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Thursday, October 19, 2017

There's a moan to fit every whinge.RIGINAL.

by riginal (writer), moe australia, May 07, 2014

Do not forsake me oh my darlin' Gnat's it all about Alfie?

RIGHT UP HIS ALLEY. RIGINAL

Bob Berkers was moaning in the womb. Perhaps even before or at least during conception? Bob sperm was sitting eating his lunch, watching Bruce Willis saving the planet on big scream,moaning his own business,bitching about how hot he was then how cold, then...The majority of the assembled sperm gathered, put their hands over their sperm ears, told Bob in no uncertain sperm-to quit his whinging or they'd toss him out, which they did...with a helping hand from his dad, himself a moaner,or so it appeared to Bob from the angle he was on.

Bob Berkers was born. Irritable! The lights were too bright, mum was screaming too loud when he was trying to creep. Why hadn't he been given a trendy haircut...mum had one? WHAT! No privacy! Wealthy mum, assisted birth, ten assistants, plus nurses, five doctors, Bob's own private hospital. Bob didn't cry. He just started whinging to any of his five nurses silly enough or patient enough to listen; that his mother's milk was a bit sour, "are you sure it's not past its use- by- date? Can I see the purchase receipts? Mum! Could you add some strawberry flavoring? Is this product full cream? I would prefer my nappies and silver spoon to be changed BEFORE I get moist, and silver residue on my cute tongue" on and on.

Bob started creche with a plate of keish. "Sheesh! it's cold in here, I don't like the other kids, nanny get rid of them they're giving me the...oh look out! I've thrown up all over my...or is that keish? I want my mummy...that nurse said I needed my bottom spanked...get rid of her. Shut up everyone I have to get my beauty sleep. My bottle was a bit too hot. Can't anyone see that I'm uncomfortable?"

Even at that tender time of life young Bob antagonistic was full bore. Driving everyone Beserkers. All in the family name inherent traditional moan entered into the family scrap whinging book. Bob's dad was so proud of Bob when he graduated from uni with Horrors. Rest of the class wore ear muffs...in the middle of summer? Bob's teachers one by one were found heavily sedated after Berker senior was forced to by unanimous vote to install a Prosac swimming pool. No water.

Just Prozac and a shared glass of water. Bob, according to his hammered sky high teachers who had to be tethered to prevent Prosacking 'high five' levitation when Bobby entered class; was a "coincidence" according to the Principle who was paid to ignore the moaning and whinging. The Principle didn't see Bob graduate. He had to attend the AA bottle shop. Sorry,work shop.

One year after grad Bob Berkers had plenty of male moaner business 'friends,' muff wearers incidently. Plenty of businesses, heaps of money, cars, houses, but he was lonely. None of Bob's shrinks who started swimming 'lesions' down at the Prosac pool after listening to Bob, told his father his son suffered from Borderline Whinging Wilderness.

BWW had no cure. They told Bob he had BWW, but he just covered his ears, jumped into his $200,000 BMW and moaned off. Not stopping for any whinging STOP signs. He just moaned that life was un fair, sort of blonde and brunette. Women in his opulent life were scarce. Couldn't seem to find a true love. Some seemed interested, the majority jumped out of windows or belted their heads on solid oak bar stools after an evening with the B.

Bob was driving down Sunset Fool a Bard when something caught his eye. A Bard woman was going beserk. He stopped and listened. His specially built whinging BMW wanted to move on as it was overheating but the Bard woman was captivating. She wasn't pretty. She was short, wearing a frumpy dress with whinging quotes sewn in haphazard fashion dripping off her like a storm tossed chilli tree on heat. The Fool sad ad Bard was moaning softly,"to be or gnat to be..." she slapped at her blotched gnat bitten legs. "Am I to die here in this gnat- ridden fool a Bard? I implore thee, would thoust not rub my morose legs and body with ripoff price anti panty gnat cream?"

Bob opened the car door hesitantly, clapped. She turned on him ranting. "YOU with your Bum M W overheating garish quad cam specially built whinger." She produced a large chilli from her sonnet bag, struck Bob on the cob with it . "B off MW with you...it's chilly and the gnat wind runs hoarse. A winded horse chased by gnats suddenly galloped out of a side street followed by a policeman. Was it part of the act? "Distant maiden will thou share a coffee with me you ribald wench?" Their eyes met. Bob felt something he had never felt before. His wallet. This woman was turning him on like a group of tap dancing gnats. A group of tap dancing gnats fussed round the Bard's beard. Was the beard real? Were the gnats tap imposters? Was the horse dragging the policeman down the street on his backside who was supposed to be clearing the street of moaners...was he real and reeling from snuff scuff? "I ask you again through your enticing beard young woman wench, coffee down yonder street?" "NO! my chilblains are blaining, my knees ache, it's that time of the month, the world sucks, my goldfish is bi, my spouting leaks, my leeks are spouting Shakespur, my spurs are bitchingly spurious, and you're giving me the irrats...be off Cur Gallahad...be off!" Bob was in love.

They sat huddled on a park bench in the middle of the Bard. She never leaves home without it round her middle. They sipped cold coffee. They kissed. Her beard fell off. She exclaimed, "jeeze you're a clumsy Cur. And get off my gnat, you're standing on my monthly 'Why get on with your life when you can whinge' mag. Bob held her tight.

"Bob Berker and Bard woman Moaner I pronounce you whinging man and moaning wife. You may blitz the bride."

What I am trying to say is that at the end of the day no need to go horse and tear frantically down the street of night mares. Somewhere out there there's a moan to fit every whinge...and ain't gnat the tap dancing truth when push comes to love? Or vice-versa. OH! forgot to tell you the bride's first name. Mrs...Mrs Beserker. Guys if you want to meet her... do a pub crawl, roll round the front lawn spouting Shakespeare at 3am in the morning. She'll materialize sooner than you think. Cheers...from the neighbors. Bye now.



About the Writer

Bio...bioio...daylight come an i wanna go home. Come missa tele man tele me banana. A banana tele? Seriously would like to hook up with other comedy writers to engage.
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