Tuesday, 28 December 2010

A story containing hilarious innocent misunderstandings

This is an original Superman costume owned by ...
Max, if he displayed more emotion.
Image via Wikipedia
"How'd you like your Christmas present then?"
" Oh, it was great, thanks for that!" Max replied, happily.
I don't know why I'd asked, it was obvious Max liked his Superman costume. For one thing, he was wearing it now. And we were on a pretty busy street.
 "Yea, and... Oh God! Quick, in here!"

 Grabbing me, Max dragged us into a newsagents, where he hid behind a small pile of magazines and peaked outside with fear.
 "What is it?"
 "It's, what's his name? Clive! You know, Maxine's father?"
 "Oh... Yea."
 "You know how he is - he could never stand the sight of me, even when I was with Maxine. And well, since I stopped seeing her, he's been just insufferable whenever I run into him."
 I looked at Max dispassionately. Of course, Max was right. There had been a lot of problems relating to Maxine, and they were not limited to the name similarity. For one thing, Maxine wasn't Max's ex. She was a woman he kidnapped from the bus station.

 Now, in all fairness to Max, it had been an accident - he's gone to pick up his mother. With anyone else, of course, this would be no excuse - while Maxine was a 27-year old fitness instructor of Japanese decent, Max's mother was an 87-year old, wheelchair-bound obese woman from Hull. The differences, one would think, were obvious. But not to Max, who simply believed his mother, a lovely dear who was easily confused, had become easily confused. Stuffing her into his boot and driving off at high speed had, of course, furthered the illusion he was a kidnapper. But, again, the back seat of his car was occupied by livestock, and he was in a rush. So - at least from Max's point of view - the whole thing was innocent.
 Of course, demanding a ransom had been a mistake. But that was just unfortunate - Max, at the time inspired by a bolstered ego (No doubt because his mother, confused as she was, referred to him as a "handsome Prince"), had written to all the fathers in town, offering himself as a potential husband to their daughters, for a dowry of £100,000. The note, poorly written, had simply been confused for a ransom.

  And that is why Clive was rarely happy to see Max. Of course, laid out like this, you can surely see how a series of innocent mistakes were hilariously misconstrued, but it becomes clear how innocent Max really was.

 Of course, if you want to arrest him anyway, I won't stop you. Hell, why not form a lynch mob? They always looked fun in Westerns...

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Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Still Shopping...

The snow was getting heavier. Deciding I couldn't be bothered becoming another living snowman, I headed for a nearby bed salesroom, uninspiringly named "Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Except we only have one broom, and it isn't for sale."

 "Afternoon Sir, welcome, welcome, do come in!"
 I was greeted optimistically by a young beds-salesman fellow, who welcomed me into the store and, with a wide sweep of his arm, advertised the many beds for sale.
 "You look cold, sir. Rather chill day, isn't it? Well, maybe we have some offers to cheer you up? Polish your knob sir?" He asked, chuckling, his hand reaching out to tickle me boisterously in a personal area.
 "Just our little joke, sir. We like a little knob-based humour round here, we do!
 "And in your case," he continued, "Very little knob-based humour, I'm guessing"
 "Am I paying extra for this... Service?" I asked dryly

My salesman, skipping manically away now, hopping over beds in a demented fashion, laughed out loud.
 "Paying... Know a lot about paying for services, do we sir?"

I made to follow him, when another sales assistant suddenly appeared to my right.
 "Sir, sir! Oh, I am dreadfully sorry... It's just, well, he's Clive you see... And... Well, he's harmless, and we figure... Better than letting him out on the streets... Do himself harm... Mischief, with buses!"
 He was clearly out of breath, explaining the pauses and missed words in his eloquent soliloquy. I wasn't sure what the buses reference was about, but before I could ask, he continued:
 "Well, let us make it up to you Sir."
He reached into his pocket, producing a small tub of wax.
 "Knob polish, sir? On the house."
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Monday, 20 December 2010

I'm shopping

The snow was pelting down, and I was on a desperate shopping trip to buy Max something for Christmas. Nothing... Sticky this year, I've learned my lesson.

War-related, circa 1943
This isn't what I was going to buy...
Image via Wikipedia
"Cards! Lots and Lots of Cards!" The sign boldly proclaimed. Well, I thought hopefully, this looked like the right kind of place to buy a Christmas card, at least. That would be one thing done, and so early in the trip! Smiling at how smart I was - buying a Christmas Card all by myself - I headed into the almost empty store. Crossing the threshold, I became aware of a loop of cheers and whoops, a short audio recording repeating over and over again. Confetti was showering from the ceiling, and a banner had unfurled before me.

 "Congratulations!" I began, "You're in our store. There are no prizes."

I looked at the young sales assistant at the desk.
 "Why... Do you have this?"
 "I'm sorry, it's store policy. Apparently, it makes customers happy."
 "Does... Does it work?" I asked feebly.

 "Well," he replied sheepishly, "For a few seconds. Then they realise they've not won anything. And then, of course, Tim makes a disparaging remark about their appearance. Store policy, you see. Actually... Better wake him!"

 I watched as the assistant reached under the counter and fetched a broom. Reaching out with the broom, he began to poke an elderly figure sleeping in the corner of the store. He was an odd-looking fellow, lanky - if such a word can be used on the elderly - and who looked a little like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, if he was 60 and wearing a shirt.
  "Whut? Wuu..." He scream-mumbled, "You're... you are fat and ugly. Merry Christmas!"

I left the store. I did not, you may have guessed, buy a Christmas Card. I might go back next year. With any luck, Tim'll be dead by then...
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Sunday, 19 December 2010

Health and safety a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Yet, also, in the future...

