Winter-based shit was going down.

Ok, let's face it - they weren't
a great example of the joys of Marriage. Image via WikipediaOn the trees, snowdrops glistened. All around us, romantic, winter-based shit was going down. Max, wrapped in an over-sized scarf, jacket and padded hot-pants, looked particularly morose in the winter morn.

 
 "Why did things not work out with Maxine?" He asked at length.

 "You kidnapped her, remember." I said.

  "Well. Yes, so we weren't perfect. But you know, I'd hoped we might last. I just want someone to go the distance with. You know, like that couple... Hitler and Eva Braun."

  I double-took. It wasn't hilariously over-the-top. I just looked at him, looked away, then looked back suddenly in shock. Ok, Max was obviously just mistaken. But still...

  "Hitler... Hitler and Eva Braun? They didn't really last Max. They're dead, for one thing."

  "Dead? Oh no, when did this happen? Do people know... Oh, the children! What about the children?"

  "Yea. It's a pretty well-known story. They killed themselves not long after getting married, for one thing. And there weren't any children. Are you sure you're thinking about Hitler here?"

  "Pretty sure, yea. On no, wait a second... Prince Charles and Diana! That was who I was thinking of!"

  I nodded sadly. I wasn't sure where he got these ideas from. I mean, I'm not Prince Charles' biggest fan, but he's no Hitler. I retraced the conversation and realised Max was still not exactly on Love Boulevard.

  "Max... They got divorced."

  "What? But, at least they've still got their health?"

The snow fell around us. I'd upset Max enough for one day, so I just smiled and nodded. After a while, some penguins arrived and frolicked happily. In real life, Penguins aren't overly romantic, of course, but these were Disnified. In front of us, they did little to cheer Max up, forming budding romances and entering monogamous relationships. Above us, the disimbodied voice of Morgan Freeman tried to confort Max, but it was no good, and he cried all through that cold, winter morn.

 

Winter wonderland.

A cold wind blew from the East. It wasn't dramatic though, just chilly.

 Max and I were in the park. In the warmth of my home, going out had seemed like a good idea - the morning frost glistened on the eyebrows of the tramp in my tree-house, the breeze lifted stray newspapers and sent them into the faces of elderly dears, and the whole world looked like some sort of snow-globe. Or something, I don't really remember. But anyway, it looked nicer when I was inside in the warm.

 Which reminds me, must throw some more fire out to the tramp. Not too much, of course, tree-houses are flammable. Besides, I need my fire. Prometheus went to a lot of effort to get my that fire, not to mention the personal expense. Oh, and the eagle-innards thing.

 Actually, I don't trust the tramp with fire. He certainly couldn't manage his hedge fund, which is why he's in my tree-house. I charge him rent. You're probably ashamed of me, shaking your head in disgust. But let me tell you, he's not a nice man. He keeps pretending he's a chesnut, and when I'm out, he steals my bed linen to make flags.

 But I digress, where was I? Oh yea, don't trust him with fire. So I think I'll freeze the tree-house with liquid nitrogen, so when I give him the fire, he won't go making mischief.

  It seems the most humane thing to do...

The rain splashed down around him, the soft earth recently uncovered splashing up. Coating his trousers, staining his shoes, running down his coat and dripping back into itself. The solitary figure toiled onwards though, digging down deeper and deeper, stepping back occasionally to examine his craft. Whenever he did so, it was with a look of disappointment, shaking his head and tutting to himself. And then, reluctantly, he would dive back into the abyss, into the torrent of mud, flowing around but getting nowhere, and he would continue to dig, or knock at the walls and widen his crevasse.

  So he continued for close on an hour, his shovel endlessly rising, then plummeting down, his brow furrowed and dripping, mud coating his person. Another half hour passed, and he emerged from the pit once more, seemingly satisfied by his inspection. Discarding his spade for now, point first into the most solid pile of solvent soil, he walked a few metres from the pit to a small track, almost obscured by the rain and the flowing topsoil. He followed this trail for maybe a half-mile, arriving at a large, empty dump-truck. Fumbling in his pockets, he found the keys, entering the cab and reversing his vehicle to the pit dug some distance from the road.

