Admit it. Just admit it. You lie. You could even be lying now. After all, you might be reading this in bed.

My astrological sign is, of course, Homunculus (the Grape).

Like all Homunculons, I have a great love of pastry, lying down and mortgages. But, hey, don’t be fooled by the rocks that I’ve got. When Jupiter is rising, I, quite literally, love to go disco dancing with some of my young chums. Being Grapien, I love too easily and eat too hard. I a man of means, but by no means am I king of the road. I’m a prince at the max.

Yes, it’s safe to say that the random alignment of stars in the sky affects every aspect of humanity’s struggle. Apart from the bits that God is in charge of, of course.

The news of Sid’s self-imposed celibacy hit womankind like a hammer blow. It’s no exaggeration to say that The Women were pure devoed (devastated). It seems that Sidney was something of a catch who, up to that particular date, had indeed not actually been caught. In the year 2059 (for that was indeed the year in which this happened – sorry, I should probably have mentioned that) there were hardly any eligible men. There was quite literally a dearth of suitable suitors.

The council of Women’s Things convened an emergency meeting of the utmost import. They gathered round a telly (or the futuristic equivalent) and reviewed the video footage. Edmonds seemed to be dressed as a genie but his skin was entirely golden, like one of them birds off of the beginning of Goldfinger. I can’t really describe the rest of his outfit as it’s knocking me sick. And the council of chicks, like, totally agreed with me. One of them actually vommed up in her mouth a little bit.

Anyway, the council members (or “memberettes” to give them their official title) decided that Sidney was right and that EVERYONE should become celibate! Well, this meant that the human race became extinct! It’s like Tales of the Unexpected, or something like that.

Or was it?

It’s available for the bargain price of just £1.99 by clicking here.

Hey!! Do you not own an iPhone, an iPad and\or an iPod Touch but own some other kind of electronic device that might be used to read stuff on?  You do\you don’t\you fall into this category?  Hurrah!  The book (of this blog) is also available for download in a non-Apple eBook format (for the same low, low price) by clicking here.

Hey!!!  Are you some kind of crazy semi-Amish individual who insists on reading books on paper but aren’t afraid to order the paper book via the old internet?  Bully for you!  You can still buy a real-life physical copy of my book on Amazon, by clicking here.  So don’t worry, you ain’t gonna miss out (although it will cost you more).

So, what’s this crazy volume about? Well, you’re reading this blog, so you should have an idea, but, if you don’t, here is the official book-blurb:

The World of Sherby57 is one of the most loved blogs on the whole of the internet. Well, it is to me because I wrote it. I can’t speak for anybody else.This book is a collection of the best posts from the first two years. They’ve mostly been rewritten so there is a point to buying the book and not just reading them online.Plus there is a new conclusion to the epic Fireheart! tale. Thrilling stuff. Read it today. Please.

I’ve said “please”.  Consider this an order and buy it NOW!

P.s.

Won’t somebody please leave a review on Amazon or iTunes?

P.p.s.

Only positive comments need apply.

P.p.p.s.

Thanks ever so much for listening.  Bye!

Image via Wikipedia

So.  I started writing this post and then had to delete it because it was starting to take a turn for the worse.  So I started again. I am blogger, hear me roar.

I won’t say why I started again. I’d prefer to leave an air of mystery hanging over your domain.  Don’t waft it away.  Let it linger.  Breathe it in through your ample nostrils and breathe it out again through your forever-flapping gob. Wasn’t it Nickelback who once sang a song called breathe (see attached photo)?  To be honest, I’ve never heard of it.  I think the photo just appeared in my Media Gallery Recommendations because I used the word “breathe”.  Sure, it’s a tenuous link, but I’m not afraid to jump on the tenuous bandwagon and ride that bad-boy right out of the rodeo.

Anyway.  I started the post from scratch, that’s the point.  This begs the philoshical question as to whether this actually constitutes the same post or not.  Socrates would say “aye” on the matter. Zico would say “no way, Jose”.  These fucking Brazilian footballers are always bickering.  Ironically, it’s a key ingredient in their flamboyant playing style.  Go figure.

The Art that I most appreciate is Art Garfunkel.

He’s a lovely fella, and with his lustrous mop of curly hair, he’s ideal for cleaning out over-sized test tubes.

Everyone should have their own Art Garkfunkel at home (regardless of whether you own a collection of Victorian over-sized test tubes of the approximate circumference of Art Garfunkel’s head).

Sadly, there’s only one of him.

Michael (always Michael, never Mike or Mickey) had the day he first laid his metaphorical eyes upon Sheila emblazoned on his waxy brain.  He had been living in one of those really smelly shops that hippies frequent, with some of his family.  He had been sad to leave mother, but the swell of desire he felt as Sheila tenderly placed him into her hempen sack more than made up for it.

