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Friday, 6 January 2017

In which One is forced to sell One's organs...

Have had to cut down One's working week, as am complete wreck...

'How on earth shall you prevail, Lovely One?' I hear you collectively chorus as you wring your gnarled hands.

Well, have splendid plan of selling off One's organs one by one.  After all, there are several that can be deployed elsewhere with no adverse effects, are there not?

Tonsils, for a start, and even though One was a martyr to tonsilitis and tonsil stones in One's youth, One still has the useless blighters cluttering up One's throat.

'But what could anyone actually do with them?' you enquire, 'little fatty, lifeless, ovoids that they are.'

Perfect filling for Scampi, old chaps, in fact One is fairly sure that's what One imbibed at The Halfway House in Lutonistan when supping with Aged P. The 'Scampi' had surely never formed part of a langoustine tail, and if it had, some other diner had chewed it first.

Anyway, I digress...

One has a brace of spare chins, that One is certain to be able to flog to one of the chinless wonders in pink corderoys that One is forced to humour when they swagger into the Fine Foods Emporium for their Famous Grouse and fags.

Or, indeed a yard or two of spare skin to re-cover a couple of singed Syrians.

One won't even bother offering a kidney on the open market as One expects they're shriveled and hard as lacrosse balls.... now, there's a thought!

One shall start slowly with the sale of One's ever increasing, super-floo-us hair, being harvested as we speak...

Just think, Dear Reader, as you recline on your DFS, buy now, pay on the knock, chaise, it might well be stuffed with One's recently harvested goatee, or even the furry outer-coating of One's 'condemned by the Council',  aged, over-used, cavernous, Twinkle.

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