Festive cheer

To remind people it is the festive season, and cheer them up now Christmas day has passed, I've mailed all of my friends little presents. I won't spoil the surprise for them, but let's just say they should be on the lookout for a frozen seagull with a stamp stuck to it!

I believe I do, in fact, have an alibi

The doctor turned away from me, consulting my chart with a look of grim concentration, or perhaps constipation. I can never tell which is which, and as a result, am no longer welcome in libraries.
 After a few seconds, he turned back towards me, shaking his head even more grimly.
 "I'm sorry sir, but these tests clearly show you're ugly."
Clearly, I was being set up for some sort of unfunny joke by some sort of teenager, writing about my ridiculous life. I was having none of it, and decided to react normally.
 "No, I'm not." I replied firmly.
 It's true. I mean, I'm certainly not the most attractive man out there, but I'm not grotesque. I can look alright in a certain light, and my mother always told me I was very handsome. Further still, the doctor was a rather fearsome gargoyle. He had a growth spurting from his nose that resembled, frankly, another nose, and the rolls of fat around his neck made it look like he was being swallowed by a sea of... rolls of neck fat. He was also wearing a hideous Christmas jumper under his white lab coat, which completed the look.
 "I'm sorry, there's only one solution." As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an aged revolver.
 Ah, I though, here comes the joke. Something implying my face would look better if it was blown off with a handgun. Which it wouldn't, really.
 "I'm going to have to shoot..."
 "Me in the face." I interrupted. I was getting rather pissed off at this whole waste of time. After all, I have places to be. Exciting places. Warm places. Maybe I have to go to Tahiti, you never know.
 "No, of course not sir. That's medically ridiculous," He laughed. "We just need to kill everyone more attractive than you!"
 With that, he spun on his heel and shot the attractive nurse in the corner (her location in the scene) in the face (where she was shot). Laughing manically, he ran out of the room, and into the corridor. The sounds of gunfire and screaming filled the hallway.
 Sighing, I put on my jacket, and prepared to leave. As I did so, I wondered how I'd even got here. I didn't remember making an appointment, let alone leaving my home and travelling here.
Where do I go when no-one is reading me?

Eunuchs

I woke up this morning feeling that there weren't enough blogs about eunuchs in the world. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything to say on the subject.
 When I was younger, I used to confuse eunuchs and people called Enoch. There's a useless fact about me for your scrapbooks.
 You all keep scrapbooks about me, don'tcha?

Merry Christmas season

Merry two days after Christmas, everyone! And what a Christmas it's been. This post, of course, is for anyone who spend the season hidden in an internetless underground bunker, as is advisory during the festive season. Who, dear friends, could foresee the dangers and delights of this year's Xmas? Snow, sex and Santa, not to mention Hitler's ghost possessing the body of Simon Cowell and terrorising the population of East Anglia! Not for a long time has such community spirit been seen, as was when the troubled people rallied together to send the demonic beast back to hell.
 And get rid of Hitler while they were at it.

 And who could foresee Santa's surprise decision to retire? The nation is racked as it debates who best to take over the job. Early rumours suggest some unlikely candidates from the political arena - Troubled PM Gordon Brown looks likely to try and bolster his popularity with some festive gift-giving, while the Tories favour simply letting children buy their own presents - after all, if you need someone else to buy you something, you're not rich enough to be happy.

On a more serious Christmas note, I fear soon I shall be writing thank-you notes. I may be a grown man, but there's no arguing with my mother.
 So, to everyone out there: Thank you for my Christmas present. I am well, and hope you are too.
 Love Paul

Horseradished

I opened the curtains, and saw a sad horse. (I appear to have lost what little ability I had at writing.) He was very sad. He had big eyes...
 Anyhoo... I looked at the horse. He was a pitiful looking thing, standing in the snow-coated field beside my house. I matched his gaze, watching him for some time. After a few moments, I heard a snort from behind me. Startled, I turned and found another horse, with one hoof in my back pocket. Apparently, while I was distracted with my pitying, this horse had stolen my wallet, and was now stuffing a horseradish into my back pocket. There seemed little reason for this, and can only assume it had something to do with "horse" being in "horseradish". Frankly, the whole affair has left me shaken, confused and diabetic.
 I despair for the youth of today, I really do.

A touch of reality

Hi, its me. The real me, not that fictional me who gets up to all sorts of crazy high-jinx and the like. I'm shorter and more boring, although I occasionally start fires. I though, since this is a blog, I should trot out some mundane observations about whats going on around me and act as if they're profound. See, I did it there already - looked down on bloggers. What a hypocrite I am. I should be stoned for this. If I was, this would probably be a more exciting read, anyway. But I digress, as I am wont to.
 So, what's in the news this week?
There's been a lot of snow here in Scotland. I've had a foot or so at my house, which is more than usual. Pretty exciting, huh? The weather... Earlier, I watched a pheasant walk across an area we'd cleared, before slipping and face-planting a pile of snow. It was tragic, yet hilarious, like an old person slowly reversing into a midget: His cries of alarm not heard by the deaf octogenarian, his tiny, bobbled head not visible in the mirrors. (Don't worry, he's fine. In fact, they become friends after the incident. Unfortunately, they bond over their white supremacist theories, and the world would have been better off with one more dead midget and imprisoned grandfather)
 A foot of snow... Seems a lot to me. Down in England, they've got less and have ground to a standstill, I hear. Of course, the Scot is quick to seize on this. "Bah!" He shouts, "4 inches? That's nothing. This morning, it came up my ankles! Why, I'll have to snorkel the cat before he goes out to do his business!"
 Yes, we have it far worse than the mockable Englishman, and thus have a right to boast. Of course, there're countries in the world with far more snow, far more of the time, which cope much better, but they don't count. I remember a Canadian friend telling me how, in worse conditions, he nearly cut his arm off with a chainsaw, and was chased by a bear.
 But we have it worse.
 I should probably start a facebook group, they can sum up my emotions far better than I can.

Jaws 5

If you were to look across my flat, you would be presented with an interesting sight. Really, you would in any situation - I mean, you're probably noisy anyway, and to look 'across' a flat, you'd probably have to take a wall down, which is also interesting. But I digress, and with bad sentence structure...
 Anyway, you would notice that my flat was flooded, almost to the ceiling, with water (Could have been custard, don't get snippy). If you watched for a little longer (Again, sorry for the interruption. A little longer though? What does that mean: Longer from when? Relative to what?) you would be further interested to see me, soaking wet, emerge from the water and pull myself onto a ceiling fan. The water has been flowing into my flat since my last update, and it seems nothing can stop it - fire proved useless, electricity betrayed me, and throwing baby sharks at it was just stupid. My doors, before you ask, are air-locked - my fear of gases that turn you inside-out got the better of me - and open inwards, so they offer no escape. My windows, similarly airtight, I cannot open.
 For days I took refuge in the fridge, but without power, the eggs went off, and it smelled bad. Emerging, I found one shark had eaten the others, absorbing their powers through a Satanic ritual. Now, he's eyeing me up casually. Very casually, in fact. He's sitting on my sofa, underwater. Soon, he'll probably laminate a newspaper. There seems to be no escape. I always mocked those "how will you die" quizzes dotted around the Internet, but it seems they're dead on. And I scoffed when they said a Demonic shark would eat me in the living room. Learn from my mistake gentle reader! Forward chain mail, quick as you can! Tragedy could befall you all at any moment!

I can't sleep. Every night this week, its been the same. It's my new neighbours, you see.
 Well, when they first moved in, there were some complaints from the older members of the community. "We don't like their kind." They'd say. "Why don't they go back to where they came from? They're not suited to life here". Well, I had no problems, and welcomed them in with open arms. Of course, they were nice enough, and I naturally accepted their apology for any upcoming disturbances as they renovated their new flat.
 But now, every night, there's sawing. Endless, 8-armed sawing. And the water... It just keeps dripping through the ceiling and running down the walls. I don't know if I should complain - after all, they've already suffered enough pressure from people who don't think they belong here.
 I don't want to be racist, but it isn't easy living with a family of Octopus...

If Octopus turns out to be an uncommon racial slur, I'm very sorry...

Yes, I'm at another bus stop. I don't know where I'm going...

As I waited at the bus stop, I noticed a curious figure approaching. At first, I was drawn to the fact he was 7 foot tall and dressed in a long coat that suggested he would soon flash me. Then, my attention was drawn to the undersized bowler hat perched on his head. Only once I'd studied his tiny head-wear did I become aware of the fact he was, in fact, a giant cockroach.
 "Good morning" He said, "Could you perhaps tell me when the next bus to Ipswich arrives?"
 "Oh... Well, I'm afraid there isn't a direct bus to Ipswich. You'd have to go to the bus depot, I suppose, and get a bus from there. Or a train maybe."
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied:
 "Oh, I see. I'm sorry about this, but you know, I'm a giant cockroach. This morning, a mad scientist mutated me and gave me vocal cords. And this garish hat. So you must excuse me not understanding the intricacies of bus travel."
 "Of course. Why do you want to go to Ipswich anyway?"
 "I don't know." He replied, as sadness covered his face.
I couldn't think of a reply, so we stood looking at each other for a few seconds. Eventually, I got embarrassed. When he turned to look at the bus timetable, I squashed him with my shoe.
 It was kinder than letting him go to Ipswich.

