Christmas always brings those family members out of the woodwork and reminds you that no, you're not being unkind, they really are that bobbins.
Aunt Trolly and her gobby-devil-child, Flatulanta, descended upon poor Aunt Gourd this week for a surprise holiday visit. Aunt Gourd has been cursing herself since for having the lights on and the curtains open when they knocked the door.
They travelled here on the good old TFE Poetry Go Kart. They complained bitterly about the refreshment car only serving Guinness, several varieties of Whisky, pizza and 'dreadful things' in a bowl.
Since Flatulenta decorated her mother in typical festive attire for the season, Aunt Trolly was inspired to write the following poem about Christmas and her deepest feelings about it. I'd like to point out that this is actually about to be published by a real person in January's 'Art Journal for Special & Talentless'
How I love the King and I,
Your bald head glimmering like a star.
In Westworld, I think, you truly shone,
but Taras Bulba was better.
I thought I'd have a go, as my hedge network is working again, thanks to my new twigless router:
What is this season of joy -
this season of wondrous sights and laughter?
My heart fills with glee, standing and watching,
Two women, clawing, biting, scratching, slapping and punching each other,
After they both put their hands on the last turkey in the shop.
Then the Tesco manager arrived, then so did the ambulance.
Jolly-Dee, the season's here,
and my heart bursts with gratitude once more, for the existence of thick people.
Well, I don't know what Christmas holds for me yet, I'm trying to stop Gourd from plugging Aunt Trolly into the mains with the flimsy excuse that she looks like a Christmas tree. Cousin Girda has been on the yoghurt-pot telephone for an hour wailing that she's got a glis glis in her undercroft, I'm still not sure if she really has or if it's a euphemism for some sort of womens trouble. As for Aunt Mary-Jaffa - spare a thought for her, during this season of satsumas.
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