Tha'art a reet boofin' fool and no mistake, young feller. What 'appened to the cozy Lancashire afternoons of your youth when I spread Morrisons budget marge on your Hovis bread and we all hummed Rule Britannia? In those days the only substance you wanted to insert into yersel' were a jolly nice crumpet and that into yet cake-'ole and not yer bum'-ole, which is no more than the devil's doin's.
Oh how I weep to consider your sweet childlike innocence all sullied by drugs an' pop music. Come back to yer Papa, to Christ, and to Paul McCartney and it can be just how it used to be!
Hahaha dearest father, you are neglecting to remember our family crest “Quaevis foramen est foramen libi.” I developed my unhealthy relationship with food via that god-awful boofing cane you would twirl to Eleanor Rigby come the toll of elevenses. Your tears are my only comfort. You can shove your French Mr Kipling’s Fancies up YOUR arse. Mine is closed for winter. I now know I didn’t break up the Beatles. Your elaborate mind games won’t work on me. These days when you convince me to boof, it’s on my terms
Tha'art a reet boofin' fool and no mistake, young feller. What 'appened to the cozy Lancashire afternoons of your youth when I spread Morrisons budget marge on your Hovis bread and we all hummed Rule Britannia? In those days the only substance you wanted to insert into yersel' were a jolly nice crumpet and that into yet cake-'ole and not yer bum'-ole, which is no more than the devil's doin's.
Oh how I weep to consider your sweet childlike innocence all sullied by drugs an' pop music. Come back to yer Papa, to Christ, and to Paul McCartney and it can be just how it used to be!
A "reboof" of "Fantastic Voyage."
Haha to boof, per chance to dream
The humour here is going through the boof.
Hahaha dearest father, you are neglecting to remember our family crest “Quaevis foramen est foramen libi.” I developed my unhealthy relationship with food via that god-awful boofing cane you would twirl to Eleanor Rigby come the toll of elevenses. Your tears are my only comfort. You can shove your French Mr Kipling’s Fancies up YOUR arse. Mine is closed for winter. I now know I didn’t break up the Beatles. Your elaborate mind games won’t work on me. These days when you convince me to boof, it’s on my terms