OFF WITH THEIR PECKERS!

YO, Naomi Campbell! Yo, you sweet thang! Hey, brown sugar, how come you taste so good?

Come over here to your Uncle Sam, sit on his knee awhile, and let him fill you in on some of the ways of the world – or just fill you in. Period.

Forgive me readers for prefacing this illustrious column with a personal note to one of my favourite babes but it has come to my attention that sales of her great musical work, Babywoman, have been less than encouraging. Indeed they have been so discouraging that certain branches of HMV are giving them away free with Fester & Alien records. They want to clear the floor-space for full-size models of Finbarr Wright. They are swapping them for empty bottles of whiskey.

Thus, at this stage of her career, it looks as though Naomi needs the help of a true professional insider. She needs some input from one Samuel J. Snort. (And you are talking about input, Sam – Ed) (I am indeed, Ed – Sam) (You never cease to surprise me, Sam – Ed)

First of all, from now on she cannot be seen hanging around with the likes of Adam Clayton or Bob De Niro. Those guys are getting far more kudos from being photographed with her, than she is from them.

She needs an escort who will excite the punters, a chaperone with a mutton dagger which is the talk of Europe. We know little about the mutton daggers of Adam and Bob – except that Adam was a bit coy about giving us a proper eyeful on the cover of Achtung Baby, which suggests that he has good reason to be shy about the old love-truncheon.

Therefore, I will agree to step out with Naomi, and, of course, to leak a few photographs to the papers featuring Sam and Naomi making the beast-with-two-backs. That should shift some units for her, and deliver a hefty few bob for myself on the side, too . . .

RUMPO MONDO

Naturally, I will also take on the role of Executive Producer on her next recording project – and believe me, it will not be called Babywoman. I haven’t decided exactly what it will be called, but the word “poontang” will be in there somewhere, and possibly “porksword.”

Poontang On Your Collar, perhaps? Bring Me The Porksword Of Samuel Snort? Or perhaps something simple, like Pussy. Hey, they’ll buy it for the cover! I know they will!

Meanwhile I notice that the fucking Pope is at it again, following Naomi into uncharted waters, making a pitch in the best-seller books market. What a pillock.

I don’t know what the fuck his latest blockbuster is called – Veritatis Splendor 2? – but I know that there is no poontang in it, at all.

At least Veritatis had a bit of gibberish about rubber johnnies and shagging, and using the tradesman’s entrance. OK, he’s against all of that stuff but at least he bothered to mention these three essential subject, albeit in passing (water).

I’m afraid that the punters will not be scurrying down to Veritas or Splendor, or whatever the hell that religious bookshop is called, for his next bodice-ripper unless he slips in some of that twisted shit, that voodoo that he do so well.

Again, Sam Snort is available in an advisory capacity, hoping to bag a lot of royalties from all of those retarded Catholic people.

I have submitted a few working titles for his next tome, and, hey, I think that the readers will warm to Cunnilingus Maximus, Fellatio, Fellatio, Fellatio; Rumpo Mondo; Penis, Peckerus, Prickularum, or Bugger My Old Boots, It’s The Fucking Pope.

The old bollocks will need to shift a fair few units, to whip some skull on the public purse, if his organisation is forced to pay out zillions of pounds in settlements for all of their members who have been playing off-side.

Fr. Brendan Smyth is the latest, most renowned sky-pilot to bring the game into disrepute, though the red cards are flying around like hot jism at a Sam Snort soiree.

MUTTON DAGGER

It is hard – even for a genius of the calibre of Samuel J. Snort – to think of something constructive which might emerge from this grotesquerie, but let us begin by arranging for the head of the Norbertines to chop off the Smythian pecker on the Late Late Show – with a saw.

He can hold it up in front of the camera and say, “we should have done it years ago.”

But should there not be one for everyone in the audience?

What Sam Snort is proposing is a massive cull of priestly peckers worldwide, creating a sort of Pecker Mountain which can be used as a kind of organ-donor bank for men who have fallen foul of the dreaded Lorena Bobbitt Syndrome (LBS).

Since the clergy are keen to insist that they only use their mickeys for pissing through, this will simplify the matter for them, and they can piddle through some kind of tube affair. It all makes excellent sense.

Their peckers will be brought to Sam Snort’s Institute Peckerectomy, and frozen, there to await a new owner.

Our crisis hotline will be getting information by the minute about any poor fuckers whose babes have sliced off their dingdurums, and we will be able to act immediately, despatching a priestly porksword in pristine condition, should the victim’s own bollocks be in rag order, or have been thrown to the dog.

There will be a fee, negotiable according to size, and according to the status of the “donor”. A monsignor’s mutton dagger will cost you more than a canon’s crawling king snake, and so on.

All contributions will go to expanding the work of the Peckerectomy Institute to include counselling for newly de-bollocked clients, and to establish a stable of babes to help the unfortunate ones to get used to their new peckers.

I will insist that Naomi makes a contribution out of the royalties for her next platinum hit.

Poontang is at the bottom of all of this; it begins and ends with poontang.

• Samuel J. Snort Jnr III Sr