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Hark the Herald Angels Whinge
- Thread starter Wragg
- Start date
You'd think they'd like the opportunity to get out. A little trip abroad.
One doesn't usually ask these things about an audience, in my experience. Strange to bring it up (no pun intended).
A lot of people end up in Heaven (or the boiler room) due to simply making one little error in judgement.
Yes, well find me a decent Aramaic or Hebrew translation and wel'll sing that. Latin sounds scholarly and impressive. It adds gravitas, which we need since we're singing it while hanging around in the air like balloons.
Probably past time.
Is that grumpy or just sultry? It's so hard to tell when presented with that tight little...
Grumpy. Definitely grumpy.
It's always the way, isn't it? You're in a rush, and someone has to lose their keys, go to the washroom, or someone comes knocking at the door. Amazing how we don't plan for these things in advance.
I'M CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO TAKE ON THAT ISSUE AT THIS POINT, NOT EVEN IN MY FEMALE GUISE. CONSIDER YOURSELF WELCOME ALREADY!
Good of him to join us. Can he sing?
"Good of you to join us," said Jollyrei. "Can you sing?"Good of him to join us. Can he sing?
"Ah," said Praefectus Praetorio, "I'll give you a clue, in life, I was known as 'Brother of the Quill."
Jollyrei raised an eyebrow. "Wragg was known as a Chronicler. Bet you can sing better than he can!"
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Off all places, a trip abroad to the ever peaceful town of Bethlehem, on the ever peaceful left bank of the river Jordan, in the ever peaceful Kingdom of Judea, in the ever peaceful Asia Minor aka The Middle East!
Only Angelus Mortis Travel Agency can come up with that idea!
Or, their principal competitor, NailusMartyrs Travel Adventures dot com.Off all places, a trip abroad to the ever peaceful town of Bethlehem, on the ever peaceful left bank of the river Jordan, in the ever peaceful Kingdom of Judea, in the ever peaceful Asia Minor aka The Middle East!
Only Angelus Mortis Travel Agency can come up with that idea!
Well, one, at least...
Hey now. If you check the text, I think you'll find this is Bob's idea (or the Big Guy's). Don't blame me for this.
Pr Pr was also handy with the handbells - I'm sure there's a good demand for them in Heaven
RacingRodent
Consul
Ee, tha knaws Barb’s a Yorkshirewoman! Everyone’s heard of ‘t’Yorkshire Moores!
The Devon Moores are better...just saying. Why do you think Walter could always Raleigh to another round?
He could get a buck fast?
M
montycrusto
Guest
(It’s those damned carol-singers again!)
join in if you know this one:
Once in royal David’s dungeon,
Stood a lowly iron-framed bed.
There a torturer laid his victim,
With a blindfold round her head.
Mary was that virgin mild,
This is how she was defiled.
Lo, he chained her wrists and ankles,
To the corners of the bed.
With a knife, he cut off all her clothing
Till remained there not e’en a shred.
Then her meat to tenderise,
Fucked he hard his captive prize.
First she groaned, and wriggled in her bondage,
Thrashing wildly in her chains.
Still her captor ploughed her furrow,
Caring little for her pains.
Till the girl could take no more,
Shudd’ring orgasms rocked her core.
Seeing her tumescent nipples,
In the throes of orgasm she shook,
Her tormentor doubled his exertions,
As her helpless cherry he took.
She was chained, and overpowered,
Naked, bound and thoroughly deflowered.
join in if you know this one:Once in royal David’s dungeon,
Stood a lowly iron-framed bed.
There a torturer laid his victim,
With a blindfold round her head.
Mary was that virgin mild,
This is how she was defiled.
Lo, he chained her wrists and ankles,
To the corners of the bed.
With a knife, he cut off all her clothing
Till remained there not e’en a shred.
Then her meat to tenderise,
Fucked he hard his captive prize.
First she groaned, and wriggled in her bondage,
Thrashing wildly in her chains.
