A tall tale concerning soup

Max slammed the soup down in front of me. Properly slammed it down, I mean. It made a sort of Thud! noise, and a warm, tomato-like substance splashed my face. I considered asking him what was wrong, but Max was like an enigma: hard to fit into an everyday conversation. I returned my attention to the soup, deciding it would be easier to understand, or at least eat. It was not, however, easier to eat - Max had not provided me with a spoon. Nervously, I hazarded the question to him.
 "Spoon?" He yelled at me. "I'll spoon you!"
I waited for him to run the sentence through his mind for a second. After 36, he still hadn't noticed his minorly amusing statement, so I pointed it out to him. He glared at me, stormed into the kitchen, and returned with a handful of spoons. Angrily, he began to throw them at me, shouting abuse in Esperanto.
 Sometimes, I regret the day I rescued Max from the dumpster. It's not that he was abandoned like a puppy or a prom-night baby, just that he got stuck in there one day while looking for clams. To this day, he blames mole-people. I don't believe him though: Mole people are very respectable members of society, and I won't hear a word said against them.

The one where I spy on people in a cafe and go insane

I watched the young couple near me. Well, they were leaning across the table, smiling, touching hands occasionally, smiling more, mocking passing tramps, so I assumed they were a couple. I'm not a stalker, I was just killing time while I waited for something, some kind of literally techniques, I suppose. As I said, they were at the table, talking in low, hushed voices. Knowing my luck, I imagined they were having a Tarantino-style conversation, so the romance would probably turn to some sort of violence directed at me. I slipped my hand into my jacket, searching for the reassuring weight of my hand-cannon. (Literally, a tiny cannon. For many years, I'd misunderstood the Dirty Harry films.) Damn! Of course, I remembered then: I'd lent it to my friend George for his Museum of Mouse Warfare. I wasn't too worried though, I'd seen a lot of films about kung-fu, karate and Krakens, so I could handle myself.
 A few minutes passed, then an hour. The couple had ordered another coffee, finished it, and were still talking. I was watching them like a hawk, perched on the back of my chair. Obviously, they were eying the place up for some sort of illegal high-jinx - glancing around the room, looking at me with a nervous expression. But I was wise to them, returning their gaze intently. They paid the cheque, and escaped the room with a worried look on their faces. Obviously, they met their match in me.
 After I was sure they'd left, I spread my wings and flew back to my chair. I ordered a muffin, then robbed the joint. It's been a productive day.

The bear took another swig of beer. I tried to check my watch subtly, wondering exactly how late it was. Whatever time, it was far too late to be listening to a drunken bear. Frankly, I regretted ever going to an animal bar, but friends had told me it was exciting.
 It was not.
 "And... And alcohol, is a great provoker of three things..." He mumbled drunkenly.
 "Oh..." I replied. I really didn't care, but he went on anyway.
 "What does it provoke?" He asked himself. Then, believing I had asked the question, he continued: "Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes;it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him."
 I looked at him in shock for a few moments. I had been willing to set aside the fact that bears can't speak for the evening, but now he was quoting Shakespeare. Even for me, this was particularly weird. After a few minutes, the bear collapsed drunkenly, destroying the table. The bartender glared at me angrily from behind his ill-tended bar, and I smiled apologetically. The bartender, obviously not placated by this, pulled a shotgun from behind the bar, and I ran for it.
 He'll probably shoot the bear and stuff him. I know I should care, but that seems like a lot of work. Besides, if I go 'round rescuing everyone who quotes Shakespeare, it'll go to his head. And no-one wants big-headed zombie Shakespeares, do they?

Feel the burn...

Stuart Stewart popularized the exhortation "feel the burn", (According to wikipedia) which works along the no pain, no gain theme. The burn, of course, refers to being able to feel your muscles working, thus proving your exercise is working. Of course, I wanted to do a joke about fire and exercise, but worried I would be taken seriously. That is, you would assume I really though self-immolation was a good way to keep in shape. There, I've ruined any form of humour that could have arisen from this situation. Are you happy? Because you've ruined this for me.
 Inconsiderate bastards, all of you.

Please keep reading. There'll be tea and cake.
Maybe

(Ha, the title looks like "feel the bum"... I'm so mature...)

Some kind of Extremists are targeting me...

I was awoken last night by some sort of commotion in my front yard. Rushing outside, I found a giant, burning cross and an effigy hanging from a tree. With trepidation, I approached the effigy, expecting some sort of crude representation of a black man or a Jew, or whatever group bigots like to pick on these days. However, closer inspection revealed what appeared to be a middle aged white man-doll. Closer inspection still (Not that close, I was about a foot away. I was just studying it more intently. You shouldn't take everything so literally.) revealed the figure had a very high waistline. It dawned on me - I was obviously being targeted by a group of Simon Cowell haters. Since I was examining things closer, I took a better look at what I'd assumed was a crucifix. In fact, the cross was more of a Saint Andrew's affair than the traditional Jesus-nailing cross, and the X-shaped cross was painted red. Obviously, someone really didn't like the X-factor.
 I get that... What I don't get is why they were so extreme about it or why they targeted me. I don't even like Simon Cowell, so why target me?
 How can so much shit happen to the same person?

