I'm looking for...

An hour. I seem to have lost one in the early hours of Sunday morning. And for once, it wasn't because I was drunk. I mean, I was drunk... But that wasn't the point I was making.
 Anyway, I tried to make some 'missing' posters to put up. However, since time is a pretty abstract concept, it was hard to get a picture of an hour. Well, a decent one I could show his mother anyway. So I'm appealing to you, dear world (or, one could say, the 5 people who read this) to help me find my hour.

 Similarly, I'm missing a half-bottle of vodka. If anyone has seen one, it's mine. Bring it to me.
 Even if you're on the other side of the world, and the Vodka couldn't possibly be mine. It still is, and you should bring it to me.
 See? This blog is dragging on now. This is what happens when I don't have enough time and vodka...

And Lo! The voice did speak to me...

And it said, "During menstruation, the sensitivity of a woman’s middle finger is reduced. Medical science has yet to explain why."  And I did look to see where the voice was coming from, and I did see 3 scientists hiding in a nearby tree. One of them had a loudspeaker, and with it, he barraged passers-by with useless information about women and their awful bleeding ways. But I didn't care: I'm looking for women... I've already got a hammer and chisel ready...

I was going to comment how weird that last sentence would be if taken out of context, but it's pretty weird in context...

I've been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit...

Well, OK, I did commit it. But how was I supposed to know the elderly were still people in the eyes of the law? It wasn't like there was a lot of forced transvestism anyway...
 The prison isn't too bad: 4 walls AND a ceiling! I see why right-wing nuts are complaining, it's like living in a palace. Except, you know, there's no freedom. And a man called Pete won't let me have a go on the pool table.
 "Go on, make me." He says, "I've killed 14 people"
I'm not scared. I've killed more people than that selling timeshares. Max sent me a big cake, all covered with pink icing and little flower things. Normally, I don't really care for gender-defined foodstuffs - I've always felt a man can eat what he likes, as long as it isn't a baby - but right now, I feel he could have sent something more manly, to boost my image a little. You know, some roadkill wrapped in Neo-Nazi newsletters, perhaps.
 He sent a note the next day, apologising for forgetting to hide a file in the cake. He said he gave it to the guards to deliver instead. Remarkably, they brought it straight to me. Things are looking up: I've filed my nails into sharp points, and started the long process of digging my way out of jail.
 It would probably be easier if I wasn't on the fourth floor...

Ha! I've done it!

Yes, I've updated the blog! It now has texture! Texture! Yes, my blog is no longer water, but Tofu!
 So, I've gone a little insane. I really don't know why any of you are surprised. Anyway, the message I was trying to get across is that I have updated the appearance of my blog. I'm telling you because you probably didn't notice...
 There were no fire-spewing backgrounds, I'm afraid...

What's with all the Childrens story references?

On my way to work (It's a plot device to move the story forward, don't ask where I work), I noticed a large group seemingly protesting outside a factory. Due to my cat-like curiosity, I decided to wander over and see what was occurring.
 As I drew closer, I made out a large group of people gathered outside the factory gates. The majority of them were white skinned and golden haired, short in size and dressed as thus: men wearing skins, women wearing leaves, and children dressed in nothing. Their placards showed they were on strike from the factory, which I noted make chocolate, whatever that was. I decided, being as I already mentioned curious, to enquire as to the situation.
 "Ah," greeted one of the protesters. "My colleagues and I are protesting for equal treatment of Oompa-Loompas in the workplace. Did you know, sir, that in the original text, we were black African pygmies?"
 "What do you mean, original te..."
 "And!" He cut me off, "we were forced to 'white up' to keep working? And the work! We're not even paid money! We're paid in cacao beans! They may be our favourite foods, but come on? Would you accept chocolate to do your job. I mean, what do you do sir?"
(See, you just won't leave it alone, will you? You just demand to know about my job. What if I do something you don't like? You'll have to stop reading. You'd regret asking then)
 "Anyway!" He continued, not waiting for my answer, "A film crew came in once, and he made us get spray-on tans! And dressed us in boiler suits!"
 I tried to back away, planning my escape, but he continued...
 "And the singing! He brings in children, you know! And the machines... They're not safe... they kill them! Kill the children... And he makes us sing about it! SING ABOUT IT!"
 Frantically, I turned on my heels and ran for it, and caught a bus to work.
(Fine, I'm a pimp. I make money exploiting vulnerable women, does it make you feel better to know that? Well, I don't really. But I could, for all you knew.)
Behind me, I could hear the Oompa-Loompa mob shouting about glass elevators, unsanitary chocolate production techniques, and golden parking tickets. I continued on the bus journey, afraid to look back, vowing never to talk to an angry mob again.
Unless it was either caused by - or out to get - me

Did you know?

That babies are born without kneecaps; they don’t appear until the ages of 2-6 months old. I didn't, but a box on the Internet told me, so it must be true.
 No wonder the little bastards haven't been paying my loans back on time - they know there's nothing I can do about it!
 Unless I do something insane... Something featuring fire-spewing, perhaps...

Monkeys keep flying into the window...

