The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely

A Message From Isambard Kingdom Brunel

2008-07-24T15:30:00.002Z

Good day to you!

My name is Isambard Kingdom Brunel, engineer of such wonderful structures as the Great Western Railway, the Maidenhead Railway Bridge, several large ships and the double-buttocked bar-stool.

The esteemed and venerable aristocrat Lord Likely has given me the task of reconstructing his inter-net web-log, so that it may be refreshed and 'one hundred per-cent sexier', to quote his lordship.

I gladly accepted the challenge, for I believe it will be one of the true tests of my engineering skills, and will push me on to greater heights than I e'er thought possible.

Plus his lordship has some incriminating photographic images of me indulging in some rather sordid shenanigans with a few parlour maids and a length of steel rod.

Work on the Lord Likely II, as I shall call it, will commence immediately and hopefully will be concluded on the twenty-ninth day of July in the year of our Lord eighteen fifty-seven. That is entirely dependent on how many tea-breaks my builders take during the works, of course.

It shall not be an easy undertaking. I shall have to reinforce the spunk girders, extend the fanny hole and make the necessary accommodations for his lordship's considerable girth. But hopefully the end results will astound and stagger you all, and will lead to your juices 'flowing like the mighty Niagara', as Lord Likely so eloquently puts it.

Do please bear with us during these exciting times.

Good-bye!

- Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Wherein Injustice is Exposed

2008-07-19T13:11:00.000Z

July 20th, 1857.

With a furious rage in my heart, and a large double-ended dildo in my hand, I set off to track down the despicable Dagos who had taken up residence in my precious home, with the intention of violently introducing the sizable sex-toy to their filthy Italian rectums.

Botter lagged several paces behind, carrying a large collection of other erotic implements.

"Do try and keep up, Botter," I hissed, as I edged along the walls leading to my lounge.

"Sorry, milord," Botter replied. "I think the Clockwork Cock Tickler is, well, tickling my cock."

"This is no time to be enjoying yourself, Botter," I scowled.

Suddenly I stopped sharp, causing Botter to slam into my backside.

"Sorry, milord," Botter apologised.

"Shh!" I whispered. "I think I can hear those Italian fiends up ahead!" I paused. "Botter, is that the Scandinavian Sphincter-Splitter, or is it you jabbing into my hindquarters?"

There was a pause.

"Um...I think it's the Scandinavian Sphincter-Splitter," Botter replied.

"Thank heavens for that. I feared for a moment there that I might have to snap your prick off."

My thoughts swiftly returned to the business at hand, when I heard the unmistakable clink of glass coming form the lounge. I peered around the corner of the wall, and saw my fears confirmed - those swarthy Italians were raiding my liquor cabinet.

That was the final straw.

I stepped out from my hiding place, and loudly cleared my throat with almost theatrical zeal.

"Ah-HEM!" I coughed, ensuring I had the duplicitous duo's attention. "I do believe that is my booze you are drinking. I strongly suggest you return it all to the liquor cabinet immediately, or I shall be forced to enact a strange and unusually painful punishment on you both."

"Likely!" gasped the smaller of the two men (who's name was Alfredo, which I believe I omitted to mention earlier, due to drunkenness). "How did you-a get in?"

"That is for me to know, and for you to never find out," I smirked.

"Are you-a holding da big-a dildo?" Alfredo remarked. "What are you'a going to do, huh? Bugger us to-a death?"

"It can be arranged," I said calmly.

"Rocko," Alfredo said, motioning toward his gorilla-like henchman. "Take care of this-a clown, huh?"

"Sure thing. Boss," Rocko replied as he advanced towards me.

Then everything went to shit in a hand-basket.

As Rocko lumbered forward, I swiftly dodged to the side and hit the ground, performing a rather fantastic forward roll which bought me up behind the lumbering galoot. From this vantage point, I was able to deliver an almighty blow to the back of Rocko's head, using the double-ended dildo as my weapon of choice. This sent the blaggard staggering forward, but he quickly regained his composure and decided to hurl a nearby vase at my head. I ducked, then watched with considerable dismay as the vase shattered into a thousand tiny pieces on the wall behind me.

"Oh, bad show," I sighed. "I trust you gentlemen will be paying for any damages caused by this ruckus?"

Rocko hurled an antique chair at me, which provided a crystal-clear answer to that particular line of enquiry.

"Right then!" I cried, raising my fists up. "I do believe it is ruddy well on."

With that, Rocko and I clashed, exchanging punches with considerable gusto. However, as I swung my fist round to deliver a sterling upper-cut to the rogue's chin, the brute caught my hand in mid-air, then delivered an almighty head-butt to my lordly face.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed, as I staggered back, blood gushing from my nose. "That jolly well does it!"

I dived back under Rocko's legs, and with incredible dexterity, pulled down his trousers and underpants in one fell swoop, and then pushed the fellow over on to the ground, buttock-side up.

"Botter!" I yelled out. "Pass me the Anal Battering Ram!"

"Righto, milord!" Botter answered, juggling the various implements to retrieve the ram. However, his presence had suddenly been noted by Alfredo, who wasted no time in tackling my unfortunate man-servant to the ground, sending the tools of titillation crashing to the ground.

"Oh tits," I sighed, until I noticed one device skittering across the floor towards me. It was The Spaff Pistol, a device intended to send jets of semen arcing across considerable distances, and which I had taken the liberty of filling up just before we left the Love Dungeon. I scooped it up and turned to face Rocko, who had managed to get back onto his feet.

"Here's mud in your eye," I said, drawing The Spaff Pistol up to Rocko's face. "And by 'mud', I mean 'my penis paste'."

With that, I pulled the trigger, sending a jet of my noble nob-butter flying into Rocko's eyes. Thus blinded, the lumbering idiot staggered backwards, then tripped over his own trousers and fell backwards onto the floor.

And then I saw it.

There, glinting in the afternoon sun, was Rocko's penis, the self-same organ which Alfredo had claimed had bested my own Lord Palmerston in a game of Penis Wrestling, which had led to the Italians claiming my estate as their prize.

