Sic transit gloria Moncktoni

The Laird had been sat on his personal promontory for hours, staring out over the loch, an occasional tear rolling gently down his cheek. Scrotum had been quick to take him a generous snifter of the Queensland pineapple rum he’d enjoyed so much in the outback a year ago, but even the heady waft of tropical alcohol and memories of days in the Austral sun could not dispel Monckton’s black dog. The wrinkled retainer had seen the dog take him before, but this was no mere short-haired dachshund, it was the full weimaraner. Scrotum repaired to the library and opened Monckton’s laptop. A strange Roman script filled the screen…

Monckton Myths 468

Scrotum clicked the words and was transported to the other side of the world — as so many of his ancestors had been. There, laid out in an easy to access and understand way was a comprehensive debunking of all of Monckton’s favourite arguments. Scrotum smiled, and reached for his iPod. Time for a little Martha & The Vandellas

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