Ask Chunsky
Dear Chunsky,
I have been walking my dog along the same route for a number of years. The number is 17, I believe. The route passes through a local farm. Recently the farm changed hands and the new owner has threatened to shoot me (with a gun!) if I trespass on his land. What I would like to know is if it's legal to operate a sawmill in a public swimming pool.
Yours sincerely,

Dear Mildred,
You adorable midget! When I was a lad, masturbation was frowned upon and even discouraged in sandwich bars. And look at David Letterman now! He's a major car rentaller and communist, with his own brand of potato men.
It is legal, indeed prudent, to use a sawmill at any swimming pool, be they public, private or Canadian. You freak.
Chunsky Roolz!

Dear Chunsky,
My mother once told me that if I cried I would fall down a well and split my head open on razor sharp rocks and I wouldn't get any sandwiches for tea. While the first two-thirds (or 'two-threeths', as our crazy American cousins might say) of this Nostradamus-like prophecy came true with alarming screams, I still got some nice sandwiches for tea. What gives, nipple boy?
Yours baffledly,

Dear Braaaaad,
As the great magician, Yorky Torbooth, once said: "Is the pidgeon soup?" Indeedy doo, Braaaaad, indeedy doo.
Chunsky poo.

Dear Chunsky,
I have read many books in my honey-shortened lifetime and I must admit they are all rubbish. Except for one. But I forget which one. Is this an example of pathos? Or is it a part of a much wider conspiracy theory where monkeys are trained to eat food and sleep?
I have travelled in many countries (as I am so small) and have been exposed to virtually all forms of radiation for prolonged periods of time. Do you think this is where I get my special powers of the appendix? Or is it a part of a much wider conspiracy theory where monkeys are trained to eat coal and release the energy in waves of pure jasmine? What's jasmine? Is it an underpant?
Yours gazing awkwardly at the sky,
Bob Tongs.
PS I love your moose.

Dearest Bob,
Many men have climbed a mountain only to realize at the top they have forgotten their Climbing Down A Mountain Licence. In many ways, your story reminds me of a homeless fireman, quick to see danger and run for help but with a heart of gold. Solid gold, like a baby cheetah that's made of hollow gold and then filled in with gold. These men are idiots because cake is an acceptable Climbing Down A Mountain Licence substitute. So they stand on top of the mountain sitting on enormous boxes of cake, snakes biting away at their ankles and crying into their helicopters. They have nothing but remorse and cake and helicopters and snake repellent and still they want to act in action movies with faded Hollywood stars like Charles Bronson, the giant rat from Howard the Duck and the Invisible Werewolf. I pity them as I pity the hyena. He is a noble beast, but noxious and with bad hair care products. If he lived in my village I would say "Hey, you, go away. You are bringing down the value of my range of hair care products, you lovesick fool." And he would leave, but not before he bit the man who makes ladders from burning soap. Amen.

Dear Chunsky,
Is it true that old people are affecting the gravitational power of lunar mice?
Edgar Pope.

Dear Eddie baby,
Only if they live in a skip with a goat and eat hungry Asian babies.
The Chunster.
PS The aliens who control our blessed sewers will only get more powerful as time revolves.

Dear Chunsky,
When I enter a room I get the feeling I have never been there before. Am I losing my mind or simply never returning to the same room twice? I have no interest in snakes.

Dear Bathtub Sodomiser,
In a country of cedars and robust autumnal chills is a man less a man if, in gathering loose robots around him in a semi-circle, he should lose the power of laser eyesight? I think, in this, Moses would agree.
He's mental as a mattress!
Take me home, Horace
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