There was a truck outside. I could see it...

Image via WikipediaIt had just pulled up outside my house, all big and truck-like. A large, moustached man in a cap was seated in the driver's seat, and as I watched, he began to eat a banana in a most un-erotic fashion. After a few minutes, he finished and discarded the skin on the pavement to cause hilarity and mayhem at a later date. Stepping out of the truck with a daintiness unusual for a man of his girth, he opened the back and began to remove boxes.

 I began to fill with dread. Max, safely tucked up in bed in his own house, returned to youth - was this his doing? Steeling myself, I waited for man and box to reach the door.

But no! The man, moustache quivering in the wind, began to take out more boxes, stacking them by the van. In total, he unloaded around 30. Then, back bent with strain, he began the slow task of moving them to my doorstep. After a long, long period of time, he finished this task and fetched a clipboard from the front of the van. Looking at it casually, he approached the house. Then, suddenly, he stopped and stared in disbelief. His eyes went from the clipboard, to the flashing neon sign with my address on it, back to clipboard.
 He began to sweat. His moustache trembled. But he pulled himself up, rolling back his sleeves and fixing his face into steely determination. He ran the doorbell.

 "Sign here, Ms. Gunderson" He barked quickly.
I looked at the name and address on the clipboard. Miss Ann Gunderson, that wasn't me. I scanned down the address, taking particular interest in the fact Ms. Gunderson's home was actually a castle, and that it was in Sweden.
 "That's not me. I'm sorry, these aren't for me."
He looked at me. Indignantly.
 "I recons they are, Miss! I recons you'll be signing there, and I shall unpack and assemble these pieces in your bood-wair, as requested, Miss!"
 "I'm terribly sorry, but I really don't want these parcels. I haven't ordered them, they belong to someone else." Who is in Sweden. "I can't in good conscience take them."
 "Then perhaps, Miss, I shall telephone the constabulary. They might be taking of a dim view of such goings-on as these."
 "Fine." I replied. "I'll wait indoors."

I returned and watched through the window as the delivery driver paid a passing boy to deliver a letter to the local police station. After a few minutes, a police car arrived, and two officers got out. I watched as they listened and the man explained. I watched, with interest, their faces as the story - accompanied by hand-gestures - went on. After a few more minutes, he began to prod one of the policemen. After a few more minutes, he prodded too hard.
 I watched as they bundled him into the back of the police car and drove off. The boxes were still outside, blocking my view. As time passed, I realised they were blocking out the sun as well.
 Well, it looks like I won't be photosynthesizing tonight.

Controversial Boardgame Encourages Unethical Behaviour

With the economic world currently in turmoil, encouraging the monopolising of business and property hardly seems responsible. However, this is just what Hasbro proposes in their controversial boardgame, Monopoly.

Image via Wikipedia

The aim of the game is simple: by controlling squares on the board, which represent streets or public works, the player can illicit money from other competitors. The winner is the last player with money left, or the richest if the game is played against the clock.

Gameplay is also simple, downplaying the complexity of real business. The player first selects a pawn to represent them in the city. These pawns include figures such as dogs, thimbles or tophats, seem to suggest the player is not human, and lends the game a perverse, magic undertone unsuitable for younger players. Having selected their pieces, the players role dice to decide how far they move on the board. Most pieces on the board represent streets in the city, and players can decide to buy these properties if they land on them. If they land on a property owned by another player, however, they must pay that player rent. Players can raise the rent to astronomical amounts by building more houses on properties they own, thus hoping to run other players out of business faster.

Read more: http://www.bukisa.com/articles/336883_controversial-boardgame-encourages-unethical-behaviour#ixzz0xwV7z9iR

Image via Wikipedia

There was an old man, sitting by the fire. A pale rug tucked into his chin, long folds and creases resembling his aged face snaked away into his seat. He rocked slowly, listing to the faint chimes of the wireless, turned to full volume. Outside, a nurse knocked. She waited, then knocked again while entering. She brought a young man behind her, his face gleaming with youthful exuberance.
 "You have a guest Max", she explained
 "Are you my grandson?" Max asked the young man.
 "No," I replied. "Not quite."
I don't know why I said that. I wasn't nearly his grandson, after all. After fussing for a few moments, the nurse left us alone, and I poured Max a drink. He drank it slowly, a few drops trickled down his chin and dropped onto his blanket. As they spread out, the colour returned to the aged knitwear. When I looked back to Max, his youthful countenance looked back at me. He smiled, turning his hand this way and that in front of him.
 "Wow, thanks for that!" He exclaimed. "Are you my grandson?"
My smiled faded away. Throwing the rug over Max's head, I threw him out the window, and jumped after. Bundling him into my waiting van, we fled before the guards could catch us.
 I'll never know why Max was in that place, or what they wanted of him, but I can live with that for now. Behind us, the sirens started and the giant old man burst through the wall again, smashing aside the cars in the car park and ripping up lamp-posts.
 But that wasn't my problem any more. I look to the future now.
 My show's on at nine, for one thing

Award! Award! Award!

