Amazing Art 2

Amazing Art

Accounts in the mist

The neon light flickered, on and off, smog billowing and whores whoring illuminated in her glaze. Stretching out, she reached into my office, her gentle glow caressing my face. I leaned back in my chair, lighting another cigarette. The cold streets might be my home, but tonight I stayed with only my filing for company. The night belonged to lovers, so I stuck to daytime. And, as...
 "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" I yelled.
Max, dressed in by best suit and Fedora, was reclining in an office chair in front of the window. Outside, someone had fitted a flashing red light to a smog machine and tied up what I believed to be a prostitute, or a mature woman with bad fashion sense.
 "Role-playing," Max replied. "Ever since I became unsuper again, I've been feeling ordinary. You know, bored of myself. So I thought I'd try being someone else."
I stopped. That was actually kinda sad.
 "Ok" I said sympathetically, "Who are you being?"
 "I'm trying out a hardened accountant," Max replied. "Look - I've got spreadsheets and receipts and everything!"
My sympathy evaporated. A lot of smog was filling the room now, and the whore had freed herself. Lost in the mist - like those gorillas - she emerged, brandishing a broken bottle - like those gorillas Max tried to mug at the zoo. Hastily, I locked myself in the bathroom. It seemed safest, and I needed to pee anyway.

Max hasn't any superstrength anymore.

We went to the doctors - being, as we were, recently deceased. The doctor kindly explained that he had no understanding of necromancy, nor did he know how to stop the decay that had set in on our zombie corpses, but that Max had a high amount of steroids in his blood stream. Damn Satan, you wily trickster! Eliciting the number Max had used to summon the Devil himself, I placed a quick call.
 Out by the roadside, the Devil once again approached me. This time, he was dressed more casually, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He apologised - I'd caught him after work.
 "So," I asked, "You will give me anything - no questions asked - in return for my soul?"
 "Yea. Even these jeans!"
 "Ok then." I continued. "I Max and I to be brought fully back to life, none of this zombie crap. I also want our souls back, and a promise there'll be no ramifications from this."
 He threw a tantrum. A big one, for 2 hours. Then he met my demands. I don't imagine there'll be no comebacks from this, you can't expect to trick the devil and get away fine. But I've tangled with Gods and Demi-Gods, daemons and dragons, Godzilla and even those Apes from Planet of the Apes. I can deal with this.

It's been almost another week...

Where have I been? Space, that's where! Max, carried away with his super-strength, went on the rampage in Las Vegas. Of course, there can only be one outcome to such an event - Max, lured by the promise of free toothpicks, was fired into space. I, still mounted on him sexlessly, was also catapulted into the starry ocean. Sharing a crisp packet of oxygen, we survived in orbit long enough to see the sunrise from behind the earth. It was beautiful, and as I lost consciousness in its orange aura, I thought to myself, "that's beautiful." Then we died. Fortunately, and avoiding any continuity problems, Max and I appear to have been brought back to life by necromancer astronauts, who rescued our frozen bodies from the depths of space.

Shelves... There were a lot of shelves...

Max had gone mad. First, he'd taken me - still mounted dangerously on his back, riding him in a non-erotic fashion - into town, where he'd viciously chased a puppy for 14 minutes, until he got bored and bought some sausage rolls. Gripping them too tightly in his newly-muscled hands, he sent sausage, pig anus and gloopy fat squirting up and onto my face. As I rode his back.
 Then, having cleaned me up, he set of to the D.I.Y shop and bought a pile of shelves, which he proceeded to hammer viciously onto his wall. Everywhere. Horizontally, vertically, sometimes at strange 37-degree angles, he pinned shelving all across his flat. This paragraph, I fear, I cannot end erotically. Well, so what?
 STOP JUDGING ME!

Sorry... Got a bit carried away...

Max and I have reached a crossroads...

Literally. We're standing at a point where two roads cross. Max, angered by his recent inability to defeat a starved, out-of-shape tramp, his pride damaged and his ear crudely sewn to his hair, wanted to get in shape. Of course, Max is rather lazy and easily distracted, making exercise a dangerous thing. So, never one to live life safely, he leaped to the extreme solution - trading his soul for the ripped physique of a some sort of well-physiqued person. Hence why we had travelled to meet him at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
 Satan, suited in the finest Parisian fashions (All of them), appeared on the hour. Stepping from the back of a yellow cab, he approached Max, ripped his shirt off, and painted fake abs onto his stomach. Standing back, he nodded as an artist appreciating his work, and turned to leave. Max, keen to try his new strength out, hopped a fence and punched a cow. The cow, mooing calmly, flew away into the distance. I however did not moo calmly. I was worried. Very worried.
 Flexing his muscles, Max hoisted me onto his back and set off at a run. Apparently, he had a list, and we were going to punch our way through it. I didn't like where this was going...