Dreams

"I've got this recurring dream."
I looked around in shock. It was, as always, Max talking. He was still at mine - the police found his house, but they were waiting for the paperwork to clear - and had taken to waking me up annoyingly. He continued:
 "I'm at sea. Then, his huge thing comes out of the water - it's like a hairy octopus, but it has Chewbacca's head. What do'ya think it means?"
I checked the clock. It was half past three, and I had a meeting tomorrow. Admittedly, Max didn't know - it was with a large man called Gaz, who would, for a fee, throw Max out of my flat. If that failed, I'd scheduled a meeting with a hitman for next Tuesday.
 "Well, no matter." Max went on, "Its gone now."
As I pondered this idea, he returned to the sofa. I, however, cannot sleep. I'm plagued by images of Sci-Fi characters under the sea.
 They don't like it

They say curiosity killed the cat...

Well, I want to make a joke about this. It would feature Curious George, and maybe Garfield, Jerry or Catwoman. Unfortunately, I can't make anything out of this concept. I'm sorry to let you down.

Candide...

was systematically and repeatedly owned...

I took another look around the kitchen. There was no point denying it, it was a mess: The bin was overflowing, the sink was full, and my expensive marble work-surfaces had been replaced with what looked like a sheepskin rug. Max was staying.
 "So, any news about your house then?"
Max shook his head despondently. Last week, Max had returned from his annual week trip to the bus depot - where he impersonated a bus driver and stole as many packets of coffee granules from the staff kitchen as possible - to find his house had been stolen. He seemed pretty certain it was taken by a "goth and a homosexual woman". He had no evidence, and indeed, no reason to suspect anyone. However, he refused to listen to reason. Now, he was sitting in his (my) underwear, watching game-shows and shouting abuse.
 "So, want to do anything?" I asked.
 "No." He replied, anticlimactically.
Not everything in life is interesting.

Help!

I'm writing this message in the hope that it will manage to slip through my floorboards and into your flat. Im trapped under a garden-sized jenga set, which has collapsed on me. please help me, if i move the wrong peace, they could all collapse again. Theirs no way out!!!

I looked gingerly at the note that had, just moments ago, floated down from my ceiling fan. At first, I'd thought it was a message from God, probably asking me to keep the noise down, but then noticed the telltale signs of communication from Len, my upstairs neighbour: (Yes, I'm now living in a flat. Please don't bitch out continuity, I'm fictional, and it breaks up the flow. See, you've probably forgotten what was going on now. go re-read the last sentence and ignore this.) The bad spelling was a hint, but his love of extreme versions of family games was what really tipped me off. I considered helping him for a moment, but remembered all the trouble he'd given me last month, when he made me play snakes-and-ladders with him. As the owner of the game, he climbed a ladder, and cheered while snakes chased me around the flat.
 It's lucky I was raised by mongoose really.

For your pleasure, a dress-up Sartre

Yes, I am well aware he has only one pair of trousers and no shoes. But it doesn't really matter, you won't cut him out and dress him, and I only made him to avoid doing work. Still, I hope something philosophical comes out of this for you...

The average life expectancy of a toilet...

is 50 years. They'll probably outlive me...

I have become increasing paranoid of late...

and have began seeing potential murderers everywhere. However, I have taken some factors into account: News reports always suggest that murderers are the "last person you'd expect". Often, television programmes reinforce this belief, as do films and novels. Or it could be the butler. Thus, I have locked myself in a butler-free high-security prison. They're so obviously murderers that there's no possible way I could be hurt. Anyhow, got to go. Shower time...

Perhaps the light areas are dark for an artistic reason. Perhaps I'm just procrastinating. I do have a philosophy essay to do on Sartre, so that's probably more true. Originally, I wrote procreating instead of procrastinating. I am not procreating. That would make it too hard to type.

Is that a hilarious double entandre? I think not.

Broken legs.

Max took another look at my cast.
"Who'd have thought all those zany adventures we got up to would actually hurt someone... God, it's shocking when you think about it!"
I looked down at my leg slowly, then back at Max:
 "What zany adventures? You pushed me down the stairs and called me Charlie. That's not zany, it's just stupid and unfunny."
 "Yea, I suppose." He replied, "Well, sorry about this, but I've got to do it."
Reaching into the bag he'd taken with him to the hospital - the contents of which I'd already wondered about - Max produced a shotgun.
 "Again, I'm sorry I've got to do this. But if I don't put you down (He loaded the shotgun) the only option left is to put you out to stud. And you wouldn't like that at all."
Normally, I'd explain how I wasn't a horse, how that wasn't how horses worked, and how being put out to stud was far preferable to being shot, but there seemed no point today. I'd checked, and the omens were certain. Asteroids were coming to destroy the earth. Soon, the sky would burn, and the ground would... burn as well, I suppose. I might as well let him shoot me, there was no chance of studding with this leg.
I was on the 19th floor, for God's sake. Can't use the lift in cases of asteroids

Mice...

have my keys. They are demanding a handsome ransom for their return. They've locked me out, and I just know they're inside, using my oven to cook their filthy cakes and dealing drugs to the neighbourhood insects.

Concerning Zebra

It was getting bright, and I was hurrying to get home - There's nothing suspicious about a man being out all night, I'd just been robbing bakeries, that's all - when I noticed something wasn't right. Snow... Well, that wasn't unknown in November, of course, but it hadn't been in my drive earlier. Furthermore, it hadn't snowed recently. I should have kept going, into the safety of my house, but instead I stopped like a fool.
Slowly, like the zombies in Thriller, 4 zebra rose from the ground. Their black stripes painted white, they had been able to hide in the fake snow filling my drive quite convincingly.
 "Bonjour." Spoke the ringleader, "The Colonel sends his regards."
With that, he slapped me to the ground with a hoof.
 "We will return soon, mes ami. Au Revoir."
Laughing, the zebra walked past me and into the distance. I knew I couldn't escape my days in Africa this easily...

Meditation on First Condoms, then other subjects...

On reflection, why would you put walnuts in a condom? I suppose one could partake in some kinky stuff using it, but any uses of such a device just sound uncomfortable...
 I intend to use it as a weapon. With any luck, it'll make those long winter evenings just fly by.

The talk of other subjects was just a cunning ruse to lure you here! Oh, me and my subterfuge... I hate my life.

Something about tortoises... I dunno, I need to use titles more.

"It's not working"
It wasn't, there was no point in denying it. I was in serious trouble here - debts up to my ears. This race was serious live or die stuff, and this was a serious problem.
Slowly, the first tortoise crossed the finish line. Serious expressions on their faces, another 4 crossed the line in due time. My tortoise however - overly optimistic named El Diablo rápido, it transpired - lay dead at the starting post. Once again, my attempts to rig a race had gone wrong - my using of the old radish trick, steroids, and tranquilizers on the opposition had failed before. This time, however, I had tried mutation. In my mind, a super-mutant tortoise was the ultimate racing animal (and after, I could sell him to the military). Tragically, it transpired that when one dips a tortoise in stolen nuclear waste, it does not grow to huge proportions and become... muscly... (is that the word? You know, a ripped tortoise... Like condoms full of walnuts, in a shell)
In fact, it makes a tortoise die slowly, in a cruel and unnecessary manner. I'm going back to jail. Stealing nuclear waste and torturing animals - as well-intended as these acts may be - is illegal, you see.

I have taken to painting mice and releasing them into the general population. I'd hoped they would breed, creating a race of brightly-coloured furry friends for everyone, but they generally die. I knew lead-based paint was a bad idea...

I knew my TV dinner would get cold, but I couldn't bring myself to go back to the living room. Not while he was there. I was just too... tedious...
I shall explain the backstory to this incident. In fact, you will probably wonder why I didn't start with the backstory, and thus recall events chronologically, thus avoiding confusion. The answer is because it's a literary thing, and I'm not.
3 days ago, I had heard a knock at the door. Answering it, I found a large bear in a suit. After some smalltalk, ("Arrgh, a bear!") it turned out he was new to the area, and wondered if I could direct him to a hotel (for some reason, my neighbours have fled the street, which is why - I assume - he came to me.) Since I hadn't had any zany adventures for a while, I invited him to stay with me for a few days. I assumed it would be interesting. I was wrong.
Now, he was sitting in my living room, shouting abuse at horse racing. This abusive, angry, animated bear in my living room was as far removed from his normal personality as possible. Normally, he would sit in my favourite chair, unmoving, saying nothing. When pushed, I could get a few moments of conversation about rainfall out of him, but nothing more.
I must return though. He's been in that chair for some time, and I still know what he does in the woods.

Straightening my tie, I headed out the front door and down my drive. Busy day today, I thought to myself. Going to get a lot done. I was wrong.
At the end of my path, just in front of the open gate, lay a banana peel. I could see it from where I had stopped in shock, about 2 metres away. I watched it carefully, waiting to see what it wanted. After a few minutes of nothingness, I hopped my fence and ran to work. However, I couldn't concentrate. Slipping out at lunch, I returned home to see if it was still there.
It was - and it wasn't alone. Flanked by two heavyset men in suits, a large, moustached man stood waiting for me.
"Good morning Mr. Smith" He offered me.
"We represent," he continued with a sweep of his hand, "this gentleman's union, of which he is a member. Our member, of which this gentleman is, informs us that you have violated his right, as a working gentleman - and member of our union - to be stepped on, by your self, for the sake of slapstick comedy."
I looked at him slowly. Frankly, I didn't see how any of this could have happened, but the man in front of me didn't look like he would take kindly to such a thing. He continued:
"We understand that in today's hectic world, there is little time to engage in dangerous and unfunny slapstick. I myself have a family, you see, and often chose to spend time with them, rather than risk injury to myself and others with an accident involving a run away piano. As such, we think leaving you with this warning will be adequate reprisal for now. We would like to bid you a good day, Mr. Smith, and I hope that should we meet again, I will not be acting in such an... official capacity.
I smiled apologetically, and watched the three men get into a 1930s-styled car. While they watched, I purposefully stepped on the banana skin, throwing myself into my pond, and emerging, moments later, with a duck perched on my head.
Frankly, I regret the whole process, but I've fought the real mob before. I don't want to become embroiled with any sort of slapstick Mafia. It sounds fun, but it isn't. It really isn't

"So, how was the funeral?"
"Well, as good as these things generally are." Max replied. His grandmother, I should inform you, had died in an accident involving a bin lorry last week.
"Except her Priest fell ill at the last moment, so we had to have a stand-in Rabbi instead. Nice man, conducted the whole thing in Hebrew though. No-one knew what was going on."
"Oh... That year your friend David taught you Yiddish didn't help then?"
Max glared at me for a moment. It was well known that David had spent a great amount of time and effort secretly teaching Max Klingon on Friday afternoons.
Since his grandmother was dead, I decided to drop the joke at Max's expense. But before I could change the subject, he began to think out loud:
"Who'd have though a bin would fall on her, let alone think another 6 would just roll off the back of the truck right after." He looked at me, "I guess you could say she paid the mortal price for the 7 deadly bins!"
I looked at him sadly, allowing him the small chuckle that followed. After all, he was in mourning, and should have been forgiven for one badly formed play on words. However, after a moment, he began to roar with laughed. This continued for several minutes.
Under the table, my homicide-suicide gun cocked itself. 'Not yet', I murmured to it.
Not yet.