I'm living the dream! I got this award from the mysterious Homemaker Man over at Musings from the Big Pink. Not visited there before? Well, you should. Or I'll eat you.
 So, I gather what I'm meant to do is write seven things about me that I haven't written before, then pass the award on to some other unsuspecting mug. Here goes:

1. I'm not really fire retardant. Despite my claims of fireproofyness, I actually burn to death as easily as the next man.
2. I'm not a great writer. Sorry if you've just arrived here for the first time, seeking Wilde or Tolstoy. Often, I make up words like fireproofyness.
3. I would like to sing. But I can't. I'm not just saying that out of modesty, I have a terrible voice, and cannot carry a tune.
4. I'm pregnant. No, not really. That was a lie, and a pretty unimaginative one at that. I apologise.
5. I enjoy the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's arms in films. But who doesn't enjoy a good point-and-stare session at Arnie's arm-melons on the silver screen?
6. I distrust the Spanish. I'm not racist, but I enjoy judging entire groups of people based on where they're from.
7. I don't like to answer the door or the phone, especially if I'm on my own. I meet too many weird men in public toilets, and I'm scared that they might mind out where I live.

 So now I pass this on, I think. I'll send it to Todd over at Iced Tea and Sarcasm. I hope this doesn't cause constipation. If you've not visited his blog before, why not? Make a day of it, bring me back a present.

 

Oh, and if you're a new reader who got here from one end of the award spectrum or the other, say hi. Stay a while, eat my food, make me uncomfortable on my own blog. Yum!

It's nearly all over, don't worry.

Image by B Tal via FlickrDawn's early light caressed our tired faces. We'd started climbing early in the morning, guided by the light of the moon or something, arriving on the final plateau several minutes ago. In front of us, the fountain. It was like a fountain of some sort, with water coming out of the top. In fact, the water was spraying out of the upturned hosepipe of a stone gnome. Nearby, other statuettes of the little people frolicked happily - one gnome tricked another with a joke flower, dispensing splashes of youth-restoring water in his friend's astonished face. Another gnome, his trousers dropped, engaged in an activity not fit for the eyes of ladies or the young. A third dispensed waters from a tiny watering can, and so on. The overall effect was one of stupidity. Despite the many healing abilities the water could offer, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to destroy the ridiculous fountain in front of us.
 Around me, the party gathered. Looking sadly at the scene in front of us, they captured their fleeting thoughts and prepared to talk.
 "That. Is ridiculous."
I looked at Pinball Ed. He was right, of course, but I didn't like the way he punctuated his sentence.
 "Wait!" The Red Baron yelled, "Where is ze Rat-like one?"
Ze. I thought to myself. You're just saying "ze" instead of "the" occasionally. You're not German at all. Then my anger dissipated as I probed his exclamation - Sergi was no-where to be seen.
 Adventurer Ed flicked open the holster to his revolver, pulling the antique weapon out and searching behind nearby rocks. I approached the fountain, it seemed a good idea to see if it worked.
 I reached out my cupped hands.
 I scooped up some water.
 Then I drunk it and got young again, and things began to go back to normal.
 Emerging from behind a rock, Sergi approached us, bearing a treacherous-looking tray of smoothies. Quickly, Adventurer Ed turned and began to take aim.
 "I found a smoothie bar" Sergi called out, his happiness suddenly evaporating as a bullet punctured his chest. Stumbling, clutching dramatically, he reached the edge of the cliff. Adventurer Ed took aim and fired again, sending the dirty, foreign-looking chap to his death. We all cheered, then bottled up some water and went home.

Why am I still doing this?

