Bohegan Mumblings

Because the race isn't over till someone comes last.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

Nunberry's Fables Part 1 : The Boy Who Cried Quiche

Boy Who Cried Quiche.
A fable by Nunberry

Once upon a time there was a little boy, not unlike your self. He liked climbing trees and catching frogs and drilling holes in the walls of toilet cubicles that were just big enough for him to align with his mobile phone's camera lense. One day, when he was out on the mountainside tending to his sheep and he was bored out of his tree (which, you remember, he used to enjoy climbing, but ever since he got that PS3 the shine has worn off), to help pass the time he began to yell -
"Quiche! There's a Quiche!"

The people of the village heard his cries and rushed to the mountainside carrying sticks and toothbrushes who's bristles they had melted together and sharpened on a brick. They searched and searched but there was no quiche to be found. An angry villager warned the boy -
"If you be crying quiche when there don't be no quiche, you be sorry one day!"
but the boy just laughed and replied -
"Fuck off you inbred old fart".

The villagers returned to the village, closing the doors to their mud huts behind them. Just as the last door closed, the boy sniggered to himself and yelled -
at the top of his lungs. Again the villagers came with cordless drills and the aerial off an 80's ford Cortina but there was no quiche to be found. Muttering, they trudged back to the village. The boy laughed heartily but soon found himself bored once more.
"QUICHE!!!!" he roared, "A fucking great Quiche!!!!" but no one came. "QUICHE!!!!" but there was not a peep from the village. With all his might he yelled again "QUICHE!!!!!".

Fate dealt him a cruel blow - a group of vegitarians were driving their bioethanol van over the mountain that day. They heard his cries, the thoughts of delicious quiche driving them into a frenzy. They crashed the van into the boy's herd of sheep and sprang, their claws slicing through his abdomen like malted milk biscuits through coffee. They feasted on his flesh long into the night. Also, a man named Keith who was hard of hearing turned up but he was too embarassed by his mistake to interfere.

Here endeth the lesson.

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Blogger Thomas said...

i love it, is it one of your own. Correct me if I'm wrong but are you a Terry Prattchet fan?(Gilgamish here BTW, came for a look at your pokemanz)

4:21 p.m.  
Blogger The Majic Nunberry said...

I cannot lay claim to this tale, this is a story older than time itself. In fact, swirling through the void this story came upon a coconut tree. Being young and free and fullbellied of wine spritzer the tree invited the story to it's bedchamber where they made fertile chafesome love. And when they cracked open the resulting nut it was full of white pulpy Time. This is how history started. Just think, if Mr Coconut Tree didn't work late so often, none of us would be here.

Don't like Pratchett. Tried that one about the witches, didn't float my boat. Didn't even get the bow a bit wet. Remember kids, my birthday's coming up so don't get me any Pratchett books. Or coconuts.

4:29 p.m.  
Blogger Thomas said...

Well thats a shame,but I've veiwed your profile and your taste in music is good enough so that you can still be my idol. rates start at 76 ZketKKian dollars a month(E-0.65, This country's economy sure is something, they pay people to leave. Whom shall i help 'expire' first?

11:07 p.m.  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I cried when i read this. :*(

5:45 p.m.  
Anonymous matneee said...

This story realy speaks to me. It speaks to me in a low, sibilant whisper that I can't ignore when it haunts my sweat drenched feverish nightmares around 3AM, but hey - it's had an impact and that's all that matters.

It puts my in mind of that other folk fable "A rolling pie gathers no moss" where as we all know the pie was always rolling ever onward just out reach of the anorexic supermodel it so secretly courted, but was instead easily caught by 77 year old Stirling Moss, who hadn't had it for a while and had some strange ideas about pastry, due to him being in a racing car he'd kept about from his glory days. Ah, if only that pie had been able to admit it's true feelings and stop running, it would have been able to have it's end away with a skeletal cocaine addicted catwalk queen rather than being molested by septuagenarian former racing drivers.

We've all been there.

11:12 a.m.  

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