Well...
It all started in the wee hours of one terrible Thursday. There was nothing left in the house to eat. I searched all the cupboards, even the odd one under the sink with bleach and stuff inside. The results of my quest: one dusty latex glove, one small tin of varnish, and one medium tin of Tesco baked beans. I put aside the glove and varnish, and eventually, underneath the oven gloves, I found a can opener.

At last! The sweet beany goodness would be mine! Seeing as all the saucepans were encrusted with grime, having been abandoned to the ravages of the kitchen sink several days prior, I made use of the handy free saucepan which came with the beans. Other people sometimes call them 'tins'. I placed it delicately on top of the hob, and lit the gas.

Scant minutes later, the beans were fully warmed through. I had no spoon, nor any other item of cutlery, so I made full use of my fingers, and shovelled the delicious tomatoey pulses (Are they pulses? For the purposes of this tale, they will be.) down my throat, like a murderer who has just tossed the body into the grave when the sun is already peeping over the horizon. My hunger sated, I curled up on the sofa to await the morning.


*PFFFT*
My eyes snapped open. What was that? It sounded like a tractor's tires being deflated, in bursts of approximately ten seconds. As I heard another, I realised the sounds were emanating from my posterior. As I whirled around in shock, my eyes appeared to deceive me. Were there really men in suits with horses' heads dancing around an enormous tea cup. As I staggered, and the floor fell up to meet me, I glimpsed the empty bean can. How it mocked me. With its eyes! Oh, the eyes...


I realised my anus was still expelling noxious fumes! These gases must be preserved, for the good of science. But what could I keep them in? I hauled myself to my feet, and rediscovered the dusty latex glove. Oh yes. I clamped the arm hole to my arse, and farted for England. Soon the glove reached the size of a baby giraffe, sounding as if one more cubic centimetre of waste gas would force it to explode. I turned around, pants round my ankles, and somehow tied a knot in it. Success! Huzzah! I would be showered in money as the scientific community would clamor to analyse this!

However: The glove-ballon let out a creak like a dying mule. I must do something to keep this... This weapon's structural integrity! Remembering the events leading up to the bean-find prior to my sleep, I grabbed the varnish, and slopped it over the glove. Soon, it would dry to a rock-hard substance. I left it to dry, and went to the shower to cleanse my body.

As I lathered my calves, i finally felt a sense of rest. The farting had ceased. I finished off quickly (fnar!) and ran to the kitchen. The glove had dried. I dressed swiftly, and made ym way to the car, carrying my 'glovoon', as i then christened it. I strapped it in to the passenger seat, and started up the engine.

I have not mentioned the location of my house. The nearest structure is a scientific laboratory about fifteen miles north. Otherwise, I am all alone for nearly fifty miles all around.

I was driving - fast, but not too fast - to the lab, when suddenly I found myself on the set of the popular movie 'Back To the Future'! I looked at myself, and I had turned into Marty McFly! I was driving a DeLorean! Wow! And with that thought, everything turned white.



When I woke up, I found myself in a ditch in the fifties, with a newspaper in my hand. I was clothed in some kind of hessian tunic. I looked at the paper. The date- June 2nd. And the top story? The previous week, a mysterious white object had exploded over the Dorsetshire village of Shitterton, killing hundreds of people in a deadly gas attack.

And that, my friends:

Blown to May: The Guff I Gloved and Glossed.
(Impunity, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 22:59, 3 replies)

Good, very good
Excellent punnage
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 19 Aug 2008, 23:03, closed)

*bows*

*applauds*

*chortles*

*clicks*

*spangs*

*goes to bed*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 23:10, closed)

As beautiful as it is contrived.
Have a click.
(Sir Harrington Titsmith disgraced himself on, Wed 20 Aug 2008, 11:41, closed)