Yeknodathon

One can't be too Huron.

Stop dribbling over Geelong's imminent win and send a turn. Or the Donkey will bury his hoof in your backside. Noba. </font>

Oh... that would be both elevated and submerged. In fact, having thought of it for quite a while, I should predict more of the latter thus predicating me absolute need for snorkel and wetsuit? Indeed, in these situations I should say his mammalian predilictions would be of a somewhat disadvantage.... [waving fore-hoof as pure logic streams from unusually dilated nostrils...] ... so I'd much prefer 'im to be a fish or crab or... [casting wild eyes across the windswept expanse of Paddock pond] ... duck. [ May 21, 2005, 10:22 PM: Message edited by: Yeknodathon ]

It ain't prose lad, it's poetry and therefore elevated. Or did you mean porpoise which is mostly submerged?

... more likely a to find a Russian roulade...

Wondered where you'd been. Bauhaus, STAND UP! Play that theme man. Jackass will jump and bray, let him bray, let him bray I say the Jackass will jump and bray, Lordy let him bray, let him bray, everybody! Now I tell you in a positive way Don’t tie me donkey down there Cause me donkey will rump and play Don’t tie me donkey down there Now me donkey gone mad they say Don’t tie me donkey down there “Cause his eye on a bale o’ hay Don’t tie me donkey down there Now the news really travel fast Don’t tie me donkey down there When me donkey in the meadow grass Don’t tie me donkey down there Now me heart is light and gay Don’t tie me donkey down there He haw ‘till judgment day Don’t tie me donkey down there Jack-Ass Song -Harry Belafonte </font>

I think I can see sunlight through yer head.

... and donkeys. That's three persuasions.

This is probably from Boo's nose.

[aroused and shuffling on the spot with excited hooves...] ... of course, not technically finger puppets one cannot help but be facscinated with the Clangers and whether they might be able to fit into Emrys...

Eh, Gaylord again...

... and then, of course, there is Spit the Dog but I wouldn't want that up Emry's nose... or Bob Carolgees.

Lamers up a nose? *snort* Fingerbobs!

How did he get puppets in his nose? Steve </font>

[gently gathers brussel sprouts as a crocodile might move its eggs and lobs several towards Boo and one towards Emrys]

I suppose we have to have a troubadour...

... and one cannot help but wonder what our soft, beguiling MBT muse is screaming as she writhes and kicks her newly shaven legs in the tight grip of this gnomic monstrosity: "Oi, you pillock! Let me from your grasp yer flamin' twonk for I, forsaith..." [that is muse-talk for those here uneducated to understand] "... and forthsooth would trample amongst the huddled masses beneath me for they amuse me greatly unlike you who can barely sport a jock-strap straight. For I say that you must desist and must tramp back to yer cave and grope the underneath of many Mace sheep as once did a very ancient Cyclops... 'cept you aint no Cyclops but worse. So hear this: there be Odysseus and his companions under said sheep and they do hide amidst yer gaze. Beware, oh, beware, beware, beware!"

Of course, it is an allegory in the tradition of the finest Vermeer. As one stands back and contemplates the fine work, the twisting movement of the torso subtly counter-balanced by the errect pointy hat we consider our Bard's timeless contributions. Laying 'imself bare for us all to see his toughened yer vulnerable self with all but the most scanty covering. No modesty here! Striding above us like a Titan, dashing this one or that one against some hard object while swatting our efforts from below with a giant's hand or a fulsome kick in the fork. Athletic and magnificent. And what of the prize in his hand? One can not tell. It may be his muse? It may be our muse? It could well be the allegorical MBT herself?! And as we take in this work we cannot help ourselves but follow the artist to exclaim halfway through a post: "When will it stop?" Magnificent, I shall pin it up in me stall.

Eh? What is the point of dyeing a blonde sheep blonde? Isn't it white enough? Or are they just better through the sheep dip?

You're saying Lord Parmesan High Twit has been shoved into his jeans? Marvellous, bloody marvellous... that'll curl his pointy ears. Elendor... pathetic!

I particularly like the rather mean, surly one second from right... seems the sort to give a fistful of mithrail into the relevant elven orifice.

It's quite likely they'd spot an elf at 37.5 miles... [ April 23, 2005, 12:23 AM: Message edited by: Yeknodathon ]

Squishy sprouts? Firm on the outside but soft 'n' spongy on the inside? [gives them a quick whiff] ... one really can't refuse a good, ripe brassica?

Yes, I'm a very sensitive donkey and need constant reassurance. *swoon* See, that? Legs just went. Yer get one elf about the place and me whole carefully constructed psychological confidence just collapses into a fit of paranoid doubts and dissociative splitting of me "good" donkey fantasies onto gnomes and me "bad" donkey fantasies onto the Justicar and that can't be right?... or it might, one can never quite remember... Where's a lawyer, I wish to sue?

... I sense its haste...