Image via Wikipedia

"Didn't you used to write a blog? One with short, unconnected stories?"
 Pinball Ed, his eyes aglow with curiosity, and possibly a little dysentery, was literally on the edge of his seat. Well, rock. In his aglowed eyes, his curiosity burned like a forest-fire, his question the last monkey to escape, filled with wonder and horror.
 "Yes." I replied. It was cold, the nights seemed longer the higher up the mountain we got, and my nipples had hardened and chaffed on my top. I didn't feel like talking, and I was still old and my hearing failed like the brakes on a car that had had the breaks cut so the breaks failed like the hearing of an old man up a mountain.
 "What happened?" He asked, his eyes still curiously lit up.
 "I started to write stories that spanned several days. It was fun at first, I enjoyed the change. It let me talk about selling oranges in the desert, and bears. I liked to talk about bears, back then."
 I turned from him melodramatically, the cruel wind whipping the tear from my eye and hurling it from my face into the maelstrom around us.
 "The stories though. They got out of hand. Too long, spiralling. Strange and stupid."
 "How?" He asked.
We were on a mountain, I was old and we were searching for the fountain of youth. All that had happened was that Max, one fateful day, answered the door. Poor, stupid Max. On these cold mountains, even his wrinkled face was one I missed. I wondered what he was doing, while I scaled mountains to bring back waters to restore our youth.
 Around me, pterodactyls flew in the winds. They didn't come near anymore, we'd shown them off at least. There never used to be pterodactyls...

A small update

Image by sir_watkyn via FlickrThe fountain gleamed. I'd never really seen anything gleam before, not like this. The gleamingness of the whole situation was made all the more impressive by distance. The distance, in this case, was the same distance as one would have to travel to climb a large mountain. This was because the Fountain of Youth was at the top of a large mountain, the bottom of which we were gently fondling.

 The rain had eased up as we approached the centre of the island. Falling around us lightly, forming a fine mist, the waters no longer troubled us. We had climbed a little of the mountain, finding a flat area and setting up camp for the night. Sergi had retreated into a corner, his face not quite hidden from the light of the campfire, planning some foreign trick to betray us for his own benefit. In the morning, provided we haven't been rolled of a cliff edge or force-fed Marmite, we will continue the trek. With any luck, we can traverse most of the mountain tomorrow. But I still feel worried. Perhaps it's nothing, just a nagging doubt I'm slowing the group down.

 Damn my elderly incontinence. Damn it!

In the jungle, the mighty jungle...

Image via WikipediaThere are fucking dinosaurs!
 Musical numbers aside though, our situation looked dire. Fleeing from the dinosaur of dinosauric proportions and attributes, we had made our way through a vast tract of jungle. Eventually, chancing upon a mountain ridge, we had taken shelter in a small cave, the entrance to which was too small for an unlubricated dinosaur to enter. With the rains still battering down, and the the threat of being battered and eaten still raining down in our brains, we decided to spend the night in the cave. It seemed safe, and a good thing for adventurers to do. However, as the sun rose and we awoke uneaten, unmolested and unfit, we find ourselves unable to find our location on the map.
 Shouting in Welsh, further throwing doubts on his apparent Barony of the colour red, the Red Baron made his anger clear on the subject. Sergi, his ratlike, untrustworthy foreign features (I'm still old, I have to be a bit racist and not realise that it's racism) contorted into thought, retreated to a corner like a rat. A foreign rat.
 Myself, wizard Ed and Adventurer Ed exited the cave and climbed to higher ground, hoping to survey the area. The others, after finishing their tantrums, followed us. We surveyed, but did not learn.
 The jungle spread out around us, vanishing into the horizon. Remembering the island had been only a mile-and-a-half wide from the plane, it was certainly impressive view. Adventurer Ed shook his head, his compass held in one hand and the map in the other.
 "Something's wrong with the compass, can't get a direction."
He was right. The compass, while very ornate and shiny, was actually a pocket-watch. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the competence of our expedition leader. Nearby, holding the other copy of the map, Sergi poked at something in his bag. I don't know what it was, but it was probably insidious.
 After a few seconds, he raised his head and pointed off to the right.
 "That way."
We asked him how he knew. He replied he had Sat Nav. This didn't make much sense, but we decided to go with it. Picking up our things, we headed in the direction Sergi pointed, towards the setting moon.

As promised, 4D porn

As you can see, the set-up remains unchanged. However, this time, the housewife's house - to which she is wifed - is made of space, and features a 3D image on it, taking care of the other dimensions. This seems to take care of everything. You may be wondering why this picture lacks a second dimension - it's still the depth thing. It's a metaphor that has potential, and I'm not giving up on it.

1D Porn

Following on from my article the other day, I present to you some 1-Dimensional pornography. As you can see, both the characters and the location are lacking in dimensions. Bringing new meaning to the idea of porn stories lacking depth, I've literally removed any depth from the piece. Soon, I plan to tackle the complex issue of 4-dimensional porn.
 But why are you listening to this? The young pizza delivery boy is just about to suggest an alternative method of payment to the buxom housewife. It's probably credit or debit card, although there's a minimum purchase price of $20 for these payment methods.

