Cleaner of a stinky fridge, du düt düt. Even after a good old sluice-out, the refrigerator at work still honked like something had died behind it, and had done so for quite a while. Why? This mystery had baffled the greatest minds to inhabit Limey's office (a low bar, to be fair), but to Longears Investigations Bureau, the matter was a mere bagatelle. Simply look around the back, find a drip tray filled with several month's worth of congealed milk (the 3-litre bottles we get in leak powerfully unless stored vertically, and, of course, they never are), then empty, with the aid of a screwdriver, a scrubbing brush, and large quantities of hot water and bleach, then behold! No more pong!
WHERE ARE THE SPOONS? While not exactly overflowing with flatware, we used to have enough for our purposes, but now? One spoon. One. Luckily, LIB's fabled Spoon Sense managed to find three other examples in the back of a cupboard, along with the equally legendary Gnome Broth Spoon, but still - their collective absence is a great cause for concern. (I reckon they're in the kids' rooms, encrusted with old yoghurt, but we'll see)
We're adopting cats from the Yorkshire Cats Protection League; I thought they had to do checks and things before they handed over any moggies, but apparently, they've immediately determined that we are entirely suitable and can just have them. What's going on? Are they just extremely trusting, or do they have an intelligence network of unparallelled reach and sophistication?
The following is based on a true story. Really I was sitting with my good friend Meenlock Gnolls, in our comfortable offices at LIB HQ, when a knock came at the door. It was a Cheeky Urchin, with a letter impaled on one of its spines! "'Ere ya go, Squire!', it piped. Meenlock took the letter, touseled the urchin's hair, pinched its cheek, gave it sixpence, then threw it out of the window. 'Gawd bless ya, guvnah - yer a gent!', it said, as its fragile exoskeleton shattered on the cobblestones below. 'Hmm - a commission, Scroteson, unless I'm much mistaken, and our client is - ' He scanned the envelope intensely, and took a long draw on his Old Oak frankfurter, 'A cross between an angler fish, a poached egg, a polar bear, and a canoe, dressed in a crinoline and a gasmask, and pulsing vividly in crimson and teal' 'Amazing, Gnolls!' I ejaculated. 'How can you tell?' 'I've been licking the mould in the pantry again', he confessed, then, in a louder voice: 'To Bermondsey!' Half an hour later, we were walking up the path towards a cosy suburban villa. We knocked on the door, and a pretty maid showed us into the parlour, where a number of 30-something women sat. One stood up, frowned, flared her nostrils, then exclaimed, 'I SMELL MEAT! I TOOK THESE COINS OUT OF MY PURSE, AND THEN I SMELLED IT - MEAT!' 'Perhaps Cook is boiling some tripes downstairs?', asked one of her companions, but she shook her head. 'MEAT! I SMELL MEAT, HERE!' She looked at Meenlock, who put his finger on his chin and paused for a moment in thought. 'What about the purse?', he asked; the woman gasped, then took out a dainty purse, opened it, and shoved it in Meenlock's face, saying 'SMELL MY PURSE!', in an urgent tone of voice. Meenlock took a step back, slightly alarmed, but the woman would not relent until he had stuck his substantial konk in and taken a good old whiff. 'It smells like a mixture of Extra Strong Mints and Pepperoni', he opined; the woman had a sniff herself, then looked at Meenlock with an expression of amazement. 'Mr Gnolls, you really are a marvel!' 'Well, Gnolls, you've done it again!', I said, as we left the house. 'A most stimulating use of the olfactory organ, Scroteson, but I'll tell you one thing - I do not want to know why her purse smelled like that' I shook my head, fervently.
LIB presents (A Limey's Cool Story Time Production): THE MYSTERY OF THE RUBBER LASH This morning, when LIB was engaged in sorting out the godawful dog's breakfast of cabling in one of the rooms, they found a coiled-up length of rubber on a supervisor's desk. It was not a network cable, nor was it a power cable, nor was it insulation, so what was it doing there? Both supervisors LIB spoke to denied knowing anything about it, but then again, they would do if they were flogging the staff of an evening. The item has been confriscratered for further study.
Longears Investigations Bureau wrote:
BEASTS, MONSTROSITIES, HORRORS FROM BEYOND SPACE & TIME, &c, provided by DREJK HAIRYHOSEN STUDIOS!!!
And in other news - movie news! - LIB is thrilled to announce... drrr dlluddrr! Drr drr drr drr drr drrrr! A 21st Century FaWTL production, in partnership with Retro Goblin Slayer... CAPTAIN YESTERRDAAAY - LLLASER HHHUMPERRRR! STARRING: WEIRD AL JANKOVIC as CAPTAIN YESTERDAY: LASER HUMPER! FREEHOLD DM as PRINCE RAYMOND LE MILFIÈRE! NOBODY'S HOME as SPACETRIARCH PRIMUS ABD IMPII! LISAMARLENE and GOTHBARD as THE TWIN QUEENS OF BAYARETEX! GRAN REY DE LOS MONOS as MAYOR LAUNDROS HOTELERON! VANKYRE as CYBER BAHAMUT! THE 698th REGIMENT OF FOOT (Napier's Rapiers) LIMEYLONGEARS as 'MASHLOS', the SINGING POTATO DEMON TACTICSLION as A LION, with SOME TACTICS! Coming soon to a 3am slot on a public access cable channel near you!
