Chick Lit Wars

GallantTed reviews the latest books from the Chick Lit stable

John with the Wind by MadDogTed

Howye fokes! How is things?  I’ll tell ye, MadDogTed decided ta have go at writen somethin in the Chick Lit vane fer the craic and his little offeren called John with the Wind is all about a vain weather cock called John what finds it hard ta find love cos he’s stook on top of the barn and never gets ta meet anyone and, as a result takes ta overdosen on beans fer ta fill the emotional void inside of him. Subsequently, he gets a pernamint dose a the flatulince what effects his work grately cos he’s never quite sure which way the wind does be blowen and ends up haven ta rely on his bunions fer ta predict the weather.

But then he meets the love of his life, Muriel the blackburd, what flies inta his lonely life and  buys him some corn plasters fer his burthday and cures his bunions. Of course, this means he can no longer forcast the weather cos as a further token of her affections, Muriel just loves ta feed him beans, so he still hasn’t a clue which way the wind does be blowen. Anyways, as a result dosen’t he lose his job and the destitute pair of  love burds end up bitter, down-and-out, fly-by-night renegades what spend the resta  their lives on the rampage, brutally gorgen the eyes outta any weathermen what crosses their path and  violently knocken the heads offa any Child a Prague statue what gets in their way.

Basically, ya could say the the two a them completely lost the plot. Which is really what MadDogTed’s furst attempt at a romantic novel does from the very furst word what he wrote. Fer that reason, ya can imagine me surprise when he told me that he’d actually found a publisher fer his odious opus. And when I sed  that his novel didn’t quite embrace the sweet romantic essince of what Chick Lit is all about he sed, “Chick Lit, me arse, it’s Sick Lit what I do be writen, fer sure!” And I’ll tell ye fokes, there’s no better Ted fer the job.

To Fleece A Sheep by Albear Camoo

Howye fokes! How is things?   After the grate success a MadDogTed’s furst Sick Lit novel, John with the Wind, there was no way that me other literary pal, Albear Camoo, was goen ta be out done and a right battle of lits enscewed as he rushed ta get his first novel in the Chick Lit genre published.

His new novel, Ta Fleece a Sheep, is full of passion, intrigue, betrayal and all that sorta stuff and is all about a fierce rich but socially inept  Farmer what longs ta be runnen with the* In Crowd* but is cursed by the mark a the agricultural wellinton. He desperately tries ta hide his brutally boorish beginnens and bumptiousally makes several attimpts ta launch himself inta high society, but constantly gives his poor breeden away - like the time he bought his way inta a reel fancy card game only ta make a holy show outta himself by spitten on his hands every time a spade was delt.

Anyways, one fatefull night, a fierce mysterious and glamerous woman enters his life

and he’s fierce delighted with himself alltagather. But tragically, what our woolly-headed frend doesn’t realize is that his new lover is really only a washed-out, mutton-dressed-as lamb, gallopen trollop offa gold digger what’s only after his money.

Now, I can’t be given too much more away at this pint, but I’m not codden ya, yer eyes will be glued ta the pages as ya enter this exciten world a thrills, spills, glitz,  treachery, fizzy sheep dip on ice and all that sorta stuff. It promises ta be a grate read alltagather and one ya should definitely pack inta yer suit case when yer goen on yer hollimadays. 

Da Vinci Code and How it affects many modern women

Howye fokes! How is things? Me post bag is only bulgen with all yer letters and queries on the Jesus and Mary MacDillon affair – or lack thereof as the case may be.  Anyways, I got one very interesten letter from a reader what signs herself as Just Wonderen, from Back the Road what writes:

Dear Ted

I read your blog with great pleasure and interest every week and think it’s the best thing since the sliced unlevelled pan. I've no doubt you or your readers can help me with my little problem.

You see Ted, the other day when the sun was shining for a few minutes, I took my little Joseph to the seaside to give him a chance to play with his new bucket and spade. It was while he was digging happily in the sand that he found these very old looking papers that looked like parchment or something. On closer examination, much to my surprise, I discovered that I’m a product of this Divine Bloodline that everyone is talking about. Yes, Ted, I have the evidence to prove that I am indeed related to Jesus and Mary.