Incidentally, why is Zemanta suggesting "child pornography" as a label for this? Both stick figures are over 18, I'll assure you. Well, they're actually only a couple of minutes old. But they represent over-18 year olds...

Financial Friday...

So, I've decided to launch a new feature every Friday. Compiling all the stocks and shares news from the week, I'll compile an in-depth and - above all else - boring document highlighting the financial week.

 Well, I thought I could do that. The I decided instead to just spend the money on HOVERCARS!

For only "£324,000.00 why not advance order the Moller skycar M400?

Bit pricey? How about the ParaJet Automotive? A bargain at only £50,000.

And if that's also out of your price range, why not opt for an old favourite?

Yes, there are probably more hovercars, flying cars and stupid hats out there for sale, but I was too lazy to keep googling. Yes, I'm that lazy.

Island, fountain of youth, and so on...

Image by Scott Kinmartin via Flickr The weather worsened as we traversed the island. Taking advice from the locals, who unexpectedly spoke English, we gathered the fountain was located near the centre of the island. Every 30 years, a party of brave islanders would travel to the fountain and return with flasks of water, one drop of which restored the drinker to the age of 18. Of course, the journey was not an easy one - ancient, prehistoric creatures roamed the paths, grander eternal teenhood, savaging any who crossed their paths and preparing themselves for University.
 But first, we had to deal with the weather. Storms of prehistoric storminess roamed the island's inner area. Rains from prehistoric times pounded down upon us, messing up the hair of our group. Sergi, his rat-like features widened in fear, suddenly appeared ahead of. Using his tracking abilities, he had decided to scout ahead and, if possible, betray us. This was his role in our group - in the finest Hollywood traditions, Sergi was the foreign group member who would turn on us and steal our whatever. As always, the fact we'd all come to this island to plunder ancient magics would be ignored in favour of his treachery.
 But for now, Sergi remained un-betraying to us. He was even helping us, shouting loudly that a dinosaur was following him. In fact - Actually, I'm sorry. I'm not writing this very well, am I? This is not a Pulitzer-Prize* winning piece of fiction. Well, I'll try harder.
 The jungle creaked and moaned, repeating ancient echoes that had bounced the hallowed leaves since time began. The trees, their roots deep and long, stretched all across the island, drawing water from the same source as the fountain. Leaves unknown to the eyes of man for thousands of years fell around us, serving as feeble shelter, or unceremoniously, as toilet paper. We had stopped to take shelter, to consult the high-quality map the tribesmen had printed for us in their library. The laminated sheet mocked us as droplets of water ran from the shiny surface. Sergi, having scouted in the army for many years, had been sent ahead, to report to us the lay of the land. The rain continued, drops the size and sharpness of pencils fell and impaled the ground, sending sprays of mud into the air. We did not talk; the ancient rains drowned noise as well as people, and it seemed best not to open our mouths, disturbed flies buzzed nearby.
 In the distance, I fancied I heard a scream, a cry without the wisdom of age exhibited in the flora and fauna around us. It drew closer, and I noticed my companions raise their heads in interest.
 Leaves parted ahead of us; ancient ferns spreading their leaves and opening their passageways. Adventurer Ed reached out slowly, picking up his rifle. My aged hands crawled my body, reaching for the knife in my belt. Then suddenly, the trees gave a final shudder and spat out a figure, his heels flying behind him, his face gripped with fear and splattered in mud. Segi, his visage terrified, sprinted past us. His warning cry was carried back on primordial winds.
 Dinosaur.

*Yes, I'm aware I'm not even eligible for one. I know, it was sarcasm. It's what I do.

Monkeys Come From Eggs

Yea, they do. I mean, I know it's obvious - after all, sea monkeys clearly come from eggs, so it follows that their land equivalents would do the same. But I got a picture, just to be safe. This picture can be considered irrefutable proof for 3 reasons:

•  The picture is clearly unedited. It is real, not some computer-generated piece of art. It is certainly not two minutes work in MS paint and Gimp by an untalented student.
• It clearly shows a monkey emerging from an egg. The monkey is even clutching onto an unfeasibly large part of the eggshell. As we know, whenever something is pictured in something else, it has been born there.
• Lastly, the egg is clearly labeled "Evil Monkey Egg". Nature, being meticulous in her labeling and filling, would surely not lie to us.

Thus, there you have it. Undeniable, scientific proof that monkeys come from eggs...

Exciting Adverts for Mundane Products, volume one...

I mean, really? Does it make you want to by a crisp, white notepad?