Mmmmmm, oh how his mind reeled at the memory of the day that she had first firmly, yet sensitively grasped his rigid shaft.  And then had put him on a shelf.  The heady feeling of anticipation was almost too much to bear at the thought of her lighting him.  Oh, how he longed for her to light him.

That day had now long passed.  The day his virgin wick had become sooty.  A solitary tear of wax dripped mournfully down the bit of his shaft where there would have been a cheek had he had a face.  The irony being that each tear led him ever closer to his ultimate demise.

Oh. Oh, Sheila.

Image via Wikipedia

Dorian Gray sat cross-legged in his high-backed leather armchair and turned to his good friend Frankenstein (the monster).

“It’s a good job that we’re both out of copyright,” the supernaturally sexy rogue guffawed.  ”Otherwise you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation, old bean.”

Frankenstein looked bewildered in the face of his compadre’s comment and gingerly fingered the bolts what was sticking out of his neck.

“Frankenstein no understand girlman,” screeched the lumpen travesty.  ”What is this copyright of which you speak?”

Gray literally didn’t know where to begin.  How could he explain the meta-textual nature of the conversation to his cloth-headed chum?  The silken-haired lothario breathed a breathy sigh of relief as he heard two heavy raps at the stoic oak door.  He knew that Frankenstein would have forgotten all about this by the time that he returned, and allowed himself a sneaky smirk at the fortuitous timing.

The massive perv rose gracefully from his seat.  Such was the elegance of his movements that he even managed to avoid making a farting noise on the antique leather.  He glode (or glided) towards the hallway and surreptitiously opened the front doorage.  He was somewhat alarmed to be confronted by Lennie and George out of Of Mice and Men.

“What the Dickens are you two doing here?” exclaimed Gray whilst erotically stroking his cock through his flannel slacks.

“Tell me ’bout the rabbits…” started Lennie.

“Shush,” chastised George.  ”Not now.  I’m sorry, Mr Gray, but we need your help in a matter of the utmost urgency.”

Gray checked his pocket watch, irrelevantly, and shifted uneasily in his patent leather brogues.

“Do not speak another word,” demanded the fop.  ”You two ragamuffins were only published in 1937.  I really don’t know enough about copyright law to know whether or not you’re allowed to appear in this story.  Don’t make me fetch Frankenstein to remove you.”

“But, Mr Gray,” interjected the cleverer of the two bindlestiffs (George).  ”There’s been a murder…”

To be continued (possibly)…

Image via Wikipedia

When Kowalski arrived at Maureen’s that crisp September morning, he had no idea what was about to happen to him.  He simply thought he was going to routinely interview a witness about a missing cat.  The same sort of shit that Kowalski would normally eat for breakfast.  On this occasion, it was a breakfast of big (metaphorical) eggy baps.

Kowalski approached the humble abode and couldn’t help but notice how tidily-trimmed the doormat was.  It framed Maureen’s entrance perfectly and it brought a minor-flush to Kowalski’s ruggedly stubbled cheek.  Kowalski tentatively stroked the engorged door knocker.  He sensitively caressed its brassy nodule before tenderly knocking it against the wooden door with his tongue.  He waited.  Kowalski was not a man prone to uncertainty, but even he wondered if he had done it right.  He needn’t have worried.  Slowly, expectantly, Maureen exercised the well-lubricated hinges of her front door.  Kowalski stifled a gasp as the door lay tantalisingly agape.

“Detective Kowalski, I presume” purred Maureen.  ”Do come in.”

Kowalski did not need asking twice.  He looked longingly at Maureen’s hallway.  He was a man of considerable and impressive girth and he worried that it may be too tight a squeeze.  He may have been Kowalski, but Kowalski was a gentleman first and Kowalski second (except on those occasions when he really needed to be a Kowalski, you know, like in an emergency and that).  He gently entered her silken hallway and lovingly wiped his boots on the mat.

The sensation of entering Maureen’s house was almost too much to bear and he feared he could not control himself.  Kowalski was an experienced man and had entered many witnesses’ houses over the years.  None had felt like Maureen’s.  His whole body shuddered and juddered as the barrage of sensations washed over his sufficiently toned body.

He managed to make it to Maureen’s plump sofa and he slumped into the voluptuous cushions, completely spent.  He asked Maureen is she minded him smoking.  Damn, he needed a smoke.

Do you love Kowalski?  Read his further adventures in “A Hazard of Parsnips”.

1. It’s in a petri dish.

2. It’s fun to look at under a microscope.

3. Possible cure for cancer.

4. Small.

5. Very, very tasty.