  Arriving at the gaping maw of earth, he tips back the truck, spilling forth the unwanted cargo, eager to hide his goods from the view of the skies. Sadly, squelching, squeaking, honking, they fall from the truck, filling the hole whole, eagerly swallowed by the mouth he has constructed. This duty done, he fills in the hole again, the soil floods into the crevice and makes his job easier. The rain will hide his crimes, leaving no trace of his tire-tracks, nor the freshly turned earth. This done, he drives the truck away into the dawn-light.

  His name is Oscar, and he regrets killing all those clowns.
  Still, it's a living.

A story containing hilarious innocent misunderstandings

Max, if he displayed more emotion.

Image via Wikipedia

"How'd you like your Christmas present then?"
" Oh, it was great, thanks for that!" Max replied, happily.
I don't know why I'd asked, it was obvious Max liked his Superman costume. For one thing, he was wearing it now. And we were on a pretty busy street.
 "Yea, and... Oh God! Quick, in here!"

 Grabbing me, Max dragged us into a newsagents, where he hid behind a small pile of magazines and peaked outside with fear.
 "What is it?"
 "It's, what's his name? Clive! You know, Maxine's father?"
 "Oh... Yea."
 "You know how he is - he could never stand the sight of me, even when I was with Maxine. And well, since I stopped seeing her, he's been just insufferable whenever I run into him."
 I looked at Max dispassionately. Of course, Max was right. There had been a lot of problems relating to Maxine, and they were not limited to the name similarity. For one thing, Maxine wasn't Max's ex. She was a woman he kidnapped from the bus station.

 Now, in all fairness to Max, it had been an accident - he's gone to pick up his mother. With anyone else, of course, this would be no excuse - while Maxine was a 27-year old fitness instructor of Japanese decent, Max's mother was an 87-year old, wheelchair-bound obese woman from Hull. The differences, one would think, were obvious. But not to Max, who simply believed his mother, a lovely dear who was easily confused, had become easily confused. Stuffing her into his boot and driving off at high speed had, of course, furthered the illusion he was a kidnapper. But, again, the back seat of his car was occupied by livestock, and he was in a rush. So - at least from Max's point of view - the whole thing was innocent.

 Of course, demanding a ransom had been a mistake. But that was just unfortunate - Max, at the time inspired by a bolstered ego (No doubt because his mother, confused as she was, referred to him as a "handsome Prince"), had written to all the fathers in town, offering himself as a potential husband to their daughters, for a dowry of £100,000. The note, poorly written, had simply been confused for a ransom.

  And that is why Clive was rarely happy to see Max. Of course, laid out like this, you can surely see how a series of innocent mistakes were hilariously misconstrued, but it becomes clear how innocent Max really was.

 Of course, if you want to arrest him anyway, I won't stop you. Hell, why not form a lynch mob? They always looked fun in Westerns...

Still Shopping...

The snow was getting heavier. Deciding I couldn't be bothered becoming another living snowman, I headed for a nearby bed salesroom, uninspiringly named "Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Except we only have one broom, and it isn't for sale."

 "Afternoon Sir, welcome, welcome, do come in!"
 I was greeted optimistically by a young beds-salesman fellow, who welcomed me into the store and, with a wide sweep of his arm, advertised the many beds for sale.
 "You look cold, sir. Rather chill day, isn't it? Well, maybe we have some offers to cheer you up? Polish your knob sir?" He asked, chuckling, his hand reaching out to tickle me boisterously in a personal area.
 "Just our little joke, sir. We like a little knob-based humour round here, we do!
 "And in your case," he continued, "Very little knob-based humour, I'm guessing"
 "Am I paying extra for this... Service?" I asked dryly

My salesman, skipping manically away now, hopping over beds in a demented fashion, laughed out loud.
 "Paying... Know a lot about paying for services, do we sir?"

I made to follow him, when another sales assistant suddenly appeared to my right.
 "Sir, sir! Oh, I am dreadfully sorry... It's just, well, he's Clive you see... And... Well, he's harmless, and we figure... Better than letting him out on the streets... Do himself harm... Mischief, with buses!"
 He was clearly out of breath, explaining the pauses and missed words in his eloquent soliloquy. I wasn't sure what the buses reference was about, but before I could ask, he continued:
 "Well, let us make it up to you Sir."
He reached into his pocket, producing a small tub of wax.
 "Knob polish, sir? On the house."