Now Ted, it doesn’t take a great mind to figure out that if I am related, then I’m entitled to an inheritance. So my question to you is, when Jesus died, rose again and then ascended into heaven - did that make Mary a widow or a deserted wife? I mean which allowance was she entitled to? And as I’ve no doubt that in those days it probably took years to sort such claims out, there’s a good chance that it was never resolved in her lifetime and now her descendants are entitled to all the back pay – with interest, of course.

How much am I worth with back pay

So Ted, I’d be most grateful if you or any of your loyal readers could answer my query as soon as possible. Signed,  Just Wondering, Back the Road.

Well, there ye have it fokes. Apply within with yer answers.

Ted on Genetically Modified Religion

Howye fokes! How is things? Me little pal, MadDogTed, is just beside himself with the response what he got ta last month’s post explainen the Da Vinci code.  Of course, I’m convinced meself that haff a ye is only sucken up ta him fer ta get a slurp of  the Holy Gray Ale what’s been hidden beneath Slasher’s Bar fer years. I’ll tell ye, the hole thing about Jesus haven a wife and kids is mind blowen fer sure, cos that would mean that he wasn’t the divine son of God at all - just one a his regular children like the rest of us. And sure where would that leave society as we know it taday? Fer starters, the Easter Bunny and Santy would be outta job fer sure and would probably be sued ta boot fer unfair traden. And no more Furst Holy Commumion would mean no more junior fake tans, lip waxes, ringlets, fancy frocks, limos, helicopters, posh nosh do’s and all that sorta stuff. And that would just cripple the economy - not ta mention the Joneses and all whose soul purpose in life is to keep up with themselves. And the govermint would have ta introduce an amesty fer ta get back all the Commumion money from them cute misers what still have it. The shamrock and St Patrick would have ta go too, ya know - cos it would be just the Father and the Holy Ghost. Unless, of course, it’s the Father, Son, Grandson and the Holy Ghost, in which case ya’d have ta go fer a four-leaved clover instead the shamrock - but then again that would only cover the furst 3 generations -  unless ya were ta go fer a genetically modified clover and keep adden leaves as each new offspring was born. But then again genetic modification is totally against relegion. But on the other hand, it looks as if there no longer is any relegion. A course, if there was and ya were actually parta this divine bloodline and God was yer granddaddy, then ya'd really cash in on yer Holy Commumion day. Lissen, I’m off fer a sup a that Holy Gray Ale before me confused little mind explodes alltagather.

Healthy Fruit

GallantTed  and  his cohorts enjoy a right fruit fest as Mr Slasher tries to introduce them to a more healthy lifestyle.  What happened at the end of the night just might shock you.

Howye fokes! How is things?  Mr Slasher is big huge inta customer service fer sure and is always concerned about the health and wellbeing of  his punters  cos he knows only too well that the longer we all stay hale and harty, the longer we’ll slurp his ale and party.
 
Well, the other week he was a bitteen concerned that we wasn’t getten our five-a-day supply a frute and vegatibles and so decided ta introduce alciholic frute shots in ta the bar menu. He organised a big huge launch  alltagether  fer  the campain and even invited such dignitaries as the Mandirin of Manulla and the Sultana of Swinford fer ta open the festivities.

Now, I don’t know meself if there’s any truth in the rumour that the pear a them is daten, but they sure looked peachy tagather. A course, that gallopen trollop, Goldilocks, was ded  jealous fer sure and tried ta peel them apart, but only ended up looken like a right gooseberry.
 
Anyways, the night of  the launch was brillant alltagather and there was free shots fer everyone  - freshly made outta all kinds a exotic frutes from all over the world. Us Teds was there in our numbers fer sure, maken sure that we got our bite outta the cherry and the atmosphere was only magic - like there was a electric currant flowen through it or somethin.

At one pint me little pal, Albear Camoo, was even eyen up Loxy’s melons, who by now was sucken on a sour grape and blowen raspberries at the sultana and the mardirin and generally maken a right lemon outta herself alltagather. I’ll tell ya we was haven the time a our lives fer sure, guzzlen shot after exotic shot.

And then, towards the enda the night, things got fierce juicy alltagather when the door bursted open and this fierce angry-looken little bush limped up ta the bar waven a gun and sed, “I’ve come fer the man what shot my pawpaw!"