Sons And Buns

A man had 7 sons who were all obsessed with buns. Buns! Buns! Buns! They would scream, morning noon and night. The man was quite at a loss with having to provide mountains of buns for his 7 sons. Then there came a National bun shortage. Buns could not be had for love or money. Politicians appeared on T.V., wringing their hands and weeping copiously as they earnestly promised to short out the bun situation. This did not help the man, for his sons said; old man, if you cannot provide buns for your sons you are a bad father and do not deserve to live! And they dragged him to the gallows tree at the crossroads just outside of their town, which was called ‘Bun Town’, and was named after the big Bun factory in the middle of it, where the man just happened to work, driving a fork-lift truck, and began to string him up. As they were stringing him up they sang a happy song which went like this.
Buns, buns, buns.
They should always come
in tons
& be very sweet
& nice to eat
& knocky you off your feet
O wonderful buns!
O stupendous buns!
It was not as good as a song by the Beach Boys but it was definitely a good song. Howheffalump. There was some dirty gravel around the roots of the gallows tree and under it lived a nasty old devil named Neville. Neville the devil. & when he heard the racket the sons obsessed with buns were making, stringing up their bun-less father, out he popped and all the sons said- A devil! Named Neville! And ran off amok, or amuck, and then Neville the devil said to the man, -what’s going on? And the man said, -you have saved my life, Mr nasty devil person, and therefore I owe you an explanation. -Damn right, said the devil. And the man explained about his relations with his 7 sons vis a vis, the bun shortage, and parenting in it’s more general aspect. -Hum, said the devil and the cogs in his nasty devil brain began grinding round. (Grind, grind.) -Listen. If you want buns, I can get tons of them. But you’ll have to give me something in return. -What? Said the man. -A motorcar? -No. -A season ticket to Hull Kingston Rovers? -No. -A signed copy of Naomi Campbell’s novel ‘Swan’, which was ghost written for her by a professional writer who’s name escapes me? -No. Your immortal soul. And the man thought, it’s always a mistake to expect originality from the devil class of person. And he was in a quandary. (A quarry?) No. A quandary. For he did so want to be a good father and yet, he only had the one soul and it was not as if he could just buy another. Well. Not a good one, with all the extra attachments including power steering and inflatable fenders! And anyway. What precisely did his soul do? He was damned if he knew. (Ha, ha.) So he said, alright. Where do I sign?

After that the sons opened the pantry door and it was full to the rafters with buns. B.U.N.S! and the more they took out and ate the more there was in it. And the sons grew so fat from eating buns they couldn’t leave the house but just lay around watching t.v. and farting. The man went back to work at the bun factory driving his fork lift truck and everything seemed normal except… that now the world had gone grey. G.R.E.Y. no colour anymore. Anywhere. Grey trees. Grey skies. Grey people. Grey bun factory, which had been grey anyway, but that’s not the point! He went to the cinema to cheer himself up. The film was ‘Greystoke’. But it didn’t help. He couldn’t bear the sight of his sons anymore so he went to live in a bed-sitter in town in the red-light district where all the ‘good-time’ girls lived. They were a friendly bunch and would always chat to him on his way home from work.
-Hello luv. You look down in the dumps.
-Yes.
-What’s the matter? And he explained about Neville and his sons and the bun situation and the loss of his soul. One girl, Mandy, took a great interest and offered him some good advice to the effect that he would have to get it back. But how? Mandy didn’t know. Prompted though by Mandy’s concern the man went to see Neville again. He knocked on the gravel. Knock. Knock. Knock. Neville popped up.
-Yes?
- I want my soul back.
- I’m sorry. You made a non-refundable bargain. And he showed the man the contract. -It’s watertight. Ask anyone. The man snatched the contract out of Neville’s claw (hoof) and ran off. He ran straight to ‘Drab,Grey and Tendatious’, the local solicitors,where, for an exorbitant fee, paid in advance, in cash, Mr Drab, (Grey and Tendatious were busy fleecing someone else,) examined the contract looking for a waterhole. (doh!) LOOPHOLE! And there it was. In the small-print. The contract could be revoked on condition of the return of all the buns.