I'm shopping

The snow was pelting down, and I was on a desperate shopping trip to buy Max something for Christmas. Nothing... Sticky this year, I've learned my lesson.

This isn't what I was going to buy...
Image via Wikipedia

"Cards! Lots and Lots of Cards!" The sign boldly proclaimed. Well, I thought hopefully, this looked like the right kind of place to buy a Christmas card, at least. That would be one thing done, and so early in the trip! Smiling at how smart I was - buying a Christmas Card all by myself - I headed into the almost empty store. Crossing the threshold, I became aware of a loop of cheers and whoops, a short audio recording repeating over and over again. Confetti was showering from the ceiling, and a banner had unfurled before me.

 "Congratulations!" I began, "You're in our store. There are no prizes."

I looked at the young sales assistant at the desk.

 "Why... Do you have this?"

 "I'm sorry, it's store policy. Apparently, it makes customers happy."

 "Does... Does it work?" I asked feebly.



 "Well," he replied sheepishly, "For a few seconds. Then they realise they've not won anything. And then, of course, Tim makes a disparaging remark about their appearance. Store policy, you see. Actually... Better wake him!"

 I watched as the assistant reached under the counter and fetched a broom. Reaching out with the broom, he began to poke an elderly figure sleeping in the corner of the store. He was an odd-looking fellow, lanky - if such a word can be used on the elderly - and who looked a little like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, if he was 60 and wearing a shirt.
  "Whut? Wuu..." He scream-mumbled, "You're... you are fat and ugly. Merry Christmas!"

I left the store. I did not, you may have guessed, buy a Christmas Card. I might go back next year. With any luck, Tim'll be dead by then...

Health and safety a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Yet, also, in the future...

A warm, Eastwardly wind blew through the treetops and the branches, gently shaking the walkways, ruffling the hair of Colin Jackson. Colin, for his sins, was a bureaucrat. He'd always been a bureaucrat, always filling and sorting, organising and filling, sorting and organising.
 Before the Rebellion, he'd worked as a low-level filling clerk for the Governor in the Outer Rim. But he'd risen to be something of a war hero by systematically misfiling the ingredients for field rations and creating a plague of diarrhea among the Imperial forces. After the rebellion, he'd returned to normal bureaucracy, taking a place in the newly-founded Health and Safety department of the New Republic.
 This job though... Well, the safety standards were... sub-par.

"Look," He began to explain again, "You just can't have living conditions like these. Do you understand?"
"Wermo" replied the Ewok.
"No, no, no!" Colin began again, "You see here, for instance, these rope-swings? Section 14 of the prohibited transport devices Act A.Y clearly bans the use of rope-swings. I mean, how is it disability-friendly? Or suitable for children? Even a trained adult could easily lose his grip and fall."
 The Ewok cocked his head inquisitively and chattered.
"And here" Colin continued. "Here, here and here. The ropes on this walkway are frayed. I mean, you really should have a fixed barrier in place, but rope-barriers are protected as cultural objects. But really, you need to be carrying out a weekly safety test on all such barriers."
 The Ewok titled his head the other way, muttering. After a moment, he rose his arms and waved his spear, signalling another Ewok to hit Colin on the head with a rock, crudely attacked to a stick
 "Look," Colin explained, "That's not going to work on me, I'm not a Stormtrooper. You've got one week to get this place up to spec, or I'm closing it down."
 "Wermo?" Asked the Ewok again.

 Gathering his things, Colin left Endor and headed back to Coruscant. Really, he thought, I ought to turn the lot of them into furry doorstops or something.
 Fucking hairy buggers...

Colm: A portrait in urine.



They're salted with people,
you know...Image by
Getty Images via @daylife



Picture a man. Let us call him... Colm. For no particular reason. He's not Colm Meaney though -  not everyone can be Chief O'Brien. Colm has a problem, you see - his bladder is rather full. Standing, as he is, near a Burger King, he chances an opportunity to relieve himself of his heavy burden in a manner largely acceptable in society. However, the restroom inside his Kingly sighting offers some resistance to his plan; a large warning notice affixed near the entrance, bearing the ominous warning: "For Customer's Only!"
 But our intrepid hero fears not such notices, nor their misuse of the apostrophe. He strikes out, putting one foot in front of the other, and surreptitiously enters the dining establishment. There's a queue forming for the counter, stretching back to near the door, and he thinks his entrance is unnoticed. Besides, who cares that much?