Except this was no ordinary penis. It was an entirely artificial construct, built out of solid steel and powered by a series of complex-looking mechanisms and pistons.

"What the toss is the meaning of this?" I cried, pointing at the artificial appendage. "Is this how you won the Penis Wrestling contest? By cheating?"

"Um, well..." Alfredo stammered. "It's-a complicated, but...uh...si. Si, we may have had a slight...advantage."

"Well, then, the entire deal is null and void, and you now have ten seconds to get your damn backsides off of my property, or else you shall find yourselves as permanent guests in my Love Dungeon."

I straightened my arm, pointing the Spaff Pistol in Alfredo's direction. "Ten....nine..."

"Okay! Okay! We go!" Alfredo cried, hurriedly helping Rocko back to his feet. "But this is not-a the last you will hear of me, Meeeester Likely! Alfredo Di Clitt never looses!"

"...Five...Four..." I continued, training my pistol on the two fellons.

"Bastardo!" Alfredo hissed, and then the pair dashed off, slamming the door behind them.

"Marvellous," I beamed, holstering the Spaff Pistol. "All's well that ends well, eh Botter?"

"Yes milord," Botter replied. He picked himself up off the floor, and then turned his attention to collecting up the various implements from the ground.

"Leave that one, Botter," I said, as my man-servant went to pick up the Anal Battering Ram. "There is still the small matter of your punishment for leaving the door to my Porn Library open, after all..."

Botter gulped loudly.

Ah, home sweet home.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something or other, I shouldn't wonder.

Behold some other funny blogs designed to make you laugh so hard your sphincter splits wide open.

*****

Notes, Notices and Notifications

Celebrations Abound! Last week's appeal for generous donations to help stave off disaster throughout the Likely Empire was a complete success, and for that I truly thank you all. Read the full details hither, and bear witness to a wondrous piece of film featuring a dozen naked dancers. HUZZAH!

Today's charming image is the work of one Mr. Banksy, a renowned deviant and ne'er-do-well. His lordship is not associated with this cad, and neither does he encourage the vandalism of statues or walls. Unless it is rather raunchy, as it is in this case.

The Love Dungeon

2008-07-16T11:01:00.003Z

July 20th, 1857.

"Here we are, Botter," I boomed in a loud, steady voice, "This is...THE LOVE DUNGEON!"

"Crikey!" chirped Botter as he followed me out of the secret passageway, and into the new room.

'Crikey' was hardly a befitting exclamation with which to convey the required admiration and respect for this den of debauchery. 'Holy Cocking Shit', or 'Fucking Twatting Hell' would have been far more appropriate, I felt.

The Love Dungeon was installed beneath the Likely Mansion by Lord William Knott-Likely in the seventeenth century. Lord William is something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name, as he was one of the few Likelys to have been born without the dashing good looks which befit our proud lineage; and to cap it all he was cursed with an incredibly tiny penis, leading to his unfortunate nickname 'Little Willy'.

With the odds stacked so highly against him, Lord William found courtship somewhat difficult, with ladies repulsed by his vulgar features and complete lack of charm or girth. More often than not, ladies would flee from Lord William as soon as he approached them, sometimes taking the rather extreme measures of emigrating, lest they beheld his deformities any more.

Lord William became rather annoyed at this turn of events, and this annoyance led to anger, which in turn lead to a furious rage, leading him to full-on barking insanity, which set in motion the construction of the Love Dungeon, with William theorizing that women would not be able to run away from him if he kept them chained up in a dank cellar beneath his house.

The dungeon was completed within a month, and upon its completion Lord William sent out his man-servant to kidnap ladies in the middle of the night, and bring them back to the estate. Clearly holding something of a grudge against the female gender, Lord William filled the dungeon with terrible instruments of torture, and took great delight in meting out cruel and depraved punishments upon his petrified prisoners, which he found incredibly arousing.

Lord William's awful deeds carried on for the best part of a year, until someone in the neighbouring village realised that there were a lot less women walking about, and set about trying to track them down. A group of locals followed Lord William's man-servant on one of his kidnapping missions, and followed him back to the Likely Estate, where they were shocked to discover the Love Dungeon chock-full of less-than happy young ladies.

Lord William was driven from his home and spent his last days wandering the country, sticking his penis into anything he came across. As his mental state worsened, he wound up trying to have sex with a furnace, and died shortly thereafter.

Like I say, he was something of an embarrassment to the proud Likely name.

Since then, the Love Dungeon has remained closed off, until a few years ago when I reopened it, but refurnished it as a place for pleasure, and not pain (well, maybe a bit of pain, I confess). I destroyed Lord William's awful instruments of torture, and replaced them with various elaborate sex-toys instead, such as The Spinning Fanny Slapper, The Spunk Cannon, The Hump-Hammock, The Whirling Titty Tickler, The Box of Delights, The Steam-Powered Flange Thudder and The Iron Maiden's Mother-In-Law. And, naturally, I do not need to send Botter out to abduct local women either. If anything, ladies queue up to sample the delights of the Love Dungeon these days, and there is quite a waiting list for admissions.

"So, what do we do now, milord?" Botter asked, examining a three-pronged cock trident on a rack beside him.

"That is a surprisingly good question for one so naturally inclined towards idiocy," I replied, straightening up a suit of armour sporting a rather hefty strap-on. "We cannot well stay hidden down here forever. Not without you getting some funny ideas."

"I suppose not," Botter said, running his hands across an anal battering ram.

"We need to do something, Botter!" I cried, sitting down on the edge of Dr. Ignoble Buttocks' Patented Cock-Stretching Cock Rack. "We are so close to reclaiming the Likely Estate from those terrible Italian fellows. If only we were better equipped to overcome them...if only we were armed! What I wouldn't give to have a sturdy weapon in my hand right this instant!"

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud crashing sound, as Botter knocked over a stand housing various sex-aids, sending the various implements of intercourse spilling onto the floor.

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, as I picked up a Double-Ended Backdoor Invader from off of the ground.

"I...I'm sorry, milord," Botter apologised profusely. "Please don't hurt me!"