A warm, Eastwardly wind blew through the treetops and the branches, gently shaking the walkways, ruffling the hair of Colin Jackson. Colin, for his sins, was a bureaucrat. He'd always been a bureaucrat, always filling and sorting, organising and filling, sorting and organising.
 Before the Rebellion, he'd worked as a low-level filling clerk for the Governor in the Outer Rim. But he'd risen to be something of a war hero by systematically misfiling the ingredients for field rations and creating a plague of diarrhea among the Imperial forces. After the rebellion, he'd returned to normal bureaucracy, taking a place in the newly-founded Health and Safety department of the New Republic.
 This job though... Well, the safety standards were... sub-par.

"Look," He began to explain again, "You just can't have living conditions like these. Do you understand?"
"Wermo" replied the Ewok.
"No, no, no!" Colin began again, "You see here, for instance, these rope-swings? Section 14 of the prohibited transport devices Act A.Y clearly bans the use of rope-swings. I mean, how is it disability-friendly? Or suitable for children? Even a trained adult could easily lose his grip and fall."
 The Ewok cocked his head inquisitively and chattered.
"And here" Colin continued. "Here, here and here. The ropes on this walkway are frayed. I mean, you really should have a fixed barrier in place, but rope-barriers are protected as cultural objects. But really, you need to be carrying out a weekly safety test on all such barriers."
 The Ewok titled his head the other way, muttering. After a moment, he rose his arms and waved his spear, signalling another Ewok to hit Colin on the head with a rock, crudely attacked to a stick
 "Look," Colin explained, "That's not going to work on me, I'm not a Stormtrooper. You've got one week to get this place up to spec, or I'm closing it down."
 "Wermo?" Asked the Ewok again.

 Gathering his things, Colin left Endor and headed back to Coruscant. Really, he thought, I ought to turn the lot of them into furry doorstops or something.
 Fucking hairy buggers...
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Friday, 17 December 2010

Colm: A portrait in urine.

SAN FRANCISCO - AUGUST 21:  A Burger King Whop...
They're salted with people,
you know...Image by
Getty Images via @daylife

Picture a man. Let us call him... Colm. For no particular reason. He's not Colm Meaney though -  not everyone can be Chief O'Brien. Colm has a problem, you see - his bladder is rather full. Standing, as he is, near a Burger King, he chances an opportunity to relieve himself of his heavy burden in a manner largely acceptable in society. However, the restroom inside his Kingly sighting offers some resistance to his plan; a large warning notice affixed near the entrance, bearing the ominous warning: "For Customer's Only!"
 But our intrepid hero fears not such notices, nor their misuse of the apostrophe. He strikes out, putting one foot in front of the other, and surreptitiously enters the dining establishment. There's a queue forming for the counter, stretching back to near the door, and he thinks his entrance is unnoticed. Besides, who cares that much?

  Passing the waiting customers and busy staff with an expression of determination, he slips into the lavatories. Concluding his business, he departs, hands washed and food unpurchased. Returning home, where he inexplicably lives with an old guy in the future, he thinks little of his escapades - he got away with his crime, and having not been punished, he lets the incident slip from mind. Soon, all matters leave his head as he falls into a deep, blissful sleep. Never to be awoken...

  In the early hours of twilight, they come for him. Burger King security staff, huge, meat-filled heads filled with only two thoughts - meat and punishment! Having reviewed the security footage, having seen poor Colm enter and leave without purchasing, they have accessed the local security cameras. Ancient organisations, cabals established to this very end, they track his movements through the city, determined to teach our young urinator a powerful lesson.

  The morning rises anew, but with shocking similarities to the previous day. One new feature arises with the dawn however, a new item on the menu at your local Burger King; the Soylent Green Burger.

  Remember people; don't pee and not buy, or it could be YOU next!
  (No. Not really. Go pee somewhere, then don't buy something, and see what happens. For the sake of common decency, please let that location be a toilet; I won't take responsibility if you pee on a box of cereal or a tramp)
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Thursday, 16 December 2010

It is a bloody mess...

Bits of animal are strewn everywhere - skins adorn wrecked cars in fetching, tragic ways, severed limbs hang from lamp-posts, and blood stains the eye-catching Victorian cobbled streets. The animals are all dead, ok? Don't worry, we won't have to talk about them anymore after today. Unless you want to, of course, dear reader; hunched over your drinks in the pub, perhaps, or in the classroom, hunched over your drinks. Perhaps, in the creche or nursery (Kindergarten, you filthy Yanks [You're probably clean. I apologise]) you sit around in groups, hunched over your drinks, discussing my blog. Or herds of shoppers, rushing for Christmas gifts, meeting old friends by coincidence, hunch over their drinks to discuss my blog.
  But I doubt it.

No, you aren't seeing this.
Just keep moving.
  Anyway, back to the animals. All dead. Good stuff. I mean, not for the animals of course. Actually, a few of them were pretty endangered, so its probably a bad thing they killed each other. But you, YOU BASTARDS, you're too selfish to see it that way. You just saw the animals as an annoyance, you're glad they're out of the way. You little fuckers, you couldn't give a damn about the ecosystems affected, could you? The delicate balances of nature are unwinding, precious beings lost to us now, their knowledge and beauty fading. But this means nothing to you Sons of Bitches, who care nothing f... Wait a second, we could eat them!

  I voiced this though to Max, who quickly helped me set up a barbecue. Piling up the dead beasts, we began to feast. Good stuff, completly justified the large-scale animal death. Yum!

Wednesday, 15 December 2010

Stupid, stupid animals.

A collage depicting animal diversity using a f...
These animals all have beliefs
they will kill for... You've been warned.
Image via Wikipedia

The rain falls down, on me, on the town, on the several factions of animals gathered in various corners and openings, facing each other, branding weapons and waving banners. Stupid, humdrum town, monotony only broken by the occasional struggle between animal factions.

  To be honest, I regretted the day the Town Council had agreed a grant to teach political ideology to animals. Indeed, everyone had been a lot happier before hand - the animals, ignorant as they were (except the dolphins) had been happy in their ignorance, the townsfolk had been worry-free, and I, I had had one less ridiculous enemy to fear.