  Passing the waiting customers and busy staff with an expression of determination, he slips into the lavatories. Concluding his business, he departs, hands washed and food unpurchased. Returning home, where he inexplicably lives with an old guy in the future, he thinks little of his escapades - he got away with his crime, and having not been punished, he lets the incident slip from mind. Soon, all matters leave his head as he falls into a deep, blissful sleep. Never to be awoken...

  In the early hours of twilight, they come for him. Burger King security staff, huge, meat-filled heads filled with only two thoughts - meat and punishment! Having reviewed the security footage, having seen poor Colm enter and leave without purchasing, they have accessed the local security cameras. Ancient organisations, cabals established to this very end, they track his movements through the city, determined to teach our young urinator a powerful lesson.

  The morning rises anew, but with shocking similarities to the previous day. One new feature arises with the dawn however, a new item on the menu at your local Burger King; the Soylent Green Burger.

  Remember people; don't pee and not buy, or it could be YOU next!
  (No. Not really. Go pee somewhere, then don't buy something, and see what happens. For the sake of common decency, please let that location be a toilet; I won't take responsibility if you pee on a box of cereal or a tramp)

It is a bloody mess...

Bits of animal are strewn everywhere - skins adorn wrecked cars in fetching, tragic ways, severed limbs hang from lamp-posts, and blood stains the eye-catching Victorian cobbled streets. The animals are all dead, ok? Don't worry, we won't have to talk about them anymore after today. Unless you want to, of course, dear reader; hunched over your drinks in the pub, perhaps, or in the classroom, hunched over your drinks. Perhaps, in the creche or nursery (Kindergarten, you filthy Yanks [You're probably clean. I apologise]) you sit around in groups, hunched over your drinks, discussing my blog. Or herds of shoppers, rushing for Christmas gifts, meeting old friends by coincidence, hunch over their drinks to discuss my blog.
  But I doubt it.

No, you aren't seeing this.
Just keep moving.

  Anyway, back to the animals. All dead. Good stuff. I mean, not for the animals of course. Actually, a few of them were pretty endangered, so its probably a bad thing they killed each other. But you, YOU BASTARDS, you're too selfish to see it that way. You just saw the animals as an annoyance, you're glad they're out of the way. You little fuckers, you couldn't give a damn about the ecosystems affected, could you? The delicate balances of nature are unwinding, precious beings lost to us now, their knowledge and beauty fading. But this means nothing to you Sons of Bitches, who care nothing f... Wait a second, we could eat them!

  I voiced this though to Max, who quickly helped me set up a barbecue. Piling up the dead beasts, we began to feast. Good stuff, completly justified the large-scale animal death. Yum!

Stupid, stupid animals.

These animals all have beliefs
they will kill for... You've been warned.
Image via Wikipedia

The rain falls down, on me, on the town, on the several factions of animals gathered in various corners and openings, facing each other, branding weapons and waving banners. Stupid, humdrum town, monotony only broken by the occasional struggle between animal factions.

  To be honest, I regretted the day the Town Council had agreed a grant to teach political ideology to animals. Indeed, everyone had been a lot happier before hand - the animals, ignorant as they were (except the dolphins) had been happy in their ignorance, the townsfolk had been worry-free, and I, I had had one less ridiculous enemy to fear.

  Max had rescued me from the Nazi Kangaroos. I didn't know what Kangaroos were doing here, and Max arriving in tights and a string vest had done little to alleviate my perplexed condition. He didn't really understand costumes, you see. Anyway, now battle-lines were drawn - the Kangaroos and Koalas formed the largest groups, but anarchist bears, neoconservative bees and Maoist tortoises were arming themselves at the sidelines. Near me, showing a deep misunderstanding of their ideology, a group of pacifist kittens set up a machine-gun post.

  This was going to be messy.