Magicians and Cannibals

Great shows last week kid. Great shows which greatly amazed sinister, spinster, old Maud Muppet, when she went to the woodshed and found Jordie Tuft sitting on an upturned bucket wearing the full regalia of a Captain in the Spanish navy. Old Jordie, who was under the impression he was in the crow's nest of the Constantia, yelled, "Hello wee woman. How sets the wind for France?" Old Jordie, was taken away by the police to be washed, sanded,varnished and polished. Tommy my cat, wearing the away colours of Plymouth Argyle, finished a lovely, charcoal drawing of Ghandi, wearing a lime-green three piece suit and said,
"Ageing magician old Paul Daniels, is so deranged he cut off his own finger thinking it was the head of the lovely Debbie Magee."
"Not a lot do I like that!" I yelled. "It is high time and indeed, low time that the ancient magician was hog tied and taken to secure accommodation."
"Paul Daniels should see this as a wake-up call," cried Tommy. "It was a finger this time, but next time it could be a John Bobbit. Now you see it, now you don't."
"I wonder at the lovely Debbie Magee," I said. "She's no Spring chicken herself. When she saw the deceiving, old relic get off the commode with a groan and reach for an electric, circular saw, she must have known the old, bald, dimwit would climb into bed that night minus this or that."
"The lovely Debbie Magee was lucky this time," said Tommy. "The doddering, old fool only cut off this, but it could so easily have been-that!"
"And they don't grow on trees," I said. "They don't grow on trees!"
Tommy looked at me, like a biologist looking at a newt with two heads, and said,
"Why did you never get married?" I blushed to the roots of my teeth and stammered, "I had my chances. Don't you worry, I had my chances. There was a time men used to fall at my feet."
Tommy sneered and said, "Yes, they do say the rank, putrid smell of athlete's food can drop a man quicker than a bullet." I ignored the spiteful, hateful slur and went on, "When I was a gal, living in the country, men used to drive out from Belfast just to gaze at my beauty, grace and deportment. Dear Mama, would serve tea on the lawn. Darling papa would whip out his kazoo and I would throw back my head, exposing my soft, slender, swan-like neck and sing, "She was only a farmer's daughter, but she always got her oats."
"There must have been someone special," said Tommy. "Whom was the special boy in your life?" I blushed, threw my arms about me, until my knuckles grazed the floor, kicked the coal bucket with a pink flip-flop and replied, "The special boy in my life was, little Willie Snot. Willie, was only the son of a vicar, but he meddled not with hymns. Little Willie, said he would marry me after two years working as a kilt salesman in the Congo, but, but, but.......... "
"What happened?" cried Tommy. "What happened to little Willie?"
"Eaten," I sobbed. "Eaten by cannibals."
"Oh no!" cried Tommy.
"Oh yes!" I shrieked. "Eating little Willie, was bad enough, but it was what they said afterwards that has remained with me to this day."
"What did they say?" cried Tommy. I tore clumps of hair from my head and screamed,
"The cannibals, described my little Willie, as a tasty little snack." I fell back then on my bustle, kicking my legs and pulling faces of the most hideous and repulsive ugliness.
Tommy went out the door singing, "She was only a cannibal's daughter, but she wouldn't eat her granny's ass.!!!