Everything Found In 'Writing, Poems & Big Words' Category

Christmas Joy from Rainbow Princess!

And now, a beautiful viral e-mail poem celebrating the joy of the season, from our very own Rainbow Princess!

santa61

Holiday season is a time of wonder
A child’s happy smile, a jolly Santa
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Or a juicy turkey with all the trimmings!

The reindeer prance through the snowy eve
Have you been a good boy and girl this year?
See what’s in your Christmas stocking
Live cam sluts in tiny panties!

XXX

lights

XXXX

Carol singers gather round the tree
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Colourful lights twinkle in the night
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What wonderful, happy Christmas cheer!

XX

Love and generic meds,
Rainbow Princess


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Tiggyblog: The Book!

· Can you get high on hemp oil smoothies?
· When was the golden age of porn?
· Why is part of Greenland now a suburb of Boston?
· How can you get your neighbour arrested using snow?

If you’ve ever asked yourself these questions, you will need a copy of It’s The Stuff That Comes Out Of My Brain, a fun-filled compilation of weird observations, strange-but-not-true facts and hilarious stories that will leave you with a warm fuzzy feeling inside. And a bit of a headache.

It’s The Stuff That Comes Out Of My Brain includes Tiggy’s best ever stories and musings (with all the spellings done right and everything), plus a whole bunch of new and never-seen-before anecdotes, tall tales and drunken drivel!

And it’s coming soon! Well, as soon as Tiggy stops playing on the internet and bloody well gets on with it.

To express your immense excitement and sign up for alerts, send Tiggy an e-mail!


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Pump Him Hard - a good read, but not on the bus.

1. Horse Porn: A History

2. You and Ebola

3. The Hitman’s Handbook

4. Rophynol – A Buyers Guide

5. Wet Nursing Your Grandchildren

6. Pump Him Hard

7. Make It Look Like An Accident

8. Fodor’s Top Ten Whores of Old Amsterdam

9. Pisstory – The History of Public Washrooms

10. Living With Sores

11. Bus Crash: A Pictorial Journey

13. Jihad Made Easy

14. Grow Your Own Brain Worms

15. 30-Day Tripe Diet

16. Kill It, Strip It, Wear It

17. A Red Nose and A Strap-On: Diary of A Sex Clown

18. Human Trafficking for Dummies

19. Cooking Cats the Italian Way

20. Hairy Potter and the Cock Ring of Doom


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Losin’ My Muse

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I’ve lost my muse. My supernatural writing mentor vanished two weeks ago, leaving me alone and devoid of inspiration. Unfinished blog drafts sit neglected on my desk; a half-written movie script collects dust instead of Oscars; even my shopping lists are dull and lacking in pace.

Have you seen this chicken... I mean, man?Have you seen my muse anywhere? He’s an overweight, hairy guy called Dave. I know muses are usually beautiful Greek goddesses, but Dave was cheaper. I thought we would work well together. He wasn’t bothered about grammar rules and all that verb-participle stuff, but he liked a good laugh and a cold beer. So I took my chances with Dave.

Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate him when he was around. To be honest, he spent most of the time asleep on my couch, waking only to scratch his ass and shout “Have ya written anything yet? No? Get on with it! Write about bees or something.” Then he would fall back into a drunken coma. Did I mention he liked his beer?

Dave might have been drunk and asleep most of the time, but whenever I felt my inspiration slipping away I could rely on him to slap me on the back, belch into my ear, and give me a few words of wisdom:

“Get drunk. Works for me!”
“Copy someone else’s stuff!”
“Go for a walk. I’ll come with ya, if we can stop at the hot dog stand.”
“Drink more.”
“Why don’t ya write about bees?”

Sometimes Dave would disappear for days on end. He would always let me know where he was going; he was good like that. He would leave post-it notes on my desk that read “Bored. See you Tuesday” or “Gone to a rock festival – back when sober”. Oh well, at least Dave’s absence gave me an excuse to procrastinate. I’d work on that storyboard when he got back.

Writer's block? Blame hot dog eating competitions.One time, Dave attended a muse convention. Muses from around the world came together, shared their literary horror stories, and took the piss out of their protégés. There were drinking games and hot dog-eating competitions too. Dave returned from the convention hungover and smelling of mustard. I had hoped he’d learned something, and would be bursting with inspiration.
“I got nuthin’ for ya. Wake me up in a few days and we’ll work on that bee story.”

This time, Dave didn’t leave a note. He just left. Maybe he read my latest script and lost the will to live. Maybe he was tired of all my penis jokes (and no man, not even Dave, can persuade me that a penis is not funny). Maybe he is now asleep on someone else’s couch, smelling of beer and mumbling about bees.

If you have my muse, please, please can you send him back? I promise to be a more attentive student. I promise to get that story finished. Tell him I have hot dogs.


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