The three Sioux Native Americans, Flapping Bladder, Humping Possum and Dances With Incontinence, made their way slowly but steadily across the oppressively hot, hazy, tumbleweed-strewn prairie looking for a nice cold frosty beer. Smoking several cigar-shaped cigars, the two sons and daughter of the earth discussed matters of ancient wisdom such as land rights, herbal medicine and whether Britney Spears was, once again, up the duff. As they rounded the corner of the wide, seemingly endless open space which had no corners, Humping Possum decided that she could no longer wait for a beer and decided to drink the only source of hydration available, coyote milk. Flapping Bladder, ever the gentleman, offered to catch and milk the nearest coyote – who, luckily, was right nearby, having a cigarette break before having to return to work and make that important presentation to marketing.
One failed attempt at milking a coyote later, the bruised, bleeding and, frankly, humiliated Flapping Bladder made his apologies to Humping Possum for the lack of canine lactate and mentally steeled himself in anticipation of the forthcoming police action he was now facing for attempting to milk a male coyote. Then, it hit them. Like a bit hitty thing. All three decided that in their desperation for a beer they had forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. They called out of the window to a passing ragamuffin, sent him to buy the biggest turkey in the butcher’s window and ordered it to be delivered to Bob Cratchitt’s house. Unfortunately they were too late with the oversized bird as the Cratchitt family had already cooked and eaten Tiny Tim, after placing an apple in his mouth and stuffing his arse with sage & onion. Well, he was going to die anyway and, besides, it’s what he would have wanted. Apart from the sage & onion bit. That was a tad undignified, even if I say so myself – and I’m a member of the Liberal Democrats.