8:00pm, 28th of January, 1891.

“Ah, inspector,” I smiled, as I strode into the rather bleak building which housed Scotland Yard. “You may cease panicking and flailing about like headless chickens now – I am here!”

“Oh dear,” said Inspector Spunkleford.

“I…beg your pardon?” I gasped.

“Oh, sorry Likely, that was not directed at you, I assure you,” Spunkleford replied. “I have just taken delivery of this message…I think you had better read it, old boy.”

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, swiftly followed by a speculative eyebrow as I took the letter from Spunkleford and perused it:

“Dear Inspektor and the koppers,

Did ya hear about the posh man who got exploded? You musta larfed yer heads off, eh me old mates? Har har!

Well, we hope yer ready fer more because that woz only the beginnnning and their will be more to come, mark my words. You all better watch yer cock and balls, that’s all we’ll say fer now, har har.

All the best,

The Anti-Hat League.”

I lowered the letter slowly. “The Anti-Hat League?” I echoed. “Who the ARSE are they? And why are they so terribly illiterate? Who gave you this note, inspector?”

“Flying squad,” Spunkleford replied, matter-of-factly.

“FLYING squad? What flying squad?”

“Pigeons!” Spunkleford beamed, pointing upwards, as if I could not possibly imagine where one would find pigeons. “We send out special police pigeons, you see, and our informants in the city attach little messages to their legs and send them back, all very discreet and hush-hush. We’ve got loads of them up on the roof, some coming in, some going out again…we’ve built this great big contraption for housing them all, you know. Very state-of-the-art. We call it the ‘Twittering Device.‘”

“What in the name of feathered fuckery are you babbling on about, Spunkleford? Honestly, I’ve never heard anything quite so ridiculous in all my years! ‘Twittering Device’! Pah! The very notion!”

Spunkleford looked rather crestfallen at my dismissal of what he clearly thought to be a truly wondrous idea, but I had more pressing concerns on my mind, like what the writer of this letter meant by watching our ‘cock and balls’…what did this all MEAN? My ever-eager eyes scanned the page quickly, my mind churning over like a thing churning things over. Like a churner, if you will.

“By Satan’s Steam-Powered Scrotal Sack!” I suddenly exclaimed, as an idea popped into my (admittedly brilliant) brain. “I think I have it!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, the way you put yourself about, Likely,” mumbled Spunkleford.

“I think I know where these bounders are going to strike next!” I continued, choosing to ignore that terrible slur upon my character. “Clearly, they are after upper-class gents such as myself, see how they delight in the death of the so-called’ posh-man’…so, where will you find many more members of high-society?”

“On the roof?” Spunkleford answered.

“BALLS!”

“It was only a suggestion,” muttered the inspector.

“No, inspector – BALLS! Social functions! THAT is where you shall find the upper classes at this time of day!” I paused. “Although I do concede that youe answer was also balls.”

“So…where do the cocks come in?”

“At these sort of gatherings, all over the ruddy place!” I winked. “Unless….EGAD! Of course! Heavens, my mind is pumping on all pistons to-day, inspector!” I jabbered excitedly. “Mr. Cockduster, the milliner of choice for the well-to-do gent! Why, I myself have purchased many a fine topper from his reputable store!”

“So…so these louts are going to strike at either Mr. Cockduster’s shop, or at a ball of some sort?” Spunkleford said, finally grasping the concept with at least one good hand.

“Precisely! There is a spectacular gala ball taking place in town tonight, as I recall…but do I go there, or do I go to Mr. Cockduster’s place? Where will the gang strike NEXT, confound it?”

There was a dramatic pause.

“I shall just go and re-tweet this to my informants,” said Spunkleford, venturing off. I sighed.

- Lord Likely.

* Where should Likely go next? To mR. Cockduster’s shop (Vote COCK), or to the gala ball (Vote BALLS)? Which is it to be? COCK or BALLS? Leave a comment here, or on his lordship’s Twitter page (using the #1score4 tag) and/or Facebook – quick! The clock is TICKING!

Having finally reclaimed my lordly estate, and then relaunched my glorious journals upon an adoring and lust-stricken crowd, I now feel I should finally celebrate my proper return to my diary-writing. And when I feel the urge to celebrate, I cannot help but whip my cock out.

Steady yourselves, my dear readers, for I am not referring to my actual appendage in this instance. Instead, I am referring to my much-desired and (very) warmly-received award, The Golden Cock of Excellence.

