For sleepy-bird
I had decided that I should kickstart my failing career as an unpublished writer by producing some creatively-oriented text each day. So in lieu of any proper post for the next or last six months, effort number one:
Lembit Opik ran down the hill carrying an enormous piglet under his arm. He had stolen it from his ex-girlfriends, Gabriela Cheeky and Veronica-Hieronyma Cheeky, and now he was going to ritually slaughter it to avenge his defeat in the recent general election. He would stand outside the bedroom of Nick Clegg and stab repeatedly at its piggy necky artery thingy with his enormous Welsh ceremonial sword which all true Welshmen carry with them at all times. "Die, piggy, die," he shouted as porcine blood besplattered Clegg and his frumpy wife Miriam. "None of you will ever know the joy of fucking a Cheeky girl. And yet," he continued as he lowered the knife, "each moment of throbbing ecstasy as my cock exploded ribbons scarcely thinner than their waists inside one or other of them was spoilt by the certainty of our individual mortality and the possibility, all too calculable, of an asteroid slamming into the planet and destroying us all. Is it any wonder that I choose to pass my time with novelty pop singers and TV weather girls? So tell me, Nicholas Clegg," he finished, brandishing the now-severed pig-head in the air above deputy prime minister's elaborate hair, "am I not more profound than any of you still in Parliament?"
Lembit Opik ran down the hill carrying an enormous piglet under his arm. He had stolen it from his ex-girlfriends, Gabriela Cheeky and Veronica-Hieronyma Cheeky, and now he was going to ritually slaughter it to avenge his defeat in the recent general election. He would stand outside the bedroom of Nick Clegg and stab repeatedly at its piggy necky artery thingy with his enormous Welsh ceremonial sword which all true Welshmen carry with them at all times. "Die, piggy, die," he shouted as porcine blood besplattered Clegg and his frumpy wife Miriam. "None of you will ever know the joy of fucking a Cheeky girl. And yet," he continued as he lowered the knife, "each moment of throbbing ecstasy as my cock exploded ribbons scarcely thinner than their waists inside one or other of them was spoilt by the certainty of our individual mortality and the possibility, all too calculable, of an asteroid slamming into the planet and destroying us all. Is it any wonder that I choose to pass my time with novelty pop singers and TV weather girls? So tell me, Nicholas Clegg," he finished, brandishing the now-severed pig-head in the air above deputy prime minister's elaborate hair, "am I not more profound than any of you still in Parliament?"