The F**king Book
by
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Don Quixote: Literary hero
1605, Miguel de Cervantes wrote a novel called Don Quixote, pronounced ‘Don key hoe tay’ for all the dumb f**ks reading this masterpiece of information.
Miguel based his novel on his own daydreams. He loved from a far, a farmers daughter who used to milk the cows and feed the pigs and chickens. He would watch her from his lodgings, a room above the hayshed, a crude conversion from its original intent, but it served the purposes of a poor writer. He did not bargain for the distraction of a comely wench pulling at the cow’s teats every morning. However the noise of the squirting milk ricocheting of the hooped wooden bucket drove him to a writing frenzy. He penned his fantasy, a chivalrous self made knight on a trusty steed battling against all the odds.
His hero carried a staff, his only weapon, seeking out the whereabouts of his lost love Dulcinea. Like all good knights he had his trusty halfwit by his side, Squire Sancho Panza.
Now Sancho was, well, as thick as horseshit in the neck of a wine bottle. That expression by the way comes from an old medical remedy of the time for treating constipation. You can see where this is going. You have not had a crap for days. Your eyes are popping out your head. The quack prescribes the standard medicine, cod liver oil mixed with goats urine and a good helping of menstrual fluids from a close relative, or the second choice is, take this bottle and shove the neck so far up your arse it makes your eyes water and hey presto you are guaranteed to shit yourself by one or other method.
The fondness for the bottle remedy has stood the test of time and is still used in many countries today.
But we digress, Sancho was not only stupid, he was also cross eyed and saw all things doubled and blurred.
Quixote on the other hand was of sufficient years to suffer from a number of ailments, none of them particularly life threatening, but embarrassing. He was incontinent and refused to wear a goats stomach tied round his tackle resulting in him continually urinating on his poor horse Rocinante.
He was incapable of pronouncing his Rs, they all came out as Ws.
His memory was not his strong point and he would continually ask his trusty man servant: I can’t wemembe you name twusty fwend, but my twusty steed smells wank, pewaps my pwick is weeping again, will you help me dwy it.
You two f**king twins can f**k of and dwy your own dwipping pwicks, retorted the cross eyed Sancho.
No doubt this hero was modelled on the man who created him, Miguel the dreamer, the man who stands up to windmills.
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About the Book
These writings are a celebration of the evolution of our habitat and its inhabitants from time immemorial to present day. Together with our singular appreciation for the most spoken word of all time, a word that conveys different emotions, has multiple meanings, a word that is never used out of context, always grammatically correct, spans cultural, geographical, political and national barriers, brings all communications to a level playing field.
This book is dedicated to everyone who is misguided enough to believe the world has evolved ‘au natural’. Hopefully, once reading this literary milestone you will come to realise this worlds original inhabitants were put here by some ‘Universal Interplanetary Council Correctional Department’ to facilitate their rehabilitation, all of these early settlers were undoubtedly mentally and/or criminally insane and have unwittingly spawned what we know today as a seething mass of institutionalised and certifiable nutters of which you are undoubtedly one.
About the Author
Allan Wood is a professional engineer careering headlong into old age at a frightening rate of knots. The realisation that all good things must come to an end does make one take stock of ones achievements. We all would like to be remembered for something, even the obvious, a son to proud parents, a loving and attentive husband, a doting father, a man of impeccable honesty and character, a good samaritan and a fucking great shag. But most of us have to settle for less, much, much less. Having proved over his
This work portrays his sadness, emotion, feeling, pathos and sentiment with just a hint of tenderness, bitterness, intensity and keenness for the world we live in. This, being carefully balanced by some moving, distressing, heart-rending, intense, painful and sometimes pathetic, but touching truths. Telling it like it is, acute, biting, incisive, sharp and pertinent, straight to the fucking point and no messing.