World's first 3D porn film

Cover via AmazonThough I'd just use a straightforward title. Really, there's not much to say about this. Well, not much mature to say anyway. Something about bouncing will probably follow... But anyway, back to the point... Produced in Hong Kong, "3D Sex & Zen: Extreme Ecstasy" is being touted as the world's first IMAX-3D erotic film.

The porn industry, damaged by the wide availability of free material on the Internet, is hoping that 3D movies will provide a way to climb to the top of the market, mount sales and ride a wave of profits that they hope will keep flowing for years to come. However, the film is somewhat removed from pizza-delivery or pool-boy classics. Instead, it is based on a classic Chinese work, "The Carnal Prayer Mat," an erotic text.

Sex and Zen looks to be just the first of many, as other major 3D sex flicks are now reportedly in the works. It is claimed that adult entertainment firm Hustler are creating a 3D film inspired by James Cameron's 3D hit, Avatar. Also, Italian director Tinto Brass plans to film a 3D version of his classic 1979 erotic film "Caligula".

Is 3D porn the way forward for the struggling industry? Certainly, every new experience is bound to receive an amount of interest, as naive 3D virgins flood to the cinemas to be titillated by the 3-dimensional images.  But what about the amature market? 3D video cameras are already for sale for under £200, threatening this new enterprise before it even begins. Surely it can't be long before... Oh, fuck it. I'm running out of things I can say in a sexual manner.
Penis.

All I can say is, I hope they won't be recycling the 3D glasses after showings. I don't want to end up wearing a pair of those when I go to see James Cameron's 15th new release of Avatar.

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• 3D porn first for Hong Kong film (independent.co.uk)
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Image via WikipediaDipping and diving, doing loop the loops and hiding playfully behind clouds. These were some of the activities we were not partaking of. The plane we were in was to flying what an arthritic man is to gymnastic porn - really crap and stupid. What we had chosen to fly was not the sleek and sexy plane of the rich playboy adventurer, seeking out undiscovered tribes of naked women and fountains that spray gold coins. What we were flying was a caravan, stretched out and held together by tape, with two different wings attached. How we stayed in the air, I'll never know, but I prayed to every God I could think of to keep us up there.

 The Red Baron - who I was now positive was blind - was hunched over the wheel again. His flying goggles fixed in place, his moustache flapping manically under the maniacal, moustache-like flaps of his flying hat thing. Adventurer Ed was nearby, crouched over the passenger seat in what he imagined to be a dramatic pose. Sergi, unfazed, smoked a foul cigarette and cleaned his fingernails with a knife point. Non-adventurer Ed and I crouched in the back of the plane, huddled amongst the crates and the goats and our fears. I had already urinated myself, but being elderly, no-one had noticed.

 After some time - an eternity, or 3 hours, I don't recall which - Adventurer Ed sighted land, pointing through the mist to an island below. Taking the plane down in a disturbingly direct fashion - cutting all power - the Baron guided us to land. A tribe had gathered on the beach to watch, comprised of racially offensive stereotypes, black men and women in grass skirts, chanting and dancing on the sand.
 I wondered what came next.
 Probably another strongly worded cease and desist letter.

It is only wafer thin, after all.

Yes, really. Wafer thin mints inspired by Monty Python, available for sale on Firebox.
 I don't know if it's genius or marketing gone too far. Probably the second.
But they are officially licensed by Monty Python. Even, presumably, the sadly deceased Graham Chapman.
 Cunning, cunning mints...

A Poem

Last night, rain poured onto the streets.

A lone seagull cried in the distance, his echo adapted by the nearby birds.

Filling the streets, consuming the night air, the cries continue.

The word is spread.

But then, a hero. A man for silence steps into the sound.

Drunkenly, sprawling upright. He cries out for silence.

The gulls answer him nought.

"Cawww!" He yells. He jumps and stamps and squeals.

Imitating his out-loud oppressors.

"Caww!" "UuuWW! UwwwwWWH!"

He calls out. "How'd you like that? Annoying, isn't it?"

But they answer not.

He stumbles home. Silence reigns.
For tonight, victory is his. That will keep him dry.

Image via Wikipedia

A chase scene. Which doesn't really convey itself well in the written medium...