We ran, and he gave chase.

The tramp gave chase. Frankly, he was in good shape for a presumably malnourished man. Legs and arms pumping back and forth, pistons pistoning or whatever they do, he was rapidly covering the ground between us. Like the terminator, if Arnie was wearing ripped blue jeans, a checked lumberjack shirt and a dirty bowler hat.
 "Just give him back the money!" I yelled to Max. Of course, I didn't yell it so coherently. There were pauses for me to draw ragged breaths, and such, but I was to lazy to write them in.
 "No!" Yelled Max, "I earned that 14p!"
Behind us, the tramp was still gaining on us. I could see the red in his eyes, the flickering of froth around his mouth. I wondered if he had rabies. Probably, but I didn't want to make assumptions just because he'd fallen on hard times.
 Catching a second wind, Max and I sprinted onto a busy highstreet. Weaving through crowds, who quickly gave our pursuer a wide birth, we headed past a street-sculpture and a herd of passing Nuns. Behind us, the tramp, now only 10 feet away, pulled his hat from his head and send it flying. Spinning fast, it shot past Max's head, edges sharpened like Oddjob's, the hat took Max's ear.
 Nearing me now, the tramp stretched out his arms. I'd had enough, and we only had 3 ears between us now, so my planning probably wasn't sound. Stopping, I dived sideways, tackling Max. The tramp, having built up momentum during the chase, raced past us, unstoppable, hitting a waist-high bin. Colliding, flying, somersaulting, he flew up and away from us, high into the sky, silhouetted on the sun, before coming back down, onto the road, into the side of a double-decker bus. Grabbing both Max and his severed ear, I made good our escape before the tramp could recover.

"I'm hungry"...

"Of course you are." I replied tersely. Is that the word I'm looking for? I think I replied tersely anyhow...
 Max and I were in the big city - some sort of nameless city, big in size, located near my home somewhere - avoiding the many forces of light, darkness and beige out to get my foolish friend. Of course, in the rush to escape my besieged house, I'd forgotten my wallet. And Max claimed his was in the stomach of a fish, so that was no good either.
 "I know!" He shouted, "We mug a Big Issue salesman! Actually, we just steal his Big Issues, and the bib and identification and stuff, and sell the Big Issues ourselves, and use the money to buy fried chicken and burgers!"
 I looked at Max, hoping to detect a hint of sarcasm. There was none.
 "So. Your plan is basically to rob the homeless of what little dignity and money they have so we can buy junk food?"
 "Yea!"
 "Ok." I replied, "I'm in."
In my defense, I hadn't eaten for at least half an hour...

Men! I have done it!

Gentlemen, I have completed a fabled task! Long has it been the stock of comedians, sitcoms and drunken men who think they are comedians or in a sitcom, to comment on the ability - seemingly innate to women - to put a towel on one's head, twist it three times, and leave it there. The towel, to the woman, is a natural friend, staying there until the hair is dry and such things friends do. Long has it been said that men cannot achieve such a unity with the towel. Long has it been said that these magics are know only to women through ancient and often-renewed deals with Satan himself.
 Not so, friends! For I have placed a towel on my head and achieved such a goal!
It was shit. The whole thing was tight, it covered one of my eyes, and whenever I moved, it caused shooting pains across my whole head. I hereby move to make it illegal to own a towel, either for personal use, or to sell to damp people on the street. Think of the children! Oh, why won't anyone think of the children!

Everyone was back...

The French Secret Servicemen, following an anonymous tip-off from me (I put a bag on my head, they had no idea who I was) had gone to Peru to search for Max. Mr Potato had gone with them to shout at the locals. My mother was still gone, and Max - free from pursuit for the moment - was at my place, drinking tea. For a man pursued by Secret chaps in suits, he was remarkably calm, although he refused to tell me what he'd done that had so offended France, and I thought it better not to push the point, as there are some things man is better not knowing.
 The orphan-children were also back, running 'round the place, smashing my many priceless vases I'd foolishly balanced on small tables and the like.
 "What I don't get," I began, "Is where they all came from."
 "Well, I can help you there!" Max said, "You see, over the time we've know each other, I've been secretly replacing your birth control pills with tiny mints!"
I sighed, as one is often compelled to do in Max's company. I considered a long, structured list of the many flaws of this explanation. Instead, I got up and fetched a broom.

