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In the most recent Stick-A-Stick, I was paired with newbie El Catador.
Welp, being relatively certain that he hadn't read the little story that I liked to use when posting packets to BOTL's (which nicwing rudely posted for the whole world to see [click here]), I thought I'd recycle it. However, I had to redo the intro in light of the new little story I'd generated for the Boli GM deal (click here). So instead of the first paragraph where I go ballistic in the post office, I replaced it with:
"I'm sure you read my post about the issues I have with the US Postal Service and how I found an alternate means of delivery for the Boli split deal. However there was just something fishy about the whole mess that disturbed me so I decided not to use that way for your sticks.
Really, my only viable alternative was to somehow use the post office. So, I disguised myself. I have this slinky, black dress that form-fits nicely round my fat belly, wore black fishnet hose and a pair of black patent leather pointy 4-inch fuck me heels. My blonde wig had a rodent infestation, so I had to use my green one. But I looked really stunning.
I swivel-hipped into the post office with your packet, but I didn't even make it to the counter! I think they're using some sophisticated facial recognition software now. Either that, or maybe it was my mustache. In any case I was summarily ejected in a most unladylike fashion."
The remainder of the tale being unchanged with the raft and the basket, et. al.
So, I'm expecting some reply like "Haha you're a funny fellow" or "Jayzuz, you've got some fucked up brain, mate" or somesuch. What I did not expect was:
"George
I am somewhat in awe of the ingenious solution you have concocted in order to circumvent those rogues in the postal service.
All too often the 'high handed', 'that's the price, take-it-or-leave-it' approach that they adopt when dealing with honest, law abiding customers (or 'varmints' as I believe they refer to us), leaves me puce in the face with impotent rage. It's a colour I'm afraid that doesn't suit my fair skinned complexion, and has, on more than one occasion, led to me being mistaken for a wondering Mongolian herdsman (If I had a pound for every time I'd been asked for a pint of yak's milk...).
Fortune however, and serendipity have, I am delighted to say, smiled upon me, as I too have discovered a slightly unorthodox but (I am reliably informed), 'sure-fire' method of circumventing these godless heathens.
As it transpires, I bumed into my uncle (whilst on my way to the 'British' equivalent of your nefarious postal ministry), Squadron Leader Barrington-Smythe, from the sheep worrying side of the family (Although incidentally, he still maintains his innocence and blames the 'unpleasantness' on the lewd behaviour of the ewe in question, and not himself. Sadly, his assertion that it was, in fact, the sheep who instigated 'bodily contact (by backing onto 'him' whilst he was in the process of relieving himself) was thrown out of court. Therefore, his attempt at overturning his conviction and trying to have the sheep 'banged up' instead, was, technically a 'non-starter').
However, I digress. Monte (that's his first name, we don't stand on ceremony any more) suggested I avail myself of one of his elite, Royal Airforce trained, PSP's (Precision Strike Pigeons), apparently they were recruited and trained in secret during the second world war, the intention being to use them to deliver and drop small, but perfectly functional, stink bombs on German munitions factories, and in so doing, disrupt the production of vital armaments.
Sadly, they were 'mothballed' in summer of 44 following a regrettable prank involving a hand grenade and tanker full of horse manure that was parked outside 'No. 10'.
Monte, however tells me that he kept a few on for 'old times sake' (that and they make good eating) and assures me that 'the little blighters are still combat ready'.
Best of all they work for peanuts (well birdseed if you want to get all technical about it).
Anyhow, to cut a long story short, he intends to dispatch 'Vlad the Destroyer' (he's a bit of a heavy metal fan our Monte) on Monday, with a map to your address (courtesy of google) and a head torch in case it gets dark.
Don't worry about sending him back, we promised him a green card.
Bestest Regards"
Can you imagine how I felt reading this reply that sounded like it came from a Limey version of ME?! I tell you, it shivered me timbers.
A tenny rate, the reason I posted all this was to see if Deano could conjure up some kind of Best Reply Award to bestow upon Sir El Catador. I believe him to be truly deserving of some type of accolade owing to his ability to be almost as lunatic as myselves.