Image by Mαciomhαir via Flickr The car mounted the kerb, sending onlookers diving for safety, and oranges to fly everywhere. Accelerating, it began to close the distance, coming dangerously close to use. The passenger door opened, the occupant swinging out onto the running board. His fedora caught the wind, blowing away and landing on a donkey at a rakish angle, but the passenger didn't notice. Pulling out a Tommy Gun (the kind with a drum like in the films, not the more practical clip), he opened fire.
 "Ha! Sergi know their kind! Sergie vowed never to go on another treasure hunt, he know this happen."
As he spoke, Sergi pulled out a handgun and returned fire. I was confused - despite an obvious accent, Sergi had spoken perfect English until now, and had not once referred to himself in the third person. The Red Baron, hunched over the wheel, moustache emerging from huge flying goggles, drove the car from side to side. I hoped he was taking evasive action, dodging the stream of bullets and pedestrians by design not luck. I'd offered to drive, but because I looked very old, it was decided I would be too slow and not change gears. This had made sense to me, but razed further questions as to why the Baron was driving. Adventurer Ed had pulled a pair of revolvers from his pocket, and was leaning his whole upper body out of the window, returning fire. Frankly, I doubted a man this reckless would make a good adventurer. I wished I'd recruited a Librarian instead.
 Wizard Ed, without a pinball machine, had few transferable skills, so was pulling faces at our pursuers. I'd already decided not to pay him, even though no-one was getting paid for this trip anyway. Maybe I'd pay everyone else anyway, in front of him.
 I, being elderly, was also doing little to help. A packet of boiled sweets in my pocket provided some projectile defense, but so far, had done little to deter our anonymous enemies.
 Suddenly, we span 'round a corner. Burning rubber, the Baron put the pedal to the metal, sending us flying down a side street. Behind us, our enemies crashed dramatically into a firework stand. In a film, this scene would be spectacular, with bright, colourful explosions and so on. However, writing is a much more sombre medium, so I'll simply point out the explosion killed three innocent bystanders, and destroyed the livelihood of the stall owner.
 Bowing our heads in sympathy, we arrived at the runway. Well, we actually crashed into a fence near it - bowing your head while driving is ill-advised.
 Gathering our things, we fled the car for the Red Baron's plane. As we neared it, my heart sunk. I've never seen so much duct tape in one place before. However, shouting and gunfire in the distance warned us that our unknown enemies were still closing in on us, so we reluctantly entered the plane.

The Adventure Begins. Again.

I looked at the motley crew assembled in front of me. Apart from myself, my adventure-seeking team consisted of the Pinball wizard - Ed, apparently- the mysterious adventurer from the bar - also, unfortunately, named Ed - an elderly German man who insisted he was the Red Baron - he had a huge white moustache, so I agreed with everything he said - and a small, ratlike Russian -named Sergi, he had a Tsar Nicholas II styled moustache and goatee.
 I hated them all already. I mean, the Wizard was ok, and he was funding the trip on the winnings on a pinball competition he'd just won. I don't know why, but he explained he'd just gotten out of a very long, acne-leaden, braces-wearing puberty, and wanted to stay forever young in case old age treated him as harshly. I don't know why the rest were on board. Adventurer Ed, I suppose, was in it for the adventure. He explained that he'd been searching for the Fountain of Youth for years, having just uncovered the location. It never occurred to me to ask why he'd recruited me and wizard Ed, but I was used to strange things like this. Sergi, apparently, was his loyal - if somewhat treacherous - sidekick.
 The Red Baron was on board because he was the only pilot willing to fly to the island the Fountain was on. I didn't like the sound of that. But we were getting ready for the off. First, we needed to get to the plane. Behind my elderly head, two mysterious men watched us from the shadows. They had fedoras. And white suits. This wasn't going to go well.
 I always say that, of course. It's true most of the time.

Why yes, I do want to see an adorable bear with his head stuck in a jar...

Well, there's one! The bear, nicknamed "Jarhead" - presumably because he has a jar on his head and people in Florida aren't very imaginative - apparently stuck his head in the jar while looking for food, but couldn't get back out. My flatmate Steve has a large head, so I can see how this happened.

 The cub had not eaten or drunk anything for more than a week because of the impediment and experts said it was days away from death.

 A team from the FWC stepped in to save the youngster, tranquilising its mother then grabbing the cub and removing the jar.
 "It was a lot easier said than done," the FWC's Mike Orlando said.
 Their plan to get to the cub involved setting traps for the mother bear, but she managed to avoid all of them.
 The family then disappeared soon after and the biologists feared the young animal may have died.
 Two days later a local reported seeing the bears, prompting Mr Orlando and his team to return to the community.
 The FWC said Jarhead put up a good fight but was eventually eased from the plastic prison.
 The cub and its family were later relocated to a less populated area to stop them rummaging through garbage.

Story, picture from Yahoo! News. Itallics copied from Same.

Wizards. I need to meet more wizards!

