With a furious rage in my heart, and a large double-ended dildo in my hand, I set off to track down the despicable Dagos who had taken up residence in my precious home, with the intention of violently introducing the sizable sex-toy to their filthy Italian rectums.

Botter lagged several paces behind, carrying a large collection of other erotic implements.

“Do try and keep up, Botter,” I hissed, as I edged along the walls leading to my lounge.

“Sorry, milord,” Botter replied. “I think the Clockwork Cock Tickler is, well, tickling my cock.”

“This is no time to be enjoying yourself, Botter,” I scowled.

Suddenly I stopped sharp, causing Botter to slam into my backside.

“Sorry, milord,” Botter apologised.

“Shh!” I whispered. “I think I can hear those Italian fiends up ahead!” I paused. “Botter, is that the Scandinavian Sphincter-Splitter, or is it you jabbing into my hindquarters?”

There was a pause.

“Um…I think it’s the Scandinavian Sphincter-Splitter,” Botter replied.

“Thank heavens for that. I feared for a moment there that I might have to snap your prick off.”

My thoughts swiftly returned to the business at hand, when I heard the unmistakable clink of glass coming form the lounge. I peered around the corner of the wall, and saw my fears confirmed – those swarthy Italians were raiding my liquor cabinet.

That was the final straw.

I stepped out from my hiding place, and loudly cleared my throat with almost theatrical zeal.

“Ah-HEM!” I coughed, ensuring I had the duplicitous duo’s attention. “I do believe that is my booze you are drinking. I strongly suggest you return it all to the liquor cabinet immediately, or I shall be forced to enact a strange and unusually painful punishment on you both.”

“Likely!” gasped the smaller of the two men (who’s name was Alfredo, which I believe I omitted to mention earlier, due to drunkenness). “How did you-a get in?”

“That is for me to know, and for you to never find out,” I smirked.

“Are you-a holding da big-a dildo?” Alfredo remarked. “What are you’a going to do, huh? Bugger us to-a death?”

“It can be arranged,” I said calmly.

“Rocko,” Alfredo said, motioning toward his gorilla-like henchman. “Take care of this-a clown, huh?”

“Sure thing. Boss,” Rocko replied as he advanced towards me.

Then everything went to shit in a hand-basket.

As Rocko lumbered forward, I swiftly dodged to the side and hit the ground, performing a rather fantastic forward roll which bought me up behind the lumbering galoot. From this vantage point, I was able to deliver an almighty blow to the back of Rocko’s head, using the double-ended dildo as my weapon of choice. This sent the blaggard staggering forward, but he quickly regained his composure and decided to hurl a nearby vase at my head. I ducked, then watched with considerable dismay as the vase shattered into a thousand tiny pieces on the wall behind me.

“Oh, bad show,” I sighed. “I trust you gentlemen will be paying for any damages caused by this ruckus?”

Rocko hurled an antique chair at me, which provided a crystal-clear answer to that particular line of enquiry.

“Right then!” I cried, raising my fists up. “I do believe it is ruddy well on.”

With that, Rocko and I clashed, exchanging punches with considerable gusto. However, as I swung my fist round to deliver a sterling upper-cut to the rogue’s chin, the brute caught my hand in mid-air, then delivered an almighty head-butt to my lordly face.

“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed, as I staggered back, blood gushing from my nose. “That jolly well does it!”

I dived back under Rocko’s legs, and with incredible dexterity, pulled down his trousers and underpants in one fell swoop, and then pushed the fellow over on to the ground, buttock-side up.

“Botter!” I yelled out. “Pass me the Anal Battering Ram!“

“Righto, milord!” Botter answered, juggling the various implements to retrieve the ram. However, his presence had suddenly been noted by Alfredo, who wasted no time in tackling my unfortunate man-servant to the ground, sending the tools of titillation crashing to the ground.