I solemnly answered the door.

Outside, a pair of men: slightly hunched over, with nervous smiles on their faces. Of course, these smiles were obscured by huge fake beards. You see, they were both dressed as Santa. I probably should have told you that earlier. Bah, who cares?
 I scanned their hands quickly - nope, no Bibles. This wasn't going to be like last month, when two Religious callers sneaked into my house disguised as my parents, anyway.
 "Can I help you?"
 "Well, we're here with presents. We're Santa, you see." Said the first
 "Santa." Replied the second, nodding hopefully.
Deciding nothing hilarious would happen if I didn't let them into my house, I invited the two Santas inside. I made them both a cup of tea, and they drank it silently. After a few minutes, they thanked me and left.
 To this day, I have no idea why they visited. I did notice they stole a lot of coal from my fireplace though. Thieving jolly bastards.

It's taken me several months,

But I've finally done it! No more can people say, "The grass is always greener on the other side", thanks to my extensive spray-painting. Not only is my grass now the greenest grass in the country, but every other garden near my now looks like hamster vomit!
 This has been an expensive endeavour, but I feel it's been worth it. I mean, grass lasts for ever, right?

Life is pretty normal today...

OK, you've all been on My Life Is Average, haven't you? You know, that site where people post things about how there day was average? Average things being, of course, exciting in modern, high-speed life... Well, I'm angry... These people's posts aren't, on average, average. To me, the idea of an average day would be "Today, I had beans on toast", or "Today, I worked 8 hours at a job I hate, and had a sandwich for lunch". See, that's not funny, it's bland and commonplace. It's not my average day, because that features more vodka and less work, but that doesn't matter. But instead of such blandities, they have stories such as, "Today, I remembered when I was kidnapped by a mad scientist. He replaced my inside organs with a machine that bred ferrets, and my left arm with a cannon that fired the ferrets at PTA members." (I'm lying, I made that up.) Anyway, the point is, a life about averages should, if accurate, only appeal to people with a number fetish: it should be boring, like life. The only interesting things in life that are commonplace are runaway pianos, and they usually kill a lot of people.
 Pianos are evil, I think that was the point I was trying to make...

Happy Valentines day...

And once again, I have been locked in my room. This time, however, I'm sadly missing a bucket of fish heads. Why, you ask? Well, discarding the benefits to humanity of locking me away in any situation, my flatmates are having a romantic meal in the living room. (That's Steve and Lizzie for anyone who knows us. Ben and Steve have yet to come out). It's cold in here, I can see my breath. Seriously, that's not one of my lies. I can't feel my toes. I don't want to freeze to death and ruin the day for anyone, so I'll do my best to stay warm. Perhaps I could use this as an incentive to do some exercise, or something. Or just justify masturbating. What if I freeze anyway? I don't want to be remembered as the guy who was found in his bedroom, frozen to death with one hand on his junk and the other lifting weights, on Valentine's day...

I have a recurring nightmare...

One day in the future, my son comes home from school. Apparently, another kid's been bullying him, and my son's confronted him. The kid, obviously not as tough as he appears, has promised my son his dad will fight my son's. Whom I believe to be me.
 Of course, I plan to meet the father and settle things amicably. However, after a phonecall, I realise the father is actually a jerk, and he comes round to fight me. Only then do I discover the kid is Jesus, and I have to fight God in my front yard.
 Also, we're dressed like turn-of-the-century boxers, and have large, handlebar moustaches...

Cowboys, they're a bunch of cowboys...

Well, it would certainly be a talking point, I thought to myself. Of course, a new radiator shouldn't be a talking point in a normal house, and I lacked the balls or artistic talent to pull off a radical interior decoration such as this. I shall explain: Last week, I noticed my radiator wasn't heating up of an evening. I tried various repair techniques - mainly poking it with cutlery - but, to no avail. Later that day, it began making strange clunking noises, and a strange, green liquid started to leak out. This liquid, obviously acid in nature, melted through my radiator in a matter of seconds, and took out a large section of floor as well. Now, not only was I cold, but the tramps locked in my basement were able to escape.
 So, early the next day, I phoned a firm of travelling radiator salesman and fitters, whom had come highly recommended by several friends, colleagues and the Duke of Northumberland. They arrived two days later, and surveyed the wall (newly repaired with duct tape), nodded wisely, and told me they had the right radiator in stock, and could fit it the next day. This seemed good, and I agreed - they would come round middayish, and fit the radiator.
 Midday arrived, and so did they, promptly and ready to work. Happily pleased, I popped out to the shop for a few minutes. I returned, 7 hours later, from one of my zany adventures, to find the workmen gone. Expecting some high-quality work, I entered my hallway.
 Well, the radiator works. It does the job it's name describes admirably - leaking gamma radiation all through my house. The mice have mutated to giant sizes, their swelled craniums barely holding in the expanded minds that grant them psychic powers. As for me, I'm fine. Unless you make me angry - you wouldn't like me if I got angry.
 I doubt you like me now...