Chasing Max from the house, waving the broom manically, I wondered what the neighbours thought of me. At least I was dressed this time. If they were to pull back their curtains, watch and listen, they may have heard Max's parting message:
 "You might not thank me for the kids," he yelled, "But you'll thank me for the fresh breath!"

Musings on time and space. Mainly just time.

Chronologically arranged, with their front covers on display, the box-sets for all 6 seasons and the film of Sex and the City prove a powerful visual demonstration of the inability of man (and woman) to fight the aging process...

 If one were, in time, to travel through space, one would need to practise good oral hygiene. Of course, this could be accomplished through the use of toothpaste and brush. The other day, I answered the a question that had bothered me for several minutes: "Does toothpaste go off?" The answer, yes!
 So, if you should find a tube of several year old toothpaste in a box, please don't use it. It will taste bad, and probably melt your teeth. That can happen, you know...

Back to non-reality.

So, I'm back home. You know, with my mother, and the French Secret Service - who are still looking for Max. And Mr. Potato and Bigfoot, for some inexplicable reason.
 Actually, I have no idea where this is going. Could Bigfoot be Peruvian on his mother's side? Let's just scrap this entire storyline, start something new... But wait, you people crave continuity. You're always telling me that... Well, ok then.

 The house was on fire. No two ways about it - flames licked my my veranda, hot embers filled my bath, tongues of fire hotter than the whores of hell ascended my staircase. My mother, unimpressed, got out of the boot and left town. I'll probably never hear from her again. No loss, she was a useless literary tool. The French Secret Servicemen, smug looks on their faces, stood ankle-deep in my duck pond.
 "Ha, monsieur. We warned you zis woul 'appen!" They shouted happily, "Where iz 'ee?"
To be honest, they hadn't warned me about this at all. And I still wasn't giving them Max. Sure, I wanted revenge on them for destroying my home, but I didn't hate the French enough to unleash Max on them again.

Well, it's what everyone's talking about...

So, Charlie Brooker and Konnie Huq are to get married. I know this is a newsworthy story, because at least two people I follow Tweeted about it, and it's in the Daily Mail. (I realise this probably means little to non-British readers. Who cares, this is a blog. I'll do the important things: getting angry about issues that don't affect you, and mentioning Hitler)
 "The most unlikely showbiz wedding?" is the headline the Mail runs this story under. Well, no, probably not. Discarding many other showbiz weddings that are or were unlikely and actually occurred, I'd say the most unlikely romance would be between the reanimated remains of Marlon Brando and a horse. The Mail, unable to understand how two people who seem different can possibly form a romance, continues with several comparisons - Miss Huq, of course, rose to fame hosting children's Show Blue Peter, giving her a nice, family-friendly appearance. Brooker, in comparison, says some nasty things about TV shows and celebrities, using words you wouldn't say to your grandmother.
 So what we have here is in fact, a simple case of two people who have opposing screen personas. Wow, how could these two people ever get along? Actually, I don't think the Daily Mail likes Charlie. It does go on about his "foul-mouthed" shows a lot, and his dropping out of college, without once mentioning that he won Columnist of the Year at the 2009 British Press Awards, for instance.
 So, to once again distance myself from the Daily Mail in whatever way possible, I offer the best of luck to Charlton and Kanak, and to anyone else out there getting married.
 Unless you're a Nazi of course. In which case, I'll have to borrow some words from Brooker himself, and tell you to go away.
 And die. You're worse than Hitler. God, you people make me sick...

I thought trainstation and carpark were words, but my spellcheck begs to differ...

The train drew to a stop. As such, I also stopped moving. Because I was on the train. There, I've said it.
 Bigfoot had long since departed, leaving me to sit next to an elderly woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Don King. I was going to pick up my mother, you see. After Le French Secret Service started squatting in my house, I'd managed to phone my mother and convince her to put off her visit for a few days, which she'd spent living out of bins and hunting elk.
 To continue my longstanding lie that I was successful, I stole a BMW from the train-station car-park, setting off to pick her up from her hotel... Alley... Whatever. Bundling her in the boot, I began the journey home.
 Sorry, this blog doesn't have a real beginning or end, it's kind of a filler in the long-running narrative that is my insanity. And I'm still not sure what Mr. Potato the racist potato had to do with anything...