I smiled to myself. After all, I had the upper hand, and a bird was singing cheerfully nearby.

(Here, I have both hooked you, gentle reader, and described my surroundings in a most
masterful manner, [and used some alliteration] as well as overusing brackets)

Behind me, my would-be pickpocket recoiled in surprise as his tried and tested pocket-picking methods failed.

"What? What is this?" He stammered, worried more in how I had outsmarted him than in the fact he had been caught.

I stood up, turning so he could see my full costume. He recoiled again, fearful of my splendor. For I was a magician, the scourge of the criminal classes. Standing tall in my frilled shirt, black cape and top hat, I addressed him thus:

"I never reveal my secrets, my good Sir!"

"But... But..." he stammered, "I never fail."

I laughed again, this time extending my arms to make my cape billow. I like to make my cape billow: It's more theatrical, and I like the way it feels when the air caresses me.
Before me, the would-be criminal mastermind had collapsed. He was getting paler, and I - being the noble hero I was - bandaged up his hand. Not being of the magical persuasion, he would never understand my magic pocket bear-trap.

Today a woman came to the door. She asked me if her ass looked big in the jeans she was wearing. I shut the door and went back to bed: I don't like religious callers.

Tonight the clocks go back.

"We'll get an extra hour!" I hear you cry. This is not something to be excited about. You'll probably spend it in bed. But I won't - I don't sleep any more. What do I need with an extra hour?
I'll probably take it back to God. Maybe he'll let me exchange it for some ski pants. Which I can sell on eBay. I'll use the money to buy cheaper ski pants, and continue the process until I either run out of money or die.

The world is dark. Every day, I get up, and it seems bright for a while. There's no food in. I stumble into the world, lost and alone, but no shops are open. Groups of people approach me, laughing and taunting me, speaking in a familiar language that I can't quite understand.
After a week, I realised I had the PM and AM settings on my watch confused, and I was going out late at night.
I thought I was alone, but everyone was in bed, or drunk.
I thought I was depressed, but I was just bad at using watches.

Today is my Birthday. They say I'm not getting younger - that I'm one day closer to the grave, and that my hips won't work forever. They say I should take it easy, maybe retire and take Sheila up on her offer to move in with the family. It sure would be nice to see my grandkids a bit more.
I'm worrying they could grow up into homosexuals. I don't know much about that sort of thing, but them gays can't wrestle an alligator like normal folk. Especially young Cain, who wears a dress that doesn't cover his knees. They say I should go sort them out.
They say a lot of things though. I don't understand most of them.
I'm getting old.

Rain fell.
Actually, it descended at more of a 30-degree angle, catching on the wind and rising under the hats of anyone foolish enough to go out. But the figure I was watching was not wearing a hat.
A sad clown is a common, yet tragic, sight. This one was particularly troubling - his large green wig was weighed down with rainwater, and his make-up had run onto his purple suit.
"Why so sad?" I called out, safe in a phone-box.
"It's wet." He replied, simply and sadly.
"And ever since that Batman film, the kids are even more scared of me than usual."
I looked at him with a level of sadness suitable for this sad scene.
"Well, you do look kinda like the Joker - I mean, your costume is really very, very similar..."
He looked down sadly. Everything was very sad. A crow landed on top of my phone-box, and the clattering panicked me momentarily.
Another moment passed, and the clown looked back at me.
"Do you live in that phone-box?" He asked.
"No." I lied, "I have a mansion. I'm just selling shares on the Internet."
He looked puzzled for a moment - the third of our tale - but seemed to let it go. After a few moments, the rain started to ease up, and I left the phone-box. I think I'll go sleep in the haunted graveyard for a few days. It's unlikely any more bad things involving ghosts will happen to me.

I took another sip of coffee. It was somewhat hotter than before, burning my tongue.
"Hmm?" Max asked.
"I said 'ouch'" I offered back, "Anyway, what's with that medallion?"
The medallion in question was a large gold affair hanging around Max's neck.
"Oh, this old thing? It's an ancient Red Indian thing, apparently. I picked it up last year, when I went on my trip."
As far as I could remember, Max had only gone to Wales, but I didn't bother to point this out. I also resisted the temptation to point out they were Native Americans as well, I'd had enough trouble explaining what he could and couldn't call midgets last Spring. I did ask this, however:
"Oh... Is it real? Or from a gift shop?"
"Nah. I dug it up, from an ancient Indian burial ground. There was a curse, apparently..."
I looked up at the darkening skies around us. I've got to stop going for coffee with Max. It always ends up with us being chased by vengeful spirits of some kind.

"You! Chauvinist pig!"
I stopped, turned, and looked at what appeared to be a cliched, radical feminist. Knowing I would regret it, I walked over to her, hoping to find out the nature of my chauvinistic, pig-like state of being.
She looked at me angrily, then, frothing at the mouth, continued:
"Vaginas... Aren't... Hats!"
I thought about this for a moment, then nodded slowly. There seemed little point in arguing - after all, she was right. No genitalia - male or female - should be used as clothing, in my opinion. With perhaps the exception of an elephant's foreskin, which makes a good boob tube...

Confound it! The weather has taken a sudden turn to the cold - in fact, it's freezing. This wouldn't be a problem normally, but this change took place just as I was licking a lamp-post. I am now stuck in the middle of nowhere, and a tramp keeps looking at me amorously.
Things are not going well...

The wrecking ball swung down, crushing the building in a rather boring fashion. I'm sorry that wasn't a very good sentence, but I'm tired. It did its job - setting the scene, letting you know what's going on, and so on - I suppose. Anyway, I digress...
The remains of the hairdressers collapsed inwards, in a slow, inevitable fashion. To be honest, I was disappointed - these things always look more dramatic on television. Waterman's Hairdressers had been on this street for as long as I could remember. I'd always get my haircuts there when I was a child, and Mr. Waterman himself would always be there. I remembered his kindly old smile, and his many words of encouragement: "You look stressed, why not pull up a seat?", he would say, before warning me about the dangers of the Welsh. 'Dragon riding wanks', he used to call them.
Of course, business had began to decline over the years, and his new marketing strategy had failed spectacularly. In hindsight, of course, we can all say that offering 'Gent's bikini waxes, female touch-ups and child grooming' was a bad idea, but I didn't see any of you try to help out.
The dust was settling now, and I'd grown bored. Come to think of it, it seemed dangerous to use a wrecking ball on a terraced street.

Apologies again for the lack of blogs recently. I have spent the last few weeks hiding in a Panda reserve, suitably disguised. At first, it was great - I played on swings, ate bamboo, and was generally adorable. However, the workers soon became suspicious of me, and I was finally discovered in the middle of encouraging the pandas to recreate Reservoir Dogs.
They aren't the best actors, I'm afraid.

The war broke out in August, I think. The leaves were starting to fall, and the rain was coming in. The nuclear missiles fired near to Christmas, wiping out most of the world's population. But we kept on going. Nothing stops the karaoke.
Between singing, we boarded up the bar, to keep out the mutants. After a few months, we began to run out of crisps, nuts, lager and beermats, and starvation set in. Mike died from a complication of the liver, so we ate him first. Two weeks later, we opened the front door to look for food. Unfortunately, the mutants forced their way in. They took the karaoke machine away. Sometimes, late at night, we can hear them: Poor renditions of power ballets, carried in by the wind. The world seems cold and lonely now. I think I shall starve, there is little else to do.

I watched the man playing with his dog. Not in a creepy way, you understand, but just because he was near the bench I was sitting on, and I was bored.
"Who's a good boy?" He asked cheerily.
I watched as he happily hugged the dog, then threw a stick for it to fetch.
"Who is it?" He asked again, this time more aggressively. I watched, unsure if he expected the dog to answer. Then, slowly, he turned to me:
"Who... is... a... good... BOY?"
I looked at him sadly. I don't know who, in today's valueless society, we could call 'good', but it certainly wasn't me. I kill mimes, you see.
They never complain...

It has been said...

That this blog doesn't contain enough jokes about bodily functions.
(This hasn't been said at all, I'm just trying to help you enjoy this joke/story/midden heap by making it something you can relate to. In other words, I am lying to you.)
To this end, I'm asking all of you dear readers to submit you best crude joke, be it about farting, misusing a toilet, or vomiting on a tramp.
To enter, just leave a comment with your name, joke, shoe size and home address. The person who submits the funniest joke, as judged by me, shall receive a swift, painless death. To those of you unlucky enough not to be chosen, I shall send angry scorpions.