Image via Wikipedia There were a few tables in the bar with people at them, singles and couples drinking alone, regardless of their company. A thick smog filled the bar, mixing with the depression and fading into the gloom. People talked quietly, huddled over their drinks and their small bowls of peanuts. I sat near the door, an old man recently free. My escape from the wool factory was as dramatic as it was elderly, but I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say, I hope those guards I killed weren't volunteer workers or schoolkids raising money for teddy bears and cookies and heroin, or whatever kids like these days. They probably weren't, they had guns. Good people rarely use guns to herd the elderly.
 The young man opposite me offered a chance for me to reverse my condition, to restore my youth and perhaps thwart the Agency and their sinister care-home. He was a wizard.
 Problem was, I discovered later, my hearing ain't what it used to be. He was a Pinball Wizard, like in that song. We'd just discovered this fact after several minutes of conversation. I know knew why he'd looked so confused by my plan to launch fireballs at our enemies. It also explained why he was wearing bright blue jeans and a white t-shirt tucked into his high waistline. Not mystical at all.
 Still, he was sympathetic. Being a veteran of the pinball hustlings, he understood the dark forces at work and agreed to help me. Unfortunately, he couldn't reverse my aging, nor could he help me infiltrate the Agency care-home again. Unless, of course, it was part of a giant pinball machine, which I doubted.
 A man in khaki approached from the bar. He had a handlebar moustache, broken by a scar down his left cheek, which retreated into his sideboards and head hair, itself hidden under a large hat. He told me he'd been listing to my predicament and had a solution in mind.
 Once again, I'm searching for the Fountain of Youth. Only this time, I'm a really old guy. So I'll probably whine more.

It came back to me

Image via Wikipedia I'd like to say my memories came back in a dramatic fashion, that there was a flash of light and small harps played around me. But it was not so. Instead, I checked the calendar yesterday afternoon, and realised that my memories of being a young man were from 2010. I also realised it was still 2010. Piecing together these two facts, I realised that I had aged rapidly, and remembered everything.
 But the problems aren't over yet. My memories of youth restored, I find it easier to move in my arthritic body, but the shackles of age still bind me. Worse, I'm still trapped within the confines of the hellish old folks home, to be poked, prodded, experimented on and - worst of all - fed pea soup. But I see a chance to escape - tomorrow, we're being taken on an exciting trip to the wool museum. Hopefully, amongst the exhibits and displays of scarves, by the bobbly hats and the terrible Christmas jumpers, I will be able to escape. Being a OAP, I'm mostly made of wool already, so I should be able to blend into my surroundings easily enough. Armed with two stale rolls, a knitting needle and a length of wool (Yes, I'm taking my own wool to the wool museum. I'm old.) I shall fashion weapons and escape. Then I'll come back to this place, and end the nightmare once and for all.

Horses...

I'm still elderly. Well, not really. I'm afraid much of this blog is a work of fiction. Sorry if you feel misled. Anyway, I'm old. Max has taken to spending his money on horse racing. Well, on gambling on horse racing. He hasn't bought a racetrack or anything - again, sorry if you feel mislead. It is a maybe-commonly-known-fact that in horse racing parlance, a maiden is a horse that has yet to run a race; it’s not an animal that is still a virgin. I didn't know that, it came up on my screen.
 I don't have anywhere to go with this. Max didn't have sex with a horse or anything. An elderly idiot engaging in sexual acts with animals is not a taboo I'm willing to break just yet.
 I wrote an article about horses in Red Dead Redemption on Bukisa one day. Don't care for video games? Then don't feel pressured to click the link to the site. Incidentally, Bukisa pays me $10 for every thousand visitors I get. Or something like that. Just saying. There's a link to sign up in the top left of this page. Go on, do it, let me syphon your profits so I can buy a yogurt-filled swimming pool.
 Yea, as I was saying... I don't mind horses, so with interest I spotted an advert on the scourge of youth, Facebook, earlier: design your own horse. Unfortunately, it was for a game. I had hoped for genetic engineering.

Life continues in the home.

Well young 'uns, I've settled into life at the home now. Me an' Max like to while away the afternoons with quiz shows, and after a thoroughly boiled dinner, we like to exchange anecdotes with the other residents. We've taken up two pastimes reserved for the elderly as well: making slightly racist statements to anyone we meet, and failing to understand how our statements can be interpreted as racist. Max has really gotten into the whole thing, talking loudly and slowly to anyone who looks foreign, even if they speak better English than him. Still, something is bothering me, something I forgot. Something about... long ago.
 Still, must go. Someone's niece is coming to play the piano for us, and there's Bingo in the evening. It's all go, and I certainly don't wish I was dead.
 Must remember...

