Soup.

I did not have this book in my loft. Image by spike55151 via Flickr. The soup wasn't too bad actually. All things considered, Max hadn't done a bad job. He'd managed to get out of the attic, explaining the locks were only really effective against rats anyway, and was seated opposite me. It slipped my notice at the time, but if one were to observe us, they would notice Max had no  soup in front of him - even though he got through last night with only books to eat (The rat bit him and escaped in what he called a "hamster helicopter")

 Anyhow, I asked Max exactly how he was now the owner of a wooden arm, since the whole rat-attic joke situation - which Max spent two days working on - didn't answer the question.
 He explained the rats, of which he had obtained many, had chewed his arm off while he was distracted by television. I didn't really know how that could happen, but I no longer cared. Max would only explain what'd happened if I asked more questions anyway.
 "What happened to the rats?" I asked.
 "Oh, after they bit me, I hit them with a mallet!" He replied. A fear began to grow inside my tum-tums, spreading up to my neck and down to my loins.
 "Then I put them in the soup. Seemed tidy, and damn efficient."
I nodded, putting the soup spoon down sadly.

Still, I was hungry, and I'd been a student. Deciding I'd probably eaten worse, I picked the spoon up again.

 At least it wasn't tramp...

Rats in an attic... Sorry, it doesn't have the same feel to it at all...

"So, what happened to the arm?"
"Oh, rats." Max replied non-plussed.
I hesitated. I didn't really want to know, but I was curious. That was why I got the goat, after all. Anyway, to my eternal regret, I questioned Max. He inferred he would show me what he meant.
 I asked. He didn't mean he would have rats chew of my arm. That, at least, was a relief.

Image via WikipediaWe arrived at my attic door. I hadn't checked the attic in my sweep of the house earlier - it was upstairs, and I'm very lazy. But, looking at the door, I noticed there were far more locks on the outside of the door than I remembered. 17 locks in fact. I'd replaced this door last year, and had no locks fitted. Mathematically then, there were more than 142 times the amount of locks on the door than there had been previously. I began to worry - had Max locked away a painting containing his very soul? Was I about to be murdered Basil Hallward-style and destroyed by science. Probably... I knew science would come back to get me one day.

But I digress... Max, huge ring of keys in hand, stepped forward and began to unlock the door. After 15 minutes, the door opened before us, dust and decay and the smell of imprisoned clowns (Those were already there. Creepy bastards) drifted into the hallway. There was a table set up in the middle of the room, that was new. On it, a pile of books, and beside them, a small mound of what looked like chewed book parts. There was a giant rat seated next to the books, looking very full, with a small torch taped onto its back.
 "What have you done this time?" I asked.
Max grinned widely, pointing at the scene.
 "Literature!" He exclaimed.
I waited. He repeated, slower and with emphasis:
 "Lit-eh-RAT-chewer!"
I took the keys from Max and left the attic. Doing up the locks, I headed out to try and buy some explosives.

Return of the prodigal me.

Yes. It was based on my life, you know. Cover via AmazonI'm home now. The train, kindly, pulled up right outside my house. I say kindly - I expect the council are going to be pretty pissed I encouraged rail workers to build a railway line down my street. But anyway, I'm home. A worrying fact occurred to me as I collected my luggage and circumnavigated my duckpond - I'd left Max alone in the house. I mean, I locked the doors and opened the window a little before I left.
 Besides, he had the soup. And probably some tramps in there. I really must pay more attention to what's happening in my house before I lock it up...

I steeled myself at the door, as I've done so many times before, and prepared myself for some new and absurd horror.
 The house looked normal. My pictures were straight, the rug free of urine - which was certainly good, I can't afford another Big Lebowski-esq adventure - and my microwave was free of play-dough. Max was in the kitchen, stirring what I assumed to be soup on the hob when I found him. There were no tramps around, and even better, nothing indicating he'd hacked up tramps and made soup out of them. I greeted him, and slumped into a seat by the table. Max, stirring with his right arm, turned to face me,
 It was then I noticed his left arm, previously blocked from view by his body.
 It was made of wood.

Seriously. There was a dazed woodpecker on it and everything.

Trains and owl tits.

I was on the train back home from London, cowering in a dress that would make the 19th century nobility jealous. It was a disguise, before you ask. The train, engine choo-chooing and pistons a-pistoning... Actually, I'll stop there. I don't know much about trains. Suffice to say, the train was working as it should, transporting us along the railway line at an acceptable speed. I was pleasantly drifting in and out of consciousness in my seat, the warm embrace of the sandman caressing my painted face and plump, overstuffed fake cleavage.