The Golden Cock of Excellence (or ‘The Golden Cock of Excellence’, for short – I do not care much for abbreviations and acronyms) was created by my wondrous brain-matter last year, as a way to reward my loyal readers, commentators and indeed anyone who had displayed some sort of love (with or without utensils) towards myself or my journals.

Since its introduction, the Golden Cock has become an extremely sought-after award, overshadowing much inferior trinkets such as The Victoria Cross and the Knighthood. This comes as no surprise, of course, as not only is my award much more handsome than any other, but it can also be slipped into any orifice for added pleasure, a feat which cannot be replicated by the Victoria Cross without shredding one’s intimate ares to shreds.

Anyhow, you may discover the inspiration for this fine, upstanding award, and behold a list of previous recipients by reading this article, or this article.

And so, with the history firmly behind us, we must thrust onwards and upwards, and move on to the latest round of awards, and pass out the finely-crafted phallus to the latest lucky winners.

Lord Mark Hooper of neOnbubble: For providing his lordship with a sterling guest-post earlier this year, and for being a jolly good egg all round, despite living in that skank-infested arse-pit that is Portsmouth.

Sir Renal of Failure: for being a long-standing and loyal supporter of his lordship, and one whom I believe I do not thank enough. A thousand, throbbing thank yous indeed!

Lord Max de Relax, lord of British Speak: for his sterling work in attempting to bring together Great Britain and the Quite Good United States of America, his fine guest-writings and for running an excellent little pub called The Slap and Tickle. Bravo!

Lady Green of Eyezz: for her loyal patronage of my Cock and Balls, despite it being virtually deserted and overrun with tumbleweeds. I salute you, m’dear!

Dame Ettarose from The Edge of Sanity: another regular, ravishing reader, who often takes the time to comment upon my wondrous journals. I raise my glass and drop my trousers in your honour, my dear!

Sir Canucklehead: just as his fellow Canadian countrymen remain loyal to the Queen, Sir Canucklehead remains loyal to his lordship, a fact which has not gone unnoticed. Jolly good work, eh?

Lord Alex of L: like my bowel’s functions after a mid-afternoon snack of prunes and a few glasses of prune juice, Mr L is very regular. For his frequent contributions and musings, he easily earns himself my massive, engorged gratitude.

Lady Linda de Mouseski: for frequently dropping by to fraternise with my glorious self, and for providing me with many hearty chuckles which have served to lighten up the dreariest of days. ‘Tis much appreciated indeed.

Sir Don Lewis, CEO of DONCO: this enterprising colonial never fails to make joyful sounds emit from my noble cake-hole, that and his tireless devotion to my Empire makes Sir Lewis a worthy winner of my glittering cock-end.

Lady Diane Aldred: supremely creative English rose Diane has been a regular reader of my wondrous journals, and for that she deserves honouring. Plus, with any luck the receipt of said award will endear her to me, and we shall wind up entwined in a passionate embrace, possibly whilst nude.

Lord Dead of Rooster: As well as having the good sense to promote my fine journals on his own web-log, Mr. Rooster is also a very funny chap indeed, and so for his services to my laughter-glands I dub him Lord Rooster (deceased).

Sir Static of Krapsody: another most amusing writer, and another who has remained loyal to me through the grotesquely thick and the skeletal thin. Well done indeed, sir!

And finally a special mention for pseudonymph, who whilst not having any web-log of her own to whore upon my journals, is one of my staunchest and sweetest of supporters. I am in awe, m’dear! My Cock is all yours!

Whew! And there, dear friends, we have it. Thirteen more proud recipients of my proud award. All to-day’s winners are free to save the image for themselves, and upload it to their web-log, or print it out and affix it to their loins – whatever takes your fancy.

If you have been left out of the proceedings this time, do not fear. I do not hate you or anything, and I am sure the time will come when the Golden Cock shall rise again.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

humor-blogs.com once won a Golden Cock, which perfectly compliments their Silver Anus.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: From Bard to Verse!

> Subscribe in a reader

Having been cooped up with my man-servant in a dark (and increasingly noxious) tunnel for almost an hour, it was with great relief that we finally resurfaced in my magnificent mansion, via a secret trapdoor which lead us out into my vast, well-stocked library.