“Oh tits,” I sighed, until I noticed one device skittering across the floor towards me. It was The Spaff Pistol, a device intended to send jets of semen arcing across considerable distances, and which I had taken the liberty of filling up just before we left the Love Dungeon. I scooped it up and turned to face Rocko, who had managed to get back onto his feet.

“Here’s mud in your eye,” I said, drawing The Spaff Pistol up to Rocko’s face. “And by ‘mud’, I mean ‘my penis paste’.”

With that, I pulled the trigger, sending a jet of my noble nob-butter flying into Rocko’s eyes. Thus blinded, the lumbering idiot staggered backwards, then tripped over his own trousers and fell backwards onto the floor.

And then I saw it.

There, glinting in the afternoon sun, was Rocko’s penis, the self-same organ which Alfredo had claimed had bested my own Lord Palmerston in a game of Penis Wrestling, which had led to the Italians claiming my estate as their prize.

Except this was no ordinary penis. It was an entirely artificial construct, built out of solid steel and powered by a series of complex-looking mechanisms and pistons.

“What the toss is the meaning of this?” I cried, pointing at the artificial appendage. “Is this how you won the Penis Wrestling contest? By cheating?“

“Um, well…” Alfredo stammered. “It’s-a complicated, but…uh…si. Si, we may have had a slight…advantage.”

“Well, then, the entire deal is null and void, and you now have ten seconds to get your damn backsides off of my property, or else you shall find yourselves as permanent guests in my Love Dungeon.”

I straightened my arm, pointing the Spaff Pistol in Alfredo’s direction. “Ten….nine…”

“Okay! Okay! We go!” Alfredo cried, hurriedly helping Rocko back to his feet. “But this is not-a the last you will hear of me, Meeeester Likely! Alfredo Di Clitt never looses!”

“…Five…Four…” I continued, training my pistol on the two fellons.

“Bastardo!” Alfredo hissed, and then the pair dashed off, slamming the door behind them.

“Marvellous,” I beamed, holstering the Spaff Pistol. “All’s well that ends well, eh Botter?”

“Yes milord,” Botter replied. He picked himself up off the floor, and then turned his attention to collecting up the various implements from the ground.

“Leave that one, Botter,” I said, as my man-servant went to pick up the Anal Battering Ram. “There is still the small matter of your punishment for leaving the door to my Porn Library open, after all…”

Botter gulped loudly.

Ah, home sweet home.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something or other, I shouldn’t wonder.

Behold some other funny blogs designed to make you laugh so hard your sphincter splits wide open.

Celebrations Abound! Last week’s appeal for generous donations to help stave off disaster throughout the Likely Empire was a complete success, and for that I truly thank you all. Read the full details hither, and bear witness to a wondrous piece of film featuring a dozen naked dancers. HUZZAH!

Today’s charming image is the work of one Mr. Banksy, a renowned deviant and ne’er-do-well. His lordship is not associated with this cad, and neither does he encourage the vandalism of statues or walls. Unless it is rather raunchy, as it is in this case.

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I was in some exceptionally deep excrement.

Was it really at all possible that I had gambled away the ownership of my entire Estate whilst off my Lordly tits on booze in Italy? Could I really have been that inebriated? Or were the two Italian miscreants currently taking up residence in my house talking complete and utter, gold-plated bollocks?

“You, sir, are lying through your filthy spaghetti sauce-stained teeth,” I ventured.

The thin man smiled, his gold tooth sparkling in the afternoon sun.

“Oh really, Meeester Likely?” he said. “Maybe this will satisfy any doubts you have!” With that, the fiend produced a crumpled document from his coat pocket, and waved it in my face. “Read this and then proceed to weep, signore.”

I snatched the paper from the man’s hand, and read it over. It appeared to be some sort of contract, with my unmistakably lavish signature at the bottom of it. It was rather reassuring to see that my penmanship clearly did not suffer when I was completely pissed.

“Hold no one twatting moment,” I said, as I read through the contract. “It says here that I entered into a penis-wrestling match with your man Rocko, here. What the Dickens?”