I am trying to be a ghost. Right now, I am completely white and scary. I'm waiting outside your window to scare you, before running around your house going "wooooo".
Sadly, I think I used lead-based paint to colour myself. I will probably die.
It seems worth it...

It was certainly a nice party. Looking around, I noticed that the party - which was going on around me - was certainly nice. A group of children, laughing and smiling and other happy thinging, were beating a pinata with a butter-knife. To my left, another group of children were doing the same to a clown. Yup, it was certainly a nice party. Nice would be the word.
Taking another mouthful of wine - not so nice, pretty cheap - I approached the host.
"Hey... Hey Timmy! This is... this is a nice party. For certain!"
Timmy looked at me, wide-eyed in terror. Several of his friends began to back off in fear.
"Yea, certainly a nice party you've got here. Pity... pity you didn't invite me! You... you BASTARD!"
Joining his friends, Timmy began to back off, seeking cover behind his recently appeared parents.
"Who?" Mr Timmy's father asked, "Who are you?"
"Paul." I replied, "And your bastard of a son didn't invite me to his bastard party."
"Sir, my son is seven." Mr Father replied, "He clearly doesn't know you. Can you stop swearing?"
"No... And this wine? AWFUL!" I continued.
"You... You brought that with you. Please, take what you want and leave." Replied Mrs Timmy's mother fearfully.
She had the right idea. Bundling up the clown in a rather nice Persian rug, I headed home.

"Yes, but Wilde said that 'Charity creates a multitude of sins', did he not?"
I looked sadly at Max, pondering my reply.
"Well, yes." I started - best to start simple, I find - "But he didn't mean to encourage this"
"Ow" The tramp replied sadly.
Max pondered this briefly - it's a pondering kinda day - before swiftly kicking the hobo in the gut again.
"Ow," He continued. Then, looking up hopefully and bloodily in equal measures, "You know, tourists usually pay for this."
He raised his eyebrows hopefully several times. With a sigh, I dragged Max away. I'm not going back to jail - not again.

I fell on the bus today, and the scissors are now embedded in my head. I'm unsure if the right action is to pull them out or leave them in. Right now, they seem to be stopping the bleeding, but look bloody stupid. Perhaps I should invest in a hat.
Or a wig. With accompanying fake moustache... This'll keep me busy for days!
One thing's for certain - I'm not going to a doctor. They'll just ask why I ran with the scissors, like they know better.
Fascists.

My dangerous life

Flaunting social norms, I have taken to running with scissors. I run everywhere with them - to the bus, off the bus, around the bus. In fact, I have now done many things involving scissors and buses. I don't know why, I just seem drawn to them.
The bus drivers don't seem to like me. Probably because I tend to cut their customers accidentally. Running with scissors is no exact science.
Yet...

I have recently entered the illegal drugs market. I imagine you, gentle reader, recoiling in terror at such an ethical decline, so I ask you: why, with your superior moral sensibilities, were you not outraged by my frequent references to bears murdering people?
Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Appearing at sporting events, I offer colourful placebos to gullible athletes, claiming they're new, performance-enhancing drugs. After their inevitable win, I tell them there were no drugs, and all I gave them was confidence!
Most people demand a refund, and since they threaten me with legal action otherwise, I usually comply. Given the lack of money to be made, I have to conclude that it drugs truly are for losers.

Apologies for my absence. Recently, I have been finding life somewhat tedious. In fact, I think the spark had gone out of it. I have spent several weeks being dead. I have decomposed slightly - a more difficult process than one imagines - and have sampled the wears of both Heaven and Hell. Neither of these places were as one imagines either, but both are populated entirely by midgets. Recently, I have risen from the grave and terrorised teenagers with my shambling form.

I am in a flat...

And I am stealing the Internet. Yet, I somehow still feel unfulfilled...

I have a friend, let's call him Jack, who is very important to me. This importance is not due, I'm afraid, to his qualities as a friend and human being, but in his use. This isn't quiet as bad as it seems - you see, keeping him well is beneficial to all of us, not just me.
Some years ago, a group of scientists and philosophers discovered that reality - as Descartes suggests hypothetically early in his Meditations - exists solely in the individual. While it is true that we think, therefore we are, it only appears to be true for Jack. The rest of us are simply figments of Jack's imagination. When he can't see us, we don't exist. This, however, is a small detail compared to the troubling fact that when he dies, we will most likely vanish.
To this end, I've dedicated my life to keeping "Jack" safe from any danger, as well as any sources likely to made his imagination run riot.
The last thing we need is more dragons.

I was not permanently dead, I have been reincarnated. I never believed in reincarnation, but that doesn't seem to matter. Reincarnation believes in me.
Strangely, I have been reborn as myself. It appears I am destined to live out my life over and over again, like Groundhog Day.
I look forward to the popularization of the Internet, so I can buy an actual groundhog.

The truck eventually stopped at a roadside diner. I escaped, running across a wide desert. However, it seems someone doesn't want me to escape. Rover, the giant ball thing from The Prisoner, chased me for several hours. I think he joined an American border patrol, it appealed to his racist nature. I imagine a big, white blob with little purpose is a good symbol for white supremacists though.
Eventually, I fell into a ravine, dying instantly.
I must say, it is something of a bugger.

I took another look around the truck. The fat Mexican man next to me looked at me sadly. We hit a rut, and a wobble ascended his body, shaking his chins and his moustache, wobbling his nose.

"When do we stop?" I asked him.

He shrugged. It was no good, he clearly didn't speak English. At first, I had rather enjoyed my attempts to teach it to him, but after 4 days in the truck, I was losing my patience. 5 days ago, I got on a bus, seeming going to Tesco. Now I was in a truck, sneaking across the border from Mexico to the US. I don't know how these things keep happening to me.

I settled down on a box of burritos. I didn't know how I'd gotten here, but I knew panicking wouldn't get me home.

I am away. Where am I? Well, even I don't know that. Wherever it is, there's no internet yet though. There should be soon though, so don't worry. When will I be back? A week, perhaps. But don't worry, the blog will continue without me. It's good like that.

I recoiled in shock from the fridge. I know that the king cobra is the biggest of all poisonous snakes. i even know that it can grow over 13 feet long. I do not know, however, what one was doing in my fridge. It has bitten me.
A bite from a king cobra can kill an elephant in 4 hours. But I'm not an elephant. Not by a long chalk.

No matter how hard I try, there is little money to be made from dressing dogs up in jester costumes. It is a sad state of affairs, that reflects the state of society today.

A Sobering Tale

I took another sip of the generic beer I had ordered, hoping if I kept drinking it, I could block out the figure who sat opposite me. His name was George, I think. He had always been a good friend of mine, apparently. To be honest, I had little idea who he was, except for the fact he had tried to sell me a wind-up portable television in 1991, and since I was off my head on a combination of Draino and heroin coffee - as was fashionable in the Thatcherite era - I had told him we should have a drink one day. And so, in Pythonesque fashion, he had taken me up on the offer 18 years later.
He was telling a story, I think. I didn't really care what it was about, but if it was like the last 7 he had told, it was about his van's various problems. My beer was flat, but it didn't matter. I didn't like beer. I must stop impulse-buying beverages.
"I'll be damned..." He continued, "Damned, I'll be... If I'm going home to that whore-bitch of a wife tonight."
"Oh..." I offered
"You know... She used to be such a pretty thing... Well, not pretty... Handsome! Yes... when I first met her, you know, she looked just like Han Solo. Same dress sense and everything! But now... She..."
He leaned across the table, and I reciprocated, interested to hear his secret:
"She... She doesn't!"
He leaned back, nodding and smirking conspiratorially.
"Yea... Not going back there... Wild horses... couldn't... drag me... to water, can't make me DRINK!"
I watched him topple from his chair and stumble towards the next table, where he grabbed a vase of fake flowers happily. As he waltzed around with them, I wondered how hard it would be to actually attach him to some wild horses. It is a thought worth some further consideration...

Success!

I have invented a machine that allows the fast printing of vast amounts of text by utilising movable print! However, I doubt it will have much use. It is 1440, and reading is not as wide spread as it might be one day in the distant future.

Dead Philosopher's Society

Dead historical figures are still frequenting my home. Today, the ghost of Bertrand Russell visited. He is a nice enough chap, and showered the sponge cake I offered him with praise - I endeavour to prevent him finding out I bought it from Tesco. However, this esteemed gentleman feels the need to re-invent himself since death, to keep up with today's youth. He's been terribly depressed since his rapping career stopped dead (no pun intended). Now, he is attempting to learn to skateboard in my back yard. I haven't the heart to tell him skateboarding is not as big as it used to be, but he is dead, and can be excused for being a bit slow to catch on to trends.
Russell is at least safe in the knowledge that he cannot hurt himself skateboarding, seeing as he is a ghost. For the same reason, I'm not worried that he's just landed in my geraniums.

Coffee and Prejudice.

Having found an empty table, I sat down and took a sip of coffee. On reflection, I didn't like coffee, and had no idea why I'd ordered it. But, I had paid, so I'd damn well finish it.
As I reached this revelation, I also noticed a couple enter the coffee shop and sit near the window. They caught my attention primarily because they were dressed in 18th or 19th century periodic clothing. The pair looked slightly agitated, checking their watches - concealed in their costumes - and looking around, at the door and the nearby street. Therefore, I assumed they were waiting for someone. Presently, the man turned with a sigh, and said to the woman:
"Right, he's late. Let's just get on with it."
Settling back, I prepared to see what exactly it was...