“Thank toss for that!” I wheezed, as I climbed out into considerably fresher air. “I do not know what the hell is in your diet of late Botter, but if that foul stench from your backside is anything to go by, then I think I shall have to take radical steps to curb your eating habits, possibly by the rather violent removal of your masticatory faculties.”

“Yes milord. Sorry milord.” Botter apologised.

I stopped to survey my opulent surroundings, when I suddenly stiffened with shock.

Regular readers of these fine journals may recall that I had my personal library built upon last year, which saw the glorious erection (‘erection’ being the entirely correct and applicable word here) of my now infamous Pornographic Wing.

It was in this proud monument to debauchery that I now found myself, but rather than being greeted with shelf after shelf of my perfectly preserved pornographic pamphlets and pictographs, I witnessed something awful; something so terrible it made me doubt the very existence of a God.

There were animals loose in my library.

I could only look on in horror as I beheld squirrels snacking upon my smutty softcovers. Rabbits ravaged my Rubens. Nightingales nested on my nudes. It was a sight so horrifying, dear readers, that I am not ashamed to admit that I sunk to my knees, desperation filling my entire frame.

“Those goddamned Italian rogues!” I wailed, referring to the two ne’er-do-wells who had taken my Estate from me. “What kind of foul creatures are we dealing with here? What kind of depraved mockery of manhood wills such wanton destruction upon such a comprehensive collection of cockery?”

“Um…I…I don’t know,” Botter mumbled.

“We are dealing with truly black-hearted indivivuals here, Botter,” I continued. “Men who are willing to trash such titillating treasures may know no limits, and so we must…be…careful” I slowed, as I watched a cow wander in through the open door of the library. “Botter,” I said quietly, as the docile creature ambled past me. “I am going to ask you something, and I would greatly appreciate an honest and upfront answer.”

“Yes, milord?” Botter said, his voice tinged with nervousness.

The cow stopped to sniff some shelves, and then decided to chew upon a particualrly erotic portrait of one of my former lovers. The beast clearly had good taste in women, it had to be said.

“Botter,” I continued gently. “Is it at all possible that you forgot to close the library door before we set off on our holiday?”

Botter shifted awkwardly on the spot, frantically toying with the rim of his bowler hat which he was now clutching in his grubby little mitts.

“Um…I cannot quite say, milord…it was so long ago…” the wretch whined.

“Yes or no, Botter?” I implored, tapping my foot impatiently.

“Yes, milord,” Botter confessed meekly, his head lowered in shame. “I…I think I did forget to close the door…”

“I see,” I said calmly, striding over to a small stone statuette of the Venus de Milo. “Well, I appreciate your honesty, Botter, and now, if you do not mind, I would like to do one thing.”

“Milord?”

I swept up the statuette with both hands and raised it over my head, my eyes blazing with fury and rage. “I AM GOING TO BASH YOUR GREASY LITTLE SKULL INTO A THOUSAND TINY PIECES, YOU LITTLE TWAT-BAG!” I screamed.

Botter whimpered and dashed off across the room, spouting forth numerous pathetic apologies.

“Come hither!” I cried, lurching after him with the Venus in my grasp. “Come hither, so that I might better clobber you!”

Botter took refuge behind a plinth boasting a rather striking bronze carving of my wondrous self in all my wondrous nakedness, while I ranted and raved after him. Suddenly, however, I was stopped dead in my tracks as I heard distant voices nearing our location.

“I thought I heard someone shouting down here,” said one of the voices, which I recognised as belonging to that dreadful Italian chap.

“Balls!” I hissed. “It’s those ruddy wops!”

“What’ll we do?” Botter whispered back.

“I should leave you to them,” I replied. “I should let them capture you, and let them make meatballs out of…well, your meatballs.”

Botter winced at the very thought of this notion.

“Under the circumstances, however, I am going to suggest that you pull my penis.”

Botter looked bemused at my latest instruction. “Excuse me, milord?” he asked.

“Pull my penis, man! In the name of all that is holy, grab a hold of my todger and give it a damn good yank!”

“Erm…very well, milord,” Botter said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Get away from me!” I hissed, as my man-servant slowly started to unbutton my trousers. “I was not referring to my actual penis, you penis, but rather ‘my’ penis, you penis.”

“Wha-? But I… Oh!” Botter clapped his hands to the side of his head in utter despair, taking on the semblance of a man who was about to have his brain explode from the inside out.

“Oh, never mind,” I sighed as the Italians’ foot-steps drew nearer. “Allow me!”

