Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon

Hark, ye fellows at the tragic tale of Frank Spurgeon, the butcher. Or as he poetically likes to call himself 'Meat Surgeon'. Me oh my, if you're not weeping by the end of this, may God have mercy on your soul. Also, some new short ones since you haven't had some in a while.

Frank Spurgeon: Meat Surgeon

Meet Frank Spurgeon.
Meat Surgeon.
He cuts meat, he cleans meat,
He stores meat, he adores meat.
But here’s the irony.
His tongue’s made of silicon.
And he can therefore never taste the fruits of his labours.
(No taste buds)


Short Ones

46. ‘Goal!’ Screamed the blind football commentator. Guessing.

47. The licentious ‘Gregor’ sat haphazardly amongst the blossom. What he was doing there, no-one is sure to this day. But they know this. He was very rude to the young Hispanic waiter who came to take his order.

48. A lonely anteater, wondering the Gobi Dessert? Gobi Desert?

49. Spineless. Hatless. This had not been a good morning for Colin.

50. Plasters in swimming pools make me uneasy. Not to mention queasy. (autobiographical)

51. Sweet success, thought the Candyman.

52. With sweat, pouring down his pate, and blood seeping from his eyes, Mr. Sinclair reflected that maybe the coalition government wasn’t for him. (political)

53. You’re not happy are you? I’m perfectly happy actually. Oh, sorry to bother you. You are forgiven, father.

54. The phlegm slapped his cheek like a hot turd thrown by a chimp.


Good morning/afternoon/evening/night (depends what time you're reading this at.