"Hurt you?" I beamed. "Why, I could kiss you if you weren't so god-awfully grotesque! Botter, gather up as many of these wonderful tools as you can carry...I think I have a rather excellent plan!..."

- Lord Likely.

humor-blogs.com never leaves home without carrying a Clockwork Cock Tickler.

*****

Notes, Notices and Notifications.

My increasingly inept scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton, has relaunched his comic strip-based inter-net web-site The Carrotty Kid this week, and urges you all to visit it and marvel at the wonders within. However, he has already run into a spot of bother with the new venture, which could also affect my fine journals themselves! If you can spare a moment, and maybe a ha'penny, visit The Digital Sickbag or www.thecarrottykid.co.uk and join in with Carrot Aid this instant! Many thanks!

The Dirty Cow

2008-07-10T21:24:00.001Z

20th July 1857.

Having been cooped up with my man-servant in a dark (and increasingly noxious) tunnel for almost an hour, it was with great relief that we finally resurfaced in my magnificent mansion, via a secret trapdoor which lead us out into my vast, well-stocked library.

"Thank toss for that!" I wheezed, as I climbed out into considerably fresher air. "I do not know what the hell is in your diet of late Botter, but if that foul stench from your backside is anything to go by, then I think I shall have to take radical steps to curb your eating habits, possibly by the rather violent removal of your masticatory faculties."

"Yes milord. Sorry milord." Botter apologised.

I stopped to survey my opulent surroundings, when I suddenly stiffened with shock.

Regular readers of these fine journals may recall that I had my personal library built upon last year, which saw the glorious erection ('erection' being the entirely correct and applicable word here) of my now infamous Pornographic Wing.

It was in this proud monument to debauchery that I now found myself, but rather than being greeted with shelf after shelf of my perfectly preserved pornographic pamphlets and pictographs, I witnessed something awful; something so terrible it made me doubt the very existence of a God.

There were animals loose in my library.

I could only look on in horror as I beheld squirrels snacking upon my smutty softcovers. Rabbits ravaged my Rubens. Nightingales nested on my nudes. It was a sight so horrifying, dear readers, that I am not ashamed to admit that I sunk to my knees, desperation filling my entire frame.

"Those goddamned Italian rogues!" I wailed, referring to the two ne'er-do-wells who had taken my Estate from me. "What kind of foul creatures are we dealing with here? What kind of depraved mockery of manhood wills such wanton destruction upon such a comprehensive collection of cockery?"

"Um...I...I don't know," Botter mumbled.

"We are dealing with truly black-hearted indivivuals here, Botter," I continued. "Men who are willing to trash such titillating treasures may know no limits, and so we must...be...careful" I slowed, as I watched a cow wander in through the open door of the library. "Botter," I said quietly, as the docile creature ambled past me. "I am going to ask you something, and I would greatly appreciate an honest and upfront answer."

"Yes, milord?" Botter said, his voice tinged with nervousness.

The cow stopped to sniff some shelves, and then decided to chew upon a particualrly erotic portrait of one of my former lovers. The beast clearly had good taste in women, it had to be said.

"Botter," I continued gently. "Is it at all possible that you forgot to close the library door before we set off on our holiday?"

Botter shifted awkwardly on the spot, frantically toying with the rim of his bowler hat which he was now clutching in his grubby little mitts.

"Um...I cannot quite say, milord...it was so long ago..." the wretch whined.

"Yes or no, Botter?" I implored, tapping my foot impatiently.

"Yes, milord," Botter confessed meekly, his head lowered in shame. "I...I think I did forget to close the door..."

"I see," I said calmly, striding over to a small stone statuette of the Venus de Milo. "Well, I appreciate your honesty, Botter, and now, if you do not mind, I would like to do one thing."

"Milord?"

I swept up the statuette with both hands and raised it over my head, my eyes blazing with fury and rage. "I AM GOING TO BASH YOUR GREASY LITTLE SKULL INTO A THOUSAND TINY PIECES, YOU LITTLE TWAT-BAG!" I screamed.

Botter whimpered and dashed off across the room, spouting forth numerous pathetic apologies.

"Come hither!" I cried, lurching after him with the Venus in my grasp. "Come hither, so that I might better clobber you!"

Botter took refuge behind a plinth boasting a rather striking bronze carving of my wondrous self in all my wondrous nakedness, while I ranted and raved after him. Suddenly, however, I was stopped dead in my tracks as I heard distant voices nearing our location.

"I thought I heard someone shouting down here," said one of the voices, which I recognised as belonging to that dreadful Italian chap.

"Balls!" I hissed. "It's those ruddy wops!"

"What'll we do?" Botter whispered back.

"I should leave you to them," I replied. "I should let them capture you, and let them make meatballs out of...well, your meatballs."

Botter winced at the very thought of this notion.

"Under the circumstances, however, I am going to suggest that you pull my penis."

Botter looked bemused at my latest instruction. "Excuse me, milord?" he asked.

"Pull my penis, man! In the name of all that is holy, grab a hold of my todger and give it a damn good yank!"

"Erm...very well, milord," Botter said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Get away from me!" I hissed, as my man-servant slowly started to unbutton my trousers. "I was not referring to my actual penis, you penis, but rather 'my' penis, you penis."

"Wha-? But I... Oh!" Botter clapped his hands to the side of his head in utter despair, taking on the semblance of a man who was about to have his brain explode from the inside out.

"Oh, never mind," I sighed as the Italians' foot-steps drew nearer. "Allow me!"

With that, I leant past my man-servant and grabbed a hold of the proud, bronze boner sported by the statuette of my fantastic self. Then I heaved upon the solid member, pulling and heaving with all my might.

It was not the first time I had found myself in my library, tugging on my todger, I mused.

I carried on until the statue's stiffy was ponting downwards, at which point a series of clunks and whirrs heralded the unveiling of yet another secret passageway, as one of the bookcases slowly slid aside.

"There we go!" I beamed. "Now come on, Botter! Quick sharp!"

We dived into the gloom of the new tunnel, and watched as the bookcase slid back over the entrance behind us. It closed shut with a satisfying thud, and we were back in darkness once more.