Let us get to work with gaffe and plunger, in that case. Gas masks on!!! H'mm, let's see. 3 x combination PVC corsets/piano accordions/elk spears
Well, looks like gran was right. Now it's up to all of us to dry that bear; please consider supporting us on Patreon, or with a one-time donation.
NEWSPLOSH: Someone has crammed a twig into the (non-functioning) keyhole of the main door to the building. * Perhaps it is a signal to arborial thieves!
07/09/2020, 21:40 hours. Longears Investigation Bureau has come into possession of a leaked script from noo tip-top hit sitcome 'At Home With The Homes', so here 'tis [A modest home in Albany, CA. Enter NOBODYSHOME, to cheers and applause from the studio audience. He detaches his mohawk, throws it on the hatstand, then glares about him, hands on hips] NH: Hey, boys! Where the heck's that new home server I bought?! [IMPUS MAJOR and IMPUS MINOR enter through a door in the opposite wall. IMPUS MINOR has red hair, cut in a Nice Boy short back and sides style, is covered in freckles, and is wearing a sports shirt and beige slacks. IMPUS MAJOR, on the other hand, has a black goatee and shoulder length hair, and is wearing sunglasses and a purple crushed velvet Nehru suit with bell-bottomed 'pants'] IMi: Well, golly gee whillikers Pop Dude, I sure don't know!! IMa: OPEN YOUR MIIIIND, Impus! [He leers at the camera, pursing his lips and making an 'I Am Smoking Controlled Substances' gesture. Cue gales of canned laughter] [A trapdoor opens in the ceiling, and GOTHBARD descends, wearing a slinky floor-length dress.] NH: Ahhh, cara mia! [GOTHBARD extends her hand towards NOBODYSHOME, who plants a row of kisses up her arm; they then briefly fight with scythes, then perform a Sensuous Tango together. Midway through the tango, she turns to stare at the camera, then gasps, placing one hand on her chest and saying:] GB: The server! It's gone - as are all my brassieres! [IMPUS MINOR looks panicked, and runs back out of the door he entered from. There is the sound of frenzied searching, after which he returns, an alarmed expression on his face] IMi: And so are ALL of our nerf guns - all of them!! What could this mean?! [A fanfare of trumpets. Another set of doors open, and there stands FREEHOLD DM, dressed as an 18th century French nobleman. He unrolls a parchment scroll] FHDM: Greetings, honoured Papa NobodysHome. Greetings, revered Mama Gothbard. Greetings, beloved brothers. I hereby announce... [Another trumpet fanfare] FHDM: That it is now officially HOME-MADE MILKMAID GUNDAM GOLEM HOUR, for now and for evermore. [He rings a bell, and with a series of bleeps, grunts and crunches, a robotic monstrosity enters, firing a volley of foam pellets into the ceiling and attempting to twerk with approximately 0 success] OMNES: OHHHH FREEEHOLD!!!!! [More canned laughter. The end]
Freehold DM wrote:
I believe that the good Captain was talking 'bout Submarines. Right on.
Freehold DM wrote:
Licorice stout is a thing, y'know. And they grow (or grew) it around Pontefract, West Yorkshire. LiquorBritice. And it was given to candidates for knighthood after their vigil in the chapel. This is the end of the LIB Liquorice Special.
{Newsflash! LIB has finally infiltrated Freehold's mountaintop redoubt in the Himalayas, and this is an excerpt from its agents' latest report} * Target One is seated on immense throne of ice, clad in a bearskin cloak, a diamond codpiece and a thin coating of frost. Seated at his feet, wearing nothing but three strategically placed snowflakes, are both Anna and Elsa. * Target One glares at a large, overly complicated machine over the other side of the room, consisting of a series of large dials, levers, knobs that go up to 22, whistles and big red buttons. "Curses!", snarls Target One. "Atroa's invigorating breath has foiled me once again - but not for long! Rimeconk! Shivernads! Stoke the Weather Dominator's auxiliary boilers! We must have maximum power!" "She cannae take it, Freehold!", squeaks a little Scottish imp. "SILENCE, YOU FOOLS! . Professor Chilblains! How goes your analysis of the Atlantic Springwall?" "Mgm mgm mgm. We-e-ell, mgm mgm. My studies - mgm - have revealed - mgm - that a small chink can be found in the region - mgm - of the North - mgm - of England, enough to enfrigidise a substantial part of that - mgm - country, and retard the advance of the Season That Cannot Be Named" "Excellent, Professor! Rimeconk! Set the Weather Dominator to 53.8108° N, 1.7626° W, and crank it up to 1676979689! We shall beat the balminess yet! MWAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHHAHA! MWAHAHAHAHA! HA!"
Sissyl wrote:
LIB can exclusively reveal that water, a substance linked to several million confirmed cases of drowning, is still being distributed nationwide from faucets, many of which are within the easy reach of children! Who is responsible for this shocking state of affairs?! |