With that, I leant past my man-servant and grabbed a hold of the proud, bronze boner sported by the statuette of my fantastic self. Then I heaved upon the solid member, pulling and heaving with all my might.

It was not the first time I had found myself in my library, tugging on my todger, I mused.

I carried on until the statue’s stiffy was ponting downwards, at which point a series of clunks and whirrs heralded the unveiling of yet another secret passageway, as one of the bookcases slowly slid aside.

“There we go!” I beamed. “Now come on, Botter! Quick sharp!”

We dived into the gloom of the new tunnel, and watched as the bookcase slid back over the entrance behind us. It closed shut with a satisfying thud, and we were back in darkness once more.

“Where are we going now, milord?” Botter enquired, as I set about relighting my lantern. “Where does this passageway lead to, exactly?”

“It leads to the vey bowels of the mansion, Botter,” I said grimly, holding the lit lantern up to my face. “It leads to a place so terribly depraved and twisted that few men ever come out with their sensibilities or genitals intact. Botter, you must brace yourself, for we are going to…THE LOVE DUNGEON!“

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Terror in the Love Dungeon!

ATTENTION! Lord Likely’s official scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton, has taken it upon himself to diversify into flogging t-shirts daubed with his cretinous cartoonery. You may view his efforts, and purchase them as well if you are particualrly bereft of sense, by visiting his hovel on redbubble.com!

OBEY! Support his lordship on humor-blogs.com by clicking the link to humor-blogs.com and help put the humor back into humor-blogs.com!

> Subscribe in a reader

- Lord Likely.

A Very Important Update! Lord Likely Tosses One Off!
His greatness, Lord Likely, has just completed composing an article about masturbation for the entirely excellent British Speak web-log. Go there immediately to read his lordship’s fantastic offering, and discover some brand new euphemisms along the way. Entertaining AND arousing.


Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely:

> Subscribe in a reader

So, the year eighteen fifty-six is finally coming to its inevitable, thrusting climax; and soon I shall find myself gently entering the year eighteen fifty-seven, in which I shall no doubt be faced with a slew of new astonishing adventures, and more than my fair share of buxom wenches to pump wildly. I await the next twelve months with excitement and more than a little moistness.

Eighteen fifty-six has been an extraordinary year for me, what with me tracking down murderous prostitutes, defeating a crazed, Russian megalomaniac, getting drunk, traveling to the United States, building a cock-shaped extension to my fabulous mansion, getting drunk, fighting the undead, and even momentarily misplacing my marvelous moustache. And getting drunk.

To commemorate the past twelve months, I thought it only proper that I commission another portrait of my excellent self, to be displayed at the entrance of the village in which I reside, to remind the villagers and anyone passing through that Lord Likely dwells here, and that I am incredible.

I also decided that this particular portrait should feature me wearing nothing more than my top-hat and a broad, contented smile. The idea of people beholding my behemoth-like penis, Lord Palmerston, as they passed into the village made me erect with excitement, so I immediately set about hiring an artist to do my massive member justice.

I did try and re-hire the artist John Cuntstubble, who had done such a marvelous job of capturing me in all my noble glory earlier in the year, when I commissioned him to paint me for my centenary, but I was informed that Mr. Cuntstubble had not been able to sit in front of a canvas again after working for me, without picturing my glistening todger spurting forth sticky arcs of love-batter across the room. Since that day, he has been incarcerated in a special home for disturbed individuals, where he sits alone in his room painting the walls with his cock-end.

Luckily, I managed to locate another promising young artist called Henri Le Piss, who had been amazing London folk with his extraordinary exhibition, ‘Les Chiens dans L’Amour‘, which featured dozens of paintings featuring nothing more than dogs rutting like crazy.

I also supposed that as a Frenchman, he would not shy away from the naked human form, and would indeed embrace it. Quite possibly in a literal sense as well, the red-blooded beggar.

Upon meeting Le Piss, I noticed that he was a rather stern-faced fellow, who’s features looked like they had been carved out of some particularly ferocious rocks. He smoked like some kind of demented French chimney, and strode around my living-room sneering at my various luxurious furnitures and fittings. I disliked him immediately.

“I weel paint you,” he finally said, drawing upon an ever-present cigarette. “I weel paint you as you ask, completely nay-ked, but eet will cost you. I shall be charging by ze inch.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “By the inch? That’ll cost me an arm and a leg! Not to mention a considerably humongous penis!”

