Mrs Scaryduck writes
Today is our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and yes, he's made it hard work. He never shows me his website, and now that he has, I'm not surprised in the least. I thought we had got rid of that duck when we moved house. And as for the poo, if I find any in our garden, he's in big, big trouble.
I also noticed that he has roped our son (who actually has a name that's rather more sensible than Scaryduck Jr) into writing stuff for this site. David Bowie's Mysterious Cookbook. Oh dear.
So, my husband challenged me to do something better. And I have.
Elton John on the Bog, by Mrs Scaryduck
* I'm Still Straining
* Benny Spraying Jets
* Poo Ball Wizard
* Pong for Guy
* Don't go Burning my Farts (with Pee Pee Dee)
* I Guess that's why they call it the Loo
* Goodbye Yellow Stained Pants
My darling husband also suggested Coprophile Rock, but any joke that needs a lengthy explanation isn't worth printing, especially after he told me what it meant. I do wish he'd get a proper hobby.
Like our son, I have no idea was "suggest-o" means, but I've got to say it. Suggest-o. [If you get stuck on E. John, there's a rich vein of dank, foul-smelling material in Phil Collins - SD]
Alistair has also let me choose tomorrow's story, and Party III seems to scare him the most. I have chosen this over one called The Phantom Turd, which is clearly made up. Actually, he's just said "She'll kill me if she finds out", which makes it even better.
I've got my eye on all of you.
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