#ribaldry

[theglintoftherail]

selections from The Limerick by Gershon Legman, 1953

[zenosanalytic]

The scene where Ianthe comes back from fencing with Augustine and gushes about the new bone-arm Harrow grew her is excellent proof that Ianthe is nowhere NEAR as experienced in seduction as she likes to pretend she is cuz, if she'd tried to bed Harrow right there and then, that repressed little nun would have fucked her brains straight into The River and out the otherside u_u

[dynamobooks]

Simon Hanselmann: Bad Gateway (2019)

[alchemisland]

A Gift for Sandra Meagan

Sandra Meagan sighed between mouthfuls of flattened matter. The packaging intimated they were vegetarian sausages, but she had a suspicion it was the first pod of a million in the imminent alien host. She looked at the contents of her plate, swirled them on the end of her fork and tried to stir the being to life, like the blood test from the Thing. Sandra, though she detested their taste and only bothered trying them after Phil and Holly swore by them in the Christmas annual, found kinship with her meal, in that both were sitting there in the kitchen, sad and bone dry.

Len was a cheating bastard. Every benefit of doubt was given him. She had denied her own curiousity. She had closed her ears to the vile driveway rumours that plagued their exclusive hamlet on the weald.

She walked to the back door and suddenly feeling faint, fearing she would stumble, she careened until her shoulder was level with the wall. She tipped her forehead to the tiles and let the coolness of her ballast radiate. Old Len. She loved him. Always she loved him, as she swore to in her vows, but the facts were plainly undeniable.

Two clues she had been made privvy to, perhaps through divine intervention or the notion rooted in her subcinsicous guiding her unbidden; first a pair of gaudy underpants like a leather slingshot, evidently of shoddy craft as the crotch area was defective, not a scrap of material remained to cover one's garden; second, a message on the home phone - how brazenly this succubus conducted her dalliance, emboldened by Sandra's willed ignorance.

No more. Sandra brought her head back and blinked hard so lines spread outward across her temple, then with great speed charged forward and struck her brow. No blemish or crack marred the tile. No bruising or blood at the crown. No evidence ere she had made a battering ram of herself, but symbolically and in her mind, this represented the death of her meek self.

No more.

She would not be made a laughing stock. Len was out. On a Saturday morning. Urgent business at the office, as per usual. Sandra wasn't even sure what he did. Computer business. Uploads. The cloud. They were just words. She was just words. One word: Trinny. Slut name, Sandra reckoned. Trinny, it rhymes with mini, as in the Cooper they fuck inside, or skirt. Trinny, it rhymes with skinny little bitch.

Vinnie, it rhymed with Vinnie too, the name of the local postman Sandra planned to fuck as revenge. Vinnie was old, greasy and stooped about as much as a man who walked for work legally could. Though she didn't find him attractive, her eyes had been Len's alone until now, what an insult it would be to her husband, finding out a balding postman was the man to wear his slippers, so to speak.

She opened the back door and allowed herself to bask in the halcyon glow. Still in the doorway, she was sheltered from April's breath. A calm began to overtake her. Hatred she could discard, for great guile was required if her subterfuge was to be successful. Craning to the clockface, she crept out the back, leaving the door ajar and prone to the wall inched to the front of the house, where she knelt in the fuschias.

His car arrived soon after, speeding down the leafy lane, zipping past the Dead Slow signs and ground to a halt that would shriek if not for his custom tyres. Len loved his toys for big boys. Trinny loved her boy toy. Sandra loved a revenge ploy. What could be more perfect?

A hand holding a cigarette jutted from an open window. The wind carried to Sandra's ears the sounds of the Bee Gee's You Win Again, one of Len's favourites. The band played it at their wedding. Len danced like a loon. Sandra wished she could go back to that day.