See? That Owl doesn't have teats for one thing...Image via WikipediaThe train sped onwards, darting across countryside and through tunnels. I wished it would just stick to the track, but I'm old-fashioned like that. Plus I was worrying it might hit a fox or a badger or something. I've read the Animals of Farthing Wood, that was enough mammal tragedy to last me a lifetime. Well, technically some of those animals weren't mammals. Stupid, nipple-less Farthing Wooders. But you get the point. Whatever it was.

Where was I going with this again?

The march on Rome

This is not my coat-of-arms. Sorry. Image via WikipediaSo, it would appear I had a small hallucination yesterday. I should clarify then, dear reader, I do NOT control the armies of Middle-Earth. I know, I know. I'm as disappointed as you.

 Anyway, the upshot of this is that I accidently marched on and occupied London. The tramps then lost interest, wandering away to beg for money and be smelly. Fearing for my safety, I bought a fake beard, shaved my head and prepared to flee the city. Then, remembering the disguise Lenin used to escape from Russia successfully in 1917, I shaved off the beard and donned a wig. I got on a train, successfully dodging the authorities and ticket inspector, and made my way home.

 My journey was fairly uneventful apart from that, but I did see a swan.

Once again, I get myself into a situation where I have to clarify I'm not a Nazi paedophile

What? I didn't mention I live in Minas Tirith? Image by Alegrya via FlickrI went into the basement earlier, looking for that pile of uniforms Max and I got from an alternate universe. But that's a long story, you wouldn't be interested in it anyway.
 I found them behind a pile of storage boxes - flat-pack furniture, still got too much of the bloody stuff - all shiny and black and jackbooty. Very smart. Very Nazish too, but that's how you get the kids these days - with smart uniforms, not modified fascism. And by get the kids, I mean involve them in a project or something. Not in a paedophile way. Hmm, I needed to make far too many clarifications. Doesn't flow. Not good writing. Use words bad, me do.
 Anyhow, I moved the uniforms upstairs. Max had set up a semi-working soup kitchen, kidnapping local vegetables (Only the racist ones) and boiling them up. After they received their food, I shepherded the queue of tramps through the house, directing them first to the shower, and then into a nice, shiny new uniforms. I was building an army. Well, sort of. Every 20th member got a flag - a white tree on a black background.

Afterwards, I assemble them in the yard. They're given Nerf guns to train, I'll get real weapons later. Foam swords to practise with. There's something evil coming, the armies of Mordor are on the march. When the army's fully equipped, I plan to move to Osgiliath, secure the city once and for all. Then we can start to push back the forces of Sauron.
 But first, I need to take my medication. Been busy recently, under a lot of stress. Don't feel all there. Not to worry, the mist should clear when I'm free of the glare of that accursed eye...

Hungry, hungry hobos

Pulling back the corner of the curtain, I peered outside, into the dawn-tinted street. The queue, stretching earlier only from my front door to the gate, now reached most of the way down my road. But it didn't end outside Mrs. Cobain's house, where it reached it's furthest from my door. No, the tramps stationed in her geraniums and near her gnomes were not the end of the line, only the middle. Bizarrely, like the titular character from snake, the queue snaked in on itself, moving in straight lines and turning at right angles, until the observer finally finds one homeless man, cap in hand, standing back to side with another, far further up the queue. Also like snake, a few of them were eating mice, but that's besides the point.

 How, I hear you ask, a mob clamoring to be heard, did I become host to the great unwashed masses?


Image via Cyanide and Happiness.
Obviously



Well, it turned out there was more of Mr. Potato to go around than I thought. When I went out to dispose of our racist food-friend, I managed to feed 17 hungry, hungry hobos. Word soon spread, and my description likewise. It wasn't long before my house was found, and this great mob descended on it looking for food, cider and small change. Tiny flea ridden dogs bathed in my duckpond. Old, wrinkled men played the accordion on my garage. A man in a smart but dirty suit, worn with age and general wear and tear, sipped cold tea from a chipped teacup on my front lawn.

For my part, I stayed inside. I hoped the problem would go away. After all, I can't boil all my friends and feed them to the homeless.

 Not even Max.

 I think.

Cannabis Electric Car to be made in Canada



Some cannabis. Go on, make a car from it.

 Well, it's a bit of a sensationalist headline really.(Story here). The car, like so many things, is made of hemp. Really, the interesting thing is that a car is being made from a plant. Electric Plants!

