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!...

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!"

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

In the City.

We were in the jam factory, as it seemed a good place to take the kids. Kids like jam, probably. Nearby machines cranked out copy after copy of Paul Weller, depositing him in tiny jars and sending him off to supermarkets. Nearby, the children were spreading jam on strips of wood and eating it. Overall, the Jam factory was a strange place. A large, moustached man in a purple, 3-piece suit was telling us about the history of jam. Apparently, it was created by God at the dawn of time.
 The Jam factory was, as I said before, a strange place. Frankly, I don't think they really knew about Jam, or The Jam, or anything. The second I got out of here, I was tipping of health and safety about this illegal cloning/cannibalism deathshop...

Well, better be off. The kids have to be down in the tube station at midnight.
Yes, I planned to work more titles of songs by The Jam into this blog. It didn't really work. At all. Sorry...

Sleeve-pulling and a complete lack of sodomy (luckily)

(there's nothing sinister about the title and the fact this blog features fictitious children. I just wanted to use sibilance)
 "Daddy!" a little sleeve-pulling voice called out. "We're bored."
I took another look at my multi-ethniced children. To be honest, I was seriously beginning to doubt they were mine at all. In fact, I think they might just be a group of orphans who've latched on to me. But I lack purpose, so I suppose I'll keep them 'till they're old enough to leave home, or I turn them into dog food.
 Or whatever you're meant to do with kids...

 Anyway, I'd ran out of ideas of what to do with them after the airport (Max is gone for a while. I'll forward his mail on to him, don't worry Max fans) so I'd continued the transport theme and taken them to the train station. There were no trains. In fact, the more I looked around, the more and more I doubted we were actually in a train station. Scantily-clad women were wandering around, and there seemed to be a lot of red upholstery, curtains and such. Taking a final look around, it struck me that we were actually in a brothel.
 I have no idea how I managed to confuse the two, but this is no place for children. I can't, in all good faith, leave them here. Oh well, maybe there'll be an accident at the jam factory...

More Lord of the Rings erotica...

I left the kids with Max earlier, intending to go to the shop. He said it would be fine, and he would tell them a story. Fortunately, the penny dropped before I got out of the house, and I was able to rush back in and wrestle the manuscript for the first volume of his masterpiece off of him (The Fellowship of the Ring, Who Have Orgies)
 As I hastily ate an entire packet of dry cereal, I took a look through the book. Starting from the beginning, I began to read:

 "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence and hookers, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton, where everyone had lots of sex.
 Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had lots of sex
 Penis."

I put the book down, and continued chewing.
 Having finished the cereal, I hid the manuscript in the empty packaging. I then went outside, and fed the packaging to the dragon in the backyard. Some things are not fit for the eyes of men...

No more adventures in time and space...

So, I've gone back and smashed the time machine. Almost everything has gone back to normal. Max, unaware that time ever changed, has returned to his life's work - his erotic version of the Lord of the Rings (entitled, masterfully, "The Lord of the Rings, with Lots of Sex") which revolves mainly around his misunderstanding of everyone being after Frodo's ring...
 For my part, I've returned to the drudgery of my life as a housewife, or whatever I'm meant to have done. However, as I said, almost everything is back to normal: I seem to have gathered a flock of children, claiming to be mine from a different timeline. Dressed in rags and caked in filth and poverty, they insist I'm their father and have to look after them. Ah, what adventures me and my children of multiple ethnicities will get up to...

disturbing tales for children you want to hit but can't, so just emotionaly scar instead, Volume 1

"What happened to the living room table?"
Sighing, Max rose from the the chair and prepared to smooth things over.
"Well Carol," he said, giving her the old puppy-dog eyes, "I'm sorry. It was an accident."
"Eww!" screamed Carol, looking at the severed organs in her hands, "Get out!"
Still, she thought to herself, that's dinner sorted out.

Now eat your sprouts, or it'll be your dog next!