“Take eet or leave it, monsieur,” Le Piss gasped. “Zat ees my final offer!”

I contemplated stabbing the French fiend with his own paint-brush there and then, but upon realising I had little other choice, I agreed to his demands.

Le Piss set up his easel and paints in my living-room, while I disrobed and assumed a powerful, erotic stance by the wall. Le Piss looked me up and down, then excused himself whilst he went and fetched more paint.

Forty-seven minutes later he returned, sat back down at his easel, and finally began to paint.

The process seemed to take forever, with Le Piss continually getting up off of his chair and pacing up and down like a caged animal, puffing away like a steam-train. When he was not doing that, he was sat down, arm stretched out in front of him, using his thumb to take my measurements. I made a crack about him needing more than one thumb, but Le Piss did not even crack a smile, the miserable twat-bag.

Finally, after three and a half hours of such mind-numbing tedium, Le Piss jumped to his feet, and yelled, “C’EST FINIS!” The noise was quite enough to rouse me from my nap, I can tell you.

“About ruddy time,” I snapped, forcing my stiffened limbs back into action. “It had better be bloody good, is all I can say.”

“Eet ees a truimph, Monsieur Likely,” cooed Le Piss. “Eet is beautiful, and most profound.”

I strolled over to view the painting, and to my horror found that it contained neither beauty or profoundity, nor did it contain my prized penis.

Le Piss had cocked it all up.

Needless to say, not only did I refuse to pay the inept artist, but I also sent him packing with his paintbrushes firmly lodged in his anus.

Bloody artists.

- Lord Likely.

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to wish each and every one of his readers a very, very Happy New Year.

> Subscribe in a reader

Having recently completed my one-hundredth exhilarating entry in these very journals, I decided to celebrate this centennial by imbibing one-hundred pints of beer, whilst hosting a massive orgy featuring some one-hundred ladies. Needless to say, the combination of such a large amount of alcohol and numerous wet, sweaty bodies did not mix well, and I soon found myself in hospital with a terrible injury to my beloved Lord Palmerston (the pseudonym I have bestowed upon my fine gentleman’s member). The upshot of it all was that I required a terribly symbolic one-hundred stitches to my mighty organ, and was told that I would not be able to so much as wipe my poor Palmerston on a female’s chin, let alone even contemplate engaging in the sex-act for the next two weeks.

Disaster!

As I laid recumbent in my hospital bed, I found myself being fussed over by a rather delightful nurse who’s fine figure made my Lord Palmerston twitch with excitement, sending shock waves of pain tearing through my body. Thus unable to show my gratitude to the nurse in my usual, highly erotic manner, I was left to pay tribute to the nurse’s kindness by other means; to whit, I let her keep the plaster-cast from my Palmerston, a gift which she accepted gratefully, a broad smile spreading across her beautiful face.

Upon witnessing the evident joy my plaster-cast penis had bought to the nurse, I got to thinking: what if I could repeat this exchange, but on a far wider scale, using my todger to show my gratitude to the many fine writers, commentators and artisans who have supported me and my journals over these past few months? Could I perhaps spread my penis all across the globe?

Thus, Lord Likely’s Golden Cock of Excellence was born.

Based around another mould of my massive manhood, the Golden Cock of Excellence is an award I have created to honour those jolly decent types who have either given me support, shown me love or sent me their unwashed undergarments.

And so, it comes to pass that Lord Likely’s Golden Cock of Excellence goes to:

Nurse Myra of Gimcrack Hospital, for services to his lordship’s libido, with her tales of sordid shenanigans and for offering forth tantalising glimpses of her ample charms.

Dame Domestic Minx, for being wicked, witty and generally all-round wonderful. And for services to onanism.

Lady Beenzzz of Stealthy Bean, for being a MILPW – Mother I’d Like to Procreate With.

Dame Olga, the Traveling Bra, for lending considerable support to his lordship, and to breasts everywhere.

Lady Laura, for proving that women can have adventures every bit as astonishing as mine. Well, almost. I am bloody amazing, after all.

The Ladies of Central Snark, for having a far higher breast quotient than any other web-log I frequent.

Sir Ed of the Pisstakers, for spreading the word of Likely through his wonderful journal, and for the tireless work he puts into it. Bravo!