I blinked

In front of me, the TV blared. What was happening? There was something I... had to remember. Were the grand-kids visiting today? No, of course not, I had no grand-kids. It never happened for me, the whole kids thing. My life had blurred past, and the specters of youth haunted me. No specters of middle-age though, strange. Must not remember it, I suppose. Getting old. Keep having a dream, that I'm still a young man, that I'm trapped in this body. But it's only a dream.

 Next to me, Max tried to eat a peanut. Poor Max, known him all my life. He's never been able to eat a peanut.
 Around me, life continues in the home. Well, a sort of life anyway. A life less ordinary, more slow and pee-scented.
 Something I had to do. Can't remember what, can't remember a lot of things. Maybe it'll come to me later, often does. After my programmes.
 Something I had to do...

Elderly men in baths. There, that got your attention

The shackles were beginning to hurt my arms. Shackles should be tight, I suppose, but these were a little too tight, pulling my arms out at the sockets. Then again, I was suspended off the ground by chains, so I don't know what I was expecting. Opposite me, a demonstration of the fate that awaited me, a fate worse than death. Old age.
 Max, seated in a large bath - the sort you can imagine wealthy Victorians preparing in front of a large fire - watched me with an expression of wrinkled confusion. The tortures of this place achieved one aim, the premature aging of the innocent. While Max had been a sprightly youth not one week ago, he now resembled an elderly raisin. His shriveled countenance watched me, possibly hoping I was secretly a game of Countdown or episode of Diagnosis: Murder. But I was neither of these things. In fact, I was a man, about to be subjected to the horrors of old age while I was still in my prime. I was not a Judge Dredd Villain, I was a mostly innocent man!
 In front of me, the sinister man who had lead my capture earlier. Something about his attitude, the authority he commanded, and the colossal badge on his jacket suggested to me that he was in charge of this facility. But for now, he was content - having gloated at me a while - to leave me with Max while he prepared the aging machine.

The wrong sort of Bath

 "Max!" I cried out, hoping to stir him from his incontinence confusion. "MAX!"
 "What? Are you on my lawn? Oh, wait... I remember you... So long ago. We were... young women together?"
 "Close enough! What happened to you?"
 "Not so bad..." He replied sleepily, "Regular pills, TV, and the sponge bathes are nice. Look - I scraped the dry skin off my chest, and with some hairs, I've made a caterpillar."
 Max was right. Moulded from bluey-grey dead skin like a child would mould play-do was a small caterpillar shape. Inserted in the head were two grey head-hairs, resembling some sort of antenna. I pondered whether caterpillars actually had such antenna, but decided to ignore the subject. Dismissing what might have been Max's most disturbing creation, I continued:
 "Very nice. But how can we get out of here?"

Ominously, the door began to open.

Another something is happening, right now.

I was in the inner lair. In it. Inside. Around me, grey passages stretched out ahead, and to my sides. I headed straight on, seeing a map attached to a wall. A giant "you are here" arrow kindly indicated where I was on the map. The corridor to the left would lead to the canteen, apparently. Probably full of people who could raise the alarm, certainly not where I wanted to go. If I continued down the corridor I was on, I would get to the "Prisoner holding and interrogation area". That sounded more promising. The corridor to the right was simply marked "here be dragons". I've tangled with enough dragons to last me a lifetime, so I decided to avoid that corridor.
 I pushed on, going straight ahead, deviating not for the curvature of the corridor floor. Arriving at the end of the corridor, I turned a corner and spotted a doorway. It didn't take much room to spot, being the only thing in the corridor and all. I opened it, finding the job to be somewhat tiring. The reason became clear - the door was in fact hidden on the other side. A magnificent, classic piece, in fact! A fake bookcase! I shut the bookcase behind me and surveyed my surroundings. Seated, snoring peacefully, knitting angrily or attempting to read through eyes that should have died eons ago, were elderly prisoners. They paid me no attention, so I searched the room. Suddenly, I bumped into the leg of a sleeping grandfather. As sweet and dribbly as he was in slumber, as angry and vengeful he was in consciousness. Rising with a yell, he swung a cane at me feebly. Inspired, the other old folk clawed, swiped, pinched and prodded in my direction. Retreating, I was forced into a corner. My hands searched the recesses of my pockets, but to no avail. I was candyless. Not even a picture of children in there. I was trapped.
 Just as I thought the day could get no worse, the doors to the room burst open dramatically. Light streamed into the gloom, illuminating a suited figure. He pointed, and two old men flanking him approached me slowly. Their walking frames rose in unison, pinning me to the wall, rendering escape inoperable. Pulling a hand-knitted beige straightjacked from his suit, the suited guard approached...