life has given me lemons...

Any advice what to do with them? I don't want to appear ungrateful.

The chicken looked at, its beady eyes taking in every last detail. Finally, satisfied with itself, it tilted it's head and clucked. I took this to be my que, and asked:
"So, which came first then: The chicken or the egg?"
After a long pause, it again tilted it's head. I waited with baited breath. But... nothing.
It was then I remembered chickens can't speak, and I felt very stupid.

"Happy Birthday!"
To his credit, Calum faked surprise at his predictable surprise party. Smiling widly, he entered the living room, offering surprised thanks to his friends and family for the surprise party that had totally surprised him. After all, it had been no giveaway when all his friends had totally forgotten what date it was, nor when his brother, who "just happened" to be flying in for the weekend, had taken him to a restaurant and insisted on driving him home. The line of cars outside had still furthered the illusion that no surprise party had been organised.
"Wow, thanks everyone!" Calum callled out, "this is just great. And this cake, look at the size of it!"
It was a big cake. Calum was not surprised when a few seconds later, the lights dimmed and the top of the cake burst open. He was surprised however by the short, naked fat man who fell drunkenly out of it. With a loud groan, the man stumbled to his feet, and toppled forwards into the icing-coated sponge. A few minutes of silence passed before the man began to eat the cake. In between bites, he cried loudly. After a few more minutes, people started to leave.

I surveyed the crime scene. The blood had spread wider across the thick carpet than I would have expected, now drying into an old hearthrug. Lines of string stretched from the blood splatters on the wall, showing where the victim had been standing when he had been brutally bludgeoned. His corpse, cold and rigid, lay where it had fallen on the floor. He was a big man, maybe 250 pounds, and at least 6 foot.
I approached the scene, addressing my question to the suited man bending over him.
"Any clues?"
"No." He replied, "nothing yet."
With that, he reached across and started to undo the corpse's belt.
"What are you looking for detective?" I asked tentatively. It was my first murder investigation, and I had no idea what to look for.
"Detective?" He replied, "Oh no... I'm just a necrophiliac. Sorry 'bout the confusion there."
"No trouble..." I replied. Policing is a strange world, it appears.

I'm pretty big...

in the midget community.
Sorry...

a haunting tale.

"I've gotta say, this is a great place! Lots of space, great view, low rent... How come it hasn't been snapped up already?"
The estate agent started to look worried. Adjusting his collar, he turned towards me.
"Well, Sir... The thing is, they say the place is haunted."
"Wow! Really? What by... murdered young girls? Old men with chains?"
"No sir, I'm afraid it's far worse than that." He replied, "It's the ghost of Zac Efron."
"But... he's not dead yet." I offered, hesitantly.
"What? Not dead?... Then he must be squatting here, the little bastard!"
With that, the estate agent rushed into a nearby cupboard and fetched a broom, before chasing the apparently unaging actor from the building.
You'd think he could afford a much better place than this...

Harold the hungry caterpillar

Harold was a very hungry little caterpillar. He was so hungry in fact, that he crawled out onto a plant in Mr. Jones' vegetable patch, even though his mother had warned him not to.
Unfortunately, Mr. Jones was also very hungry - and quite insane - and ate poor Harold. His insides became fuzzy, and he died soon after.

If I'd bothered to illustrate this, it would be deeply disturbing.

Last night, I had a dream. Not in a Martin Luther King sense - not that I disagree with his dream. I dreamed that I won a lottery, and Barack Obama came to visit. He was nice enough, and very polite, but shorter than I had imagined.

Once I was young

and my hair was managable. Now i'm going down the Jarvis Cocker route.
Time, perhaps, for a trim.

I looked at the table she was trying to sell me. It was very nice, and I was tempted.
"And Sir, it's made of genuine misogyny!" The Sales assistant chirped cheerfully.
"Don't you mean Mahogany?" I asked tentatively.
"What she means mate, is that she'll put the kettle on while the men discuss business. Isn't that right love?"
I bought the table. Sure, its opinions were out-of-date, but you don't get many talking tables.

http://doginthewaterpipe.spreadshirt.net/
Yea...