Passing The Budget

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which acted as a lubricant to our MLAs as they strained, grunted and groaned with bulging eyes and red faces to pass a budget up at Stormount.
"Piss or get off the pot!" yelled Tommy my cat, who has no time for dilatoriness or procrastication.
"Tommy," I chided,"don't be so crude. A budget is a big thing to pass. Our estemed MLAs seem to be suffering from Elvis syndrom, but I am sure that Sammy Wilson will huff and puff until Stormont gives birth to a budget."
"I blame the floaters," yelled Tommy,"the SDLP and the UUP! Cheeky-chappie Michael McGimpsey said,a budget would only be passed over his dead body."
"Then why the big hold up?" I yelled.
"Michael McGimpsey isn't exactly-dead," said Tommy."Michael belongs to that band of merry men known as the undead."
"Silly, stupid, semantics!" I yelled."Mark my words,semantially brings naught but trouble and strife."
"KNOCK, KNOCK" said Tommy
"WHO'S THERE?" I cried.
"THE GESTAPO," said Tommy.
"THE GESTAPO WHO?" I asked.
"VEE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!" cried Tommy and he lifted his fist and punched me right up the hooter.
Oh how we laughed!
I met Tubby Nolan coming out of the chemist. Seeing no bottle of Lucozade in his hand I thought the blimp had at last summoned up the courage to go in and ask for them himself. But it was not so. Tubby glowered at me like a bison on Bisto and yelled,
"I got a selection of photographs taken in the chemist for my Face Book page! Tell me what you think. How do I look in profile?" said Tubby.
"Like Arthur Hitchcock." I replied.
"Face on?" said Tubby.
"Christopher Biggins. Listen Tubby old chap," I said,"your Face Book photograph is very important. It says who you are. Take a tip from the great Holywood stars.
You could pose in jeans and tee-shirt with a rifle behind your head like James Dean.
You could stand over an air vent and let your frock billow up, or you could copy Marlon Brando and pose,looking tough with both legs astride a Harley Davidson."
Tubby held on to a lamp post as a gust of wind billowed his huge Patrick Moore suit and whined,
"But I don't know any men called Harley Davidson."
I went home with despair in my heart and Tubby went home with my shoe in his rear.
Like the owner of the Flamingo dance hall used to say
"How will they get it- OUT? How will they get it-OUT?"