Look, a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I'm cultured.

L'amor.Image via Wikipedia

I scanned the newspaper hopefully, but to no avail - there were no anthropomorphic objects looking for a job. Ever since I skinned, boiled and fed Mr. Potato to a tramp, I'd had a void in my life for truly ridiculous things. Sure, I still had Max, but he'd fallen in love with the Eiffel Tower, and had started going to Italian lessons so he could woo her. I'd explained the flaw, but he didn't understand. He swore blind to me the Eiffel Tower was in Sicily.

 I've tried to explain he's thinking of the Mafia again, but I ran out of beans. In case you were questioning the relevance, I drew pictures of Don Corleone on some beans, and the Eiffel Tower on others, then pointed out the differences. It was a long, fruitless day that ended with Max eating a tiny effigy of Marlon Brando.

Anyhow, he'd taken a trip to Madrid, hoping to soak up the atmosphere. I hadn't even tried to stop him, it didn't seem worth it. Besides, all I had left were peas. And all I could think of was the Spanish Civil War. Picasso might have been able to sum up the horror of the experience on the canvas, but I doubted I could replicate the effect on the legume.

If any of you really loved me...

Weeding. Not of Idiots. But the point is made. Image via Wikipedia... You'd follow us over at Weeding out the Idiots. Oh, go on... Surely you're all as hate-filled as me?

Mr. Potato's Soupbox

Image by **emmar** via Flickr

I stirred the soup absent-mindedly. That's what we in the writing business call a hook. You see, you read that sentence, and you get hooked, right? Had to find out more about my soup. Well, I shall continue.  A chunk of leek bobbed to the surface, bobbing like a leek-shaped submarine surfaced for air. Potato icebergs rose to threaten it's path, floating across a putrid ocean of green-brown foam. Lining up, the potatoes formed two rows of teeth, lips of leek talking shape around them. They spoke:
 "Oi! You think this is funny, don't you?"
 "No." I replied. I did think it was funny, but only because of the novelty cookware I was using.
 "Well, it isn't anyway." Mr. Potato soup replied defiantly. "And you better not be planning to feed me to any Peruvians."
 I considered the idea, casually dismissing it as I realised I didn't know where to find any Peruvians at this time of night.
 "Why? What are you going to do about it?"
 "I'll cut your face!"
I looked sadly at the talking soup in front of me. My first act in cooking Mr. Potato had been to cut his arms and legs off with a potato peeler. You may call me cruel, but I enjoyed it, so I don't care. Anyway, he's a potato. He can't feel pain.
 After that, I diced Mr. Potato into small cubes, all of which began to shout racial Peruvian slurs at me. Then I started boiling him with some prejudice-free leeks. The upshot of this was that Mr. Potato was in no condition to cut my face. Or do anything except bathe in his own juices.
 "You'd better not be ignoring me!" Mr. Potato shouted. I ignored him, looking for a flask as I was.
The soup finished cooking. Pouring Mr. Potato soup into a novelty Christmas flask, I headed out the front door.
 Now all I need to do is find a tramp to feed...

"Did you see, Peru's president revokes civil war atrocities amnesty"...

A man can dream though... A man can dream. Image via Wikipedia... Is today's headline?"
Max looked up from his coffee.
 "No." He replied. I noticed that he was reading a print-your-own-headline novelty newspaper. It wasn't really surprising he hadn't seen seen any modern news, he was reading an article on how he, Max, had been elected President of Space.
 "PERU?"
A feeling of dread spread like water across my body, sinking into my clothes and dripping liquidy dread into the carpet. Putting down his newspaper, leaning on his fists as to shake his miniature coffee mug, Mr. Potato pushed his face closer to me. "PERU?" He demanded.
 "No. Poland. You misheard." I yelled. "Please don't start again."
But Mr. Potato was off. He'd met the foreign furniture guys in the dungeon yesterday - still holding, by the way - and had given them a good going-over, until he realised they were Venezuelan. Still, here we go again.
 "Bloody Peruvians!" He yelled. "With their trees! And Llamas! And those hats! Bloody hats. I want to deep-fry them! All of them!"
I sighed. Mr. Potato was really a very angry man. potato. man-potato? He has a little hat, that must count for something...
 Anyway, I'm off to look for a potato peeler. I've left Max in the kitchen, being lectured about how Peruvian water was far more lazy than other water. I could always boil them both. That might work.

