Smashbang Tits Latvian Opera Troupe Performance Review

Having been born fully formed complete with three already published and highly acclaimed albums Murklem Spitoonfarn and his Bretoslatvarian operatic troupe have plied their trade all over europe even as far afield as West Kensington High Street. El gromulet billed them as “spasticatedly long winded” and “overtly uberratated spungeminglers.”
Last weeks performance held at the Royal Flatulence Hall in London saw literally flocks of saeguls descending from the heavens to bear witness to no less than twenty five fans standing a gaust for a 75 minute chair flute solo piece played by newcomer Ms Stuart Stools McKenzie. Ms McKenzie collapsed into a heap of donuts with her breasts astride as the captain steered their ship into even darker musical waters with a hearty rendition of “Who let the dogs out.” A piece which this reviewer personally feels couldn’t have been better, out done only by the final snot gurglingly poiniant piece “The lady that lived in the watermelon…downstairs.”
An Opera Troupe with such magnanimus force such as this there has never been. Spitoonfarn has once again managed to twist the collective mind of myself and udders into the shape of a pretzel. Beautiful, mystical, child bearing Orangutan. The new single “Boat Crutch” will be out next week.
6 out of 5.

Clifford’z Rap.

Yo, yo. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. Feel it. Alright.

Yo. Yo. Turn that beat up a little bit. Yeah. No a little more. Yeah. Turn it up yeah. Uh. Uh huh. Yeah. Turn it up more. Oh yeah. Turn it—Ah god that’s too loud. Turn it down right now. Turn it down a bit more. Quick. Yeah. That’s right. Uh huh. Much better, thanks. Yo. Yo. Check it.

My name is Clifford and I really like to rap. I’m rapping right now and I’m rapping all the time.

I rap real good and I rap real fast. And if you don’t just like it then you can just shut the hell up fast.

Yo. Check it fools. Don’t be dissin’ my rhymes, otherwise I be getting angry all the times. Then I just might diss you back, although when I diss it be like a rap attack (which is in your face.)

Yeah. I like to have sex with bitches, sometimes in ditches, I be countin my riches, with these bitches, in the ditches. For ever.

So don’t be intimidated by my skillz, and don’t stand close when I cough or else I will make you illz. But not ill as in good at rappin, but ill as in all day toilet crappin.

Speakin of crap, oh look it’s your face. I’ve never seen anything uglier except the time a dog took a dump on your face.

I’m constantly improvin, like home improvement, with the main guy who does the grunting sounds, not that fat guy Roy or whatever his name is. He is rubbish.

So alright it’s time for me to be out. My toast be comin out of the toaster and my bagels be poppin out the oven, so don’t think I’m a boaster but I know I got the house pumpin. Or grinding, possibly both simultaneously.

Keep it real in your heart constantly, peace and for real.

Middle class rap be where it does be at, foolz.

Check out this nigler KILLIN some sweet flowz, mandinga.

BOO-YA David Hasslehoof points a magnum at his crotch and pumps it in the direction of an old lady YEAH

WITNESS teh POWER

WITNESS THE BEAUTY

WINTESS TEH ELEGANCE

WITNESS TEH GUYS FLYING THRU THE AIR! 

WITNESS THE REALLY WEIRD BODY SHAPES

WITNESS MENS FIGURE SKATING.

Detective Zinglewang lives and breathes

Detective Zinglewang steps into the cool Parisian morning air and out into a busling city street. He treads right into a pile of poop, looks down at his foot raising it as his moustache sets on fire. This is not Zinglewangs first day, but he’s pretty much off to a bad start. He lets out a yelp and stumbles backwards in the passing crowds of people groping a large French womans breast. Its her turn to let out a yelp, which she does, then punches Zinglewang’s nostril flames out.
Several minutes later Zinglewang awakens from a dream about riding a giant snail off the edge of the grand canyon in slow motion chased by tiny American Indians to the sound of falling rain. The smell soon confirms that this notion is wrong and reaffirms the idea that he is probably being peed on. He looks up from the pavement just in time to see a tramp mumbling in broken french and pulling his tackle back into his soiled underpants.
Zinglewang disgustedly picks himself up off the floor, the bearded tramp holds out his hand as if asking for a tip , which Zinglewang promptly spits into. He turns to walk away but slips on the turd he trod in earlier, landing “upside his headbonez” as they say in Messapotamia.

Zinglewang knows he needs to get to the Museum of Modern Shart located at 123 Central Paris Boulevard to start working on his latest case: “The case of the mysterious disappearing valuable stuff from within a seemingly well-defended place.”  He hails a horse and carriage by putting his fingers up his nose and farting loudly. This causes one eye to temporarily bulge out quite far and go a bit red, but not to worry. A horse and carriage pull up next to him. Zinglewang checks the integrity of the horses by kicking each one of them in the shins. Satisfied, he tells the driver “That’s four lovely ram chaps you’ve got there, shit face. Now fuck off.” He puncuates the word “Off” by headbutting the driver in the ear.

It’s a lovely day so Zinglewang decides to walk to the Museum and mull over the points of the case in his head.

Here’s what he knows so far.

1) The valuable stuff was locked up behind fourteen feet of the finest cardboard.
2) The locks were made from the hardest cheese known to man. (“Glengorn Valley Extra-Chunky  Stilton/Cheddar hybrid”)
3) Just before the valuable stuff was stolen, patrons of the museum complained of a “strong smell… kind of like when you accidentally fry your cat instead of some mincemeat.”
4) Huberte Mardeleflange, world famous art thief and ninja guy, took out a full page advertisement in the Paris Daily News a day before the robbery stating “DEAR DETECTIVEs, JE SUIS GOING TO STEAL LE VALUABLE STUFF FROM ZE MUSEUM TOMORROW, OK? YOU CAN CONTACT ME AT 554 PEPPY LE PUE STREET AU REVOIR! XXXX ” along with a colour photo and a scratch and sniff patch of his own personal odour.

This was going to be a tough case. Possibly tougher than the case of the “Mysterious Death of 100 year old man whilst Parachuting from the Eiffel Tower during the great parachute drought of 1237″.