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said the lady to him suddenly, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"
'Mr. Bennet' jumped, seemingly startled by the dialogue. Composing himself, he replied that he had not.
"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."
'Mr. Bennet' made no answer.
"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his 'wife' impatiently.
"You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."
Suddenly, a man rushed into the shop. He was obviously flustered, and somewhat nervous. Running his hand through his hair, then down his face to a small goatee, he approached the table.
" Sorry. Sorry, sorry sorry." He offered, spreading his hands out widely, "So sorry..."
Then, in a booming voice, he continued;
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man..."
"Colin..." The man seated interrupted, "We've started. Do try to keep up. You're not voicing Mr. Men anymore."

I watched them continue for a few more minutes, but started to feel awkward. Most of the other customers had started to slowly slip out the door, offering polite smiles to the thespians as they passed by. Deciding I couldn't finish the coffee after all, I threw it over Colin, along with the remains of a muffin.
Later, the police arrested me. They got the wrong man, if you ask me. If anything, I was the injured party.

There's some sort of gang outside my house. Late at night, they walk past, sometimes stopping nearbye to talk in an unfamilar dialiect. They all wear long black coats and big hats, their faces hidden by large beards. They seem polite enough, but I'm not sure. Probably Goths, up to no good...
On reflection, they might be Hasidic Jews...

“Brian! Brian Simmons, is that you?”
Brian turned, taking in the figure that was rapidly approaching him. Similatiously, he tried to hide the tin of supersaver beans he had been studying.
“Yes… It’s…”
“John! John Booth – we were in the Co-op together – remember: you worked there for a week back in ’99, stacking shelves! I had a smaller moustache back then though!”
Brian looked slowly up and down the little man in front of him… yes, the moustache was familiar, and so was the excitable figure it was attached to.
“Oh yes, you were acting manager that week, weren’t you... That was supposed to be your ‘big break’. [Here Brian laughed nervously] So, how’d that work out for you anyway?
“Oh…” John replied, “Well, remember June? There were allegations. I lost the sexual harassment case.”
“Ah… yes, that would be bad.
“Anyway, how’s the family? I remember you talking about your kids – Tom and... and Lucy, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that was them. Caroline got custody after the divorce. I haven’t seen them since she moved to Carlyle. Of course, I tried to get joint custody, but it’s hard when you live in a Ford Escort.”
“Yes, I can imagine” Brian muttered. For a moment, all he could think to ask was ‘what model of Ford Escort?’ but suddenly, a memory surface:
“How are your parents then? I remember them picking you up one day in that old camper van! Always looked like it was about to explode.”
“They’re dead, I’m afraid.”
“Oh… what happened?”
“The camper van exploded. Dad survived, but he didn’t make it through the year.”
“Ah, that’s often the way, I suppose.” Brain attempted to reassure him, “broken heart, was it?”
“No… not really. He was savaged by bears.”
“Oh.”
Brian tried to think of something to say, but he couldn't think of any words of sympathy that seemed appropriate. Smiling politely, he began to back away slowly until he was first out of the store, then by his car. He got in, and reversed out of the car park. By the time he was backing onto the main road, all he could see was a moustache, sadly watching him through a pair of automatic doors.

Today, I acquired my own nemesis. It is a big day in a man's life when he acquires his archenemy, and can shape the rest of my life. What tragic backstory do we have? How did you become enemies? What colour is his hat? All questions that people will ask when you tell them about your foe.
So what form does he take? This Moriarty to my Holmes, this Janitor to my J.D, this tub of lard to my exercising fat man, this... I've ran out of them... I don't owe you an apology...
Well, he is rather more bland than many famous villains. His name is Clive, he's 42 and owns a small shop selling mobile phone accessories. You know, those small shops you see with the shiny clip-on covers and individual number keys? To start with, he is simply a hindrance to me - running up behind me and pushing me into puddles, signing me up to newsletters I don't want, and tipping out my trashcan. However, as time goes on, I expect he'll become more threatening - killing my best friend, stealing a train or maybe eating starving orphans. His back story will expand, maybe he's my long-lost brother, who knows? Then, we'll join forces for a Christmas, child-friendly Special.
Still, I'm excited at all the possibilities that lie ahead. I just hope he doesn't kill me outright, that would just be impolite.
And the one thing I can't stand is an impolite Nemesis.

A Latesummer day's dream.

I sighed deeply. The bus was late, and it was beginning to rain again. I waited a few minutes, looking at my watch intently, to see if that would help. Just as I was about to give up hope, I saw a speck of grey in the distance. I watched, hopefully, until it became a more solid, bus-shaped object, which duly stopped in front of me.
I got up and, seeing no-one approach the door from inside the bus, rushed onwards. However, as the door opened, I realised I had missed several passengers waiting to exit.
Around two dozen mice rushed from the bus, cheering and waving tiny medieval weaponry. I recoiled, somewhat startled.
"Hey!" One of them yelled, "Which way to the council offices?"
I studied the mouse. He was slightly bigger than the rest, although it didn't make much difference. His armour was more shiny, his clothing grander, and his sword bigger. As I watched, two more mice approached, holding a shield. The first mouse got onto this, and they raised him up. A fourth mouse stood nearby, waving a flag enthusiastically.
It was safe to assume, I assumed, that this first mouse was some sort of leader...
"Well... You want to head down this street, then take a left onto Carswell Lane." I replied. Frankly, I didn't know if this was true or not. I didn't even know where Carswell Lane was.
"What are you doing anyway?"
"Too long we have lived under the feudal oppression of this government" He yelled, "Too long have we suffered the injustice of repressive laws and unfair taxation. We will overthrow them!"
"Oh." I replied, "How?"
"We... will... Eat Their DOCUMENTS! Without proper records, confusion will ensue. Then, we will take over!"
"But... won't most of their records be on computers?"
"Oh... then... we chew through the cables!"
"I think they have a coating to stop that." I replied.
The mouse looked at me, about to say something. Then he signed, and climbed down from the shield. The mice, formerly brimming with purpose, started to wander around dejectedly. After a few minutes, the leader lit up a cigarette and wandered off. The rest of the mice, 8 of whom were dragging a tiny catapult, followed him at a respectful distance.
I watched them go , until my thoughts were interrupted by the bus driver:
"Oi! Mate, you gettin' on or not?"
"Oh. Sorry." I replied, "No. I only came to see if you'd be on time. And you weren't."
I suppose if I continue to test the reliance of bus companies, then I should expect these kind of things to happen. But frankly, I wish I'd just stayed in bed.

Yes, I changed the blog setup a little. And yes, it still looks plain, boring, and barely functional. Like your sister.
If I can be bothered, I might make it more exciting one day. I don't imagine you give a damn, I certainly don't. All I know is that the text goes aaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way to the left now, and that makes me pretty gosh-darned happy...

When I look back on my childhood, I always remember my father's stories fondly. He would always tuck me in at night, sit down, and tell me a fantastical story. They would always be full of magic, adventure, and bright lights.
When I was seven, I was forced to grow up rather quickly. It transpired my father's stories, which I had thought simply to be the result of an over-active imagination, were in fact hallucinations he was experiencing due to years of abusing hard drugs. My childhood was abruptly crushed when he shot a clown he mistook for one of his fantasy villains. Unable to escape, he was kicked to death by a unicorn he thought he saw.
In my mind, however, he is still the well-dressed, twitchy man who would tell me daily stories. I suppose it can be hard to look back on the past and see it as it really was.

A documentry on Irons

In the wild, of course, man and iron are natural enemies. But, when raised together in captivity, it has been shown that the two can interact peacefully. In some cases, they have even been shown to bond and work together.
Irons first came to public attention thanks to the entertainment industry. While irons had been known about by a percentage of the population as a weapon to fight creases, knowledge of their existence spread mainly due to their ability to create mirth in domestic situations. The famous sequence, where an iron is inadvertently left on a shirt or pair of trousers, and causes various amounts of damage, was first popularised by William Ironson in the 1921 silent film, "Troubles of Lordship". In one sequence, the titular Lord is forced to iron his own trousers as his maid is ill. Distracted by a knock at the door, the Lord leaves the iron on his best trousers. Soon, of course, the iron burns through the trousers, starting a fire that kills 17 people.
Ironson, the child of an Ironmonger and a triangle, became an instant star due to his now-famous routine. In the decades that followed however, he became more and more despondent due to typecasting. Unable to get any serious acting roles, Ironson returned to his original passion - the stage - in 1983, and retired from film and television. However, in recent years, he appears to be more nostalgic in regards to his film roles, reprising his part for several charity events.

I am writing on the right! I am flaunting social norms, and there's nothing anyone can do about it!
Bet you all feel small now...

It was dark at first. Then, slowly, I realised my eyes were closed. Once opened, I found the room to be somewhat brighter. Struggling with my quest for light, I got out of bed and stumbled towards the window, intent on opening the curtains. However, as I approached, I noticed a sticky note attached to the them. Leaning closer, I read it: "DO NoT Open the WINdoW!"
The handwriting was definitely mine, but it was shaky, as if I was writing it while scared. I didn't remember writing it however, so I disregarded the warning.
Pulling back the curtains, I was greeted by an unfamiliar sight. A tramp, dressed in torn shirt and jeans, was stood just outside the window. He had an eye-patch, and as he noticed me, he began to wave enthusiastically with his left hand - or, to be precise, left hook. I froze for a few seconds, and, not detecting movement, he seemed to lose sight of me. Dejectedly, he began to look around, first peering around the room through the window, them moving to the other windows of the house. After a while, he began to search in the trees near the gate, and while his back was turned, I dropped the blind and returned to bed.
I'm not sure what I've gotten into this time, or how to get rid of him.
I still have some sulfuric acid in my cupboard. I suppose I could throw that at him.

It was getting cold. Looking around, I noticed several penguins settling down in the corner of my room. Hopefully, their presence will illustrate the level of coldness present. In reality, they had lived here first. It was, I imagine, foolish of me to move my house into a penguin enclosure.
Shivering, I set fire to myself. Then I went to bed.

