like a chook. Still do, actually. And why? Because you, sirrah, be naught but a Naughty Fellow.”
How DARE my cock say that!! This time he (or she) had gone TOO FAR. I grabbed it by the shaft and punched it several times in the head. Weeping like a girl (or boy. Let’s not be sexist) it shrank back into my trousings, after which I sincerely hoped (at the time) (and still do) that (“hope”, I mean. Still do “hope”) I had (and have) heard the last of that unruly appendage– for now. Furthermore, I also hope(d) that he (or it) never rears its fugly head again until Urgently Required. Oh, sure, I could’ve reasoned with it. But what good would that have done? Would’a merely triggered off another debate, a DEBATE that would’ve spread into the homes of the MASSES, which (in turn) would’ve resulted in a little too much (wait for it) MASS-ARGUING!!
No, hang on, that’s, errr… that’s not right. But KA-ZAM anyway!
Anyway, the point I was beginning to make before my prick pointed me bluntly in the wrong direction was this: There is more than one emotion that a Ganoosh might feel when he fires a bazooka at the home of a random Vivekenanda (more than one emotion besides everybody’s favourite– Revenge– I mean). “And what” (you may well ponder) “is that other emotion that a person (or person-ZZ) may feel when he or she do dat?”
Because, apparently, the urgent rush to their cars after I told them “somebody” (other than me) had bled the perky snouts of their boyfolk was not a rush of rage, but rather a rush of JOY. “But what” (you might add, in that chronically nosey way of yours) “were all them drive-by displeasurings about, then?”
Answer: CELEBRATORY BAZOOKA-FIRE.
For the person who solved the Siamese nose-hair conundrum had also saved a whole family of Ganooshes the full expense of sending their twins to Switzerland: “Home of the Mega Tweezers” (as it says on Swiss licence plates). And so paying the Vivekenandas of the world a drive-by visit was actually the Ganoosh’s way of spraying thanks.
Oh, wrong-headed Right-winged Media! How many other drive-by bazooka-ings have you misconstrued thusly, due to your ignorant culture of cultural ignorance? I’m afraid the Official Answer may be: Shit Loads.
On the down side, though, it looks like they won’t be taking their vengeance to Thailand (formerly “Siam”) where the twins (formerly “Siamese”) told me Alistair Vivekenanda is. And so (flustered sigh) I suppose I’ll just have to take my own vengeance there myself. Along with a change of clothing. And my ribbon. And my pruning sheers.