All? But that’s impossible! Said Mandy. Yes, said the man. Impossible. Hum. I know! Said Mandy, for she was a good-time girl with big breasts and died blonde hair and tight P.V.C. outfits, and was never at a loss as regards practical solutions to practical problems – We’ll just have to go and see my Granny. Granny Randy. She lives in the heart of the scary wood with her cat named bosun. Or is it Raphael? No, it’s bosun. Lower case ‘b’. So, at midnight, as grey thunder clouds mounted each other ominously in the west/north… off they went. As they approached the scary wood banshees howled and hound dogs wailed and they could hear a scary song.
‘If you go down to the woods today……’
I’m scared, said the man. Don’t worry said Mandy, I have a magic charm that will protect us. Thank god! said the man. The scary wood was dark and dense not to mention dark. Eyes of ferocious wild animals shone malevolently in the scary foliage. They entered a clearing. There in front of them was an enormous mangy drooling yellow-eyed tiger! The man immediately wet himself! But Mandy, unafraid, strode up to the tiger and catching hold of the hem of her P.V.C. mini-skirt, hoisted it aloft, over her head. A huge cloud of foul-smelling miasma issued forth from out the crack in Mandy’s crotch-less panties; one whiff of which sent the tiger running for his life!
–That sorted him, said Mandy.
-Yes, said the man. He wasn’t expecting that.
–No one ever is, said Mandy, wisely. They went on and then there before them was Granny Randy’s council maisonette.
–Granny Randy, it is me, or rather I, randy Mandy, your granddaughter! Granny Randy appeared in her door wearing a pointed black hat, black cloak, holding a broom with a big hairy wart on the end of her big hairy nose.
-Is she a witch, said the man, frightened.
–A witch? Come off it! Granny Mandy is a new-age psychic! They entered her Maisonette.
–Wow! Said the man. Astrological wall-paper. Spiritualistic curtains. A channelling rug! Pagan futon! And a shamanistic fitted kitchen! Crikey! Granny shooed bosun off the sofa and they sat down.
–You see, said Mandy, and she explained the whole boring plot to Granny.
-Sounds like a plot, said Granny.
–Yes, said the man. It does. But it’s not. It’s real life.
–Fair enough, said Granny.
–So what should we do? Said Mandy.
–Oh. That’s easy, said Granny. I was at the Mind,Body,Spirit Festival near Victoria, last week. There was a stall promoting this. All purpose Bun Emetic.
–All purpose bun emetic! Said Mandy.
–Does it work? Of course it works! What d’you think it is? Some crackpot new-age type nonsense?
-Well, yes.
–Well it isn’t. Here’s what you do.

At the crack of dawn the very next day Mandy and the man arrived at his old house where his 7 sons were all sleeping off another bun fest. So big a fest was it the sons did not notice themselves being roughly piled onto a pallet on the man’s fork lift truck he had resourcefully borrowed from work. Once they were on, Mandy and the man drove straight to the gallows tree on the edge of town where they carefully funnelled bun emetic into the mouths of the sleeping sons. Then the man knocked on the gravel for the last time.
KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.
Neville the devil appeared. The sons all started to wake up. Then they all started to puke, and as they puked back up all the buns they had swallowed down, the man tipped them all right on top of the Devil’s head!
-Curses! Says Neville. Foiled by a slapper and her emetic wielding Granny! As Neville says this the world bursts back into colour before the man’s eyes! Neville disappears in a cloud of rage and the man beats his sons all the way home with a cricket bat saying-------------You’re bun days are over! Or words to that effect.

9 months later Mandy and the man are walking down the aisle of Bun Town Church. Mandy in a beautiful white sexy P.V.C. dress. The sons are bridesmaids. The ‘good-time’ girls occupying the front row. Mandy winks at them as she says –I do. Looking at her big belly, one thing is certain. Mandy definitely has got one in the oven!