  Max had rescued me from the Nazi Kangaroos. I didn't know what Kangaroos were doing here, and Max arriving in tights and a string vest had done little to alleviate my perplexed condition. He didn't really understand costumes, you see. Anyway, now battle-lines were drawn - the Kangaroos and Koalas formed the largest groups, but anarchist bears, neoconservative bees and Maoist tortoises were arming themselves at the sidelines. Near me, showing a deep misunderstanding of their ideology, a group of pacifist kittens set up a machine-gun post.

  This was going to be messy.
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Monday, 13 December 2010

Animal radicalism

Cover of "American History X [Blu-ray]"
Now Imagine this, but with some Kangaroos...  American History X [Blu-ray]
I had run as fast as my little legs would carry me. Fortunately, the legs of the Koalas were significantly shorter, so I managed to quickly put some distance between myself and themselves. That was as far as my luck held out.

 My new captors looked at me distastefully. Tall, ridiculous, hunched over, they studied me with an air of disinterest. Their leader reclined on his throne, an armchair faded in the sunlight. Around us, a warehouse of some sorts, full of discarded packing crates and ancient straw. At tables, my Kangaroo captors prepared their weapons. The leader, Swastika tattooed on his chest like Edward Norton (In American History X. Edward Norton isn't a Nazi in general. I hope) glared down at me, slowly thumping a mace into his paw.

This was getting ridiculous now. To be captured by one group of politically-minded, radical animals is one thing, but to be held by extremist critters at both ends of the spectrum is just unlikely.
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Sunday, 12 December 2010

Red Fur

The den was large, about 40-foot by 40-foot. That's a lot of feet, for something that looked like a hole from outside. In fact, it was some sort of old factory room - the hole in the cliff face yielded a small cavern, through which they had drilled. A few feet later, they had smashed through the wall into this store-room. The factory had been closed for some time, I gathered, and this room - the door boarded up and covered on the other side, long forgotten.

This is the kind of thing Communist
Koalas would use. I stole it from
Someone's spreadshirt. It wasn't
about Communist Koalas.
 This suited the Koalas fine. Around the walls, they had hung flags - hammers and sickles adorned their abode, yellow symbols of the proletariat emblazoned red backgrounds of metaphorical proletariat blood. The Koalas sat around, preparing weapons, polishing their guns and checking their equipment. Their leader, a huge beast with anger in his eyes and a knife in his paws, looked at me. His was the glare of every worker oppressed, every oppressed mass that yearned to be unoppressed and massing. He lifted the knife to his mouth, his eyes still fixed on me. He licked the blade, running it across his tongue, blood dripping from his maw onto his matted fur.

 I shuddered. Captured by 1/3 mad, 2/3s insane lunatics, Revolutionary Communist Koalas, that was all I needed.
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Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Richard Nixon mask in a Portland, Oregon antiq... I'll admit, Max's idea wasn't half-bad. He was going to be a superhero, you see. Normally, of course, I'd say that Max's idea was half-bad, perhaps even whole-bad. Deliciously, full-fat badness. But today, I found Max's ideas about costumed vigilantism to be refreshing.

 Mainly because I'd been somewhat perturbed to find him sitting in my kitchen in tights and a Richard Nixon mask. Nothing else. Said he needed help with the costume. I guided him towards clothing

Anyway, after a few hours stapling shirts around his body - he'd fixed the mask to his face with cement, to keep his identity hidden - Max set off to fight whatever crime occurs in the mid-afternoon. I went to watch TV. With any luck, he'll get badly hurt. But in reality, he'll probably just kidnap another crossing-guard. I don't know why, I think he finds children crossing roads safely to be an injustice.

Max's moral compass is somewhat skewed. Or, to use a technical term, it's fucked.
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Image by Todd Mecklem via Flickr

Monday, 6 December 2010

When fetishes go wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong...

Panda conservation: Researchers dressed in panda costumes check the body temperature of a cub
Cunning Panda thieves in disguise. Image via The Guardian

Well, ok. This isn't some bizarre furries thing. It's actually panda researchers trying to get Pandas accustom to a human-free environment. But seriously, one could do some kinky stuff with those costumes.
 And If I catch any of you doing such a thing, I won't be happy.

Pandas are pretty cool really, but also, very shit. It is an unfortunate fact of nature.

Thursday, 2 December 2010

"Are all owls French then?"
 "No, me petite derriere, no!" replied the owl. He wasn't really French, and the accent he was affecting did little to disguise the strong Irish accent underneath.
 "No," he continued. " Oui, many of Mon freres are French, like myself. But many of us have deep Nordic roots also, je ne sais quoi?
 I looked at him for a while, forehead burrowed in thought. But it didn't matter. Where ever the owl was from, I didn't want to buy his candy bars.
 "Please, monsieur, it will 'elp send my football team to summer camp!"

Slowly, I began to back away from the owl, hoping a car would run me down. When I got 17 feet away, and death was not apparent, I turned tail and fled.
 What kind of summer camp would an owl go to anyway?

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

A Kitchen Sink Drama

The cafe was almost deserted. A real cafe, all coffee stains on cheap plastic table covers and burly builders in vests. If I were to make it the setting somewhere, it would be some sort of kitchen-sink realism piece. You know, if my life were a film or somesuch shit. But as I say, the cafe was nearly empty. The burly builders had left some time ago, vests on, small t-shirts rising up over their fat.
 I settled back into my seat, shredding the napkin I was holding absent-mindedly, looking at the figures in front of me, watching a drama play out.

 "Why don't you just come home? Your mother... She's worried sick, she's barely eating. Look how frail she is! Look at what you're doing to her!"
 His moustache bristled, his words spraying out in between hisses of steam, sprays of moisture clinging to the air between the figures.