"Where are we going now, milord?" Botter enquired, as I set about relighting my lantern. "Where does this passageway lead to, exactly?"

"It leads to the vey bowels of the mansion, Botter," I said grimly, holding the lit lantern up to my face. "It leads to a place so terribly depraved and twisted that few men ever come out with their sensibilities or genitals intact. Botter, you must brace yourself, for we are going to...THE LOVE DUNGEON!"

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Terror in the Love Dungeon!

*****

Notes, Notices and Notifications:

ATTENTION! Lord Likely's official scribe, Mr. A.D Fanton, has taken it upon himself to diversify into flogging t-shirts daubed with his cretinous cartoonery. You may view his efforts, and purchase them as well if you are particualrly bereft of sense, by visiting his hovel on redbubble.com!

OBEY! Support his lordship on humor-blogs.com by clicking the link to humor-blogs.com and help put the humor back into humor-blogs.com!

Tunneling Into the Past

2008-07-08T09:36:00.000Z

20th June, 1857.

Hmmm, now where was I?

Ah yes. I had apparently lost my home and my entire estate to a couple of swarthy Italians in a drunken wager, and my man-servant and I were now attempting to sneak our way back into the Likely Estate via a secret tunnel, when all of a sudden something was scurrying out of the darkness towards us.

I believe that should bring you all bang-up-to-date...now, let us continue!

So, there we were, stuck in a rather tight spot. Usually, being stuck in a rather tight spot is something I relish, but on this occasion I feared that the creature heading towards us might have a taste for upper-class flesh, and did not wish to become the mid-afternoon snack of some foul beast.

"Botter," I said to my petrified man-servant. "I fear you may have to lay down your life for the greater good."

"Greater good?" Botter replied.

"Yes. I am greater and far more good than you, hence I should live and you should perish at the jaws of some slavering monster."

"Oh," Botter said.

Before we could properly say good-bye to one another, the creature was upon us. I braced myself for the worse, but was rather surprised to find the abomination did not tear us from limb to limb, but merely stopped and said calmly; "Excuse me. Sorry to bother you chaps, but you wouldn't happen to know how where the exit is, would you?"

I allowed myself to look at the creature, and saw that it was in fact no creature at all; instead, standing in front of us was an incredibly unkempt naked man, with long straggly hair and a beard to match, long yellowing finger-nails and toe-nails and a surprisingly short penis. He was certainly foul, but not a beast.

"What the Dickens?" I exclaimed. "Who the tit are you?"

The man looked at me, then looked at me much closer, his awful face craning towards mine, allowing me to catch a whiff of his frankly vomit-inducing scent.

"Likely?" he finally said. "Likely? Is that you?"

"Yes, it is I - Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!" I bellowed.

"Likely!" cried the man, throwing himself upon me and taking me in a full embrace. "You came back! You finally came back!"

"Oh God!" I lamented. "It is touching me! Help me, Botter! Find me a crucifix and a priest, pronto!"

"Don't you recognise me, Likely?" beamed the man, revealing a smile bereft of several teeth. "It is I, Tugger!"

My mind raced backwards trying to recollect where I may have met this fellow before, until I finally found a match. Tugger had been one of my fellow students at St. Bumthrusty's School for Boys, a decent enough chap, who had become rather well-known due to his habit of constantly masturbating during classes - hence his nickname, 'Tugger'.

"Tugger?" I repeated slowly. "Tugger Johnson?"

"In the flesh!" grinned Tugger.

"And little else," I noted, wryly.

"Yes, well, you shall have to forgive my appearence, Likely. I have been trapped in these tunnels for the past God knows how many years, ever since that night we were down here...remember?"

Despite having been pumped full of alcohol over the years, I was surprised to find that my memory was able to clealry recollect the day in question.

It was back in my school-days, not long after I had made the discovery of the very tunnel we now stood in. Such a discovery excited the younger Likely greatly, especially when I realised I could use the tunnel to bunk off from school and slink back into the Likely Estate unnoticed, get blind drunk and return to school completely pissed as the proverbial fart. Happy days.

One day, however, I was confronted by Tugger and that awful little shit-box Harold Loathsome, who had noticed my inebriated state and wanted to know how I was getting hold of booze during school hours. As I was pissed at the time, I gladly gave up the information, which served only to excite the boys further, and they pleaded with me to allow them to accompany me on my next trip. I agreed to permit Tugger to join me, but I denied the same prvilege to Loathsome.

"But why won't you let me let come?" whined Loathsome.

"Because you are a wretched, whiny little ball-sack," I had replied. "And in addition, you smell like ham."

"You rotter, Likely!" spat Loathsome. "You will pay for this, you'll see!"

I ignored the little twat's words, and the very next day Tugger and I set off to raid my father's liquor cabinet and drink our weight in gin. However, as we trotted through the tunnel, we suddenly found our way blocked by the imposing figure of my father, Lord Eustace Likely (now missing, presumed dead).

Tugger had fled in fear, leaving me to face the wratch of my father. He was deeply furious, not because I had been drinking in school, but because I had been drinking his booze. My father boarded up the entrances to the tunnel and I received quite a thrashing that night, but the next day I was sent to school with a hip-flask full of whisky - the very same hip flask I carry to this day. My father was nothing if not fair.

Of course, I knew that Harold Loathsome had grassed me up to my father, as he was a weasly little runt who delighted in putting a stop to other people's fun. This fact was later confirmed when he came up to me in the Common Room that afternoon.

"How did your little expedition go, Likely?" he had sneered. "Did your daddy approve?"

"Well," I smiled, removing the hip flask from my pocket. "You might well say that he did."

With that, I had taken a swig of whisky, and spat it out in Loathsome's eyes. Then, for good measure, I hurled the pathetic urchin through a window. For that action, I received another thrashing upon my noble buttocks that afternoon, but it had been worth it. Loathsome really was utterly loathsome.

Loathsome certainly has figured in a lot of my reminiscences of late. I wonder if that will prove to be important later on?

