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Let me tell you the sad tale of Slow Loris. A cuter babe you couldn't imagine and yet one hot, jungle night...

Let me tell you the sad tale of Slow Loris. A cuter babe you couldn't imagine and yet one hot, jungle night...

Quick! Fetch those modesty screens!

Tell me the story again Uncle Migs.

Suddenly, a shot rang out!

As I picked up my trusty blunderbuss to notify the other highwaymen that we were under attack, I noticed a strange light coming from underneath a small bush.

Ah, Migs, tesoro, I'm afraid the big sting happened too soon ago for the retelling, not to mention it would be a small novella. Diciamolo così: L'amore è una grossissima cazzata :P

Too soon ago? Does that make sense. Damn lingual brainfarts

Venemous octopus pr0n!

Slow Loris is a "Toxic Babysitter"? If that ain't a Troma movie, I don't know what is.

Stealthily, I crept to the shrubs and lifted their leafy skirts. It was The Lost Kingdom of Slow Lorises! or Slow Lorii. I always get that mixed up.

It was a fancy dress party, come as your favorite character from fiction. She, bending the rules as well as her gender, was King Charles II. I was Boudu Saved From Drowning. I remember King Kong was among the other guests.

My valet coughed discreetly. "Master Wenfield, I believe the word you seek is 'lores'. Similar to 'thesis' and 'theses', which you would've known if you'd ever managed to squeeze in attention to your Latin lessons between bouts of drinking and fisticuffs," he said, straightening my cravat, which had become rumpled during some point of my creeping.

My courage buoyed by the attentions of my valet, I squeezed into the underbrush. My costume confounded the Lores, who were, admittedly, slow.

Those that were not distracted by my curious dress frantically searched for the second essential ingredient to concoct their deadly brew.

I heard one screech: "What the hell is an 'inner elbow' anyway?"

Frantically, I sifted through my whiskey-stained memories of the etiquette my dowager Duchess grandmother drilled into me at the tender age of 14 for a clue as to what approach would be most appropriate, and least likely to result in my having to acquire a new pair of breeches, in these precarious opening stages of our acquaintance.

Without warning the Lores were upon me! Well, actually there was quite a bit of warning, but I was so distracted thinking about my breeches that I failed to motice their sluglike approach. Not to say that the Lores were slimy. In fact, I felt like giving the little dickinses all the huggiest hugs you can ever hug.

Unexpectedly and without warning, I was set upon and seized by armed, gun-toting members of the Department of Redundancy Department. I begged and pleaded with them to spare my life and let me live, and after conferring with one another in a conference, they released me and let me go.

I thought it a bit excessive, since they'd done the same thing only last week.

I thought it a bit excessive, since they'd done the same thing only last week.

Astoundingly, whilst the department was busy arguing the same side of the same argument (again) the lores were upon them. The lores fixed their baleful eyes upon the bureaubureaucrats and began gnawing on their foreheads, followed by a vigorous rubbing of their inner elbows betwixt the bite marks. It was as if a tribe of large-eyed children from dentist office paintings were giving the double do-nothings noogies. Deadly, deadly noogies.

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