Pooped party

Finding myself bored to tears at yet another insufferable post-Christmas party, I excused myself into the party host's back garden, pretending that I wanted a fag*. Once behind the philodelphus away from prying eyes - and those with a good sense of smell** - I opened a Hell Portal, grudgingly paid the toll fee and slipped into somewhere more comfortable.

Demons certainly know how to throw a good party. The best guests, the finest food and the most illegal drinks. They even serve Romulan ale sometimes! So, Satan only knows what had happened to this particular party I'd crashed. Most of the guests, if they'd even bothered to turn up, had left. The host, a rather corpulent demon, sweated copiously as he filled his rather ample face with titbits, Nipples of Venus if I wasn't very much mistaken. Although, judging by his distended stomach, they were probably from Diana of the Ephesians.

Hardly able to believe that I'd left one hideous dive for another, I headed out back towards the servants quarters. After all, it's a universal constant that servants have better parties than their masters employers. Look at Dirty Dancing for example (I'm not explaining it. If you haven't seen it, so don't know what I'm going on about, then shame on you! It's worth it if not just for Patrick Swayze in his 'pre-leatherette' days).

Wandering past the Infernal Stables of the Abominable Steeds, I heard music and voices. Aha! A party! Heading towards the sounds, my spirits lifted. I hastily grabbed hold of them and stuffed them back in our body. I couldn't let them loose down here - I might never get them back! As I got closer, the voices and music - Scissor Sisters by the sound of it - became clearer.


How do you make a lady?
How do you make a lady?
How do you make a lady?
I'll show you one more time.

"Will you turn that down" one of the voices screeched. It sounded vaguely female.

"What?" barked a second voice.

How do you make a lady?
How do you make a lady?

"I can't hear myself think!" the first, rather strident, voice exclaimed.

"You don't need to think to do what I have in mind" a third, lascivious voice, oozed.

Hey hey baby.
Maybe you can show me your lady
and we can make a lady tonight?

"What?"

"Oh, come on. You know you want to. Take that off..."

"Get your filthy claws off me!"

* stamp *

"Oww!"

"What?" 

Her name is (Barbara) Barbara (Jackson) Jackson.
That is her name.
Her name is (Barbara) Barbara (Jackson) Jackson.

"They're not filthy."

"You're riddled with disease, you sex mad freak!"

"Mmmm... Thank you." 

Her name is Barbara Jackson.
How do you make a lady?

"Has anyone seen Pinky?" Ah, someone else.

"What?"

"That bloody rat hasn't escaped again, has it?"

"Leave my hair alone!" 

"Pinky isn't a rat" the fourth voice whined.

"Urrgrh... You've got syphillis as well as genital warts?"

"He's a gerbil."

Barbara Jackson is my name
and I don't play no game

"I'm not falling for that again. What did I just say?"

* smack *

"Arrrggh! What was that for?" 

My name is Barbara Jackson
and that's what you should call me.
My name is Barbara Jackson
but you don't ever call me.
You don't ever call me.

"Pardon?"

I'm making her from faberge
I'm making her from fabric
I'll put her in some neglige
I'll conjure her with magic


Drat! I'd only stumbled across The Four Stablehands Of The Apocalypse: Petulance, Vermin, Warts and Deaf.







Bugger.


* Of course, I don't smoke, but he didn't know that. Unless he did and thought I was going out for a bit of cock? How very VERY dare he make such assumptions. I'll get him later. And not just for the cock assumption, but the crappy party, too.

** Hell does pong a bit. All that sulphur, you see...