Salutations noble Franken fans!
It has been a time of much excitement this week at the Frankenlab as we learned that our very own misshapen hunchback manservant Igor had progressed through the semi finals of ‘Transylvania’s got Talent’ (Transylvania’s top-rated tea-time family extravaganza!).
Two days ago we took a horse-drawn cab to the local airport and waved adieu to our lumpy butler as he took off skyward in a battered second-hand weather balloon, bound for his home town of Cluj-Napoca (where the finals were due to occur). This afternoon we received a missive from Igor via carrier pigeon that although he had (eventually) reached his destination, things hadn’t quite gone according to plan.
Apparently it wasn’t because his enthusiastic cover of ‘My Humps’ by the Black Eyed Peas was out of tune or even that his rather-too-revealing ‘Fergie’ costume was a little tight in the booty area. No, the real trouble came at the bar at the after show party where stroppy host, Simön Cowellzakó, had clearly had too much to drink. Poor Igor, still in costume, found himself being pawed by the amorous presenter who clearly wanted to take a closer look at our hero’s ‘lady lumps’.
Needless to say one head butt, three paramedics and a police caution later Igor arrived dejected back at the Frankenlab having been eliminated from the show and deported from the county.
Still, I reckon he escaped with most of his dignity in tact, unlike to poor subject of this musical Frankenstory extravaganza penned by by Kryssi McCluney and Jeremy Snow…
The plunging neckline of her dress attracted the eyes of every man sitting in red velvet seats. The conductor raised his baton and the orchestra began. From her mouth came sugary melodic notes of Puccini’s Quando Me’n Vo’. The audience fell silent. Singing Puccini as karaoke at a bar was outlandish for some, but for her, it was all too common. A retired opera singer, she warbled the notes like an inebriated nightingale,dancing from the stage onto the bar room floor while singing. The hardwood floor smashed into her face. A snap of cartalidge was heard by some. As she sat up in her sequenced dress, a scarlet stream ran from her nose. She thought to herself, ‘Who sings Musetta in a bar anyways?” The bartender had seen it all before. “Poor girl.” he thought as she stumbled over the bar and threw her gargantuan weight down on a bar stool. He walked from behind the counter and yelled “Its over, the fat lady sang.”
(See the original story here).
Until next time stay saucy, pop pickers.
Bootyliciously yours,