“Penis wrestling. It’s-a like wrestling, but with penises.”

“I understand that much, you wretched swine,” I sniffed. “What I fail to understand is how I lost. My Lord Palmerston is the better of any todger in this entire continent – nay, the globe.”

“Heh,” smirked the Italian. “You said preeety much the same-a thing on the day. Except you were slurring far more, of course. Once again, you underestimate the sheer strength and power of my friend’s massive penis.”

“Oh, really?” I smiled, crumpling the contract up in my fist. “Well I shall be sure not to do that again.” Then, as quick as a flash, I spun round and kicked Rocko right in the plums.

It was a spectacularly fluid and graceful manouevere, but it was to prove to be exceptionally foolhardy, as my foot connected with something so incredibly hard that I could not help but to yelp out in pain, while Rocko stood perfectly still, unflinching.

“FUCK ME!” I yelled, nursing my injured foot in my hands. “What in the name of the Pope’s piss-hole has he got down there?”

“My cock,” Rocko smiled.

“They don’t call him ‘Rocko‘ for nothing, Meeester Likely,” the other man chuckled. “Now, maybe you can be a good little lord, and admit defeat graciously, eh? And then, get your stinky English backside off of my property!”

“You may have won the battle, but you have not won the war!” I jeered, as I limped away, with my man-servant trying gamely to support me as I went. “Me and my Lord Palmerston shall return, and when we do, we shall leave you in such a ruined state that the Colosseum will look positively brand-new in comparision. Capiche?“

“Bar-keep!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the counter of my local public-house, The Cock and Balls. “I demand some of your strongest alcoholic beverages, and some of your sluttiest whores post-haste! I have an aching desire to get blind, roaring drunk, and reassert my manhood right away.”

“Very good, milord,” said Blind Trevor, the landlord, who is must be noted was neither blind, nor actually called Trevor, but had assumed the nickname under the assumption that it made him sound more amiable and approachable.

His real name was Rupert. Nobody likes a Rupert.

“Milord,” said Botter, as we took our drinks to a nearby table and waited for Blind Trevor to find some prostitutes. “Are you sure this is wise? Getting completely drunk got you into this mess after all….”

“Botter,” I replied, pausing to take a sip from my beer. “I have been booted out of my family home, and have suffered a terrible blow against my manhood. At least allow me to get so totally sloshed that I can forget any of this happened.”

“Come on, milord! We’re wasting time here! You should be out there, at the Likely Estate, fighting for your very home! If not for you, then for all of the Likelys who have e’er dwelled there.”

“Botter, I fear you are extremely close to having your speaking privilages revoked. Now, do be a good chap and let me be. I shall drink myself to a stupor, and then I plan to tunnel the whores so vigourously that they can barely walk again…”

I lowered my beer slowly, an idea slowly forming in my magnificent brain.

“Tunnel! Tunnel. TUNNEL! Of course! By Jupiter’s Jizz-pole, we’ve got them!”

“What?” Botter asked, as I leapt to my feet. “What is it milord?”

“There’s an old tunnel that leads from the village hall all the way to the old library on my Estate! My great-great-great-great grandfather had it built during the English Civil War, don’t you know?”

“Really? Was it built so he could get his family safely out of the Estate without being attacked by Roundheads?”

“No, it was so he could sneak slatternly young ladies into the house in the evening, and indulge in all-night orgies the likes of which would make Marquis de Sade blush. The point is, the tunnel still exists, so we can easily get back inside my abode, and drive those filthy Italians from the Estate! It is almost too facile. Quick! Let us depart to the Village Hall!”

“Oh. So you won’t be needin’ these two, then?” said Blind Trevor, who had since returned with two completely corking young women for my pleasure.

“Well…it can’t hurt to get a bit of tunneling practice in beforehand,” I beamed. “Ladies, shall we?…”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Journey to the Centre of the Hearth!

humor-blogs.com keeps trying to tunnel in here, but luckily it can’t quite get it’s massive backside through the hole.

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