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!

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If all goes according to plan, and he does not wind up stranded on a desert island, or finds himself embroiled in a military coup, his lordship shall be gracing these pages again this week. Huzzah!

You may all synchronize your pocket-watches now.

While you wait, do feel free to browse the marvellous selection of guest-posts that were penned in his lordship’s absence, and for which we have been truly grateful. Top show, gentlemen!

- Mr. A.D. Fanton, editor, The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely.

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February, 1857.

Good day, all!

We all know how incredible, amazing, dashing, debonair and all-round damned-well astonishing I am, but still there remain people in this wide world who have no idea of how fantastic I truly am.

With this in mind, I have commissioned this short piece of film below to act as a public service, informing those poor fools who remain unaware of my wondrousness of the fact I am, indeed, completely wondrous.

I do hope you enjoy watching this most delightful and erotic of moving pictures, and please feel free to stick it on your very own web-log, or share it with friends and families. I am sure the children will love it.

Those of you who do a particularly sterling job of whoring me around the inter-web, or who do so in a particularly inventive manner, will receive my eternal moist gratitude, and maybe even some sort of a prize, if I can be bothered to arrange anything.

Now, dim the lights and unzip your trousers: for I now present for your viewing pleasure Lord Likely: The R-Rated Trailer!

Enjoy!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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With my centennial celebrations in full swing, I was feeling particularly jubilant and high-spirited yesterday, so thought I would celebrate my recent milestone by commissioning a portrait of myself, to forever immortalise my ravishing form, and to no doubt act as a masturbatory aid for lonely housewives. And men too, I would wager.

Of course, first I would need a suitable artist, one who could adequately capture my astounding handsomeness and general wonderfulness, and not make me look like a terrible, fat twat.

“Get me John Constable!” I barked at Botter, certain that Constable would be the perfect choice to paint my lordly portrait.

“Um…he’s dead, milord. He died some twenty years ago,” my man-servant mumbled apologetically.

“Bastard.” I snapped. “What did he go and do that for? That’s put me in an awkward position, and no doubt.”

“If I may, milord, I do know of a very good local artist, who painted a pretty good portrait of Lord and Lady Hungwell for their anniversary…”

“Pretty good? I shall need something a damn sight more spectacular than ‘pretty good’, Botter. ‘Pretty good’ does not get you into the the National Portrait Gallery, you know.”

Despite my vocal protestations, Botter insisted that this artist was worthy of the job, and so I agreed to meet with him that afternoon.

“Good day, sir, I am John Cuntstubble,” said a slim, pale-looking chap, as Botter bought him into my living room.

“Constable?” I spluttered. “Don’t be ridiculous, man! Constable has been dead for some twenty years, you impertinent sap!”

“No, sir, you…you misunderstand me. Not Constable, sir…but Cuntstubble.”

“Cuntstubble?” I repeated. “As in…cunt…stubble?”

“Exactly, sir,” Cuntstubble replied.

“Then you have the job!” I roared, slapping the petrified painter on the back. “Now, where do you want me, hmmm?”

“Well…uh, I though that maybe you could sit in that grand, old chair over there and…”

“SIT?” I yelled. “Sit? I shall not sit, you young jackanape. A gentleman stands, on his own two legs, to show his strength and fortitude, and his firm, unyielding buttocks. So, no, lad, I shall not sit.”

“F-fine,” stuttered Cuntstubble. “Well, then, maybe you could stand over there, by the fireplace…”

“That fireplace?” I exclaimed, pointing at the proposed location. “That fireplace is far too ornate and elaborate. I do not want anything drawing attention away from my beautiful visage. No, we must adjourn to the drawing room, for the fireplace there is entirely ordinary and unobtrusive.”

“The drawing room? Okay, then. Although, I…I dare say the painting room would be more apt,” said Cuntstubble, smiling weakly.

“What are you babbling on about?” I said. “We do not have such a room. Do we?” I asked Botter, for I do have many, many rooms in my luxurious mansion, and it was entirely possible one of them may have been reserved solely for painting.

“No, milord. I think the nearest thing we have is a doodling room, on the third floor,” Botter informed me.

“And what is the fireplace like in that room?” I asked.

“It’s very bland, milord.”

“Good! Then we shall adjourn to the doodling room!”

Cuntstubble sighed, then followed us upstairs.

Two more hours passed, and in that time we had ascertained that I should be standing, next to a drab fireplace, in the doodling room, clutching a glass of wine and that I should adorn a very dark-blue suit, to better accentuate my eyes. By now, Cuntstubble was getting increasingly irritated, and just wanted to start painting.

“Is he always this difficult?” he whispered to Botter.

“Oh, no.” Botter replied. “Usually, he is far worse. And more violent.”

“Now,” I said, leaning against the fireplace, “I feel this portrait is still going to be missing something. I feel I need to be doing something, something that conveys my character, my personality, my general indisputable excellence…any ideas, gentlemen?”

My request was greeted with silence, as both men looked down at their feet and shuffled around awkwardly.

“Bugger me!” I exclaimed. “Do neither of you have anything to say on the matter? I haven’t had such a silent response since that afternoon I was given fellatio by that mute prostitute.” I paused, as a rather ingenious notion began to form in my brilliant brain. “Wait a minute…“

I grabbed Cuntstubble and quickly explained my genius idea to him, but he was rather less than keen to oblige. However, once I made it clear that I would stick his paintbrushes up his arse if he did not facilitate my demands, he relented and agreed. Artists can be so very temperamental.

So, after a long (but not entirely unpleasurable) sitting, I finally got the portrait I desired. And here it is, ‘Lord Likely‘, by J.R. Cuntstubble:

I was extremely pleased with the finished painting, finding it to be powerful and erotic, and powerfully erotic. I felt that Cuntstubble had done a marvelous job in capturing my essence, although if truth be told my essence was actually captured in the mouth of the mute prostitute I had re-employed to appear in the picture with me.

I am sure you will agree, it is a work of art.

And the picture is not too bad, either.

- Lord Likely.

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In preparation for the forthcoming erection of my formidable porn library, I have begun sorting through the vast quantities of pornography currently stored in my library, and am now in the process of cataloguing and categorizing the various articles. This is to accommodate easier access to certain images or texts should I suddenly be called upon to carry out some vital research into foreign attitudes towards erotica, or such like. More importantly, such organisation will help better facilitate me should I really, desperately need to spill my lordly juices in a hurry, whilst looking at a specific lithograph, like one depicting a nude lady rubbing a midget dressed as a wizard, for example.

While carrying out this task, not only did I become terribly aroused on no less than thirty-seven seperate occasions, but I also noticed that my precious collection of pornography is in complete and utter disarray. There is no order in among the erotic chaos, leaving me utterly bewildered as to where I obtained certain pamphlets, and what they are supposed to represent. Take the following image, for example:

Now, I have no recollection of how or why I came to be in possession of this particular illustration, nor do I have the faintest idea of what is going on. Obviously, the gentleman is engaging in sexual intercourse with a lady, I am well aware of that. But who are they? Who is the mysterious fellow in the window, watching? What in the name of Napoleon’s nutsack is going on?

I wonder if maybe someone reading these journals may be able to help. If anyone can come up with some sort of caption, explaining just what in the name of Dutch fuckery is happening here, then I would be most grateful, and may offer untold riches in return. But probably not, alas.

Anyway, all suggestions are welcome. I simply have not got a ruddy clue.

- Lord Likely.

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