Nature

When looking at a badger, I often imagine how easy it would be to kill it with my teeth.
But I don't, and the world keeps on turning.

I knew it had been foolish to leave the door open - there had been reports of bears in the area all week. Now, however, it was too late for regrets. I had to deal with this.
First, I'd tried ignoring the bear. Sitting rigid at the table, I'd made a point of reading my whole newspaper. However, when I finished, he was still sitting opposite, staring intently across the table at me. It was no good, I had to acknowledge him.
I tried to act casually. I smiled at him in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Spotting his opportunity, he leaned across the table.
"Have you heard about our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ?" He asked.
I looked at him in confusion. After a moment, he realised I wasn't going to reply. Reaching for the floor, he picked up a briefcase and started to rummage around inside it.
"I have some pamphlets here, you might like to look at them."
I politely declined. He looked rather deflated, and there is nothing more depressing than a sad bear. I made awkward smalltalk for a few minutes, then he left to catch a bus.

I was wet, and dressed as a women. It had not been a good night.
After a few minutes, an elderly man wearing a crown, dressing gown and slippers opened the door.
"Hello. I am a real Princess."
He looked at me somewhat dubiously, but let me in anyway. He told me I could stay the night, and his wife set off to prepare a room for me.
The room was, to be fair, rather nice. It had a quaint, old-world charm to it. The bed, however, left something to be desired. It seemed to be made of twenty mattresses, and then twenty feather beds on top of the mattresses. However, I slept the night there.
In the morning, The King and Queen asked how I slept.
"Oh terribly bad!"I replied, in my best Princess voice. "I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night! Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing, and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!"
They seemed delighted. Apparently, the old bitch had hidden a pea under my mattresses when she prepared the room. Feeling it through the bed meant I had the delicate skin of a real Princess. Before I could voice my displeasure, they attempted to force me into marriage with their son.
No-one makes a fool of me with legumes. I killed them all, and burned the mattresses.
Now this is a true story.

I met Doctor Dolittle today. He tells me he is glad that no-one else can talk to animals. We wouldn't like what the bears have to say.
He's probably right. What they do in the woods in bad enough.

Find a penny...

I found a penny and picked it up.
I did not have good luck. In fact, I had a cut on my finger, and caught something from the penny. I'm going to die now, but it's probably for the best.
For the rest of my days, I aim to eradicate rhymes. They are a cancer on our society, corrupting our youth and stealing our jobs.

"Hey! We should get married!"
I looked at her across the table. Truth be told, I wasn't too keen on the idea. I didn't agree with marriage on principle anyway, and I couldn't really imagine spending my life with her.
"That's a big step."
"Yea, maybe it's too soon. Lets do something though. We never seem to do anything. When I first met you, you seemed so full of life. You came into the cafe like you owned the place, ordered a coffee. Remember, I said it looked like rain, and you said 'I don't care, I've got a hat!'
But now, you just sit around looking bored."
"Look..." I examined her name-badge, "Mary-Lou... I'm sorry, I just came in for a coffee. We barely know each other."
"How can you say that! After all we've been through - remember when I brought you that menu? It meant something to you then."
"I'm sorry... This isn't working."
I continued to apologise politely, but I was starting to panic. Fortunately, I could the manager's eye, and he made my coffee to go. I escaped onto the street, glad to be out of that place. I'd wasted 6 minutes of my life on her, and I wouldn't waste another second.
Looking back though, I know she was right.
It looks like rain.

Coal. Image via Wikipedia In my more insane moments, I entertain a paranoid fantasy that Al-Qaeda are out to get me. I know that the notion is insane - I have no intention of joining a Christian-Jewish conspiracy to destroy Islam. Singling me out specially would seem to be a huge waste of resources on their part, I know, but this does not help dispel the worry.
During my last episode, I became convinced that Al-Qaeda operatives were in place outside my house. I barricaded the doors, and promptly built myself a coal shelter to hide in. However, the extensive subterranean work required to build my coal bunker took several months, and severely weakened the structural integrity of my house. By the time I had finished working on the coal bunker, my fear had passed. I filled the bunker with coal, and got on with my life.
My house has now collapsed into the gaping crevasse that previously housed my coal. The men who inspected it say there was no sign of terrorist activities: Instead, they blame me for digging underneath the foundations.
I know better though. I think they're in on the conspiracy. I think everyone is.
Fortunately, I'm feeling a lot less paranoid these days.

I bought the Daily Mail today. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like cow vomit, even with the addition of salt and vinegar.
However, the coupons made for a few minutes amusement. I like to cut them out and glue them to immigrants. I think the Mail would be proud.

Unlike anything else here, this story is a work of fiction. Please, please, please don't go 'round thinking I buy the Daily Mail. Or even the Mail on Sunday. Is it worth whoring your values for £10 off things you don't buy at Tesco? You tell me...

Truth be told, this isn't the best medium to tell you about my superhero team. It should be a comic, or at the least, a badly adapted live-action film. In fact, even a cartoon suitable for 5-10 year olds would be better. However, I lack artistic skills, and my budget won't stretch to hiring professional actors. Anyhow, I'll soldier on as best I can.

Hero: The Trashman
By day, a mild-mannered trashman. By night, a mild-mannered hero dressed as a trashman.
Special Abilities: Can operate a bin lorry. Can list all public holidays that clash with rubbish collection.
Catchphrase: I'm taking out the garbage! And also you. Because you are akin to garbage
(There were worries that the first sentence -the original phrase - was too vague, and would cause confusion)

Hero: The Mime
Dressed in traditional mime garb, this fearless hero silently fights street crime.
Special Abilities: Can summon invisible walls to hinder enemies. Will never give away information. Can seamlessly merge into a crowd
Catchphrase: (He's miming it)

Hero: Thug The Terrifying
During the day, Conrad Brown is a boring accountant. However, every second Thursday night, he is overcome by a rush of testosterone and becomes a neolithic caveman.
Special Abilities: Cannot operate a telephone. Hits things with a club. Fights Dinosaurs, even though they didn't coexist.
Catchphrase: Ugg? Me Cliche...

Originally, Dr Bruce Banner was going to join us. However, we couldn't see what use he would be. When we asked him about his super-powers, he said we wouldn't like him when he's angry. However, the mime signed that we didn't like him anyway, and he left in a strop. I feel sorry for him, but he wouldn't have been much use. Not like the Incredible Hulk, who joined last week. To make him different from Thug, We've dressed Hulk in a suit and taught him Received Pronunciation.

To bath and beyond.

Hazley, I opened my eyes. Too bright. I closed them, and went back to sleep.

After a moment, I became aware of a strange sensation - I couldn't feel most of my body. Opening my eyes again, I forced myself to sit upright. Yes, once again, I was in a bathtub full of ice. I looked down at the fresh stitch-marks on my torso and wondered which of my organs had been taken now.
Damn the Natural History Museum!

The name's Hartman. Hank Hartmon. I'm a cop.
Two weeks ago, my partner was killed by a maniac known only as the Frenchman. He was 3 days away from retirement. I tracked down the guy responsible, but I broke procedure. They let him go, and I've been suspended. So I'm going to have to get justice myself.
I drink too much. Same with smokes. That's why I'm here in this shitty bar, drinking generic beers, and throwing back scotch like my neck's convulsing. But soon, I'll be faced with an important challenge in my quest for justice. I'll be able to stop the drinking straight away. Hell, I won't even shake. Be able to fire a handgun accurately up to half a mile, even though I've got a litre of alcohol in me.

Speaking of a litre of alcohol, I really need to pee. But I'm a Hollywood Cliché, and they don't use the bathroom. Not ever.

I opened the curtains. Noticing at once the lack of sunshine that normally caressed my exposed nipples, I took a look around.
Everything was red. It would appear someone has moved my house to Mars while I slept. It was probably Loki. That old trickster, when will he learn?
There is no oxygen here. This could be a problem.

A Story

The smoke curled elegantly from her cigarette, expanding and filling the small booth we shared together. It crossed the table, first caressing me gently, then pulling at my whole person like an old women stroking a cat. I watched her silently take another drag from the cigarette, before she returned to look at me.
"Jacques, I dreamt of Paris last night."
I watched. Her pale face gave away no sign of lying. I don't know why she thought I was called Jacques, but the way she said it made it sound... Right.
"No wonder. This place..."
And no wonder it was too. The bar screamed Paris like my soul screamed for freedom. Around us, waiters bustled, bringing wine and baguettes to the nearby tables. They smiled, sure, but their eyes were as cold and grey as dead fish, their actions as programmed as a watch. They moved with unwavering purpose, but it didn't come from the soul.
"I dreamt that Paris burned. That the streets ran with blood. I wish to see Paris once more Jacques, once more before I die."
I nodded. There was little point in disagreeing. Words would move her only so much.
As I watched, she took another drag, coughing violently.
"We should have stayed. We should have stayed and fought. We could have died doing something Jacques. But instead, we wait to die here, like rats."
"It could not be done. For us, the war is over. And nothing we do can change that."
Outside, the crowds cheered and counted down towards zero. Inside, there was no counting. This was not a place of celebration, but a place of old men sharing a drink with death. A place to wait, and regret.
She looked at me, and sighed. When she spoke, it was nothing more than a whisper.
"I know you don't believe that Jacques. You say these things to reassure me. It is kind of you, but I know it pains you. I know you left your humanity behind, in a time before we left Paris."
"You may be right. But it doesn't matter my dear - whatever we feel, the war is behind us now. We can do nothing."
Outside, the crowd reached zero, and the bells chimed. It was 1994, and I felt no different.
I finished my drink and left her sitting there, with only the stub of a cigarette for company. She was right, of course. Her eyes penetrated me like a worm through soil. We should have stayed in Paris, and we should have fought the occupation. But she was wrong to combine these thoughts into one. We had left Paris to travel. As for the war, we had both been born in 1967. We could not have intervened in it as easily as we imagined, regardless of our regrets.
I haven't spoken to her since. Too many bad memories. Sometimes I drop into the bar, but only when I can't avoid it, or the nostalgia overcomes me. She's still sitting there, like Buddha dressed in black with crimson lipstick, but she pretends not to notice me.
For my part, I do the same. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if we'd stayed together and fought in Paris. But it didn't happen, and there's no point dwelling in the images of an imagined past I sometimes dream of.
Its cold out. I think I'll have another for the road.