 "Father!" cut in mother, "Leave the boy be. We said we weren't going to do this anymore!"
 "Aye." Replied father, "Your mother's right lad, this fighting ain't getting us anywhere. My not come home son, we can talk this over."
 "No!" Replied son. "It's not the life for me, going back and forth all day, round and round, treading the same path like some sort of... Boat! Trapped in a whirlpool!"

 I watched, waiting to see if anyone would point out that isn't how whirlpools work, but no-one did. I guess you have to live with that some times. But the drama continued:

 "Son! You can't be serious about what you said! You can't make a new life here, London is no place for the likes of us. There aren't any tracks! The rent son... You'll need a big place, how can you afford it? And coal... Where do you get the coal lad?"
 "I make ends meet father!" The boy shouted, "I knew you wouldn't understand! Goodbye to you both!"
 With that, he swung from his seat onto the floor, and steamed from the room. I watched his parents for a few moments, mother engine-first on the table, father settled back with steam pouring from his chimney.

 There's nothing sadder than a run away train...
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Monday, 22 November 2010

Ah, doorbell. My dear old friend, how I've missed you.

An image of a modern Christmas elf on a Christ...
Image via Wikipedia
I walked down the hallway. It was the logical thing to do, if I wanted to open my front door. And I did, because the doorbell had just wrung. Secretly, I hoped it was early Carol singers. Bad ones, whom I could mock.
 Outside, to my disappointment, were two men. They were smart and carrying fliers, and I began to reach for the emergency shotgun I keep in the umbrella stand. You know, in case of religious callers? But then they began to speak, and my hand stopped.
 "Hello Sir, we're here today representing the RSPCE. Did you know, sir, that there are over 3,000 Elves working in illegal sweatshops in this country?"
 I paused. I didn't know that, and I damn well told them so.
 "Well sir, how about this? Did you know that many of these Elves are paid only pennies a day? Or that these working conditions don't follow the guidelines for the health and safety of mythical creatures, leading to high rates of illness and permanent disability?"
No, I replied. I did not know such a thing. And again, I made sure they knew.
 "Well, thank you for your time Sir. Here" and they handed me some pamphlets, "Take a look at these. If you can donate just £4.7 million a month, we can ensure every Elf gets to spend this Christmas with his family, rather than making toys 24 hours a day."

 I took the pamphlets, and retreated in side. I read them, agreeing they made a lot of sense, and then set about freeing the Elves I kept in my basement. From now on, I'm only using child labour!

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Sunday, 21 November 2010

The clowns are dead, ok?

Yea, I know, I probably went too far. They were all, "Honk! Honk!" and throwing pies, and wearing big shoes and trousers and shit. And I killed them all. I'm sorry, I over-reacted. But I had no idea where the whole thing was going. So I killed the clowns, and I fed them to Clown-Eating Pigs. Yes, those are a real thing.
 Was I going anywhere with this?
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Monday, 15 November 2010

Clowning around

Mayfest Parade I'd hoped for an easy Clown Mafia related task to pay off my debt. You know, sorting out the make-up on Clown Sonny's face before his mother saw him, or standing outside a hospital with one hand in my coat as if I had a concealed pie or something. But no, I had been dragged straight into a war with a local Mime family, who apparently controlled all the slapstick crime in the East side. No-one ever explained what exactly had an east side controlled by mimes, but I assumed it was the faintly ridiculous city I found myself in.

 Starting out low, I carried out small tasks to harm the rival families. Not being part of the family, I quickly gained access to the corrupt police chief in the Mimes' pay, hiding a whoopie cushion under his seat and pouring a vase of water over his head.

Suddenly, things took a rather unfortunate and unhilarious turn. The ClownDon sent Luca Brasier - his bra-wearing enforcer - to find out the Mime's plans. The next day, his over-sized shoes arrived in our office, a fish cemented into each. It was an old Clowning message apparently. Luca's over-sized trousers were filled with yellow cement, and his body dropped into a river. There, he would have to create balloon animals to amuse passing fish, who would bring him oxygen in return, until his balloons ran out and he drowned.

When you get down to it, clowns are bloody vicious bastards really...
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Image via Wikipedia

Saturday, 13 November 2010

I'm not really scared of clowns.

Typical clown makeup
No, I certainly don't have a phobia. But I'm distrustful of them, certainly. Maybe it's like being racist, I don't care. But then again, I do hate black people as well.
 No, not really.

Anyway, back to the clowns. I'm not terrified by them, but the make-up, the giant shoes, the over-sized trousers. What have they got to hide? Why are their faces masked and their body sizes hidden? The reason was obvious, of course. Criminals. A massive network of criminals.

 It all started in a field, as many things do. The lives of field-based animals, for instance, usually start in fields. But I wasn't emerging from a sheep's vagina, not this weekend. No, I was here with my house, which had recently been deposited in a deluge of watery proportions. Some cows had talked to me, but offered no real solutions to my predicament - how to get my house back to its original location. Kevin, the talking snail, had disappeared two days ago. I think a hawk may have grabbed him, but that's another story. But I couldn't stay in a field, it would confuse the postman.

 So, I began to look into solutions to the problem. My electricity, obviously, was out, and I seemed to have lost my wallet in the excitement, so calling and paying for help were out of the question. It was then, seeming like a miracle, that a car pulled up nearby.It was tiny, a two-seater, I would have estimated. Swinging open the door, the occupant slowly unfolded. A clown, over 6 foot, slowly stretching out his body, his knees first stretching, his body rising to a straightness of rake-like nature, standing at 90-degree angle to the earth.
 He straightened a bow-tie, water spraying sadly from the middle, and patted at an over-sized wig. A briefcase was withdrawn from his trouser-line, springing open in his hand, spraying custard over his shoes. Sadly, he picked up papers and placed them back in the case, looking down to check they were in place. Ominously, unavoidably, a spring rose up, striking like a tiger, catapulting a pie into his face. He wiped the pie from his giant glasses and approached me.