Anyway, back to the present day. I snapped out of my recolections to find Botter and Tugger sat on the ground, quietly chatting to one another.

"Oh!" exclaimed Botter, as he noticed me. "I do believe milord has stopped having a flashback now."

"Indeed I have," I stated. "Was I gone long?"

"About forty-five minutes, milord," Botter answered.

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, leaning back against a wall.

"Tugger was telling me how he's been trapped down here ever since the day your father caught you, and that he survuved by eating rats, and that over the course of the past thirty years he has masturbated over every inch of this tunnel. Incredible, is it not?"

"Incredible," I agreed, quickly moving myself away from the wall. "Well, Tugger, it has been a pleasure, but we must depart, for we have to rescue my home from filthy Italians!"

"I quite understand," Tugger nodded. "We have all been in that position at some point or other."

Tugger and I shook hands (and then Botter wiped my hands clean for me), and I bade my former classmate farewell, giving him clear directions on how to finally escape from his current dilema. He thanked me profusely, and headed off into the darkness.

Botter and I continued on without further incident, save for one moment when my man-servant broke wind rather violently, which I bore the brunt of as I was following behind him at the time. After another half an hour or so, we finally reched the end of the tunnel, and the entrance into the Likely Estate.

There was indeed light at the end of this particular tunnel, but what I would darken my mood considerably...

- Lord Likely.

*****

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely Mourns A Loss!

Notes, Notices and Notifications.

humor-blogs.com has had a relaunch, so now is the perfect time to show your support for his lordship by clicking upon the link at the start of this sentance (or this one, if you are far too lazy to move the cursor all the way over there) and rate these fine journals as being the funniest thing you have ever read ever. Which, in fact, they are.

Also, many thanks to Mr. Canucklehead for bestowing this fine award upon his lordship:

Lord Bless canucklehead, and Canada too! Cheers!

Interval: No Use Crying Over Spilt Tea

2008-07-03T23:58:00.005Z

July the Fourth, 1857.

I have noticed that to-day is Independence Day in the United States of America, the day whereupon the American people celebrate the occasion of their freedom from British rule, back in 1776.

Quite why anyone would want to celebrate such an event is beyond me - surely any event that results in an entire nation being disassociated with the glorious British Empire is a cause for sadness and despair? Who would not want to be part of an Empire which counts me and my proud Lord Palmerston among its subjects? The mind quite literally boggles.

Americans attempt to make the world's largest cup of tea. World's largest biscuit to dunk in it not shown.

Anyhow, I understand that this date is something of an occasion among the American people, a significant number of whom are loyal readers of my fine journals. With this in mind, I have unearthed a rather interesting extract from my grand-father's own diaries, wherein he reveals his part in the Boston Tea Party in 1773, an event which would help to put into motion the eventual Declaration of Independence.

I present to you this fascinating piece below, as my own small contribution to the day's celebrations. Do please enjoy!

From the Diaries of Lord Charles Hyley-Likely.

December the Sixteenth, 1773.

It has been a rather curious two weeks for me, I must say. As one of the stockholders in the British East India Company, I had elected to travel to Boston in the colony of America, to deliver some of our extremely tasty and truly mouth-watering tea. I had heard unhappy talk that the American colonials were becoming increasingly discontent with British rule, and so I had imagined that delivering some fresh, ambrosial tea might help lighten their mood, and maybe we could all sit down and have a bit of a chin-wag with a nice, hot cuppa in our hands.

So, I had boarded one of the company's ships bound for America, a ship which was named the Beaver. Alas, this was to prove to be a most misleading moniker, for there were absolutely no females on board at all. They should have called the vessel the Floppy Cock or some such, as that is all that was present upon it.

Anyway, we arrived in Boston Harbour nine days ago, only to discover that the situation was far worse than we had imagined. Far from being hailed like the heroes of the Empire we so clearly were, we were given a rather hostile reception, and told in no uncertain terms that we could not unload our exquisite tea here, and that we should - and I quote - 'fuck off back to England'.

Having been stuck on board a boat for the past two weeks, with no ladies with which I could copulate along the way - I was rather miffed at this, and demanded to speak to whomever was in charge. I was presented with a rather unassuming looking fellow who introduced himself as a Mr. Samuel Adams.

"What the arse is all this about?" I asked him. "I came here to deliver rich, flavourful tea, and by the King's cock-hole that is precisely what I shall do!"

"I fear not, sir," Adams answered. "We are reacting to the underhand and unlawful Tea Act passed by your Government, an act designed to give your company tax breaks so that you can can continue your aggressive expansion into America, to the detriment of smaller traders. We Americans will never accede to you and your giant corporations who seek to establish monopolies at the expense of fair competition. Never, I say! Never!"

"You shall do what you're jolly well told, or else you will feel my boot in your ballsack, sir," I replied, pouring myself a steaming hot cup of fabulous tea.

"Ha! The typically aggressive act of the British Empire!" snapped Adams. "We may be under your colonial rule now, sir, but the time will soon come when the American people are free from the yoke of British rule! We shall form a glorious republic, where all men are created equal..."

"Good heavens," I said, sipping my highly-palatable beverage. "All of you? Even the Negroes and the Natives?"

"Do not be a lunatic, man!" Adams cried. "Of course not the Negroes and the Natives. But there shall be liberty for the rest of us."

"Libre tea?" I said. "Free tea?"

"Liberty," Adams repeated. "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness!"

"You do seem rather passionate about this entire situation, I must say," I observed.

"You had better believe so, sir."

"I would wager that such a diatribe has left you rather parched, has it not?"

"I do believe it has."

"Would you...would you care for a lovely cup of tea, maybe?" I asked, offering forth a cup of the British East India Company's finest char.

"Why, thank you, that is really most generous..." Adams began, as he reached for the tea-cup, before he stopped himself. "Wait a moment! No! No I would not care for your filthy, Imperialistic tea! Get it way from me at once, and turn your ships back to England. You shall not be unloading any tea - no matter how piquant and luscious it may be - and that is final."