Loud as the music, his dialtone blared through the speakers. She watched Len's head jolt his headrest in fright before he sprang forward to turn the volume dial. He pressed the button on his headset and she heard one side of a sordid conversation. He mentioned a ring. The call ended suddenly and no sooner had he opened the door he was aiming his keys overshoulder to seal the locks, making his way quickly up the drive.

Sprinting on her tiptoes with silent grace, she cleared the garden, spun around the corner and slid through the still-open backdoor and was into her chair coiled like a pitviper when Len peered through the door.

Sandra always smiled and stood for embrace, but today she stared at her cold vegetarian breakfast, glowering. Immediately Len saw newborn fire in her eyes and his mind became cunning. Before Sandra could begin her inquisition, he had formulated a most devious ruse.

'Who's Trinny?' she asked, her eyes never left Linda Mc.

'Who? I don't follow.'

'Don't play blithe. You know, you pig. Tell me everything. If I ever meant anything to you, you'll tell me the whole story in the next ten seconds.'

'You have it all wrong, San-' He walked from his redoubt and felt naked without the greatshield of the door before him and with his arm straightened hovered above her shoulder, but as his fingertips closed on her blouse, she turned sharply and shot a gaze which had the effect of an arrow purposely misfired, and Len stumbled backward wide-eyed and knew it was no time for lightness.

'Where's the ring?' Sandra asked, back to the sausages. They weren't sausages really. Sausages are pork. They were fauxsages.

Then it came to him. Unwittingly her bluntness aided his deceit. 'Trinny is a jeweller. I know our anniversary is coming up and I wanted to get you something special, show you who's the main lady in my life.'

Sandra was for a moment disarmed. Maybe she realised immediately that didn't explain the thong and didn't care, or perhaps that came later, but for a single moment she wanted to forgive him.

He too realising she was ensorcelled and how now she turned to face him with some yearning, he reached to his inside pocket and produced an envelope, which he wordlessly placed on the far end of the table and slid toward her. Her eyes, wide as an owl, moved between the parchment and her husband, weeping alternately with mirth and maudlin.

'Speaking of gifts' he urged towards the letter 'I've got something in the car too. You work away on that, I'll get the gift. I know it's a week or two early, but it seems like the right time. You could do with a cheer. Have you ever been to Paris, Sandy?'

'No' Sandra quivered, 'You know I haven't.'

'Just wondering' he winked and disappeared. When she heard the front door and the crunch of the drive, she greedily tore open the envelope and looked appreciatively on its contents. What's this, she thought. It wasn't handwritten. It bore an official looking seal. Surely, its the agency we'll be flying with, or the arcane crest of a French country club where they would be staying, but it wasn't. More she read, more her heart broke, more her fury drove her to madness.

She bundled up the divorce papers and tossed them into the wastepaper basket. Knocking her seat clear across the room like a furious poltergeist, she stormed down the hallway to the open entrance, where she caught a final glimpse of his car peeling away around the corner and taking off like a comet.

[alchemisland]

Contract Renegotiation

Little Jenny Knickerlifter

Has her unders all a-twist,

She knows a man prefers a snifter

After 'is swifty off the wrist.

Tonight he sits leering,

Behind on his mind

Lurching forward leans,

What can his coffers divine.

Afterward 'e wants more,

Coinless in lieu;

Nods pistol on drawer,

She 'Let's contract renew.'

[gallimaufry-dictionary]

Ribaldry

noun ribbled-ree

Something with a ribald quality to it, dirty or crude language, rude or lewd humor

Merriam-Webster Dictionary.com

[fattyskeleton]

There was once a man from Nantucket.

Whose dick was so long he could suck it.

He said with a grin,

as he wiped off his chin,

“If my ear was a cunt I would fuck it.”

[wolfejazz]

We did not go in. We made a drive-by. Some of my friends will GET this... #roadtripusa #weekendadventures #hittingtheroadagain #mygigi #ribaldry https://www.instagram.com/p/Bzbk9BgAIBK/?igshid=185pp9zf6qoxl