 "Good-day Sir" He began, pausing to squeak his nose with a silent acceptance. "You look like you need some help."
 I looked at him. He bore a look of sad dejection, his fate accepted, his slapstick life unavoidable.
 "Yea." I replied. "But I've got no money. What can you do anyway?"
He smiled. Not a real smile, of course, that part of his life was long over. A fake smile, hastily painted onto his face with makeup.
 "It is no problem. But one day, I will come to you. And I will ask you a favour."

With that, he clicked his fingers. From his car, clown after clown began to emerge. Giant clowns, their clothes stretched too tightly over their barrel-chests and bulging arms. They surrounded my house, lifting it from the base, and crab-walking East, towards my home. The Clown Don led me to his car, offering me a seat beside his driver, folding himself into a tiny boot I couldn't fit a hamster in.

We drove home. I now owed a debt to the Clown Mafia, of course, but no worries. I'm sure there won't be any repercussions...
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Image via Wikipedia

Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Want to see a picture of Spideman molesting a dolphin that I stole?

The Sting of the Scorpion (Spider-Man)Image via WikipediaYea? I know you do, you sick bastards. Head over to Weeding out the Idiots then. Or Iced Tea and Sarcasm, where I saw this originally. In fact, it would probably be for the best if you went to both. And brought me cake.


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Monday, 8 November 2010

In which I float and am cowed at.

A Frisian Holstein cow in the Netherlands: Int...Image via Wikipedia
Outside, it was still raining. My house, badly built and with floats instead of foundations, had gently lifted itself onto the rising flood waters outside, caressed their gentle waves, and deposited itself in the middle of a field of cows. Kevin, being a snail, had set off to forage for supplies, and I had stayed to make sure no bovines stole the house. Such is the natural order.
 "Mooo. I say, old fellow. Moo."
I turned slowly to look at the cow standing near me. A bowler hat rested on his head at a rakish angle, black make-up around one eye, all in white. He looked like Alex, minus the droogs, but he talked slowly and with purpose, like Gregory Peck.
 "I wonder, friend. Could you perhaps..."
 "Look." I cut in. "I've already got one anthropomorphic animal in my life right now, I don't need another. Are you going to commit violent crimes towards me?"
 "No." The cow replied. He hung his head in shame, and I did likewise. After a few minutes, we began to back off, not meeting the other's eye. I retreated into my hallway, and hid behind the umbrella stand. I felt safe there.
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Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Kitchen. I'm in one. There, you've got your setting. What else do you want, blood?

Picture of a grapevine snail.
Kevin. If he was really little.
Image via Wikipedia
It's wet outside. Sitting in the kitchen, drinking some tea, I reflected on that. You may think it's boring, but they were my thoughts, and you have no claim over them. If you're so upset, why not fuck off, back to your fascist thought factories, you scum.
 "Anyway, now I've insulted my readers, I can move on at last." I quipped smugly.
 "Yes. That is often the way" Kevin the snail replied.
I wondered, briefly, why he was now living in my house. I wasn't surprised though - whenever I meet any character with certain odd traits, they seem to move into my house. I guess its the same for everyone, yes?
 "Do you have anything profound to say?" I asked Kevin over my refreshing peppermint tea.
 "No." He replied. "I'm feeling a little under the weather, to be honest."
I nodded.

Kevin was right, of course. High above him, the weather continued to do its thing. I was despondent though - between us, we had nothing intelligent to say. And that severely damaged my ability to be pretentious.
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Tuesday, 26 October 2010

A brief interlude into the real world...

Since I made reference to it over on Weeding out the Idiots, I thought I would present you - my loyal readers - with some choice selections of the many things people have googled to find my blog. Some nice, normal people appear to have stumbled on it accidently while searching for Giant Jenga. I did a post on the subject some time ago, so that at least makes some sense. Here are some of the more unfortunate searches:
    A tick-box.
    Not really like a list at all...
    Image via Wikipedia

  • hating seagulls is like being racist or homophobic (A good start, wrote a post about that, makes sense.)
  • water pipe in blogspot (Well, not too bad)
  • hungry hungry hobos (Again, not awful. Did use that as a title for a post)
Then things get worse:
  • 4D porn (Well, again, I did use that in a blog)
  • 4D dog porn (Ah... Oh dear)
  • Dog waterpipe porn (Hmm...)
  • any combination of the words "dog" and "porn" with other words that you care to imagine.
  • Lord of the Rings porn
Here are some phrases no-one used. They will now attract twisted, sick individuals:
  •  Hobbit waterpipe gangbang
  • Naked jam-covered dog
  • Fecesbook
  • midget hire
  • mime buggering badgers
  • Ben Tyson
This concludes my list-based post. As you can tell, it has been a rousing success. Even now, I can hear the townsfolk shouting up at by gilded bedroom, demanding more.
 "Give us statistics!" They yell.
 "Let them eat pie-charts" I reply from within my corset.

Why not suggest your own 'searches you'd like to see'? I'll republish them here, and I promise I won't tell your mum what they say.
 Some entries:
  • hobbit humping dog pipe! (Homemaker Man)
  • Dog getting piped in the water! (Homemaker Man)
  • Lord of the Things (Homemaker Man)
  • Araporn and the dog banging hobbits (Homemaker Man)
  • Paul Blanchard wanker (Ben Tyson)
  • dog on acid sex (Ben Tyson)
  • I love the KKK (Ben Tyson)
  • Hulk dog sex (Ben Tyson)
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Monday, 25 October 2010

Am I on acid? I don't think I am...

Disco ball in blueImage via WikipediaThe disco continued to disco. I know, that isn't an verb, but I just don't care anymore. I was in a discotheque. Not a club, not a bar with music. A disco. Like you would see in documentaries about the past.
 There were Afros and shirts unbuttoned really low, men with hairy chests and women in heels and sequins. I was awash with fear.
 Near the middle of it, my prey. The person I'd been following for some time. I realise that actually sounds pretty suspicious, but once again, I can assure you I'm not a rapist.