A Super tale...

Silently, I dropped down from the wall. I watched the two youths spray-paint their graffiti onto the walls. I imagined how to solve this. Upstandingman would probably give them a lesson in manners - quite literally.
He was an obnoxious little man, and had been ever since school. He'd teach them to respect their elders and clean up after themselves. Afterwards, they'd probably clean this alleyway right up. Hell, they'd probably even clean the drunken tramp I was using to silence my footsteps. Sure, those were good lessons, but I wasn't one of those morally upstanding superheroes like Upstandingman or Superpope. I was the Gramminator, and I was one of those bad-ass heroes.
I'd even worn a leather trench-coat for a while, but the damn thing was too tight to move my arms in. These days, I went for the simple, edgy look - black, military style clothing, and some lightweight armour.
I read the wall. In a pained, spray-painted voice it told me that 'Drew was ere 2K9'. I listened to the word on the walls some more, and it told me, "Call Stacy for good time's"
"That's enough."
I stepped out of the shadows, pointing with barely concealed rage at the two youths.
"Eh? What'ya mean?" Asked the first.
"Here. The word should be 'here'. If you insist on using 'ere, it should have an apostrophe at the least," I turned to the Second teen. "And times doesn't need an apostrophe. It implies ownership. Move the apostrophe. NOW!"
They laughed, and turned to walk away. I'd warned them once, and that was one time too many. I made them eat the spray-paint cans, and left them in the alleyway. If they manage to survive that, then maybe they deserve another chance. I'd like to have made sure they didn't, but I was in a rush.
A Supervillian is on the rise. His plan is to open a string of shops called "Markies". His name is Mark, and someone needs to stop him.

There was a knock on the door. With a sigh, Professor Schrödinger moved to answer it, adjusting his lab-coat as he did so. He opened it to find two men with stern expressions standing on the doorstep.
"Erwin Schrödinger?" The first asked. After Schrödinger nodded, the man continued.
"Can we come in please? We need to talk to you."
"What is it?" Schrödinger replied. "I'm in the middle of an experiment."
"Yes, that's rather the problem you see. We're here because some of your neighbours reported their cats had gone missing. Apparently, you were seen with several of the cats in your back yard."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Please come in, this is a simple misunderstanding," Erwin replied. He lead the two men inside, taking them into his Laboratory. "You see, I put the cats in here"
The group paused, and the two men looked at the steel chamber in front of them.
"Sir, we take mistreating animals very seriously. Is the cat all right in there?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Well - partly. You see, I've placed the cat in the chamber with a flask of poison..."
Here, he was interrupted, and the men shoved him aside as the rushed to open the chamber.
"Wait," He cried. "While the chamber is sealed, the cat is both alive and dead! You see, there's no harm done to it."
"Alive and dead?" Queried the second man. "Don't be so stupid. You're under arrest."

dog in the t-shirt...pipe...

If you google "dog in the water pipe", this is the second thing to appear (after this blog, of course) (From Zazzle)

I don't know who would want this, but I'm sure it's great. If you own one, or know someone interested in such a product, I'd love to hear your opinion on it.
Also, if you have a dog who can actually use a bong all by himself, I'd be interested to hear from you.

A Theological Tale.

I sat, cross-legged, and watched as the trees around me burned.
"Your garden's on fire." I offered.
"Yes." God replied, "Eden is burning."
He was a lot shorter than you'd imagine. Around the 4-foot mark, I suppose. He cut a dashing figure in his beige suit, black shirt unbuttoned down to his chest. He was sporting a small goatee, and his dark hair was styled stylishly. However, I could see his roots and he was obviously dyeing it.
I cast my glaze across the garden again.
"So... Still annoyed about that "Original Sin' thing?"
"Yes. They were both my children you know. I can't believe people think I'm annoyed about the fruit.
"They really shouldn't have had sex. Allegorical genetics show you're really very inbred."
"Yes," I replied. "That would explain the webbed toes. But you know... It was a long time ago, why not let it go?"
"You forget," God replied. "I'm very old. And old people like to hold on grudges. Even if they don't entirely remember why."
"Yes, they do. And they also like to watch Countdown with a nice cup of tea, don't they? Let's get you inside now."
I led God towards the patio door. One of the staff members met me there.
"Thanks for visiting Mr Jenkins like this. Your little visits are the highlight of his week."
I smiled politely, and looked on as she took God into the TV room. I have no idea who Mr Jenkins is, but I'm glad I could help him. I watched until I was satisfied that God was seated comfortably and nibbling a digestive. Then I went to fetch a fire extinguisher.

It annoys me when...

people say "Sex, drugs and sausage rolls". It's not funny.
To be honest, it just sounds messy.

Actually, I'd have to be pretty heavy for this to work...

I took another glance out the window. Yes, there was definitely someone hiding behind my tool shed. Normally, I would ignore such things - they happened often enough, and it was unusual for the lurker to do me any serious damage. However, as I casually watched, I caught sight of the man's face, and there was something eerily familiar about it. Slipping my stab vest on under a jacket, I went outside to investigate.

"Hello?"
There was no reply. There was however, a faint squeal as the man retreated further into the tree's shadow. I was not put on, and crouched down. I stretched out my hand to offer the man some bird seed, in case he was nervous. After a moment, he emerged. Shock overcame me as I looked at him, and I dropped the bird seed all over the lawn. I must remember to tidy it up before it takes root and grows birds.
It was now no surprise why the man before me was familiar - It was me! Sure, I looked a few minutes older, and worry had spread across my handsome face, but it was certainly me! Still, I had to be certain.
"Are you me?" I asked. It seemed a good, if somewhat bland, way of discovering the truth.
"Yes," He replied. "I'm from the future. But... [And here he looked really worried] We shouldn't meet! If two of us exist at the same time, the space-time continuum..."
He trailed off here, whimpering slightly.
"But... Where did you come from?" I asked. Again, boring but straight to the point.
"In two minutes, you'll fall through a time vortex in your kitchen sink. You'll land over the wall, about 5 minutes ago. Quick! Go away. I can already feel the fabric of reality tearing!"
I have messed with the space-time continuum before though, and it doesn't worry me. Obviously, I'm not worried. I think I might do the dishes in fact.

What does it all mean?

I took another bite of the lasagna. It was no good though - as hard as I tried, I just couldn't chew through the thick sheets of pasta. Surreptitiously, I separated the sheet from the rest of the food and scraped the sauce of. It was as I thought - a thin sheet of plastic coated the pasta. Home made, they'd said.
"So Ann, you made this whole lasagna yourself then?" I queried.
"Oh yes," She replied. "All of it's home-made. The eggs are fresh too - from our own hens, out front."
I had been out front for some time earlier, and I can assure you there were no hens there. However, Ann wasn't the only liar here, so I let it pass.
"Yea!" Exclaimed Chuck in his thick Welsh accent, "We don't have none of that store crap here, no Sir. Just good, honest food. Tell me Son, do you like them shop meals? Just stick them in your microwave and bam, ready made devil food! Then, I suppose a modern queer like yourself doesn't have the time for cooking or women, yea?"
To be honest, Chuck's homophobia was getting rather annoying. However, I would up with it for Mick's sake.
It's always hard to meet your partners parents, I suppose. Throw in the fact your partner is gay, and his father is a right-winged homophobe, and it gets worse. The whole situation was compounded by the fact Mick wasn't my partner and I wasn't gay. In fact, I'd only met him today, at the bus stop. However, he'd offered me £500 to fake my way through this meal. I hadn't anything better to do, so I'd accepted.
"Right boy, want to see my gun room? Of course, they're not the sort of guns I imagine you like to look at. Not that I imagine that kind of thing."
With this, Chuck gave what should have been a joking nudge to his wife, sending her flying into the wall.
Chuck took me to the gun room. It was quite a display of handguns - this being Britain, there were none. In fact, the room appeared to be a study, completely devoid of guns.
"Right, the game starts any minute lad!" He exclaimed excitedly. "Of course, you'd rather ballet, of course. But some sweaty men on top of each other should keep you amused!"
He took me into the tv room. It was a large room, with a tiny television in the middle. It was full of waxworks of Oswald Mosley, many of which were dressed in tweed suits. I took a seat next to a waxwork dressed in traditional Cossack clothing and reflected that I should have asked for more money.
When I look back, I often wonder if Chuck though he was an American Cliche. It's a strange old world.

I heard the shuffling of a well-oiled butler...

coming down the corridor. I have recently upgraded my house - apparently, I had been entered into a loyalty scheme some time ago - so you won't be hearing any more doorbells. No sir. Unless you're near a door, of course. Or have tinnitus.
Alfred entered slowly. His name wasn't actually Alfred (I think it was Timmy) and he wasn't a butler. In fact, he was a 27 year old home help assistant who lived in the probably correct assumption I was dangerously insane. He tolerated my whims generously, and this explained why he was suited in morning dress, and had added chalk dust to his ordinarily dark hair. As I pondered how else I could improve his appearance, he arrived at my side, and bent to my ear.
"There is a... caller at the front door Sir. A... gentleman, I believe."
Normally I don't care for callers, but TimmyAlfred's description suggested it may be a effeminate man, or perhaps a bearded lady.
"Thank you Alfred. I shall meet him."

