A LOW BLOW

WHEN SAM Snort peruses his morning paper, chances are that the first thing he will turn to are the court cases. I like to keep tabs on what my buddies are getting up to, and since many of them change address with alarming frequency, the best way that I can monitor their movements is to study their amazing lines of defence in Court, and then laugh the morning away.

“Your honour, my client was a man of impeccable character, a ‘rock and roll’ musician of international standing, and a role model to thousands of young people.”

The judge will then enquire as to how this esteemed citizen came to be teaching a “rock school” of nubiles how to sing the lyrics “we want to suck your love-tube” in E-flat, and promising to reward the best effort with the opportunity to put her mouth where her mouth was, so to speak.

All good stuff, it passes the morning and helps me digest my breakfast gang-pack of Special Brew.

That was a nice little court case recently involving the babe from Eastenders who got charged half-a-million quid for saying that she didn’t lick her boyfriend’s pecker at the side of the motorway.

Man, the price of leurve is getting real expensive these days.

Of course, this babe deserved everything that was coming to her, and one thing that will definitely not be coming to her is the pulsating pussy-pylon of Samuel J. Snort.

I mean, what the fuck kind of a law-suit is this? There are many babes who would take an action against a newspaper who defamed them by saying that they weren’t seeking sustenance from the love-sausage of their male companion, if that male companion happened to be your present correspondent.

HEAVING BREASTS

Imagine the embarrassment? “Your honour, my boyfriend Sam had been drinking heavily at the races, and when he complained of severe stomach pains, we pulled off the motorway in order to give him the opportunity to recover. So then he took his schlong out, and I . . . I rubbed his stomach, your honour.”

In the history of jurisprudence, it would be the first recorded verdict of not guilty but insane.

I think that it makes for a good precedent, not to believe a chick who claims that she didn’t perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation if she had the opportunity. Particularly when there is video-tape evidence of what appeared to be one of Sam Snort’s Xmas Parties, at which the Plaintiff simulated acts of leurve with a sausage and a bottle of wine.

Clearly I was otherwise engaged at the time, and she was getting a tad impatient, as babes will, bless them.

The boyfriend in this case must be a particularly lame specimen. Imagine standing up in public and claiming that the plus-one chose to revive your drooping spirits by massaging your tub of lard? What does this say about the attractions of the baldy lad, other than that it is either very limp or very puny? There is no greater shame.

Court cases involving civilians, though, are rapidly being outnumbered by those involving men of the cloth, to the extent that Sam Snort is seriously thinking of getting a late vocation.

I know that there is a tradition of martyrdom in the Catholic faith, but these guys will only ever become martyrs to one thing, and that thang is poontang.

There was some poor sonofabitch in court the other week, claiming that he had been blackmailed by a babe for many years – she was, he said, insisting that her child was the fruit of their leurve.

The fuckers used to go on pilgrimages to Rome together, in which they would mooch around the Holy City awhile, before celebrating the main sacrament, which involved him sprinkling her heaving breasts with holy water, straight from the old love-pump.

I usually ring up the Pope on our personal hot-line (VAT 69) when a number of tricky cases come to light concerning the sex-lives of his wretched infantry.

DREADED CARDINAL

I am his eyes and ears on matters relating to pecker frenzy and I keep him up to date on current trends, as he sits contemplating the redundancy of his pudenda in leafy Castel Gandalfo.

“No-one tells me anything,” he whines. “Except you, Sam, my Papal knight, oh you of the gleaming sword.”

He just moaned for a while when I told him about the blackmailed cleric, muttering, sad mo’fucker. Very sad mutha. Mutha’ of divine Jaysus. It gets sadder and sadder.”

He gets a lot of cack advice from the notorious, right-wing Cardinal Ratfucker, who recently issued a press release stating that the Holy Father thinks that most of what you see on television is a pile of shit.

I gave the main man a bell: “John Paul,” I said, “give my regards to George, Ringo and Bert.” The usual pleasantries you know.

“Now, about this fucking television crap. Your cretinous aide Ratfucker has clearly never seen Baywatch, or he wouldn’t be dumping on current standards.

“Holy Father, Baywatch is a case of wall-to-wall pussy, and apart from frolicking around the beach almost completely nekkid, these chicks save lives. They pull a guy out of the sea and then they pull his pecker to revive him. This is excellent TV and it has my personal imprimatur, oh Holy Father.”

He kinda cringes on the other end of the line when I use the word Father, and says, “I have grown to hate that word, Sam. My wretched foot-soldiers are producing offspring by the orphanage-load, and the mug punters are getting twitchy. Just call me Vicar, if you will.”

I mention the dreaded Cardinal Ratfucker, and he says, “Fuck Ratfuckers. Sam is my man. That fucking Ratfucker can go fuck himself.”

Our business done, we chat quietly about the condition of our pudenda.

• The Rev. Samuel J. Snort SJ