 In fact, my prey was a middle-aged man, his face still contorted in sullenicity. Sullenness? He still looked sullen anyway. He was dancing, slowly, mesmerised by his partner.
 His partner, slime trailing behind him, held the middle of the dance floor. It was his domain, no-one dared enter it. His eye-stalks turned and twisted, fixing on the other occupants of the discotheque, then fleeting away. Clearly, he possessed dangerous, hypnotic powers. Also, he was a giant snail.

 I approached him. Years of psychological training and a botched frontal lobotomy granted me immunity to all eye-based hypnoses.
 "What's going on here?" I asked him. Mainly, I imagine, because I was interested.
 "I." He replied, "Am A giant snail, and this is my disco. As you can tell, it is the 80s every night here. Please, have a drink."
 Gesturing with a small snail arm, he pointed to a drinks tray brought towards me by quintessential 80s robots.
 "Incidentally" he added without incident, flourishing his small, unnatural snail-arm in front of my face, "These are not the droids you're looking for."
 "Your snail mind-tricks don't work on me." I replied, "But seriously? What the fuck?"
 "Ah, well." He replied. "I used to be a bin-man. My name was Kevin, I wasn't happy really. One morning, I woke up and found I was a giant snail with hypnotic powers. What else could I do?"

 I stood and pondered Kevin's question for a few moments. He had a point, there seemed little else a giant, mind-controlling snail could do.
 Except, perhaps, create a more satisfying conclusion.

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Wednesday, 20 October 2010

My return, and the tribulations it conceals...

Sandy areas are a favored habitat for the comm...Image via WikipediaThe sand battered around the magic walls.
 Seriously? What? He's going to open with a line like that? He doesn't write anything for a week-and-a-half, and that's what he opens with?
 Midday sun scorched the already burned sand. Obscuring the heat in the East, sand blew strong over the desert, rising in angry clouds and battering near the rock. Perched on top, an old man, his arms outstretched and his head lolled, Christ on the cross, but sitting on a rock. Around him, 8-10 feet of peace. Then the walls rose spherically and invisible, the sand smashing and battering them.
 I watched the wizard work. After a few moments, he looked at me and smiled a sad smile, the look of a man who has a new puppy, but has already eaten far too many.
 His eyes, full of puppy, focused on me, piercing my skin and drawing information, which is substituted for blood in this metaphor.
 "How long has it been?" I asked.
 "A thousand years." He replied. "Slightly over a week has passed for you, but outside, the world is a thousand years older. It is ready for you to return to it now."
 I nodded, noticing the wind had died down and the sand had retaken it's natural position, lazing on unending beach.
 The wizard chuckled, and sand swooped up and surrounded him. After a moment, it fell lifelessly and without life, spilling across the rock and back onto the sand which was around it but different to the first sand we talked about. But the wizard was gone.
 I noticed no change around me. After a few minutes, I got bored of waiting for society to find me, and crossed a sand dune.

 I was therefore surprised to mind myself in Ipswich. A bus pulled up to a stop near me, and a group of people got off. I approached them, and asked a small man in a hat what year it was.
 "2010" he replied sullenly.
I cursed. That was the last time I trust a wizard who demands payment in sand. Why did he need more sand?

 A few minutes passed. I followed the short man in the hat. I wanted to know why he was so sullen.
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Monday, 11 October 2010

Children in adult clothing are creepy

A small ripple spread across the surface of the oasis in front of me. I was perched on a rock though, so it didn't worry me. After a second, more rippled began to spread from near the surface of the small pond I'd found sustenance in. A few bubbles rose as well, as if something was coming to the surface.
 I straightened an imaginary tie. Of course, I was not wearing a tie, I was in the desert. No-one wears ties in the desert. I was actually naked. Not in a gratuitous sense, I'd just stripped down and washed myself from the oasis. Actually, I decided it would be best not to mention that to whatever emerged, seeing how I'd just soaked my genitalia in its home.
 After a few seconds, a small child - maybe 3 or 4 - emerged from the middle of the oasis and walked to the shore. He WAS wearing a tie, and a small adorable suit. The water ran down his body, dripping into the sand, his body drying instantly, his suit unblemished. He approached me, and I quickly moved a rock to cover my shame. I know the situation is completely innocent, but it would probably be best to not be found alone, naked and with a child.
Ready to Party

 The child reached the nearest rock to me, and regarded me thoughtfully.
 "You're naked." He remarked scornfully.
 "I was hot, needed to cool down." I replied abashed. Then, regaining my metaphorical balance, "Anyway, what business is it of yours?"
 "Do you think we should be naked naturally?" He demanded I answer
 "Well, yes. Naturally. I mean, clothes have many adva...." But he cut me off.
 "I mean, does God want us to be naked? If God wanted us to be naked, would we be born dressed?"
 "What?" I replied, confused.
 "Look at my suit. Do you think this comes from a shop? The result of a cash transfer? No! I was born wearing this, and only remove it in the privacy of my laundry room, where I instantly change into another suit while the first one washes."
 I looked at him. This was stupid. Still, I needed to know:
 "Were you born with a spare suit?"
 "No! How dare you! Those born with a second suit are an abomination to the Lord!" He yelled.
 "Then where did you get it?" I asked.
 "Oh, I bought it." He replied. "Now, why not give this a read?"
He passed me a small pile of pamphlets, before turning on his heels and walking back into the oasis. I watched him go, before casually flicking through the literature. It showed a lot of babies wearing suits. Some of them even had little bowler hats.