"You will be sorry," I retorted over my shoulder as I headed back to the Beaver. "You will come running back to us when you come to acknowledge that your own tea tastes like the diahrettic expulsions of a disease-ridden anus!"

And with that, I returned to my ship, but vowed not to leave until all of our wondrous tea was safely unloaded.

*****

I left the ship half an hour later, and ventured into Boston itself. It was a most agreeable city, it has to be said, although the inhabitants were less than friendly, despite my best efforts to ingratiate myself to them by trying to engage them all in a sing-a-long to God Save the King.

One young lady did seem suitably impressed with me, however, and we soon got to talking. I found that her name was Sandy Cleft, and she was a Loyalist who was thrilled to pieces to meet an actual real-life member of the British Aristocracy, and one so incredibly handsome and damnably attractive as I, to boot. I took her to a nearby bar (which I believe was called Cheers or What-Ho or something), where I deployed all my Likely charm, and entranced my female companion with numerous tales of my dashing derring-do, and vast wealth. Soon, she was overcome with desire, and demanded that I make love to her, right there and then on the table. I politely declined, fearing that I might get a bar-snack lodged in my anus, and suggested we return to my cabin on the Beagle.

*****

We had no sooner then set foot on the Beagle then Sandy demanded I take her immediately, and ravish her with my manhood. I did not need to be asked twice, and threw her gently against some of the tea-crates on the ship, and quickly set about unfastening my trousers.

"I declare independence from my trousers!" I roared, as I tossed the garment aside, revealing my incredible length to the delectable Ms. Cleft.

"My word!" she gasped, upon catching sight of my monstrous man-meat. "It's so big!"

"Indeed it is, my dear," I said, as matter-of-factly. "I call him Captain Cook, for like his namesake, he does love to explore unchartered territories."

"Then let him explore me, my lord! Let him explore me DEEPLY!" gasped Sandy, pulling up her dress and lowering her knickers.

Starved of female company for so long, I did not hesitate and plunged my Captain Cook into her silken crevice, then I began to bang away with great force, my swollen balls slapping against her most satisfactorily.

Sandy moaned and groaned with pleasure as I thrust deeper and harder, forcing her to grab a hold of a tea-chest to steady herself as I continued my erotic exertions. I drew Sandy's legs up under my arms and forced myself further inside her tufty mound, until I was hilt-deep inside her. Sandy yelped with delight, and I was now so damnably excited that my motions became faster and faster and faster until -

The force exerted by my furious thrustings became so great that one of the tea-crates against which Sandy was leaning became dislodged, and tumbled into the water, shedding it's delicious contents upon impact.

"Heavens!" I cried, as I saw the scrumptious tea fill the harbour waters. "Boston Harbour's a tea-pot tonight!"

As if they had been waiting to be cued, dozens of fellows dressed as Indians suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and quickly began to throw the rest of the crates overboard, crying out 'Victory for the Sons of Liberty' as they did so.

I could only watch in horror as all of the deliciously delectable tea was tossed into the murky waters below, and to cap it all I still had not finished rutting with the delightful Sandy Cleft.

Oh bollocks, I thought. Still, at least I could content myself with the fact that Mr. Adams' crazy notion of an American Republic had not yet transpired.

July the Fourth, 1776.

Oh bollocks.

Well, there you have it, ladies and gentle-men, a first-hand account from the pen of my slightly tea-obsessed grandfather, Lord Charles Hyley-Likely. Astonishing, is it not?

May I now take this opportunity to wish all of my American readers a most delightful July the Fourth. I dearly wish I could pump you full of my love-juice, even if you are filthy tea-drowning miscreants!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: We return to the adventure in progress!

humor-blogs.com has a sandy cleft of its very own.

Up the Dirty Tunnel

2008-06-30T15:49:00.000Z

June 20th, 1857.

Botter and I arrived at the village hall moments later, to find the place swarming with awful commoners, out displaying their fruit and vegetable in a terribly tedious Fruit and Veg Contest.

I took a moment to rearrange one competitor's display so that a carrot and two artfully-placed plums took on the appearance of the male genitalia (which amused me greatly), and then I complimented a lady on her wonderful melons, before we headed to one of the back-rooms of the hall.

"Right!" I said, slamming the door shut behind me to cut out the noise of the rabble outside. "Now to business!"

Botter looked around the small, unassuming room we now found ourselves in.

"Are...are you sure you have the right room, milord?" he asked. "There is nothing in this room but a small desk, a chair, and a large potted-plant. I can't begin to fathom where this secret tunnel may be!"

"And that is just as it should be, my cretinous companion. Why, if the entrance to the tunnel was clear to see, it would not be much of a secret, would it now? Honestly, Botter. Do try and engage your brain from time to time."

"Sorry milord," Botter apologised.

"That you are, Botter. Very sorry indeed," I said, as I strode over to the potted-plant in the corner of the room. "Now, let me just check..." I continued, as I read the name of the plant, written on a small sign stuck in the soil. "Hmmm...praeditus senior! Yes, this is definitely the one!"

"Pray-dit what?" Botter asked.

"Praeditus senior, Botter! It is Latin for 'well-endowed lord'. Look at the plant, Botter. Just look at it! Standing tall and proud, it's mighty stalk fully erect...this plant was named after my father, you see. Well, to be more specific, it was named after my father's penis. It's...rather a long story, to be honest. At any rate, this plant is the key..."

"I see," said Botter, the vacant look in his eyes betraying this statement.

I smiled and pulled at the plant's stalk, then pushed it back, then pulled it again. Suddenly there was a grinding sound, and a section of the wall behind the plant began to move aside, revealing a hitherto unseen entrance.

"Open sesame!" I beamed. "Come on, Botter! This will lead us back to the Likely Estate, and then we can give those filthy Italians what for!"

Botter ambled over, and peered cautiously into the tunnel.

"It looks rather tight, milord," he observed.

"Indeed," I said. "Maybe I should lubricate myself before forcing myself in?" Botter looked at me quizically. "No, you're probably right," I conceded. "We should just get going. Alright, then! You go first, just in case there is any long-dormant evil lurking in there, waiting to feast on the blood of any unsuspecting explorers."