It was getting dark, when it suddenly hit me...

that I didn't have a mouth. After 14 minutes of trying to spoon soup into the flat area of face under my nose, I looked in the mirror and felt that this sentence was long and badly written. I also thought, "I have no mouth".
 I apologise - Its early, and I'm feeling the effects of a bottle of vodka... Just get to the joke, get it over with...
Panicking, I ran from the house and drove to Max's. The door quickly yielded to my frantic knocking, as Max - resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts combo entirely unsuitable for the time of year - appeared. I noticed the flash of alarm when he obviously noticed my lack of mouth, but when he said nothing, I began to frantically point to my face.
 He looked at me, only just restraining laughter:
 "What's wrong?" Come on..." He chuckled, "Spit it out! Cat got your..." But now he was on his knees, in floods of laughter. I waited a few minutes, then hit him with a lamp.
If you're reading this, please send an ambulance to his house.

Is fire...

A viable alternative to cleaning my flat?
It wasn't a good substitute for exercise, I'll tell you...

There's a stall outside my house...

Early this morning, I noticed them setting it up - 4 or 5 gnomes, in little gnome suits and hats, with a truck. The stall looks like your typical American child's Lemonade stall: it's wooden, crudely made, and has a little sign nailed on top. It differs, however, in regard to its contents: while a lemonade stall sells lemonade, and homemade bacterial infections, this stall lacked lemons, products derived from lemons, or even yellow coloured water pretending to feature lemons. What there was, was a huge pile of jam. Well, jams to be more correct - lots of different flavours and colours of jams, piled up next to the stall.
 After lunch, I went out to see what was going on. The gnomes told me it was a pick'n'mix stall, and I could pick my own jams and fill a bag to take home. I explained that I liked jam that A)I knew the flavour of, and B)wasn't sold off a big pile outside. I also explained they were in my front garden. They took this badly, throwing handfuls of jam at me until I retreated into the house.
The joke's on them though - even now, a huge swarm of wasps is descending on their stall, ripping them limb from limb. Remember this, dear reader - Never cross me!

I'm being stalked every dusk...

"Who are you?"
It was getting late - not so late as to become dark, but perhaps dusk. Becoming dusk?... No, it was dusky? Well, whatever.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was beginning to go away. It was, in fact, dusk. But this isn't the interesting part of this story. In fact, the interesting part stood about 4 foot behind me. It had stayed constantly about 4 foot behind me for the best part of 10 minutes, despite my ducking and diving. It was a he, and he was a middle-aged man, going grey and balding on the top of the hair department, dressed in a tweed suit, like Sean Connery in The Untouchables. So, this brings us back to the beginning of this exciting tale (mundane fictional blog).
 "I'm your new sidekick." He replied. Despite the fact he was clearly stalking me, and fabricating a relationship between us, he didn't sound altogether creepy when he told me who he though he was. Actually, he had a pleasing, reassuring tone. He seemed trustworthy, and - as the word implies - I was inclined towards trusting him. However, it occurred to me suddenly that he wasn't my sidekick - Max was in jail for illegally exposure towards a minor (from a mine, don't worry. Although he was a dwarf - a fantasy one, mind you), and I hadn't seen that superhero kid who used to follow me since the Keene act. So, with some worries, I turned towards the gent, and spoke:
 "Really? I'm afraid I don't know you, good sir."
 "Yes," He continued, "I've been sent to be your new sidekick. I'm a real person, with real personal traits and problems, to make your blog more mature and realistic."
 "Uh huh..." I uh huhed, declining to ask whom had sent him, "And these problems are...?"
 "Well, I dislike blacks and gays." He stated matter-of-factly. And suddenly, things got awkward. You know, more awkward than a middle-aged man following you.
 "But," He went on, "I'm forced to address these aspects of my personality when my son comes out of the closet and enters a relationship with a black man."
"Right," I backed off, "Well, good luck with that... Tackling your prejudices I mean, not the bigotry."
I continued to back off, until I hit the road. Turning, I ran into the traffic, dodging in and out of cars, until I was home. I shut the curtains and curled into a ball under my bed. Frankly, I can't be doing with any more sidekicks. I'll just end up pregnant.

A fact

In 1931, Lili de Alvarez was the first woman to wear shorts at Wimbledon. Until 1931, female players wore boiler suits.

I took another look at the note...

It was small, I'll give it that. Inspection of it revealed small, untidy writing in general, punctuated by several larger, neater words of more than one syllable. Despite it's claim to be from local government, the letter had clearly been written by a group of mice - the demands for immediate payment of cheese taxation clearly supported this hypothesis, anyhow. Similarly, I'd seen a group of hungry looking mice hanging 'round the neighbourhood, shouting racist slogans at passers-bye and building igloos. Mice are truly fascinating creatures, I thought to myself, as I stored the letter in my letter rack. Fascinating, I thought again, as I returned to my paint fumes and hemp underwear.