It's not a good sign, let me tell you that. Misfortune awaits me, as once again, I seem to be the enemy of a witch. As I was thinking about whom I had pissed off recently, and if they were a witch or not, the doorbell rung. It always rings. For someone so awful, I seem to get a lot of guests, and I'm sure I'll enjoy that when I'm elderly and in a home. But for now, it's annoying. So very annoying.
 Opening the door, I found four unusual figures: A scarecrow, a tin man, a lion and a teenage girl. Of course, I'm used to each of these as visitors, but I've never seen them all together before.
 "Sup?" I asked unenthusiastically.
  "Please help us!" They chimed as one, "We each have problems that, as fictional moral lessons, can easily be resolved by our joined endeavours"
 "Really? So what... you're metafictional then?"
 "What? I'm a Scarecrow..." Began the member of the group who was stuffed with straw. "And I have no brain. Please help."
 "Scarecrows shouldn't talk." I replied, "And you don't need a brain to scare crows."
With that, I set fire to him, like some sort of fire-spewing thing. Seemingly unphased with this, the tin man began to talk:
 "Sir, as a tin man, I have no heart"
 "Well, that's no problem." I replied. I knew that keeping all those pig's hearts in the fridge was a good idea. Of course, my friends and families had worried about me, but they'd be worrying on the other sides of their face now.
 "And you, Mr. Lion?"
 "I am a coward..." He shook nervously.
 "Well, that's not a problem either!" I chimed happily. "Just come in, enroll in my comprehensive psychological hardening programme. Once you're finished, your killing sprees will make Vietnam look like an ice-cream castle."
 My mind preoccupied with the idea of tiny, jelly-baby soldiers on mint choc-chip battlements, I almost forgot about the girl who, after a polite cough, introduced herself as Dorothy.
 "And your problem?"
 "Well, you see, I want to go home."
 "Ah, but you had the power to go home any time you wanted. Just follow my instructions."
 Thus, she duly began by closing her eyes, tapping her heels together three times and chanting "There's no place like home." While she was doing this, I threw a sack over her head, and locked her in the basement. There'd be a handsome ransom in this for me... Yes, that was another day's honest work over. It's nice to know, at the end of the day, that you made some difference in the word.
 Even if it wasn't for the best.

Outside, they grow ever closer

So yea, giant vegetables - mainly carrots - have risen from their patches, and are converging on my flat. Of course, this poses no real threat to me, as they have no arms or legs.
 Actually, that raises the question of how they're moving towards me. Which leads me neatly onto my next point: Lauren, over at Think Spin, bestowed a Happy 101 award on me. I don't know what any of this means, except there's no cash prize. However, even without a huge sack of money, I'm still pleased with this. So, why not pop over and check out her site, see who else she gave the award to, and such?
 If anyone else wants a mention, why not make up an award and present it to me? You don't have to put much work into it: Just fake a huge ceremony, and maybe get a little statue made up. And hire some celebrities. Or camels, wearing little suits. That would be just splendid.

Similarly, if you really want to curry favour with me, why not submit an essay under the title "Excluding Jacobitism, discuss the extent and reasons for popular protest in eighteenth-century Scotland." The deadline is next Sunday at midnight. The 2nd prize is a special certificate, which you have to make yourself at a certificate making shop.
 I have made a salad from the vegetables. I will not eat it, and it will go soggy and brown around the edges. the winning essay shall receive this salad, posted as slowly as possible to your home address.

Humour doesn't translate well to stereotypical cavemen situations.

There was a loud thud at my cave entrance. With growing caveman fear, I went to draw back the tigerskin door, and see who it was.
 At the door stood two cavemen, dressed in well-sewn tigerskin. Each carried a large, flat stone.
 "Hello. We here to tell you about Sun God." Said the first.
 "Yes." Said the second, "he make sun work."
 "We see you busy," resumed the first. "So we leave you slab to look at. Slab blank, writing not invented yet"
I took the slab, and politely closed the tigerskin door. This, I reflected, was stupid. Early society didn't function like this at all, and I'm sure that early religion was nothing like how I portrayed it. I'm very sorry to any lovers of ancient history out there.
 On the bright side, at least I didn't have dinosaurs interacting with humans. That only happens on TV, or at Loch Ness...

Nightmare at 20,000 leagues under the sea.

Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Paul Blanchard, nineteen, man, son and liar on sick-leave. Mr. Blanchard has just been discharged from a sanitarium where he spent the last six months recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Blanchard is about to be flown home - the difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Blanchard's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown, and featured more bears. Also, he's not flying, he's on a submarine. Tonight, he's traveling all the way to his appointed destination, which, contrary to Mr. Blanchard's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of the sea. You know, the bit with those fuck-ugly fish with the lights.
 Arrgh! I'm in a submarine, and a giant narwhal is ripping up one of the wings!... Hey, wait a minute...

Sorry. I thought of the title first, then tried to make a joke out of it. I have failed, and am going in to self-imposed exile in the cesspit of mankind, France. I shall be giving away all my possessions before I leave, so friends: get in an application form if you want anything, accompanied by an essay about my brilliance. Obviously, don't make it too good, or I might be compelled to stay.