Still her captor ploughed her furrow,
Caring little for her pains.
Till the girl could take no more,
Shudd’ring orgasms rocked her core.
Seeing her tumescent nipples,
In the throes of orgasm she shook,
Her tormentor doubled his exertions,
As her helpless cherry he took.
She was chained, and overpowered,
Naked, bound and thoroughly deflowered.
Last edited by a moderator:
Crux-Emperor Baracus X
Rectidolor
An excellent tale,so far,and a nice nod to the regrettably departed Pr Pr....
Life as a shepherd was dull. Dull, dull, dull. Or rather, 99% dull and 1% terrifying, The occasional lion or bear did liven things up, or the odd band of sheep rustlers, but these were scarcely common events. Mostly it was just plain booooooooooring.
Sometimes, in addition to being boring, it was cold. Tonight was freezing cold.
Sometimes, in addition to being boring and cold, it was dark. Tonight there was no moon, and it was very dark.
Monty Crusto trudged back towards the dim light of the camp fire after having checked on a lame ewe. Twonines looked up, and yawned.
“I’m sorry for keeping you up,” scowled Monty. “Have you left me some broth I can sup? So often I’ve told – I don’t like it cold! So come on, and pass me that cup!”
“All right! Please don’t lose your hair! Stop moaning, just sit over there. Of course it is hot, it’s been in that pot. In fact, I don’t really much care!”
Life as a shepherd was so unbelievably dull that Monty and Twonines had contrived this slightly odd way of communicating. Did it matter? Not really. The sheep thought they were barking mad anyway, an opinion shared by their boss, Master Loxuru.
Monty sipped his broth. It was indeed hot, and really rather tasty. Secretly, Monty rather appreciated Twonine’s skills as a cook. But it would never do to admit it.
“Well, hot it undoubtedly is, as gruel it may be the bizz, but good though it smacks some sparkle it lacks. Some chili would give it some whizz!”
“Some chili? You’re having a joke! I get my veg from some bloke on Bethlehem mart, who won’t give a fart unless it’s a plain artichoke!”
“I think I know what that means. He’s not the greengrocer he seems! The veg with the status to give you such flatus is not artichoke but runner beans!”
And so it went on, as it did night after night. Tonight it was vegetables, last night they’d argued throughout the night about who had the tightest little ass in Judea, and all in this peculiar form of verse which had no name, for that part of the Island of Hibernia upon which the little town of Limerick would one day be built was still just a bog. Who knows? It could have been called TwoCrusto verse, or Montynines rhymes.
The argument hadn’t progressed much after two hours.
“Oh come on, Twonines, you can’t fail to appreciate fine curly kale! It’s dark curly…
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!”
“That doesn’t rhyme, Monty…”
“It wasn’t me… it was those….”
“Angels!” shrieked Twonines, shielding his eyes against the light. “Lo! I am sore afraid!”
“Et in terra pax homnibus! What do you mean, you are sore afraid? You’re not the one hovering fifty feet in the sky!” The angel on the right was indeed looking a bit green.
“And you’re not floating above the earth in the nude!” The angel on the left, on the other hand, was a sight for sore eyes.
“Shut up, you two!” The larger, important looking angel in the middle was looking cross. “Start Again! Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in Terra pax homnibus, bonae volun….”
“Er, excuse me!” Monty looked as white as a ghost. He knelt down. That big angel looked ferocious. “Isn’t that Latin?”
“Of course it’s Latin! How else did you expect us to proclaim the good news?”
“But, we don’t speak Latin! How are we supposed to know if it’s good news or not?”
“You see, Jollyrei! We told you not to sing in Latin! But would you listen? Oh, no, you knew best.” This angel was the most unbelievably beautiful angel that Monty had ever seen. Mind you, he’d actually only ever seen these three angels, so saying she was more beautiful than either Wragg or Jollyrei wasn’t saying much. But she was certainly more beautiful than any human woman that he’d ever beheld.
