Post here and I shall insult you Monty Python style

C'mon, you cheesy lot of second-hand electric donkey-bottom biters!

:9

Your kind makes me puke! :puke:

... I FART in your general direction.

like a la-di-dah pooftah!

you son of a window dresser!

Fresh fruit not good enough for you, eh? Well, when someone attacks you with a bunch of loganberries, don't come crawlin' to me!

It's just a flesh wound. ;)

What kind of a ponce are you?

:P

I'm way overdue. :)

If you don't mind me saying so, you are badly in need of an expensive course of psychiatric treatment!



Edit: fucking typo.

you empty headed animal food trough wiper.

It's silly! Who's giving the insults around here, anyway?

Don't grumble, give a whistle.

Cute knees, by the way. :)

You think you could out-clever us French folk with your silly, knees-bent, running-about, advancing behaviour?

You a member of the Ministry of Silly Runs? :rofl:

do it.

:o

:D

You're a loony! You might even need a new brain!

Well, but you can't expect to wield supreme insulting power just 'cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!

This should be fun!

:P

What do you know about it? What do you know about gettin' up at five o'clock in t'mornin' to fly to Paris, back at the Old Vic for drinks at twelve, sweatin' the day through press interviews, television interviews and gettin' back here at ten to wrestle with the problem of a homosexual nymphomaniac drug addict involved in the ritual murder of a well-known Scottish footballer? That's a full workin' day, lass, and don't you forget it!

:rofl:

I don't have a clue which movie or MP show that might come from, but I am laughing out loud - hard - right now!

:D



The only thing better would have been a spanking quote, but maybe we've um, done that one enough, yes?

;)






















And now you know why I was laughing so hard!

:hug:

you come home every evening reeling of Chateau La Tour! And look what you've done to mother! She's worn out with meeting film stars, attending premieres and giving gala luncheons!

:7 :loveya:

So get out! I'll see you never work again!

I fart in your general direction. :P

:D

;)

You're an utter bloody washout! You're no bloody use at all! You make me sick, you weed!

Stupid git.

from a repressive libido complex, probably the product of an unhappy childhood, coupled with acute insecurity in adolescence, which has resulted in an attenuation of the libido complex.

:rofl:

and your father smelled of elderberries!

you nasty, stuck-up twit!

"Oo, 'es in one of e's moods again."

I'll "revolutionary leaflets" you!

Yewwwwww TIT!

Now, go away or I shall taunt you a second time!

Yes I quite agree with you, I mean what's the point of being treated like a sheep? I mean, I'm fed up with going abroad and being treated like a sheep. What's the point of being carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about the tea — "Oh, they don't make it properly here do they? Not like at home" — stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they "overdid it on the first day!" And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues, and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine. And every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners, and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel. And then once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and one night they take you to a local restaurant with local colour and colouring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing "Torremolinos, Torremolinos" and complaining about the food — "Oh, it's so greasy, isn't it?" And then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express, and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't even visited, "To all at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Wish you were here. Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney's sandwiches, and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are vomiting and throwing up on the plastic flowers. And they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland waiting to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can pick you up on the tarmac at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties," i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris, and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at eight, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing Enterovioform tablets and queuing for the toilets and when you finally get to the hotel, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bog and there's a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are double-booked and you can't sleep anyway...

All that for me.

:bounce:

You may be Chairman, but your bloody pusillanimous behaviour makes me vomit!

Are you a spy or something? Get over there against the wall, Britischer pig! You're going to die!

I'm Mr. and Mrs. and Mrs. Zambesi.

Unless you count the implied ones when the Fred Tomlinson Singers stalk off in disgust. :blush:




There is no cannibalism in the Royal Navy, either. Absolutely none. And when I say "none," I mean there is a certain amount; more than we care to admit.

...would you hold it against me?

You are too clever for us naughty types.

You got us all worked up!

What'll he do? Nibble your bum?

Started off with a nice little idea about insulting people who asked for it, but now it's got silly. People are doing the insults first. This man's hair is too long for a vicar too. These signs are pretty badly made. Right, now for a complete change of mood.

You yellow bastard, Come back here and take what's coming to you. I'll bite your legs off!

Wait until CMW sees this - he's gonna photoshop your head in there!! :rofl:

"Ah-ha! He fell for my little trick!"

:hide:

Don't come that tone! Now, I must ask you to accompany me down to the dairy and do some aptitude tests. Now, I'm not going to say a trip to our dairy will cure you, but it will give hundreds of lower-paid workers a good laugh.

I haven't seen it in at least a week.

We have to chase the cows down in the field...and hope they're cows...

We have to milk the septic tank.

We just have a tank. Without a driver....

it's just an old paint can with a coffee filter inside.




And we've used the same coffee filter for 11 years.

And the exhaust'll kill ya....

:hi: :loveya: :hug: :pals: :woohoo:

n/t