Mr. Potato

This is Mr. Potato. As you may have guessed, he is a Scot, and something of a nationalist (with a small 'n'). However, if you were to spend too much time with Mr. Potato, you might detect a very small undercurrent of racism, just if the subject of Peruvians was to be raised. Of course, this isn't a common topic of conversation, so the casual observer would probably take a liking to Mr. Potato: after all, he's a kind and caring father, good at taking the bins out, and spends his Sundays caring for the elderly.
 So Mr. Potato seems to be an all-round nice guy, unless you ask him about Peruvians, whereupon he will shout, "Kill them all!". Mr. Potato believes none should be spared: Man, woman, child or Llama, they should all be chopped up and fried.
 So, beneath the cover, this gentle friendly man - who you would trust to babysit your kids or walk your Grandmother - is actually a dangerous lunatic. You have been warned!
 If only Mr. Potato had heard that old saying, "You shouldn't judge a potato by its skin", then applied that saying to Peruvians, the world would be a better place...


I have no idea what any of this was about. All I can say is that it came to me in the shower. Whether that makes it better or worse, I cannot say...

Bigfoot and Me

Image via Wikipedia That should be "Bigfoot and I". I care not for your conventions...
 The train sped on through the tunnel, darkness hiding the man next to me. Trapped, afraid, I prepared for the spread of light that would signal his departure. Such was always the way of mythical figures on trains.
 But no! Light snaked up the train carriage, and he was still sat next to me. Dressed in a double-breasted pinstriped grey suit and fedora, Bigfoot looked every bit like a particularly hairy 1950s businessman.
 But, behind the dazzling joy of the 50s man was a sadness as deep as the ocean and as wide as a whale. His brown eyes, as deep as a whale and wide as a dolphin, cast down with the hint of a tear, as wet as a dolphin and as edible as tuna.
 His carpeted paws lifted as his whole body shook out a sigh, descending onto each leg. Reaching out, I patted him sympathetically on the left paw. He smiled slightly, sadly, a smile as deep as tuna. Then we parted ways.

Things weren't going well. Of course, that's a pretty redundant sentence - things rarely go well for me, and a story where everything went nice and swimmingly would probably be as interesting as a story where I went for a nice swim. So anyway, things weren't going well.
 In two hours, my mother will be arriving from the airport. Not my real mother, of course, but my fictional blog-mother. This was not a problem in itself: normally, all I needed to do was tidy the place up a bit and lock Max out. I don't know why I should need to do that, he doesn't live here. Even if he has seemed like he does recently. That's not a good sentence, but I'm too lazy to retype it. Sorry. If that upsets you, send me a postcard. And cash
 So my mother would arrive. No problem: Max, rescued from the embassy, had called to let me know he was hiding in the garden centre, to avoid a particularly argumentative rosebush. I hadn't understood his call much, but that was common. My home was tidy, some coffee was brewing, some biscuits arranged nicely on a plate, some letters from celebrities congratulating my on my rich and successful life fraudulently created and placed strategically around the flat. Then, about 45 minutes ago, two men arrive. Suits, trench-coats, sunglasses, berets. French Secret Service.
 Rummaging through my cupboards, eating my Brie and croissants and laughing at how far my house was from a brothel, they explained that Tibet and China weren't the only countries Max's world tour had upset. Furthermore, they were convinced he was hiding something here. My French isn't good, so I didn't quite understand what they were looking for, but they kept hiding near my fridge, jumping out and opening it suddenly, as if whatever they were searching for would suddenly appear.
 It was getting annoying. My mother could be here any minute, and despite being a lovely, tolerant woman, she was horribly xenophobic, and had a fear of berets ever since a mime mugged her in Edinburgh Zoo. As such, I must once again spend my day removing Frenchmen from my kitchen. Wish me luck.

Max is back

Yea.
 Oh yea, you'll be wanting to know about the diplomatic incident. Seemingly, Max accidentally joined an cult in South America, based around the worship of Llama. Of course, this is perfectly normal, Llama are cool. Problems began to arise when Max, continuing his world tour, arrived in Tibet. Misunderstanding the title for a Tibetan teacher of the Dharma, he attempted to force-feed several venerable Lama large amounts of hay and corn. Fleeing the country, Max proceeded to make several inappropriate remarks in China about Llamas and Lamas, resulting in his deportation.
 Frankly, I should have sent him to the moon. At least there he won't try and put a saddle on elderly religious figures and comb their coats...