Botter's face went white with fear.

"Don't worry, you fool!" I grinned, grabbing a gaslight from atop the small desk. "It will be fine. Probably."

Botter gulped. "Milord, I think..."

"Excellent!" I said, pushing Botter into the tunnel. "Simply excellent!"

*****

We had been crawling through the tunnel for what seemed like an age, when Botter, (being the incredibly whinesome and wearying wank-stain that he is) began to complain.

"Are we nearly there yet, milord?" he wailed.

I stopped and sniffed the air. "Smell that?" I asked, holding my lantern up to Botter's face. "It is the most wondrous scent of beer. I do believe we are right under the Cock and Balls Inn! I wonder if we have time to tunnel our way into the pub, and secure ourselves some booze for our journey?"

"I...I rather think we should press on, milord," Botter replied, nervously scanning the area.

"Honestly, Botter. You are such a spoilsport sometimes. How the devil I wound up with such a
party-pooping pranny like yourself, I simply cannot fathom. It must have been - "

"What was that?" Botter asked suddenly, his head craned to the right.

"That was the sound of me berating you, you terrible anus."

"No!" Botter cried. "I thought I heard something else. Like...like a scratching sound..."

"Nonsense, Botter. It is simply your over-active imagination. I dare say your imagination is the only active part of you."

"SHUT UP!" snapped Botter, before quickly remembering his place. "Uh, I mean shut up, milord."

"Botter! I would beat you completely and utterly senseless, if it was not for one thing."

"And what is that, milord?" Botter enquired.

"There appears to be something heading straight for us, Botter," I replied, pointing behind my man-servant. "And it appears to be entirely unfriendly..."

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something Wicked This Way Comes!

humor-blogs.com lives underground, and as such is literally beneath us all.

The Italian Stallion

2008-06-25T23:59:00.000Z

June 20th, 1857.

I was in some exceptionally deep excrement.

Was it really at all possible that I had gambled away the ownership of my entire Estate whilst off my Lordly tits on booze in Italy? Could I really have been that inebriated? Or were the two Italian miscreants currently taking up residence in my house talking complete and utter, gold-plated bollocks?

"You, sir, are lying through your filthy spaghetti sauce-stained teeth," I ventured.

The thin man smiled, his gold tooth sparkling in the afternoon sun.

"Oh really, Meeester Likely?" he said. "Maybe this will satisfy any doubts you have!" With that, the fiend produced a crumpled document from his coat pocket, and waved it in my face. "Read this and then proceed to weep, signore."

I snatched the paper from the man's hand, and read it over. It appeared to be some sort of contract, with my unmistakably lavish signature at the bottom of it. It was rather reassuring to see that my penmanship clearly did not suffer when I was completely pissed.

"Hold no one twatting moment," I said, as I read through the contract. "It says here that I entered into a penis-wrestling match with your man Rocko, here. What the Dickens?"

"Penis wrestling. It's-a like wrestling, but with penises."

"I understand that much, you wretched swine," I sniffed. "What I fail to understand is how I lost. My Lord Palmerston is the better of any todger in this entire continent - nay, the globe."

"Heh," smirked the Italian. "You said preeety much the same-a thing on the day. Except you were slurring far more, of course. Once again, you underestimate the sheer strength and power of my friend's massive penis."

"Oh, really?" I smiled, crumpling the contract up in my fist. "Well I shall be sure not to do that again." Then, as quick as a flash, I spun round and kicked Rocko right in the plums.

It was a spectacularly fluid and graceful manouevere, but it was to prove to be exceptionally foolhardy, as my foot connected with something so incredibly hard that I could not help but to yelp out in pain, while Rocko stood perfectly still, unflinching.

"FUCK ME!" I yelled, nursing my injured foot in my hands. "What in the name of the Pope's piss-hole has he got down there?"

"My cock," Rocko smiled.

"They don't call him 'Rocko' for nothing, Meeester Likely," the other man chuckled. "Now, maybe you can be a good little lord, and admit defeat graciously, eh? And then, get your stinky English backside off of my property!"

"You may have won the battle, but you have not won the war!" I jeered, as I limped away, with my man-servant trying gamely to support me as I went. "Me and my Lord Palmerston shall return, and when we do, we shall leave you in such a ruined state that the Colosseum will look positively brand-new in comparision. Capiche?"

*****

"Bar-keep!" I yelled, slamming my fist on the counter of my local public-house, The Cock and Balls. "I demand some of your strongest alcoholic beverages, and some of your sluttiest whores post-haste! I have an aching desire to get blind, roaring drunk, and reassert my manhood right away."

"Very good, milord," said Blind Trevor, the landlord, who is must be noted was neither blind, nor actually called Trevor, but had assumed the nickname under the assumption that it made him sound more amiable and approachable.

His real name was Rupert. Nobody likes a Rupert.

"Milord," said Botter, as we took our drinks to a nearby table and waited for Blind Trevor to find some prostitutes. "Are you sure this is wise? Getting completely drunk got you into this mess after all...."

"Botter," I replied, pausing to take a sip from my beer. "I have been booted out of my family home, and have suffered a terrible blow against my manhood. At least allow me to get so totally sloshed that I can forget any of this happened."

"Come on, milord! We're wasting time here! You should be out there, at the Likely Estate, fighting for your very home! If not for you, then for all of the Likelys who have e'er dwelled there."

"Botter, I fear you are extremely close to having your speaking privilages revoked. Now, do be a good chap and let me be. I shall drink myself to a stupor, and then I plan to tunnel the whores so vigourously that they can barely walk again..."

I lowered my beer slowly, an idea slowly forming in my magnificent brain.

"Tunnel! Tunnel. TUNNEL! Of course! By Jupiter's Jizz-pole, we've got them!"

"What?" Botter asked, as I leapt to my feet. "What is it milord?"

"There's an old tunnel that leads from the village hall all the way to the old library on my Estate! My great-great-great-great grandfather had it built during the English Civil War, don't you know?"

"Really? Was it built so he could get his family safely out of the Estate without being attacked by Roundheads?"