Lord Diesel of Mattress Police, for services to humour, with not only his own jocular journals (almost worthy of being published, I’d say), but also for his fine work with his humor-blogs.com enterprise. Despite not having yet reviewed my excellent journals, the cad.

Sir Brent of Ominous Comma, for occasionally sporting a damned fine moustache that almost rivals my own. ALMOST. And for just being so damnably rugged.

Lord Lobo of Predator Press, for services to his lordship’s funny-bone, and for continually pledging his allegiance and soul to my wondrous self.

Lord Chris of Angry Seafood, for making my mouth turn upwardly in a gesture of mirth, and for seeing the good sense to interview me, as I am cocking-well brilliant.

Sir Bill Blunt, for being one of his lordship’s first followers, and for being a man of undeniable good taste.

Sir Japing Ape of the Congo, for services to human-ape relationships, and for never once flinging his own feces at my lordly face.

Lord Lord Matt, who may already be a lord, but is now doubly so, due to his fine advice and writing skills, and excellent hat.

Sir Boopadoopboy of the Neon Underground, for having drunk the drinks cabinet entirely dry in my Lavish Lounge.

Sir Hungry of Ghost, for services to my expansive ego, by constantly massaging it with his carefully crafted comments, and for having the good manners not to leave ectoplasm all over the place.

Lord Scary of Duck, for driving many visitors to my highly desirable domain. He must have a massive carriage, and no, I am not referring to his backside.

Sir Kevin de Pointless Banter, for services to surgery, for I have split my sides many a time whilst reading his fine writings. (That did not actually happen, by the way).

Sir Reverend Qelqoth, for preaching the only sermon that I can fully get behind, and then bugger senseless.

Lord Fab of Drivel, for making me wish I was inclined towards the male gender.

Lord and Lady Go! Smell the Flowers, for having the good, common sense to notice how excellent everything I do turns out to be.

Lord and Lady Dixie of Fuel My Blog, for allowing me to share my wisdom with their readers, and for setting up a ruddy marvelous place to meet new chums.

Feel free to proudly display my shining, golden cock upon your pages, you lucky people, so that your readers may know that you carry the official Likely seal of approval – the only seal worth carrying.

And if you are not on my list, do not fear, I do treasure you all the same. And who knows? Maybe, one day, you too could hold my cock in your hands.

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

> Subscribe in a reader

Having calmed myself down after having been utterly consumed with rage upon seeing that awful ‘Wanted’ poster, my mind began to race ahead of me, plotting out the course of action for when Botter and I arrived at the Russian embassy.

I was strolling along, deep in rumination, when Botter suddenly alerted me to the presence of something affixed to a nearby street-light.

It was yet another ‘Wanted’ poster. Behold:

“Do you mind if I evacuate the area before you go ballistic, sir?” inquired Botter, nervously stepping away from me.

I did not reply, instead I simply stared straight ahead at the poster.

“Sir? Should I run for the hills? It’s just that I’d rather not be on the end on one of your wild, frenzied cane attacks, if it is all the same to you, milord.”

“Botter!” I said, springing into life. “Why on Earth should I do such a thing?”

“Do I need to draw your attention to the poster where some vandal has scribbled a penis coming out of your forehead, again sir?”

“Tish, fipsy, pashaw and bollocks,” I snorted. “This does not bother me half as much as the original monstrosity. No, Botter, this is perfectly acceptable. In fact, I am rather impressed that some hoodlum chose to stay out in the cold, probably at night so as to avoid detection by the police, just to deface me. That sort of commitment is only to be applauded, Botter.”

“Are…are you sure you are alright, sir? You aren’t having one of your turns, are you?”

“Indeed not, Botter! Why, just consider the creativity on display here. The two cocks on my head are ingeniously placed, the fabulously diverse selection of swear-words deployed is astounding, there is an astonishing level of accuracy in both the grammar and the spelling, and well, I truly cannot argue with the statement that I, and I quote, ‘love cock.’ I do love cock, Botter, as you know all too well. No, it is near faultless in its ingenuity and bravado. The one issue I would take umbrage with is as to why the artist has felt the need to scrawl a moustache upon my face, when I already have one. Apart from that, superlative! If only the police were as equally creative.”

Botter stared at me, a quizzical look etched across his disgusting face.

“Come on, Botter!” I chirped, as I continued my preambulation. “We cannot afford to dilly-dally!”

Botter shrugged his shoulders, then followed after me.

- Lord Likely

> Subscribe in a reader