 The sun began to set, and I dressed again. After a while, I burned the literature for warmth. Then I crawled under some rocks and tried to get some sleep.
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Sunday, 10 October 2010

Sand, tears and melodrama

Sand blowing on the Kelso Dunes, California.Some sand. Image via WikipediaThe desert stretched out in front of me like a big desert, spreading from horizon to horizon like Lawrence of Arabia. Or a big desert. Sand, filling the area like a bathtub fills with sand, stretched across this aforementioned area. I'd wandered from the road. Where I was going, we didn't need roads.
 Still, I'd noticed some tracks heading off into the distance about 3 hours ago. Having no sense of direction, nor natural compass, I decided to follow them, falling step after step into pace with the ghost of my predecessor. As I walked, I began to study the tracks. They were... strange, to say the least. Long, sideways strokes that I'd at first taken to be snake, and also large paw-claw prints. You know, feet shaped like claws, but more padded and cuddly? But still not quite paws. Those kind of footsteps, intermixed.

So that was 3 hours ago. Now, after that time, I noticed something in the distance. A spec at first, as all things are when first conceived, growing into a blob of uncertainty as I approached. I drew nearer, still unable to understand the scene ahead. If I had know what tragedy lay in front of me, on that lukewarm desert, I would probably have turned back. Or maybe not - as I say, I have no sense of direction.

 The scene unfolded in front of me like a pop-up book of tragic proportions. This wasn't one for the kids, unless of course, you hate your kids. Two figures were ahead of me, animals flat in bestial movements. The Octopus, long and red and squidgy, lay prone on the ground. His eyes were glazed like solid ice, a substance he would surely have greeted gladly some time ago. His stare looked upwards, asking the Gods themselves, "why?".
 I looked into the eyes of his companion, and saw that no reassuring answer was forthcoming from the heartless azure that stretched above us. These eyes were fluid, melted ice that filled the wells and traced a path down the face of the Armadillo. She looked up to me, her tears still spilling and pooling on her companion's otherwise drenchless body.
 "What happened?" I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes -as I have mentioned - filled to the brim.
 "My parents told me it would never work. They were old fashioned like that."
 I nodded. I didn't know what was going on here, but this didn't seem the time to bring that up. Best just to let her talk.
 " 'Marry one of THEM?', they said. Back home, they don't like us inbreedin' with Octopus."
 I nodded. It was all I could really do.
 "So we runs off, Olly and me. Heads for America, got an aunt out there. Of course, the desert ain't for Olly. But he didn't say, never did like to complain. And now look at him! Look at him!"
 I looked at the dead Octopus. Secretly, I was impressed he'd made it this far. Resisting the temptation to fry him, I patted the Armadillo on the back and began to walk on.

The desert goes on for miles. Otherwise, it would just be a sandpit of a little beach without any water. Up high, we all look like ants. Desert ants. From the clouds, the Gods watch as one ant walks on. Behind him, there's a figure - could be two ants, could just be one really fat ant. After a while, a pool of salty tears forms. Eventually, a lake spreads out and drowns the two ants. The years go on, and life begins anew, trees spout by the lake, grass grows. Eventually, helicopter, pilot blinded by a reflection from the lake's surface, crashes into the pool. The oil leaks out, destroying the Oasis. But the Gods watch on, impassive. All live has it's place, and what can an ant do but play his role?

 Probably not run off with a Octopus into the fucking desert, I suppose.
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Wednesday, 6 October 2010

I felt I should recover my decorum after the madness...

The owls were dead. That's all the closure you're going to get.
This isn't me. From here...
The rain was light, nothing to complain about. I shouldn't open with the weather, I know, but it's all there was in the desert. The rocks moved slightly underfoot, thin gravel and small road boulders running around my feet. The rainwater filled around my feet as the time passed, even the lightest of falls make torrents with time. Also, I was walking in a gutter. I'd decided it was time for a break, time to control the beast within me. Not a real beast, although my departure, shirted and bag on back down a desert highway was rather reminiscent of the Hulk.
 No, the beast was one of metaphorical proportions. It was anger though, like Bruce Banner. But stupid anger, anger towards Max (Which isn't so stupid) and anger towards most things. I mean, ok, zombie owls attacked my house the other day, and a lot of other bad shit happened to me in the past. But really, it's nothing worth complaining about. Besides, it'll do me some good to have a break. Meet new people, see interesting new places.

Ahead of me, in the road, a vulture sat watching me. I began to worry, could he be the Devil? Pissed him off before, probably best to avoid him. But then again, he'd been wearing a suit and was red. The vulture was not, and I didn't figure the Devil to be the kind of person who'd try to trick you.

 "Caww" Said the vulture.
I stopped and looked at him sadly.
 "Caww!" He said. Note, please, the excitement he said it in.
 "I'm sorry," I replied. "I don't speak vulture."
 "Caww!" He repeated. I shook my head again, and he pulled a knife from his feathers, waving it unsteadily in my direction.
 "Caww! Give me your wallet!" He demanded.
 "You bastard!" I yelled. "You spoke English the whole time! Where's the nearest train station?"
 "Caww! Wallet!" He yelled.
I was bored, and began walking again. As I passed the vulture, he lunged at me with the knife. Fortunately, he had no hands, so the stab had no force. Dropping the knife, he looked embarrassed and retreated behind a nearby rock.
 After a few seconds, the bitter-sweet noise of animal crying filled the air. I too became embarrassed, and set off again on my journey.
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Ok, so I drank a lot of energy drink and I'm a little off my head...

Smiley from the sMirC-series. wink
What are you winking about?
Wait until I get my hands on you...
Image via Wikipedia
Well, I should be writing an essay. But it's ok, my girlfriend won't find this blog post. I mean, she doesn't have a computer in the kitchen, does she? Do you know what I'm saying gents? wink wink, nudge nudge.
 Anyone who laughed because they agreed with that, not because it was ironic, should be ashamed. Bad men! Bad!
 Anyone who laughed because it was ironic should also be ashamed. It wasn't that funny.