Welp, being relatively certain that he hadn't read the little story that I liked to use when posting packets to BOTL's (which nicwing rudely posted for the whole world to see [click here]), I thought I'd recycle it. However, I had to redo the intro in light of the new little story I'd generated for the Boli GM deal (click here). So instead of the first paragraph where I go ballistic in the post office, I replaced it with:
"I'm sure you read my post about the issues I have with the US Postal Service and how I found an alternate means of delivery for the Boli split deal. However there was just something fishy about the whole mess that disturbed me so I decided not to use that way for your sticks.
Really, my only viable alternative was to somehow use the post office. So, I disguised myself. I have this slinky, black dress that form-fits nicely round my fat belly, wore black fishnet hose and a pair of black patent leather pointy 4-inch fuck me heels. My blonde wig had a rodent infestation, so I had to use my green one. But I looked really stunning.
I swivel-hipped into the post office with your packet, but I didn't even make it to the counter! I think they're using some sophisticated facial recognition software now. Either that, or maybe it was my mustache. In any case I was summarily ejected in a most unladylike fashion."
The remainder of the tale being unchanged with the raft and the basket, et. al.
So, I'm expecting some reply like "Haha you're a funny fellow" or "Jayzuz, you've got some fucked up brain, mate" or somesuch. What I did not expect was:
"George
I am somewhat in awe of the ingenious solution you have concocted in order to circumvent those rogues in the postal service.
All too often the 'high handed', 'that's the price, take-it-or-leave-it' approach that they adopt when dealing with honest, law abiding customers (or 'varmints' as I believe they refer to us), leaves me puce in the face with impotent rage. It's a colour I'm afraid that doesn't suit my fair skinned complexion, and has, on more than one occasion, led to me being mistaken for a wondering Mongolian herdsman (If I had a pound for every time I'd been asked for a pint of yak's milk...).
Fortune however, and serendipity have, I am delighted to say, smiled upon me, as I too have discovered a slightly unorthodox but (I am reliably informed), 'sure-fire' method of circumventing these godless heathens.
As it transpires, I bumed into my uncle (whilst on my way to the 'British' equivalent of your nefarious postal ministry), Squadron Leader Barrington-Smythe, from the sheep worrying side of the family (Although incidentally, he still maintains his innocence and blames the 'unpleasantness' on the lewd behaviour of the ewe in question, and not himself. Sadly, his assertion that it was, in fact, the sheep who instigated 'bodily contact (by backing onto 'him' whilst he was in the process of relieving himself) was thrown out of court. Therefore, his attempt at overturning his conviction and trying to have the sheep 'banged up' instead, was, technically a 'non-starter').
However, I digress. Monte (that's his first name, we don't stand on ceremony any more) suggested I avail myself of one of his elite, Royal Airforce trained, PSP's (Precision Strike Pigeons), apparently they were recruited and trained in secret during the second world war, the intention being to use them to deliver and drop small, but perfectly functional, stink bombs on German munitions factories, and in so doing, disrupt the production of vital armaments.
Sadly, they were 'mothballed' in summer of 44 following a regrettable prank involving a hand grenade and tanker full of horse manure that was parked outside 'No. 10'.
Monte, however tells me that he kept a few on for 'old times sake' (that and they make good eating) and assures me that 'the little blighters are still combat ready'.
Best of all they work for peanuts (well birdseed if you want to get all technical about it).
Anyhow, to cut a long story short, he intends to dispatch 'Vlad the Destroyer' (he's a bit of a heavy metal fan our Monte) on Monday, with a map to your address (courtesy of google) and a head torch in case it gets dark.
Don't worry about sending him back, we promised him a green card.
Bestest Regards"
Can you imagine how I felt reading this reply that sounded like it came from a Limey version of ME?! I tell you, it shivered me timbers.
A tenny rate, the reason I posted all this was to see if Deano could conjure up some kind of Best Reply Award to bestow upon Sir El Catador. I believe him to be truly deserving of some type of accolade owing to his ability to be almost as lunatic as myselves.
And been awarded to El Catador
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