And one thing was beyond any doubt.
She’d got the tightest little ass in Judea!
To be continued
Sometimes, in addition to being boring, it was cold. Tonight was freezing cold.
Sometimes, in addition to being boring and cold, it was dark. Tonight there was no moon, and it was very dark.
Monty Crusto trudged back towards the dim light of the camp fire after having checked on a lame ewe. Twonines looked up, and yawned.
“I’m sorry for keeping you up,” scowled Monty. “Have you left me some broth I can sup? So often I’ve told – I don’t like it cold! So come on, and pass me that cup!”
“All right! Please don’t lose your hair! Stop moaning, just sit over there. Of course it is hot, it’s been in that pot. In fact, I don’t really much care!”
Life as a shepherd was so unbelievably dull that Monty and Twonines had contrived this slightly odd way of communicating. Did it matter? Not really. The sheep thought they were barking mad anyway, an opinion shared by their boss, Master Loxuru.
Monty sipped his broth. It was indeed hot, and really rather tasty. Secretly, Monty rather appreciated Twonine’s skills as a cook. But it would never do to admit it.
“Well, hot it undoubtedly is, as gruel it may be the bizz, but good though it smacks some sparkle it lacks. Some chili would give it some whizz!”
“Some chili? You’re having a joke! I get my veg from some bloke on Bethlehem mart, who won’t give a fart unless it’s a plain artichoke!”
“I think I know what that means. He’s not the greengrocer he seems! The veg with the status to give you such flatus is not artichoke but runner beans!”
And so it went on, as it did night after night. Tonight it was vegetables, last night they’d argued throughout the night about who had the tightest little ass in Judea, and all in this peculiar form of verse which had no name, for that part of the Island of Hibernia upon which the little town of Limerick would one day be built was still just a bog. Who knows? It could have been called TwoCrusto verse, or Montynines rhymes.
The argument hadn’t progressed much after two hours.
“Oh come on, Twonines, you can’t fail to appreciate fine curly kale! It’s dark curly…
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!”
“That doesn’t rhyme, Monty…”
“It wasn’t me… it was those….”
“Angels!” shrieked Twonines, shielding his eyes against the light. “Lo! I am sore afraid!”
“Et in terra pax homnibus! What do you mean, you are sore afraid? You’re not the one hovering fifty feet in the sky!” The angel on the right was indeed looking a bit green.
“And you’re not floating above the earth in the nude!” The angel on the left, on the other hand, was a sight for sore eyes.
“Shut up, you two!” The larger, important looking angel in the middle was looking cross. “Start Again! Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in Terra pax homnibus, bonae volun….”
“Er, excuse me!” Monty looked as white as a ghost. He knelt down. That big angel looked ferocious. “Isn’t that Latin?”
“Of course it’s Latin! How else did you expect us to proclaim the good news?”
“But, we don’t speak Latin! How are we supposed to know if it’s good news or not?”
“You see, Jollyrei! We told you not to sing in Latin! But would you listen? Oh, no, you knew best.” This angel was the most unbelievably beautiful angel that Monty had ever seen. Mind you, he’d actually only ever seen these three angels, so saying she was more beautiful than either Wragg or Jollyrei wasn’t saying much. But she was certainly more beautiful than any human woman that he’d ever beheld.
And one thing was beyond any doubt.
She’d got the tightest little ass in Judea!
To be continued
If you're going to script the shepherds only in limericks, this is going to be a bit of work. I just think the readers should appreciate this effort.
Well, Jerusalem Artichokes are known to produce painful intestinal issues.
There we go! That's the reaction we want! Excellent. Finally some people showing proper respect.
Excellent.
Just what we need when we're manifesting to bring people...er...good...um...news... Do you suppose I should try to look a bit friendly? I mean, I'm the Angel of Death. I don't usually do this part.Not sure we're getting exactly the right Christmas message across.