Anyway, where was I going with this? I don't think it's about corporatism in Fascist Italy, that's another writing in thing... Oh yea, I remember:
I mean, seriously. This isn't a profound blog. I just ramble madly. Like this. Except usually less madly, because right now I'm full of taurine and caffeine. Anyway, yea. Not a profound blog. Ramble. And so on.

Sorry, this isn't personal abuse. Unless you're a Nazi or something. Nazism was a unique variation of fascism, characterised by biological racism and anti-Semitism. Damn, wrong page... Anyhow, so no to reading this if you're a Nazi. Or Glenn Beck. Or the people who stole my flatmate Steve's bike last year.

So yea. I'm sorry, but I think you're approaching the blog the wrong way. It's probably my fault - the fact I use a persona and the same characters again and again probably makes it seem like this is somehow based in reality. Using random characters who don't seem properly fleshed out would probably express the madness better. So I'm sorry for that. (Incidentally, that was Hayley's point. I just wanted to shake you and shout "It doesn't make sense! It doesn't make sense! I don't even know what it means!" Over and over again.)

But yea. I think that's where I was going with this. Sorry to most people who won't understand what this means. I certainly don't know what it means either.

What's taurine anyway?
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Monday, 4 October 2010

Running. Running Fast

boarded door
This is not my door. Image by digiyesica via Flickr
"Panicking, we boarded up the doors. It was cold and the rain beated down on the path. The duckpond flowed over with water and ran into the drains and the gutters. The man looked at me, his name was Max. He was an idiot, fear spreading from his eyes. Lips aquiver.

There were noises outside. The thud of light claws. Hooting of beaks angered but impartial. Flapping..."
It was then Max slapped me around the head:
"Stop talking like that, I'm meant to be the stupid one. This isn't the time to be talking like your Cormac McCarthy or something.
I was silent - Max was stupid, Cormack McCarthy is a far worse writer than me. Everyone is. Ripped my style off, all of them. Stole my ideas. But that's besides the point. Another point that's beside the first one is that Max, for a foolish fool, was remarkably well-read. Anyway, back to the first point, which is surrounded by other points.
 Outside, we could hear them clawing at the doors and windows, hooting through the letter box and doing other shit. Using the nails and wood I keep for such an emergency, Max and I quickly boarded up such orifices as my house possesses, retreating to the living room where my miniature train set might offer some protection. But to no avail! The door, yielding under the incessant clawing and repeated dive-bombings, flew open. The hoard entered.
The undead, a fearsome advisory, but one we'd fought and overcome before. But these, these were something different. Something new. Twit-twooing, flapping their wings and pecking their beaks and the air. Their heads rotating at odd angles. Hungry for flesh and brains.
Zombie Owls.

My life is so fucking stupid...
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Friday, 1 October 2010

For Neil, a truly pretentious reply to make me look like an asshole.

A picture of a letter, Image via Wikipedia.
I know, I know. But I like to use pictures now...
 So, as you'll all know, here at Dog in the Water Pipe offices, I spend night and day fillling through a huge pile of fan mail. As such, I'm going to publish one such piece. This letter, by virtue of being the only letter I've actually received, has secured a place in my heart as my favourite piece of correspondence.
 By the same logic, it's also the most hate-worthy, anti-Semitic, cow-raping letter I've ever seen. But that's besides the point. So read on, gentle reader:
 Dear Mr Paul
                      Since choosing to follow your Twitter, I have lately become intrigued by the nature of your blog. However, I completely fail to understand the topic matter. For instance, where does Mr. Potato come in? Who or what is Max? Why do none of the posts seem to make any sense?!
 I hope you can help me understand by clarifying some of these issues, so that I may continue to read it and actually understand what is going on!
You see, the problem here is that my reader - whom I shall refer to as "Neil" from now on - is under the misapprehension that my blog is actually the thought-out writings of a sane individual. Now, I'm not saying that my writings are without purpose - once, I think someone laughed out of sympathy at them, and if a laptop were to be opened on my blog, then folded over the head of a tramp, it would provide some shelter from the elements. However, I feel I have been neglecting my loyal reader, so please have some answers:
  1.  Where does Mr. Potato come in? Mr. Potato was an idea I had in the shower. You see, that probably doesn't satisfy you. You were probably looking for an in-depth analysis of Mr. Potato's symbolism of the Peruvian proletariat. Mr. Potato does not represent anything - he is a potato, imbued with certain characteristics common to humans, who happens to have a deep, burning hatred for Peruvians. My original post for Mr. Potato, I'll admit, did look at the differences in his overall character compared to what we take away from studying him - Mr. Potato was a good man in general: he loved his family, cared for preserving buildings of historical interest, and supported various charities. If we met him running a tiny charity shop and talked to him for a while about his home life, we would think him a sweet, kind man. However, if we mentioned Peruvians, we would see an angry, hate-filled man twisted by an anger the source of which is unidentifiable to us. So perhaps Mr. Potato is an examination of the duality of man, and of how our perceptions of an individual are shaped by certain events and ideas, rather than the course of a man's life. Or maybe I just wanted to draw a racist potato.
  2. Who or what is Max? Max is the comic foil to my straight-man persona. It's a common, over-used literary technique - he does something stupid, which elicits a humerous response. My character then shows up the flaws of this stupid deed, and more humour arises. Basically, the very existence of Max should have you crying tears of laughter all across the large carpet of your bedroom, which I've been in when you were out, your entrails spilling out of your sides, which have split with laughter.
  3. Why do none of the posts seem to make sense? Well, don't really know how to answer this question in a pretentious manner. They don't make sense because they don't. Often, they're ideas I have when bored and write about. Usually, I just write then on the spur of the moment, half-heartily spellcheck them, then publish them. This is probably why they don't make any sense. There is no great purpose that I'm building up to, no political agenda being pushed most of the time, no demands for the sacrifice of my readers' first-born children
So there, I hope that's managed to clear things up for you, because it certainly hasn't for me.
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