I’ve always said there’s nothing an Agnostic can’t do if he doesn’t know if he believes in anything or not.
Of course the big question that everyone’s asking here is, what about those split-crotch parities? Are they going to be unobtainable throughout the Universe or merely on Algon itself?
When Martin Luther nailed his protest up to the church door in 1517, he may not have realised the full significance of what he was doing, but four hundred years later, thanks to him, my dear, I can wear whatever I want on my John Thomas. And Protestantism doesn’t stop at the simple condom! Oh, no! I can wear French Ticklers if I want. French Ticklers. Black Mambos. Crocodile Ribs. Sheaths that are designed not only to protect, but also to enhance the stimulation of sexual congress. Have I got one? Uh, well no, but I can go down the road any time I want and walk into Harry’s and hold my head up high and say in a loud, steady voice: “Harry, I want you to sell me a condom. In fact, today, I think I’ll have a French Tickler, for I am a Protestant!”
Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?
The Bishop!
What we got here is… failure to communicate.
check the date before you go wtf
Now where were we? Oh – that’s right
Er, well, um, if you’re dropping by again, do pop in. Heh. And thanks a lot for the gold and frankincense, er, but don’t worry too much about the myrrh next time. All right? Heh. Thank you. Good-bye. Well, weren’t they nice? Hmm. Out of their bloody minds, but still.
Well it’s an albatross, isn’t it? It’s not any bloody flavour. ALBATROSS! All right, all right. It’s bloody… albatross flavour… bleedin’ seabird bleedin’ flavour! ALBATROSS!
Ugh… me heap dizzy.
Under normal circumstances I would have asked a policeman or a minister of the Church, but finding no one available, I thought it better to consult a man with some qualifications, rather than rely on the possibly confused testimony of a passer-by.
Off I went, on a perfectly ordinary kind of day.
…when suddenly, the animator suffered a fatal heart attack.
There’s nowt wrong wi’ gala luncheons, lad! I’ve had more gala luncheons than you’ve had hot dinners!
…And spotteth twice they the camels before the third hour, and so, the Midianites went forth to Ram Gilead in Kadesh Bilgemath, by Shor Ethra Regalion, to the house of Gash-Bil-Bethuel-Bazda, he who brought the butter dish to Balshazar and the tent peg to the house of Rashomon, and there slew they the goats, yea, and placed they the bits in little pots.
Well, that’s cast rather a gloom over the evening, hasn’t it?
S’hot enough to boil a monkey’s bum!
Your Majesty, you’re like a big jam doughnut with cream on the top.
Well, one day I was sitting at home threatening the kids, and I looked out of the hole in the wall and sees this tank drive up and one of Dinsdale’s boys gets out and he comes up, all nice and friendly-like, and says Dinsdale wants to have a talk with me. So he chains me to the back of the tank and takes me for a scrape 'round to Dinsdale’s. And Dinsdale’s there in the conversation pit with Doug and Charles Paisley, the baby crusher, and a couple of film producers and a man they called “Kierkegaard,” who just sat there biting the heads off whippets, and Dinsdale said, “I hear you’ve been a naughty boy, Clement,” and he splits me nostrils open and saws me leg off and pulls me liver out, and I said, “My name’s not Clement,” and then he loses his temper and nails my head to the floor.
It’s a fair cop.
We use only the finest baby frogs, dew-picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in finest quality spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth treble cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose.