Thursday, 16 March 2017
TOM - Here's a new poem from Mr Ed, Dick.
DICK - Post it up Tom, post it up.
TOM - It's very tiny. I think he's forgotten to send us most of it.
DICK - It's in stylee of a haiku, or as Mr Ed says a scatku.
TOM - Well it's all a bit Chinese to me.
DICK - I think you'll find it's Japanese.
TOM - Well I suppose that's why you're the poetry genius.
DICK - Yes, I am the poetry master. Get posting you sock counting numpty.
toilet paper unrolling
one-hand ass wipe—
the sound of poo flushing
by Ed Higgins.
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
DICK - It’s shite being a toon Tom. Some people blame the humans. I don’t, they’re just fuckwits, we, on the other hand were drawn and created by fuckwits. We’re the scum of the earth. Litter. We ain’t even proper drawings. We’re the lowest of the low.
TOM – Inspirational speech by Dick. No wonder we get so screwed-up.
Thursday, 5 January 2017
DICK - Tom, why are you standing in my poo puddle?
TOM - I thought it was gravy.
DICK - Well if yer wanna spread it on yer grilled hamster help yerself. I’ve plenty more where that come from.
TOM - Where’s that, then?
DICK - My dying ear, and why would you wanna stand in gravy?
TOM - I’m looking for a new hobby.
Wednesday, 24 August 2016
DICK – Tom, Tom, I’m really excited!
TOM – Are we doing an investigation again? We could investigate bow ties, or, or, adding things. I like adding things yet I’ve no idea who invented it.
DICK – Shepherds I think, mmm, I wonder if sheep count shepherds to get them off to sleep? No matter ‘cos we ain’t investigating.
TOM – I don’t understand then. What then is making you so excited?
DICK – Well me being a poemy genius and everything, and what with us not having to do stuff for them pesky Clueless Collective poets, I’ve finished me latest poem that I’ve been working on for three years. Prepare to be astounded:
Here I sit broken hearted
Spent twenty p
But only farted.
Brilliant eh? I’ll tell yer, I’m gonna win awards with that.
TOM – It’s shit. I’ve heard it before.
Friday, 24 June 2016
TOM - Thought Brexit was pooing out yer breakfast.
DICK - I can see where yer coming from Tom, but the morning dump is just that, a common or garden morning dump. No need for any grand names.
TOM - I don't do that in the garden.
DICK - It's an expression Tom, like Tom's a cunt.
TOM - Thanks for clearing that up, wanker.
Sunday, 19 June 2016
TOM – You got us sacked from the CluelessCollective’s site didn’t yer?
DICK – I don’t think I did actually ‘cos we ain’t been sacked. And besides if anyone ‘as got us sacked it’s you for being boring.
TOM – No! It would deffo be you for looking up Drew’s skirt, or coming back from the pub and throwing up over their precious poems, or picking a fight with Mankie the Cat. So if we ain’t been sacked what we doing in this dark smelly corner of your disgusting mind?
DICK – We are now in charge of our own destiny.
TOM – Sacked!
DICK – No Tom. They suggested we invest more time over here so we can do what we want to do. They wanted more room for their poems and we should be doing our own thing. Once they realise they no longer have their poetry genius, aka me, to hand they’ll regret their decision. You’ll see.
TOM – So no more investigating then. I liked investigating.
DICK – I shall investigate the prospect of investigating down the pub. Best place to start investigating don’t you think?
TOM – In your case, no.
Wednesday, 3 February 2016
TOM - Amy's at it again.
DICK - At what?
TOM - You know.
DICK - No Tom. I don't.
TOM - Do too.
DICK - What like destruction of the Western world? Eating trees? Mole farming? Counting lampposts? Spill the beans my little sock counting wanker.
TOM - You know. Poem stuff .
DICK - Oh that.
TOM - Don't yer like Amy's poems?
DICK - Yeah I do, it's just … well … I thought when you said she's at it again you were talking about masturbation.
TOM - I don't know what that is.
DICK - Do you rub me up the wrong way on purpose?
TOM - I want to go home now please.
DICK - Sock counting wanker.
TOM - Complete and utter wanker.
DICK - Only into yer favourite socks.
TOM - STOP! STOP! STOP! It's poem time.