The furniture is still here.

The London Dungeon. A type of dungeon. Image via Wikipedia

In fact, two delivery men arrived the other day to ask for it back. We know it's been wrongly delivered, they said, so can we have it back? They were straight to the point, and I admired that. I still locked them in my new, flat-pack dungeon though.

 The police came yesterday. They said they already had to ask about some furniture, and that also, two men from a delivery company had gone missing and had last been seen approaching my address, had I seen them? I said yes, they're in the dungeon. When the police went to look, I locked them in as well.

 The dungeon is only made of balsa wood and glue, so I doubt I can hold them for very long...

 Actually, I haven't fed them yet. They'll probably eat their way out. Don't know about the delivery men though, didn't seem to speak much English. I'm not sure if they even know they've been taken prisoner. They keep smiling, maybe they think it's some sort of kinky dungeon.

 The mistake I probably made was to hire those scantily-clad women to serve them drinks.

A request.

Peru. Image via WikipediaI've recently had a request from my friend (and one of my untalented writing partners from Weeding out the Idiots) Ben Tyson, asking for the return of Mr. Potato. Mr. Potato, as you will all remember, was a living potato with an irrational hatred of the Peruvian people. Ben, being a racist himself, obviously found the character appealing. As such, Mr. Potato will be returning soon. However, I thought I'd take this opportunity to ask if anyone had any requests for stories?

 Perhaps it's your life dream to see Max get into a tricky situation over a £5 note, or to see me become a cyborg, half-human and half-blender. Further, want to write a guest post? Let me know. Hate me? Drop me some hate mail, the more abusive and anti-semitic, the better.

Shelves, shelves everywhere and not a book to put on them.

Image by Taekwonweirdo via Flickr "No. No, that's... That's not it."
 Max, hammer in hand and nails held in mouth, looked up from my bedside furniture. I refer to it simply as bedside furniture because we weren't sure what it actually was. It was attached to the side of the bed though, hence the name. Shelves reached up for three levels, large enough to hold books. Then... The oven. Somehow, during the construction process, we'd inadvertently attached the oven to the gas pipe and electrics. It worked fully. It was just 4 foot up the wall, above three shelves. On top of that, a sink. The sink also worked. We didn't know how, or where the pipes went. But it worked properly, without filling the oven with water or anything.
 I took another look at the instructions. Clearly, they were misprinted - not only did the font and layout change 6 times, as if the pages from different instruction manuals had been stuck together, but 2 pages in Korean were clearly advertising cat food. Just in case though, Max had balanced a can of the stuff on the second shelf..
 Frankly, I was disappointed. Regular readers would have noticed the rest of the furniture being assembled without incident yesterday, and I'd hoped for a similar outcome today. But no - I was stuck with a device that could wash,dry and feed books.

This picture is irrelevant. Image via WikipediaMax and I surveyed the boxes. They were numerous in number, and sizable in size, blocking out the sun and moon in equal measures.
 "What's in them?" Max hesitantly asked.
 "Dunno," I replied, "Bedroom furniture, I think."
I looked at the boxes. I knew that it wouldn't be anything that easy - if a normal person received a large number of unexpected packages, it seemed likely it would be furniture delivered to the wrong address. If I received a large number of unexpected packages, they would probably be full of Nazis or baby dragons.
 Preparing for both eventualities, I propped a shotgun against the doorframe, and walked to the nearest box. Max followed, crowbar in hand.

An hour-and-a-half later, we finished assembling the furniture. It was rather nice, and spruced up the house superbly. Then we had some tea.
 We had a really nice day.

Oi! You bunch of cuddly bastards! Look at this!

So, I've heard you all: whispering from the shadows, sending each other quiet texts and silent paper airplanes. Communicating in secret, asking what I'm up to. Something sinister, you say. Well, maybe I'll tell you...

 I've been working on another blog with some friends, mocking idiots who review things on Amazon. Why not visit us? Because you don't have the address, you say? Well, of course you don't. You cretins don't deserve it. But here you go anyway, scum:

 Weeding out the Idiots. 

Yes, go ahead and visit. I shall give you all cake! Cake! Cake! CAKE!
No, I won't. Visit anyway.

Oh, and if you're interested in helping out, give us a shout. As they say in the industry...

Is this the most adorable thing ever?

Available here, if you really must know...

Yes, it's a child's R2-D2 costume. Isn't it adorable, in a really crap way? Look, it even had a little R2-D2 severed head skullcap for your child or midget to wear!...