When I reached the front door, I found it had closed over, obscuring my visitor. With some trepidation, I leaned forward and opened the door. The site before me was rather disconcerting.
"Hello! It's me!" Yelled the thing excitedly.
"Yes. I can see that." I replied, "But what are you doing here? You should be next to the German border"
"Yes!" Replied France, "But I'm here to tell you about Jacques' cheeses! They're so great, they could lure a Frenchman out of a brothel and convince him not to be lazy and surrender in a fight"
I looked closer, and it soon became apparent that the man in front of me was not actually the country of France. He was a bald man in a foam costume. He also had a bag full of flyers, and I briefly entertained the idea of France on a paper round. He continued:
"Jacques' cheeses are so good, you'll become as legendary a lover as a real Frenchman after eating some! Also, something about onions and berets!"
"You sprout many cliches, and this flyer is badly set out." I replied, "Please leave my property. If you don't do so, I will be forced to make you part of my Superhero group. And I seriously doubt your crime fighting abilities."

Stay tuned next week, for the exciting adventures of FRANCE and THE TERROR!

I have made first contact with an alien species

Surprisingly, they look like toasters. They react surprisingly well to having bread stuffed into their head, and even go as far as to toast it. Their only weakness seems to be that they need to be plugged into the mains to function. Who'd have though alien life would have such parallels to our own?

Beep... Beep...Beep.

I stared sadly at the wreckage of my house. What had been a rather nice semi-detached townhouse dating back to the Victorian era was now a crushed pile of rubble. On top of it, the similarly buggered wreckage of a television satellite glistened in the midday sun. A device that had, until minutes ago, been broadcasting sports, drama, comedy and lunchtime porn to millions had now destroyed most of my life. A life, rather ironically, dedicated mainly to sports, drama, comedy and lunchtime porn. Behind me, a Sky news team filmed live coverage of the disaster, unaware that they were unable to transmit it.

Billy Bragg was right. It's wrong to wish on space hardware.

The haunting of Paul Blanchard.

It is not good to get stuck in a house with the ghost of Jean-Paul Sartre. Since death, he has put on a huge amount of weight and become very cranky. His return as a incorporeal being has only made him smug, as he uses his continued existence as proof of existential existence. He is as annoying in death as he was admirable in life, often appearing at inopportune moments to beat me around the head with a copy of Iron in the Soul. He has began dating the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. As a result, Simone de Beauvoir's spirit just mopes around the place, making awful flower arrangements.
My social life has been irreversibly damaged, and as such I am looking for a qualified exorcist to help me rid my house of the annoying dead. Qualifications made in MS paint will be accepted, so please forward all applications to me as soon as possible.

Workspace adventures in time and space

I don't suppose I should complain - I mean, the office wasn't what I was used to, but that didn't make it bad. My doctor had said I needed more fresh air, as well as more Zotepine. He was a tall, balding man though, with a scar down his left cheek. Apparently, he'd served in a Panzer company during the war, before being captured. It was safe to assume he'd liked Britain, since he stayed after the war. This story did seem a plausible explanation for why he prescribed German drugs. It did not explain the fact that he was about 50 and American.
But I digress. The office was not conventional, I'd been told. It was however rather roomy. 17 acres, I'd been told. After some searching via horse and carriage, I found my seat - a rather old-fashioned Iron bench. I sat down at it and opened my laptop case. It then occurred to me that there was no-where to plug my laptop in. I set off for help.

"Ah, I say my good man"
The man, who we shall continue to assume is good, turned to look at me. He was not, as I had first thought, a janitor. In fact, he looked rather well-off. Well dressed in an elegant suit, and with giant sideburns.
"I say." I continued, "Do you know where the nearest plug is?"
"Plug?" He asked, "Plug? This is late 19th Century England my friend. Electricity is a mere dream of the future. Now get off my land!"

I must stop time travilling by accident. It is not good for the libido.

Prison is an illusion of the mind.

I looked at the dingo. He looked back at me. We were looking at each other.
His eyes stayed focused on mine, and mine stayed focused on his. The pane of glass obscured his features a little, but I could still see him clearly.
"Why did you do it?" I asked
He shrugged.
"Why?" I asked again. "I mean, I knew it was in your nature. But the president's baby? You should have known you'd never reach him, let alone manage to eat him."
Looking at the phone clutched in his dingo hands, he replied:
"It is in my nature, nes pa?" he replied. His thick French accent masked the faint hint of his native Australian.
"I have read of the subject mon ami. The bibliotheque of this prison is most well-stocked."
He leaned back in his seat, lighting up a cigarette as he did so. He continued
"You humans, you have created your superior being- God. And he, you say, has created me as I appear before you. So it is. But the blame is not mine.
I will not live more than six years, in all likelihood. This prison will not confine my mind."
I looked at him, thinking. Then, I continued:
"Dingoes can't read, let alone talk." I said.
"You're right, friend. This is the situation most ridiculous."
I left the prison, and vowed never to return. Animals that sound like Poirot scare me a little.

I don't like cruel jokes

I prefer minor teasing instead. Yup, I smile at them, wink a bit, maybe buy them a drink. Then I lean in real close to them, and the police arrest me...

A sad story

I looked sadly at the child in front of me. He was, I must admit, a disappointment. This was in no way my fault.
"Dad," he said, "can I have a cigarette?"
"No," I replied, putting the packet back into my pocket and lighting up. "You're too young. Besides, I don't have any."
"But dad, I'm 22. Besides, I just saw you holding some. You're smoking one now."
"No," I replied again. "I don't touch the things. It's a lie your mother told you. She's a bad person."
"I wish you wouldn't talk about her like that," He replied.
"Look!" I addressed him, "I have no idea who you are. You just followed me off the train. You're not my son. I'm very sorry."

However, there was nothing I could do. I looked after the boy for several more years, until he decided he wanted to teach and went to University. He kept in regular contact, but he recently found out I really wasn't his father. Since then, we have grown more distant.

Too hot?

Image by Alan_D via Flickr "Callum? It's your brother here. Jake, remember?"
I didn't remember. In fact, I didn't remember being called Callum either. However, more phone-calls to my house were for me, compared to the relative few that were wrong numbers. Therefore, statistically, I was Callum. Having reached that conclusion, I replied:
"Yes. Sup?"
"Hmm... you sound different? Everything all right?"
"Erm... Yes. It's a little hot, maybe that's it."
This appeared to convince him. After agreeing lengthily, he continued:
"Tell mother I've joined a group of anarchists and totalitarian fascists fighting the Lizard Government. As such, I can't make it to Aunt Eliza's birthday. I've sent a card though. And wish Timmy the best of luck at his piano recital. I know how hard it was for him to cite the piano in the first place, so I hope he can pull it off again all right."
"Right." I replied, "Anything else?"
He started to reply, but I put the phone in the microwave with some petrol and went out to the shops.

Wireless phones are a true miracle of the modern age.

Vampires

"Are you one of those nice vampires?" I asked tentatively.
"No." Replied the vampire. "It's nothing personal, but you're like free-range chickens to us. no, really. We actually steal eggs from fertilization clinics and everything. As I say, it's nothing personal. It's just we're a little bit better than you in our own eyes, so that makes you fair play to eat."
"Well, I suppose that's fair enough. Couldn't you just drink spare blood or something?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. But couldn't you just take vitamins and leave animals alone?"
"They taste good though."
"Yes," he replied. "So do you. Like chicken, in fact."
I was not reassured. Fortunately, he seemed philosophical. I distracted him with a debate on Cartesian Doubt until the sun rose, then I went home.

Ceci n'est pas vie réelle

I sat on the bench next to the co-op and opened the first pack of tic-tacs. Tilting back my head, I filled my mouth up and began to crunch through the minty capsules. After I had finished my second pack, I became aware I was being watched. I turned my head slowly to look at the dog tied to the railings beside me.

"Hello!" I offered enthusiastically. Must be a sugar rush...

The dog looked at me sadly, but didn't respond. After a moment, he tilted his head to one side and looked at me wisely. I ate another packet of tic-tacs, by which time the dog had returned to washing his balls.

"What's it like being a dog?" I asked. I wouldn't normally, but I was interested.

He sat silently, thinking. A bus passed nearby, stopping to allow a few bored kids and an old lady off. When they had passed, the dog looked at me again.

"I'm not a dog." He replied, "Can I have a tic-tac?"



I got up and left. He was a bad dog, and would get no treats from me.

"My life as a Womble"

Will not be posted here. It is a private matter.

I'm not allowed in restaurants

Killing a man with a breadstick is hard work. It is also immensely rewarding.

I'm broke.

Image via Wikipedia So I've launched a new business.
My last plan (kidnapping adorable baby animals and ransoming them back to their parents) failed due to the sheer stupidity of the whole thing. Furthermore, my remaining funds were wasted on a petty vendetta with a cete of vicious badgers - I am at a loss as to who sold them automatic weaponry, but it was probably America. The landmass itself, not the people. Being French (...) I know better than to judge a whole county on a stereotype.
Anyhow, to cut a long story short - even a good story with animals and anthrax bombs - I have adopted an entirely new business strategy. In fact, it's so different from my usual business plans that you may think I've been replaced by two very crafty midgets in my clothes.
Here we go:

I have your grandmother. Send me money or I'll plant a badger cub in her handbag and throw her into the nearest sett. There's up to 15 badgers in there, so you'd better be quick with the money.
I will carry this plan out in the Autumn, when the average badger will weigh 11-12 Kilograms.

I hope you've all learned something interesting about badgers here...