Now is the time to revel once more in an extract from this Hamster-Sapiens e-book…
…which is quite possibly the silliest book in the world.
And so, without further preamble, to it…
Inside the stockade all was quiet. The sun was at its zenith, and any intelligent being was safely ensconced in a place that was cool and shady. This included the Royal Governor of Deepest Jungle Land– Brigadier-General Sir Guy Whynd-Pype and his rotund wife, Dame Edith.
On this particular occasion they had been joined in their mud bath by the commanding officer of the Hamster British Army regiment – the Floundering Rifles – Colonel Blowhard Bugle.
“Well I gotta say, Dame Edith,” he bellowed unnecessarily in his huge, gravely voice, “this sure is a nice mud bath ya got here. And I really like the wicker fence ya got round it. Guess it keeps the eyes of all the guys from ogling ya great big titties!”
Dame Edith hadn’t really wanted to invite the Colonel, but her husband had insisted.
“We would be considered socially remiss at the cheese and wine club, Edith dear.” Guy had explained. “But I’m sure he’ll be well-bred. I doubt he’ll say a word about your vast bosom. And if he does – well I’m sure that it will be entirely complimentary.”
Now the moment had arrived, and, Edith had to admit it – the Colonel had been complimentary – in his way.
“Yes, Colonel.” She replied at last, “We had it specially created by a local artisan.”
Any further conversation was interrupted by a great shaking of the wicker fence, and the muffled voice of an exhausted male hamster apparently issuing from it.
“Brigadier-General, Sir.” The voice called, “This is Special Agent Lieutenant Ventnor Vomington of the Army Rescue Service. I’m here on special security business. Can we speak freely?”
The Brigadier-General was in something of a quandary: Should he allow the young lieutenant to shout out potentially classified information that anyone within earshot could hear; or should he invite him to join them in the mud bath?
A trickle of sweat ran down his snout, and dropped, with a splash, into the mire. He made up his mind.
“Do you have any underpants on, Lieutenant?” he inquired.
He saw the fence go taught for a moment. Clearly he had surprised the youngster with his question.
“Er, I do, Sir.” The reply came, “But I’ve travelled here – first by express dirigible from Hamster-Britain to the coastal garrison town of Boowangi Junction– then on my rear paws through the jungle to here. Sorry to report that my underpants are less than pristine, Sir.”
“Do they pong something terrible?” Dame Edith inquired in her desperately cultured voice.
Again the fence went taught. “I’m not really sure.” Vomington’s tone was sounding ever more desperate, “I’ve rather got used to the smell of my own sweat and stray bodily wastes. I’m probably a poor judge.”
At this point Colonel Blowhard Bugle’s patience ran out. He instructed Vomington to visit his quarters, where he would find a fresh pair of underpants hanging in the bathroom. He further instructed him to remove his soiled pair, place them in the wash basket, and then return to the mud pit in the Colonel’s clean pair.
Special Agent Lieutenant Ventnor Vomington gently eased his tortured body into the soft, cool, caress of the Royal Governor’s mud bath. But even as he did so, his mind was centred entirely upon his task…
“I’m here in response to your urgent call to the Army Rescue Service,” he informed the Brigadier-General. Then lowering his voice to a whisper he added, “Is there any new information, Sir?”
“There’s no need to whisper, Lieutenant,” Blowhard Bugle spoke loudly, “Her ladyship is fully cognizant with the facts.”
“Oh yes,” Dame Edith spoke in her most polished tone, “I knows all about it. That actress tart has got herself kidnapped while she’s been entertaining the troops with all that talky-talking stuff what she does.”
Vomington looked from the Brigadier-General to the Colonel and back in search of an explanation. “Talky-talky stuff?” he asked.
“My dear wife means the good lady’s monologues.” The Brigadier-General explained, “She’s famous for them you know.”
“Yeah,” Colonel Blowhard Bugle confirmed his superior’s summation, “The complete works of William Shakedick. The guys can’t get enough of it. Personally I think they like it because she does it in a flimsy negligee. Ya know what I mean? But, hey, I could be wrong: Maybe they’re into that culture crap.”
“Do you think you can save her, young man?” Dame Edith asked with an urgency that was emphasized by her cut-glass, aristocratic accent, “Coz her poor husband’s – like – totally losing it with worry.”
Vomington looked at Dame Edith with surprise. “Her husband? No one mentioned a husband in my report. Does he have a name?”
At this Dame Edith tittered, and opened a muddy packet of Liquorish Gobb-Shites, which she began offering around. “Oh you are funny: ‘Course he’s got a name.”
“Indeed.” the Brigadier-General answered Vomington before accepting one of the huge, chewy, black candies, and forcing it into the side of his mouth, “His name is Fruti Disgusto. I suspect that he might not be Hamster-British.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013
Check out ‘Tooty’s Books Available Here’ for some of the better known e-book retailers. You should find this fabulous work there.
P.S It may also be the rudest book in the world.