"No, it was so he could sneak slatternly young ladies into the house in the evening, and indulge in all-night orgies the likes of which would make Marquis de Sade blush. The point is, the tunnel still exists, so we can easily get back inside my abode, and drive those filthy Italians from the Estate! It is almost too facile. Quick! Let us depart to the Village Hall!"

"Oh. So you won't be needin' these two, then?" said Blind Trevor, who had since returned with two completely corking young women for my pleasure.

"Well...it can't hurt to get a bit of tunneling practice in beforehand," I beamed. "Ladies, shall we?..."

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Journey to the Centre of the Hearth!

humor-blogs.com keeps trying to tunnel in here, but luckily it can't quite get it's massive backside through the hole.

Disaster at the Likely Estate

2008-06-20T13:52:00.000Z

June 20th, 1857.

After a couple of days of jubilant celebrations, during which I was (quite rightly) hailed and revered as a returning hero (and thus plied with so many drinks and women I thought I had died and gone to some sort of sexy Heaven), now it was finally time for me to return to my not-at-all-humble home on the Likely Estate.

"Ah, home, sweet home!" I exclaimed as Botter and I disembarked from our carriage, and onto the familiar grounds of my Estate. "I think the first thing I shall do when I get in is to pour myself a large whisky, sit down, and maybe bash one out."

"It's a sight for sore eyes, milord," Botter agreed. "I cannot wait to get back inside!"

"Overcome with emotion, are we Botter?" I smiled.

"No, milord. I'm rather overcome with luggage," my man-servant replied, as he gamely struggled up the path with my numerous suitcases and hat-boxes. "I cannot wait to get inside and set all these down!"

I tutted and strolled on after my man-servant, until we came to a stop outside the front doors of my mansion.

"Well?" I said, expectantly.

"Well...what, milord?" Botter replied from behind the towering pile of suitcases.

"Well, aren't you going to open the door for me, you loathsome wretch?"

"Um...well, my hands are rather full at the moment, milord, and the key is in your pocket, milord, so..."

"So you think I should open it myself, do you?" I snapped. "Well that's cocking well marvellous, isn't it? I mean, what is the ruddy point of having a man-servant if I am expected to do these things myself?"

"Sorry, milord. I don't know what I was thinking," Botter apologised, as he attempted to shift all my cases onto one arm.

"I should think so," I snorted, as Botter's free hand fumbled about in my waist-coat pocket in search of the door key.

"Um...milord, you do have the key, don't you?" Botter asked nervously.

"Of course I do, you blathering cock-shaft! I never leave home without it!"

"It's just that I can't seem to find it, milord," Botter continued as he searched my other pocket.

"Ye Gods!If one wants a job done properly, it seems one has to do it oneself! Let me look!" I yelled, pushing Botter away, which caused the unsightly urchin to lose his balance, and spill my luggage all over the floor.

"Oops," Botter said.

"I swear, if anything is damaged, I shall be docking you of your pay. And quite possibly your limbs, as well," I sighed, as I rummaged through my pockets for the ever-elusive front-door key. "Damnation! Where in the blasted blazes did I put that cocking key?"

My rigourous investigation of my pockets was interrupted suddenly by the front-door opening, and a large, thick-set man with a bald head and a rather nasty-looking scar stepped out onto the door-step.

"What do you want?" the man grunted.

"I...I beg your pardon?" I stuttered, slightly taken aback by this unexpected turn of events.

"What do you want?" the man repeated.

"Well, first of all, I want to know what the ruddy Hell you are doing in my house, you lumbering great ape," I snapped.

However, before the Neanderthal could reply, another voice interrupted him from within the building.

"Who eees eet, Rocko?" the voice enquired in an Italian accent.

"Jus' some goon in a top-hat," Rocco replied.

"Excuse me?" I spluttered, but my furious indignation was cut short by the appearance of the second man, a thin chap with an even thinner moustache.

"Ah-hah!" he beamed. "Meeester Likely! How nice of you to stop by my 'ouse!"

"YOUR house?" I roared. "Now listen here, you filthy pair of bastards, you have precisely ten seconds to remove your rancid posteriors from my home, or heaven help me, I shall remove your balls and use them to make a testicle kebab."

"But meeester Likely," grinned the second man, revealing a gold tooth. "Theees ees not your 'ouse anymore, remember? I won eet fair and square."

"What? What? WHAT the shit are you babbling on about?"

"You don't recall? I cannot say I am much surprised, you were preety drunk at the time! You see, Meeeester Likely, you gambled theeese 'ouse in a game of chance, and you lost, so now she is mine." The man waved the house keys, and let another sickening grin creep across his face.

"Oh tits," I said.

- Lord Likely.

*****

Next time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: will Likely ever set foot in the Likely Estate again?

humor-blogs.com gambled it all, and lost it all.

Lord Likely Returns, Entire Globe Rejoices

2008-06-17T20:17:00.001Z

June 18th, 1857.

Good day, all. And how the devil are you?

- Lord Likely.

Everyone at humor-blogs.com wishes they could be Lord Likely. Or at the vear least, they wish they could be in him.

First Class Male

2008-06-02T01:42:00.000Z

June 1st, 1857.

If all goes according to plan, and he does not wind up stranded on a desert island, or finds himself embroiled in a military coup, his lordship shall be gracing these pages again this week. Huzzah!

You may all synchronize your pocket-watches now.

While you wait, do feel free to browse the marvellous selection of guest-posts that were penned in his lordship's absence, and for which we have been truly grateful. Top show, gentlemen!

- Mr. A.D. Fanton, editor, The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely.

*****

Further Amusements With Which You May Entertain
Yourself Whilst His Lordship is Absent:

Lord Likely's Terrific Teaser Trailer - see his lordship in action!
Digital Sickbag - see what my useless scribe and co-writer is up to, if you care.
The Carrotty Kid Animated Adventure; as written and created by Mr. A.D Fanton
The Carrotty Kid- something is growing...
gaup: celebrity gossip with a twist.

Other places of interest:
Popmash The Clay Pigeon

FuelMyBlog Blog Catalog humor-blogs.com