A bit of me book... It needs work. I like this, but didn't send it
“Troop-t-r-o-o-p, shun!” he bawled.
We instantly sprang to attention, as Major Part turned to face us. Immediately he glanced over in my direction, stepping through the ranks and twitching his nose.
“You!” He shouted. “What’s your name? You’re new here aren’t you? Are you new here, hmmm?”
“Yes sir; Shaw sir.”
I ask you your name and you tell me ‘yes sir.’ Then I ask if you are new, and you say ‘sure sir.’ Are you extracting yellow sparkling waterfalls from, Mr. Penis?
“Sorry sir; my name is, Shaw.”
“I see, so your name is, Shaw, is it, Shaw! Well you’re a fine figure of a young man, Shaw. Are you a virgin by any chance?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“Are you a contender, Shaw for, Mr. Whippy? Do you intend to fill the empty funnels of unwitting crispy ducklings with your sweet cream sauce and a cherry for a pinnacle? Or are you a regular driller, a hunter with an unquenchable thirsting desire for the quivering relief of your boneless organ?”
“Err, no, I’m not a virgin sir, and I think all organs are boneless, aren’t they?”
“Yes, well, you’re a smart one, aren’t you Shaw. I shall shade my eyes from the particles of pungent smeg that litters the air as you double time with your clenched fist, you sophisticated bell end.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, I don’t quite follow?”
“On the contrary, Shaw. I think everyone will follow you and your rife trail of addictive ethanol. So why is it, that you wish to smell of aftershave on this fine Tuesday morning? I mean, just who do you think you’ll impress within these abstract ranks? Is there a hidden female amongst us, with a pulsating slithery vulvae, weeping wonderful waterfalls at the mere thought of your shiny, ramadama-ding-dong? Pray do tell, hmmm?”
I realized what he was saying about the aftershave, but I didn’t think it was that much of a big deal. I just wanted to be clean and smart, creating a good impression. I supposed it wasn’t like a first day at the office and under scrutiny of middle aged widows from, Ladiesville, who diagnosed men with smelly armpits through the steam of their plastic vending machine coffee cups. I remained silent, hoping he realized that I knew he was right: he of course didn’t.
“Shaw, it appears still by your blank expression, that child like layman’s terms would be more appropriate for us to proceed, and I feel it is no coincidence that my extensive military overseas shenanigan’s, along with the very special queen’s rank, awarded, has given me a divine right to dictate.”
I was about to reply before he put up one finger for me to be quiet. I let him continue.
“Today, and especially for you Mr. Blue Stratos soldier, I have quantum leaped myself through time, to give you a modern like espresso delivery service of useful war time hints, gathered of course by myself from the Nephilm fields of our enemy. With this knowledge I am able to portray, it would be a tragedy to leave any soldier under my command twizzle roasting on a spit, and with the enemy sticking a painful searching index finger into his tenderized rump. In a nut-shell, Shaw, I represent the hierarchy of professionalism for murderous encounters, thus making myself fully equipped to deal with the flatulent misfires of your basic musketry. Do you get me sweet, my smelling young soldier raised upon the yellow rolling fields of, Daffodildom, hmmm.”
“Err, yes sir.”
“Are you farmer, Shaw?”
“Err, no sir.”
“Well cut out the err’s before I find you a pitchfork to muck out the horses.”